The fascination with music, no, with the instrument, the noblest materials transformed into humble servants of humble anonymous musicians, the hand to hand even more anonymous, the sweat impregnated during years, by caresses, by struggle, in the encounter of a plenitude as intense as it is ephemeral, and to start anew, seeking it all over again.
All of these minimal and at times excessive acts are cicatrized in the ivory keyboard of a piano, which grows old and does not want to be played because it is saturated and gives off such a smell that no one can even try to without feeling that they are squeezing an already squeezed fruit.

Pep Trujillo
Autumn of 1992