I picture those faces and bodies like personified thoughts inside a dream. They are all perfect in their features and when they are not, we can always perfect them. Not always are they human; they need to be something else. They become creatures of a secret life. A life in itself, crafted with the cautious hands of flair; the soft touch on an unknown ground; the gentle caress on that precios spot that brings out the hunter in the haunted; the perpetrator in the victim; eternal love inside the cage of hatred and boredom.

To style is to make the unknown appear.