In the practice, I made the cast of my body (and that of a woman) in terracotta, and inside I bake the bread in a wood-burning oven that I built for this purpose. during cooking I never master what happens, and I let the fire and the dough with the yeast generates the shape. where the bread is contained in the mold, it takes the form of the body, otherwise it grows freely. the works that are created are always different with parts well cooked and others burned. this, leads me to think about the complexity of who we are. how, as much as we can give our love-nourishment, we always carry our shadows with us, the inedible parts of ourselves. there is a uninterrupted dialogue through light and dark, happynes and sadnes, life and death. I can feel I touch a truth in that.