She emerges from the horizon, leaving behind her a black trail of devastation. In her impulse and fervour, she leans over, covers the sky with her wings, and one sees only her face. In the form of a charred tree, burnt and bent by the storm, she takes root in the dark red of the blood of massacres, attacks and assassinations, in the black of hatred, vengeance and cupidity, and in the dull and dirty green and of troubled waters. All this evil carried by the roots condenses and rises in the trunk like a tornado, to burst in the blood and fire of the jubilation of the first attacks. Then it finally explodes in an incandescent ball, unveiling the true face of the War. She surprises us with her hysterical smile, heralding a demonic laugh that would reason reverberate in echoes.

Who would dare to embrace this mouth the colour of mud and cadaver? This mouth filled with a black purplish poison. Who would dare to withstand her possessed gaze, with her eyes without pupils looking nowhere?

She burns, drunk with the murderous madness of magisterial and passionate wars. These wars, in which the population is moving towards the battlefield, singing against the backdrop of fiery speeches, triumphant war announcements, patriotic songs, military marches and heroic narratives.

Her face, as one looks at it, is a mask; what is it hiding? This face of sanguinary hysteria with capillary prolongations symbolizes the ideologies it propagates: hatred, violence and seeds of new wars.

Technical and chromatic panache, a surprising representation of war, novel and powerful in its symbolic scope, it leaves far behind the usual allegories where we see, on a background of ruins and debris of weapons, corpses lying and victims moaning and gesticulating in a theatrical mimic.