My parents always lived an artistic life and when they had me, they had no doubts I would be an artist. By looking at them I had no doubts as well. They put me in an old suitcase, which became my first bed and my first art studio; there I found my first pencils. My parents moved from one place to another and I drew, drew, drew. That was a happy time. I used to draw on any surface I could possibly find - on paper, walls, and asphalt, everywhere. As a child I loved reading books with paintings of great artists and anatomy books. My mother used to help me finish my first drawings and my father used to explain to me what composition means and how to make a drawing complete. When I turned four, I began to call my activity “work”. Most important, I knew what art was. Now this world gives me information, and all that I see and feel - I put on paper.