Long ago, a simple, unremarkable table entered the artist’s life.

Nothing set it apart, except the place it was destined to take: the silent witness, the foundation upon which a path would be forged.

More than a piece of furniture, it became the quiet altar where his first impulses of metal were born.

On its time-worn surface, more than two thousand sculptures emerged, each carrying the mark of a struggle between the artist, the material, and the night.

Motionless yet attentive, the table watched him confront the hours under the trembling glow of workshop lamps.

It heard the heavy silences, the breath cut short by fatigue, the sharp echoes of the hammer striking iron like a resistant heart.

But above all, it saw what no one else ever will:

the nights when doubt weighed heavier than steel,

the moments when tears mixed with metal dust,

the hours when solitude became a companion,

and the times when fire was the only truth left.

It was there that the first sketches of his forged-steel stilettos took shape, fragile outlines becoming burning silhouettes, then sovereign entities freed from flesh.

Every piece passed across it: born as dust, raised as sculpture.

Deep in its wood, it felt every tension, every strike, every hesitation that carved a path forward.

Not gentle emotions, but fractures of will, the harshness of the craft, the fight to impose a vision no one else yet perceived.

Now scarred and shadowed, the table stands as a work of art itself.

Not beautiful, not perfect, but true, witness to a journey forged in solitude, iron, and persistence.

Every scratch, every burn tells a story:

that of a man who sculpted more than metal, he sculpted his own deliverance.

Thus, the table has become a personal and timeless symbol of the artist.

It remains the silent reflection of an ascent forged not in ease, but in night, flame, and stubborn resolve.