It seems that the “ghosts” my father painted didn’t only live in walls, but also left written messages there.

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Signs whose alphabet is unknown. Messages without translation, screams without sound, unrecognizable signatures, scribbles, mumbles, traces. . . 

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What did my father find in those signs he discovered on the walls?

The impotence of beings without speech?  Despair, the torture of silence?

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I don’t know what my father’s conscious purpose was when undertaking these works.  I remember he mentioned that walls appeared “eloquent”. . . 

 

The mystery that surrounds these series of works makes me think of the impossibility of speaking, of saying. . .of being. . . 

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Who left those messages on the walls?

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Perhaps beings who don’t know how to pronounce their own name, who are surrounded by an overwhelming indifference?

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Had my father felt that each man is condemned to live and die inside himself, as in a prison, without being able to formulate, or even understand, his own secrets?