The painting is cooked in the arrivals of the fabric, it burns out, and it loses its consistency. The painting loses its fluidity, it is just a chemical reaction, it is just a ploy. That is the world which has emerged from a coup in which oxygen has been covered of pasty, vibrant, chromatic odors, and the matter has dislocated the altarpiece of the symbols and the waist of the power. And things are renewed, uncertain, unnamed and non-possessed.
Painting is for Carlos Quintana the accurate way for expressing the innate state of the world. Things do not conform to the violently scheduled ups and downs of the perfidious logic that man has entitled “reason.” He visits history, collective memory, the great epic tales, the fanciful and even the enigmatic ones; he deletes referential narrative components off them. He tears the symbolic dimension, the exact reference out of them, and then he destroys the ideological component that usually invades images in these lands. A mystical being is the protagonist of his scenes, and anonymity is fixed to its condition. It comes from an unknown country, from a vague time, from a new race. It is a delirium.
Being self-taught, Quintana has contributed to the development of a renewed figuration and to very particular signs: large formats, incisive and synthetic drawing, minimal artistic conception, lucidity of pure color. Vacuum is threatening, and silence is, without any doubt, invasive.
We are victims for a while of his formal discussions. And it is because they expel a seduction that goes beyond the usual perceptive indices. They produce a visceral desire, an uncontrolled anxiety without precedent. Perhaps they are manifestations of our brain structures, excited by so great a vastness, prompted to create knowledge, to generate food and energy. Perhaps they are evidences of their imminent inability for Gnostic domain. Perhaps it is the triumph of sensibility over the rationality, or maybe it is an act of paranoia and lack of control.
Never mind the narration of these fantastic scenes that Quintana brings us from so far away. The narrative components were beheaded and their fragments are scattered around the canvas. At the end of everything, the essence of his artistic attempts is purposeful after the perception: every scene of Quintana reveals our inability to feel rather than see.