Alchemist rather than plastic artist, he moulds, forces, reveals the meanders of our intermittent beings. That woman he becoms when he touches divinity never ends her labor; paintings, ceramics, sculptures, each carries in itself the vertiginous beauty of the awakened flesh.

If his gesture violently shapes material, it does not hinders the organic flux that makes his colors alive, it accompanies it, takes it higher. Aïni is a virtuoso composer. With a steady wrist, he builds up his works like so many life trees full of symphonic vigor; of leaves rises an almost obscene polyphony, the author accumulates: too many frolics, desires and shouts, Aïni is Epicurus of excess, a bulimic of the envy.

His wish: to be absorbed, sex and soul by the by the cohort ot his creatures and rewrite the Genesis his own way, untill there make no mistake: as earthy as it can be, Aïni's art is only love and compassion. May it drive us forver between women thighs up to understanding wombs.