Along a path that has concentrated time and again on the search for the accident that appears suddenly, while the color runs through the support and lines hint at skeletons, already mobile – allowing the work to move towards its own interior -, already bordering, like those used by cartographers to deliver to the
human species the illusion of knowledge, José finds it difficult to try to explain with his words what happens in that wandering that marks both his trajectory and each of his works.
Each one in its time began -and begins- with a propitiatory rite through the one who is about to let himself be carried away by what color and lines provoke until the much-desired accident occurs. Then, and only then, does his craft and intuition.
They conspire to attract another and yet another. Sometimes his greed demands – ravenous and limitless –
plus. Sometimes he makes it skid and the creature ends up engulfed by a whirlwind, the way the Maelström 1 does it. Thus, everything ends up being lost. Either I know he insists on the rescue, making the shipwreck a lost babble or a song. Sometimes something tells him “stop”, and he listens. The sample that this publication hospitably welcomes, is made up of some of the surviving creatures; by arbitrary and triumphant accidents that are strut before the gaze of those who enjoy what cannot be exhausted from a blow, not with words; of the incursions of a ship that ventures into another world, thanks to the fact that their sails are broken.