This Masaccio of ours evidences such an anticipated glory, that it seems he gathers the everlasting severity of splendor in the absoluteness of his bodies. He is, without any doubt, a narrator, and the story he tells is not simply pleasing. The changes of discourse, rhetoric and manipulation do not have precipitated over it. It still has the skill to show itself terrible and uncertain, fruitful and fanciful.
Flesh emerges from his hands, with the same violence that mud did once. Earth, sovereign, is inhabited by beings without blush or hips, devoid of judgment and bonds. The air is cooked among distinctive odors; the dust fertilizes it, also does light. Time is shown weak and uncertain. This is not an interior space, of surrealistic reflections; it is not even a fantastic invention in search for the myth of the new that so many bonfires has imposed on modern art. It is the result of a process of logical synthesis that locates the other end of the ellipsis in the field of the cultural psychopathologies of post-modern man.
It is, in short, an act committed to the history of present times, lacking images and myths, where the past is still bleeding and the future is stale in some barely reliable bets. It is a commitment to the freedom of man and a tribute to his imperfect, seductive and noble nature. It is a memorandum to the greatness of a race dominated by tediousness, thirst and the coldest lust; the early restitution of its sensitive, Dionysian, carnal, glorious condition. Far from the magnanimous speech of the human situation, vibrant statues of healthy and fresh flesh, muscles swollen with air and pleasure and melancholy, grief and prurience, dance to the imperceptible pace of an earthly orgasm.