Fabelo summons, and undressed under the shadow of the Sun, a line twists. Its flesh is imminent; its heartbeats creak as rough and tight lumber, as swollen vertebrae, as blood in unstoppable flow. It writhes placid; hips seem to be everlasting and narrow and the face, as inexcusable as sensual. That bold line is provocative, it is terrible, but it is also powerful when it comes to the greatness of severity. And it’s also terrifying, grim, and even repulsive. Jerky movements are typical of it; these are signs of convulsion and sacrifice, of daily surrender, the horror before the inaction and ineptitude of the future.
Fabelo’s oeuvre, rapt by the skein of that fateful line, is always pre-textual. His gaze, rather than surrealistic, is fable-liked and it is pregnant of affection and a pleasant sea smell. Fabelo counteracts the abandonments of time and the memory of its most painful injuries, with the sepia atmosphere of his fictional universe, calmed in the salt and the breeze that falls on the back of the dust. In that mystical land, night is not scarce, nor is the imminent sense of horror and evil. But the tenderness is so prominent that fear dissipates.
Human it is said, from the confines of his universe, as sensations, as thought, as the hasty beating; human as time. The surrealist figurations, fantastic signs, loving winks and the twisted sense of implausibility of his fantastic compositions, are the results of a declared attempt of poetic conceptualization regarding the empathic demonstrations of the human reason in the gait of man. And in this area nothing is alien to this giant of neo-figuration in Latin America.
His oeuvre is as surprising as timely. We will find him founding theorems to hunger, to clemency, to remembrance, even, to indifference; towers, pans, shrouds, wild beasts, thieves and emblems. This accurate poet is a fertile dreamer.