José Balboa

The intensity of her look confiscates our attention. It sends an encoded message, but instinctively understandable. Under the indescribable expression of her black, tense, enlightened, challenging eyes blinded also by a self-controlled rage, there is the perfect nose and the red and fleshy lips. Further down, there are the breasts, the breasts of a goddess, of a perfect roundness, of a silk softness, of a virgin’s flesh soundness. A kind of flesh that is thick, unruly, and straight like sharp and rosy spearheads. But further down, there is the belly, the legs. The legs are opened, bent, tense. And further down there is the faint and feeble prey. She triggers the wheel of the sinister machine as red as blood. It is a symbol of torture, a spill of death upon life. Then we look up again, we come across the torturer’s eyes and we understand the message. If we dare to profane such beauty, such perfection, such blessed and overflowing sexuality, then we know the fate that awaits us. We rather freeze into the contemplation, into the sublimation of a perfect image.