Sao Paulo, Brazil, 1962. 

I am 5 years old, and I am drawing on a large wall in the high-rise building where we lived.

My mother comes out of our apartment, sees what I'm doing and starts yelling, shocked and stressed. She tries to erase the drawing in every possible way.

It turns out I've drawn on the walls between the door to our apartment and that of our neighbors...

I remember the excitement when I came to draw on the wall. I was full of joy, and just drew.

Money was tight back then, and my parents had to pay to scrape and repaint the wall.

They didn't shout on me, they didn't punish me – but from the deep sorrow I caused, I "understood" – and never drew again, anywhere. Anything. Nothing...

Until two years ago, at the age of 55!

And here I am, standing and painting with excitement. Not asking myself why I'm painting, or what. Not choosing a subject, or colors, flowing with the drive that impels me. Not asking myself why now...