Always in full filling, Aïni, and under the feverish influence of the infinite womb, the obstetrician of all worlds. Thus emerges his raw painting of the origins, between sky and mud. Everything starts at the huge center of life, dark block, atrocious and sublime, colors of tortured earth and and semen, from where birthes are ripped.
Thus, prodigious exhuberant, Aïni the heterogeneous extracts from greyness. There was a body that protected, the big mother in arch, in roof, an under-flesh-shelter, that leaves wounded the bodies which dare outside. His creation is pullout, when the islands of the body want to set off on the high sea, and all holes are red reference points...
You have to pay the price of blood, and shouts of art, to live out-peace, as a fragile being, and a fragile crowd.
Aïni's animism, of lost sources, between trance and derision, is striking and grotesque, sacrificial, ironic and orgasmic. The aïnian body got rid of the unnecessary flaccid flesh with heavy blisters that perish inside, to assault the sky.
In those paintings of always in protrusion embraces, Aïni, unstoppable stallion, anchors to the archaic roots of the world, but culture is vain when it is all about reaching every corner of the universe with stretched bodies. And like vain tentacles, those so slim arms, skeletal love members eagers of life, hug the absolute vacuum that separates the bodies. Inaccessibles are the steps of the infinity.
With Aïni, the finiteness suffers, and his bawdy hilarity exacerbates creation. His art is more vivid than distress, and if he crucifies tenderness, his great creativity awakens the chaos he holds in his grasp.
Chromatic space is tightened, of carnal nodes encased in the deep red, a strange matter, in an austere puddle, forming an unexpected ground. Barbaric sun, the countless body, in cruel outpouring, bears the weighth of our lives.