Francisco Infante-Arana 04.06.1943

Who was lucky – Infante with the epoch, or the epoch with Infante? It all depends. Death of the artist, death of the picture, death of art – these surveys-paradoxes have quickly changed into wretched and insolent speculation, it is simply a crime… And now death is on a scientific basis… Death, then let it be death. To be in time for its folkdances… The public is mysteriously stupid. And the newborn baby with his mouth agape at the sunset, the moon, a cloud; there is more truth in the baby who would break the scoundrel-crook who starts propaganda, devilry about sincere opinion that he had allegedly gone somewhere… He will break him no matter when – sooner or later. But thus far the blackguard boasts in the national newspaper, on TV; it is his hour.

And here and now there is such a baby – Francisco Infante. But he is already grown… And he does not allow to get underway the death of the artist, the picture, art, and all their spirits, which are fed by deaths. Sensation-speculation – dislocation is the wrong side of normal processes and properties inherent in art from time immemorial. As if art, like any adult intelligent being, is unable to walk because of death. Everything is not so simple with the artist, if we consider ourselves. However, to think over death is only for a moron. Yes, one can leave the picture. But to leave=death only in the zone.