In the latest informal paintings, humanoid forms can be glimpsed, monstrous faces configured—in the manner of collages or assemblages—by a pictorial mass to which new materials are gradually incorporated: eyeglasses, watch spheres, radio parts, bolts, plugs, spark plugs, cables, etc… Heads that fit into urban scenarios, into windows or boxes that imprison beings with legs or wheels. These are the rotopeds, absolute protagonists of works that grow in three-dimensionality to drown and isolate these contemporary beings, hostages of technical progress. Ironic titles that speak of the solitude of man crushed by the very forces he has created, a critique of a society where everything is filed and numbered, where man is objectified, profoundly alone in the immense clamor of the world in which we live.
