It is difficult to speak for others, to transcribe images into sentences, to translate into texts what we claim as valid. In this story we run the risk of being wrong, of trying to look beyond what a color or shape presupposes. In that daily attempt at communication. But venturing into it also leads us to the pleasure of success when success is infallible. In one case or another we compromise our judgment, especially if it is someone like Leyva whom I have been able to follow in his creative production, in his history of landscapes, sometimes places so distant from Barbizón, but closer to us in heat, color, in translation in the field of the senses.
I have seen you discard seascapes that moisten your skin, cirrus clouds and nimbus of a peaceful sky, so as not to be confined to an apparent reality; structures resolved with ancient geometries of colored papers, fabrics on fabrics animated only by the intimate breeze of creation, and maintaining that search that seeks to equate life and art in constant mobility as a kind of regeneration that allows you to feel young and controversial.
Today I am witnessing a new game, where the genesis of color becomes the foundation, dissolving forms to focus more practical, more sensitive ideas; always composing, placing what is going on in each place, using those colors as codes that transcribe their moods, their pieces in lines that feature their own landscapes, in an entertaining visual game, well made; with a poetic background in some (My Girlfriend La Habana), playful in others (La fiesta del melón). He is like that, a shy child who tries to escape at every moment from what is old, but mature in criteria and successes of his compositions.
It has as power its own language, of tones and nuances that it resolves between warm and cold, writing with them the scores of its plastic concerts that, as anecdotes, tell in time what it wants and admits not knowing how to express with words, it moves forward and behind, he takes and retakes the fire of red, the warmth of a yellow, the peace of a green that is now didactic, fabulating images of elements that we have seen in others and that have become his, because in the end we are a summary of how much we like and make our own, to reach the new result of appropriating something in another context, with a new life.
So much struggle to tell them, that they do not look for answers, that they enjoy the pleasure of that contemplation of a lucid and irrational palette that seduces us to addiction due to this chromatic industriousness of those who are composing images.
Maria Milián
