Now that you are still naming III (180 x 195 cms)

Now that you are still naming VI (130 x 130 cms)

Now that you are still naming VII (195 x 180 cms)

Now that you are still naming VIII (180 x 180 cms)

Now that you are still naming IX (146 x 114 cms)

Now that you are still naming X (146 x 114 cms)

Now that you are still naming XI (146 x 114 cms)

Now that you are still naming XII (146 x 114 cms)

Now that you are still naming XIII (55 x 46 cms)

Now that you are still naming XV (50 x 73 cms)

Right overview

Left overview

Explanation “A”
One names what one doesn't know, one recognises what one is able to name.
It is possible that art is dedicated to sabotaging names, just when you have them on the tip of your tongue; to look for new identities, just when the known is becoming unnecessary.
Explanation “B”
Demostenes and Diogenes, two ancient Greeks, one a stutterer and the other who kept everything, just in case. They were partners, and I always confuse them, although they have nothing more in common that the similarity of their names. One day the stutterer wanted to stuff a handful of shingles into his mouth, on its own, because apparently it was good for his stutter. As in the home there was an epic disorder of accumulated junk, armless or decapitated statues, old newspapers (especially AlfaBetaGammas, for the obituaries), frayed and out-olympicked tunics, empty and moldy containers of Cretian yoghurt with Trojan Bifidus factors, (more than anything, to aid transit to the letrines)..., well he was incapable to find his damned stones, which he must have left in any Doric corner. He got so pissed off, that he grabbed all that kaos of stupidities and drivel, without discrimination, and threw it out of the window that looked out onto the Parnassus, and left the house so clean you could eat off the floor.
When the other got home, loaded with classical garbage that he had rescued from kontainers (he loved Greco-vintage), and saw the reigning cleanliness he suffered an aristotelian attack of perplexity, as if he found himself in the wrong home, empirically. More confused than Pythagoras in an non rectangular triangle, he looked at his key, looked at the door and finally looked at the damned stutterer, housewife and neat freak, and shouted at him furiously:
- Are you stupid or what?
- I-i-i-i-i-i've had it up to my te-te-te-testicles, krikey, this h-h-h-h-h-h-house looks like Bernarda´s o-o-o-o-o-oracle! Said the stutterer, who apart from a stutterer was very posh and precise in his tirades.
- I'm going to smack you on the mouth until you end up speaking fluidly, you sucker!
And they got embroiled in a Greco-Roman style fight, but with punches, which ended like Aurora's rosary.
Several kalends later they discharged from the Marañón Hippocrates. Demostenes, the stutterer, now expressed himself with an astounding fluidity and found work as a fair charlatan, touting fanny dolls, and propered dizzily. Diogenes, the one of his syndrome, turned out super neat, set up a business of all for one Drachma and also became filthy rich. Soon each of them had his own shipping firm, although neither married teh widow of an American president, because in those time the USA didn't exist, and furthermore because they were super gay, both of them.
From all of this one can conclude how advantageous it can be to rid oneself of syndromes and traumas, if necessary by slapping them away. I know very well what I'm saying. I've never had to overcome a miserly syndrome or spend hours on a divan for a trauma, and this is what I have to show for it.
(Applied to this series: The less you keep, the easier it is to change things, and the same applies to the worse you pronounce their names.)