ABSTRACT
His studio is chaotic, he sleeps there, eats there, urinates in the hand basin or out the window when his passion for his work gives him no time to go to the w.c. Everything looks wildly disordered, except on his canvas: there alone do calm and order reign. For him the canvas is the only sacred space, where repleteness is compulsory and where the least sign of disorder would send him into fi ts of anxiety.
