Today I sold my plotter. I had bought it second-hand in Rome, loaded it into my car, and transported it to my first studio in Milan, then to the second, then the third... Now that it had finally found a permanent home, precisely now, I decided to abandon printing and work instead with rabbit-skin glue, wood, oil and linen canvas, earths and pigments, a tuft of some animal's hair. I continue to look at photographs, to extract them from films and videos, to generate them with artificial intelligence; but once they are brought together, I allow them to emerge slowly from the raw canvas in much the same way photographs appear in the acid-filled trays of a darkroom, in the partial visibility granted by red light. The collage dissolves into the body of the painting, which makes no distinction between its sources—a photograph of my son or a self-portrait, the paving stones from a painting by Bellini, a frame stolen from Hands over the City, an ambiguous creature produced by some artificial intelligence, and so on. Brushstrokes create coincidence and confusion, abolishing hierarchies and regimes of language. Past and present, here and elsewhere, lived experience and imagination merge on the illusory plane of the canvas, proposed as a territory where reality and hallucination meet.