My hands
oil on canvas
cm 156 × 210

The hands of the artist clutch like hooks at the crumbling wall strewn with shattered glass. His is a superhuman effort to reach the land as light as hope visible beyond the wall. His hands become wounds, the thorns press deep into the flesh, they seem to cry out with the great exertion, like that of the knotted tree trunk. The skin in torn open with the wounds, bloods gushes. It is authentic blood the artist has squeezed from his venis in the name of truth, so that tomorrow solitary flowers might grow up in the grass.