A few years later, the dialogue with the painter resumes, when—now an adult—Scipona rediscovers the images that had fascinated her as a child and can finally name the source of her emotions. After this new encounter with John Martín, which gives her vocation a definitive shape, she will embark on a path she will never abandon.

How can we express and give form to something that presses so insistently from within? What path should we choose, when conventional means of expression are not enough, to give vent to this urge? explosion of creative energy that from a very early age demands to be unleashed? When this need arises so urgently and inexplicably, there is no time for reflection: the artist doesn't have to provide explanations, doesn't have to prove anything: he simply needs to show the reality of his work.

The analysis will take place later, when it will be necessary to place and name what is seen, and when and if explanations are requested. Sometimes, see It doesn't mean looking and the gaze doesn't always lead where you look.

Heir to Bosch's symbolism, which, years later, Dalí would materialize in his personal reconstruction of the world and the obsessions of his subconscious, the painter embraces his legacy, unafraid to confront the power of classical tradition and the avant-garde. She revives an ancient technique and, with extreme elegance, translates this personal universe and his interpretation of painting and life into her own language.

His canvases represent scenes from everyday life, from our everyday environment, in which Scipona inserts destabilizing elements and grotesque, which do not conform to our communication codes. In this way, it achieves new aesthetic possibilities that lead to a new vision of emotions. A language parallel to everyday language, but which extends and expands it.

The power of his representations does not leave us indifferent, their mystery attracts us, we would like to know more, but we can only find the answer within ourselves. Like the poetry, Scipona's painting opens new horizons for interpretation, constantly speaking of who we are and what we feel, and behind all this, life pulsates. One must wait and digest, or rather, incubate the idea, just as one must incubate the egg that so frequently appears in his representations.

I find it difficult to defend myself from gentle violence and subtlety that permeates his images, radiating a powerful and elegant magnetism. "I want my canvases to sing silently," he tells me, "like in dreams." And, undoubtedly, what we find in his works makes no concessions: it offers itself like a dream that can turn into a nightmare or make us wish we'd never wake up.

The sky heralds the approaching storm, fire invades the fields, there's passion in the embraces, the gazes at the viewer are arrogant, and even when the landscape is calm, a light breeze stirs the scene and reminds us that it is only a momentary calm. There is no respite possible: deep down, a stormy sea lurks that will lead us to the places where the sirens sing. A place from which we will not return unscathed, but where, finally, we will no longer have any fear. fear