Once upon a time, in a not so distant country called art, the canvas was born.

In this land also lived stone, clay, iron, gold, blue, red, words, the notes re and la, and many others.

In the center of the capital there was a square.

And in the center of the square there was a raised platform, called

"The stage"

Every once in a while, a resident would go up "on stage" to "say something" and everyone would sit and listen.

Most of the time, iron, clay, gold, marble were the ones to go up "on stage"; after all, they were the first residents of art.

After many years the canvas wanted to get "on stage" as well.

He tried to apply, but the committee replied that this was not possible because…

"the canvas is the firm silent base on which the paint will be laid in order for it to ‘say something’. And that "if both the paint and the canvas speak, neither will be heard". "But why don’t you let us say the same thing?" whined the canvas.

"Mr. Canvas your application is denied. Please go!!!!"

That's how things were back then.

The canvas, frustrated, went back to his boring rectangular daily life.

The days, the months, the years went by…

And there were many of them.

New residents came to art, and each of them would at some point go up "on stage".

Some even got "on stage" the first day they came to the country.

One day a tin can got up there.

Lo and behold a tin can, and indeed it did "say something".

"Oh! This is a scandal" thought the canvas." "And I, who have lived all these years in Art, I've never been "on stage".

After a while he went to apply again. "After all, now things have changed".

Unfortunately his application was rejected once again. His grief was great.

With the canvas we met in 2007 in a basement, I listened to its grievances, its thoughts, its aspirations.

I listened to it carefully and I said.

I'll see what I can do.