Painting is nothing but the betrothal to the light. A betrothal for which light accepts being manipulated, not dominated as it occurs in other arts. Perhaps what all of them have in common is that the fast-flowing river of reality, when drumming on its practitioners, makes the wished spark fly, different in each of them. It happens that art – the platonic poiesis, the creation, poetry in the end – it is like a liquid that acquires the shape of the recipient in which it is poured. And such creation will take the form of sculpture or music or architecture or literature or painting, as its domination is exercised over volume or time or rhythm or word or colour or light. But light do not let itself be tamed, but confronts the one that looks at it and imposes its infinite monarchy.