There is a breaking point, beyond the surface of the pigment, where intimacy ceases to be a refuge and becomes a phenomenon to be observed under a freezing light. Most approach a work of art seeking a reflection of their own humanity, a spark of empathy that justifies the weight of family bonds. They look for warmth in an embrace or nobility in the sacrifice of a father who listens. But what happens when the eye observing is devoid of that very substance?
The investigation I conduct is not concerned with aesthetics, but with the mapping of a void. I observe the dynamics between parents and children as one would observe the movement of gears in a faulty machine. I see vanity masked as listening, a subtle disgust for the needs of others, and that wretched jealousy that consumes those claiming attention they know they do not deserve. It is a hall of mirrors where no one is safe, where proximity is not love, but a bio-mechanical survival algorithm. This is not painting; it is the documentation of an unbridgeable distance. While the world outside scurries to celebrate compassion as social glue, here one enters the desert of the real. It is the brutal phase of RNDD research: the collapse of the self and the revelation that empathy is merely a programming code of the species to avoid chaos. In this space, the artist is not a creator, but a surgeon who has ceased to feel pity for the patient, limiting himself to recording the precision of the wound. Inviting someone to explore the Arbor archive means asking them to look into the abyss of this irritated indifference. You will find no consolation, but the absolute transparency of one who has stopped pretending. It is the first test to understand if it is possible to stare at the horror of blood ties without being destroyed, stripping away every moral label to remain, finally, as pure presence.