Senile before the sane ones, or, on the contrary, discerning as few sensibilities, the oeuvre that you, Antonia, achieved to express, is sensitive, clear, deafening, and even terrible. Your color range is formed from moans and silences and therefore its tones are so cruel, almost visceral. A measureless rage summoned the pulse of your hands to hurt the skin of the canvas, the same rage that hunts us before your shadow.
Your painting is titanic: never before abstraction reached such an expressive immediacy. Never before it was so eloquent, and it had never gone beyond the limits of its time with such vigor. Your testimony, condensed in the oeuvre that so prolifically you have left to our guard, is essential when it comes the time of recounting and memory. You taught us how to doubt, to feel before believing, to think with our own means and to resist. Your work, just as your life, is an example of nobleness and heroism.
We never forget the revolutionary character of your doing, which was inheritor of informalism, installation art, povera art and conceptualism, which came out from your hands and your very particular world vision. Following your steps, so many have been caught, since you are an essential substance to inhabit these islander lands. Your Annunciation continues foretelling our future, not because it always promises fears, but because your horrifying angel and your terrified virgin are universal signs of human existence, its finiteness and roughness. Therefore, it will always be near our hands in order to supply the poorness provoked in us because of uncertainties.
You set new highlights in this archipelago. You discovered, like an expert, the fluctuations of the internal rhythm of its guts. You created poems to honor its name and gave it the humanity that others tried to take away from it. You are a very fool, Antonia, who has succeeded in seeing well the ways of history. You were stolid when sense was purely silliness. You were, and you will always be our dearest fool.