I’ve always known that I am a weird person. Maybe because of my aversion to the ordinary or what people most liked, normal things. Or maybe it’s just my love for the strange, unknown and strangely forgetful to who is not being set. I know, I’m weird. Full of hobbies, lover of cyclical and weird films. (
Very, very weird) Occasionally I dance among wolves, or so I think, as I walk through the streets of the city that one day found me and loved me. ( Madrid). I have a thousand insecurities, but I’m not stupid. I know what I want and I am patient enough to not despair in a crazy world. I grew up reading Hergé and Robert Zemeckis filled my head full of birds. ( Although that role always attributed more to Hitchcock) I have a weakness for you and all you have to tell me and I can transform into a story. I hate the mess, but I am passionate about the chaos that we have caused. And in the middle of nowhere, a written word that has me awake all night comes, and I can not stop imagining stories that draw increasingly more complex.
At 9, it was Zemeckis, at 12 was Spielberg, at 14 was Coppola (
father and daughter), at 17 was Allen and soon Hitchcock and Kubrick, at 19 was Welles, at 21 Polanski, Scorsese and Fincher at 23 the Coen, Gondry and Tarantino and at 25, I’m just me. Without anyone, without ceasing to be, with dreams forward tilled for more than a decade, with the advice of the greatest silence and the possibility of painting anything if I want.
And if all of this does not convince you, I can tell you without words because, you and me, my friend, we understand better that way.