I was born in a country called the land of the pride horse. A country inhabited by superstitions and ghosts where the spirits of the living mingle with those of the dead. And that’s fine. Roofs are black, houses made of stone, people are as raw as the landscapes, and it’s the rain that carves faces to wash problems away. There is calm and solitude, untold stories but also special objects. Dark wooden furniture, often engraved, sometimes studded, the only wealth of homes.This is my story. Just a few lines on a sheet of paper and a few nails in wood to continue the tradition in my own way.