Osvaldo Cantillo


When they do not reach Osvaldo Cantillo – artist – acrylics and oils and coals – of firewood – and the psychedelic sap deviated from the tree, to paint a face of a woman who does not age, a sweaty body – man or man bird or of God- that flies (falls) from the cliff, a landscape of strange stamp that in order not to pay taxes flees from the manigua, the imaginary star that devours a student child during recess, arms him promptly in -advented feeling- of amazing reality, a skeleton or a performance (about measures), made with debris and logs and evicted rods that give it existence and mischief and perennial gesture. [/ drop_cap]

Aware of the value of his pictorial-literary work, in the entrustment-donated-of the ethos, he makes noise -from the silence of the hammock, anchored on the tide- with hitting the rusty cowbell plate that accompanies the tumblers, the tamboras, the congas, in the reminiscent melodies that shake in feverish rhythms – by use or by excess of love and passion – the salty navel of the corals of the Caribbean Sea. Not in vain the artist crosses borders of our country to point out to the World his dreamy presence that attracts and captivates with the magnet that in the dark night has a city embroidered with illuminated neon threads.