I turned 40 this year. It was my first birthday since moving to the mountains. There was no toast with friends, no music, no table full of people. Just the wind, a few birds, and time—which now seems to pass differently. This dialogue with solitude forced me to see things under a new light. I began to think about those small gestures we make every day without expecting anyone to see them. Lifting a cup. Opening a window. Walking. Going out onto the street. Looking up at the sky. Remaining silent. Gestures that don’t seek to be remembered, but that end up building a life—and a memory, too. Over the past few years, I trained a neural network using my own archive of paintings and developed a way of working in which error ceased to be an accident and became a form of knowledge. A robotic arm—modified and disobedient—began to share the act of painting with me. Between my decisions and its deviations, a language emerged that no longer belongs entirely to either of us. This series stems from that very dialogue. The scenes come from everyday fragments of anime—images meant to go almost unnoticed. By overlaying them with my own pictorial language, they cease to tell someone else’s story and begin to speak of something else: of time, of memory, and of the way images change when they are inhabited by other experiences. The series is called *Gestures For No One*. At first, it was an almost literal title. I thought that on that birthday, there would be no one with whom to share these images. That they would be gestures meant for no one. Over time, I realized I was wrong. No gesture exists solely for the one who witnesses it. Images also wait. They wait to find someone—someday, in another time, in another place. Perhaps these works do exactly that. Perhaps *Gestures For No One* never spoke of the absence of a viewer. But rather of the need to keep creating images, even when we still don’t know for whom.