"Velasquez, after fifty years, did not paint a thing never defined. He wandered around objects with air and twilight, he caught in the shadows and transparency of funds, palpitations colored with it was the invisible center of his silent symphony. He can not remember the mysterious world trade, which penetrate into each other's shapes and colors, by a secret and continuous progress, with no clash, no start, not terminate or interrupt the march. Space reign. It's like an air wave that glides on surfaces, soak up their visible fumes, to define and shape, and carry everywhere like perfume, like an echo of them, it disperses over the whole surrounding dust, imponderable. "
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