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A canvas comprises a totality of surface just as Spain is composed of constituent parts, Catalunya, Madrid, hills and trees, etc   Color dyes the fabric clothing form itself, as wars and anthems unify the body politic of mass and volume   Neutral as Switzerland, the palette confers legitimacy on every pigment it holds, like a Roman Emperor Zaragoza,   that dusty, lemon-bitter city of rough stones with its cathedral of saints’ bones on a plaza lacking any compensatory grace—   Zaragoza is but the corruption of its Roman name, Caesar Augustus, and so a cohort to historical inaccuracy   This I propose as demonstration that what matters is not accuracy but acts, not chronicles but conquests   The body is everything I have wished to rid myself of through art and failed Yet surrender is impossible   My hands persevere in the task of painting as soldiers long after the battle is lost carry on their raping of women in the streets