The child painter from the island of
Cuba ransoms the contradictory remains of religions
which his grandfather passed on him in extended
litanies. A divine majesty which forgetfulness begins to
erode as briny sea eats everything away.
Of a great God there remains a
voluble, meddling, faceless dancing fetish, deaf to
prayers and rituals.
The ability to restore the magnetic
power from the disperse fragments of the ancient
religious world is the vital impulse that I esteem and
admire in the work of Carlos Luna.
Mexico, DF May 1995