As a child, my world smelled of burnished metal and sang to the rhythmic tapping of hammers on anvils. I grew up immersed in my grandfather's workshop, where goldsmithing was conceived between dreams and talented hands. There I learned that art is born of patience; that design is an initial whisper and casting, the moment when matter begins to pulse. I saw how artisans shaped materials with their tools and how the blowtorch initiated a dance with the metals.

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That language of creation was inscribed in my memory, and today, as if responding to a profound calling, I return to it, molding with my hands the clay inspired by this art that is born from the docile earth and allows itself to be guided by touch until it fuses in an embrace with fire and transforms into something eternal.

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Each piece I mold is a silent universe: its shape curves to the temper of my thoughts, its color evokes past seasons, and its texture holds invisible traces. Clay has a soul, and in each piece I can hear the ancestral murmur, the one that travels from the deepest corners of the earth to the skin of whoever touches it.