‘Now the letters we saw in the distance from the top fall on us. Now no longer they introduce the pier in its aesthetic and light weightlessness. Now, rather, they fall on our heads. And they almost weigh. Great truths, hurtful. Tomasz Matuszak placed that 'small variant of the English proverb that says that things will always go the same from one generation to another', he tells us. Like my father - Like my son ('Como mi padre - coma mi hijo'). They weigh because one realises its irremediable certainty, not only in the course of history (political, social, aesthetic, no matter what prism we look at it) and observes its surprisingly pendular swinging. But they weigh even more when we see it in our own life. And the most terrible or hallucinatory is that (not to get dramatic) we always realise after, never before.
A reflection that is its simplicity touches the target of us: present and past come together, in that moment when the person, when maturing, breaks with the umbilical cord and at the same time realises how difficult it is to achieve that surrealists aspired: 'stop dragging the body of the father eternally'. More violent than that phrase is the knowledge that is an unreachable ideal. Popular wisdom that taps us on the head when we least expect it. That will be given to our children. And the same one that was given to our parents.’

Inez Artola