I was born in Cuba, in the outskirts of Havana, into a peculiar community of artisans, sculptors and painters forgotten by the pass of time. El Cerro, in 1986, was a dull and small city with a population divided by the only two trades available at the time: stealing, or selling art to foreigners. My family sampled from both. My world was an ever-changing chaos determined by the debris of whatever enterprise fascinated the Aurelianos of my Macondo. That's how I learned to sculpt, paint, engrave, design and navigate in a world of ideas and inspirations that materialized little by little in the corners of every room: in sculptures circumscribed within stolen train track sleepers, in furniture carved out of palm tree trunks, or miniature collections of the history of sailing boats.

I have followed the family artistic tradition by becoming an architect. But I am as much a painter, a sculptor, and a writer. My work, just like the world I burst out of, is rescued from the debris of whatever means I use to express my thoughts. Sometimes I paint my ideas, sometimes I write about spaces, and sometimes I sculpt the words that I lack.