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.