This spring, I began the habit of taking Rita for walks around the lakes in Palermo, Buenos Aires.

One afternoon, as we sat on a bench facing the water, lost in thought, I saw a man walk by with a deformed arm.
His hand hung there, motionless, tiny, like death itself.

But what struck me most was that the entire arm was tattooed, as if, instead of hiding its ugliness, he wanted to draw attention to it.

Look at me, I’m deformed and ugly.
Feel my rage and suffering.

It happened the day after the opening cocktail for my show at a gallery in San Telmo.
That night, all I could see were Monsters.

Wolves in sheep’s clothing.
Sheep in wolves’ clothing.

Look at me, I’m beautiful.
Feel my rage and suffering.

On canvas, black oil paint brings a disfigured, figurative character to life, its arm long and distorted.
Vermillion-red aerosol reveals him:
The man with the deformed arm.