Waissman’s making of images seems to begin with an early questioning of the drive to paint. He drills in the darkness, to pierce the apparent enunciating a dream that babbles its expression, by the first stroke executed on the canvas. Just in that instant in which it ends up wrapping something secret, a reclusion of states that have the rhythm of the lines or the forms that coagulate, and the fury of the colour that combines fills, stratifies, dilutes, and expands until it overflows the limits of matter. The supreme visibility of what it is there makes invisible what reaches us, almost without distance. Pure emotion before the work.