The chosen comfort abounding, and the confusing studio sets its own lucrative scene once more – the agile state of moving, manoeuvring affairs, the soon-to-be-seen clientele which will gloriously pour…

Davide the fast-living artist’s been problematically waiting, all of a blue-hue decade for this matrimonial time of utter overindulgence on the part of thirty interspersed, addled, addicted and sprinkled people with enough burning desire to build the fickle bridge back up

Of rich versus ear-aching failure and to place it all at fixated centre-stage again – no gain like a collector’s altered ego which incessantly feeds by the wide-reaching, falsified bridges of their endless inability to see

Where abstract art truly does matter. Searches for its own balance back such as much as its owner shall forever fail – to credibly create.