There is an inevitability, an eternity of paint constantly redefining itself in these paintings. The more you look at them the more they change.  Black and brown painted marks that look like magic marker seem uncontrolled and deliberate at the same time, as if in one stroke, urban and ethnic, this kind of graffiti, if you will, speaks its own language, louder, more personal and more complicated than words. Other inhabitants of these works, little clusters of thick paint far removed from the pastry chef’s tool that invented their eyeball look, and the stains of the fruit of the paint an oil residue, make up the middle space of this contemporary landscape where the legs of Velasquez’s horse once stood. Here is a quality of something you have never seen combined with a feeling of familiarity. These paintings do not vie to be accepted or try to be understood. In the figure of red covering what was once there, black and brown marks with their halos, you will find the multidimensional quality that is the topographical map of the painter’s mind.  The world of these paintings changes radically when you look at them close up, like paintings should do. Like Velasquez does.