There are discoveries in our Americas: in depopulated islands or irascible jungles under the land suddenly gold statues are found, paintings on the stone, turquoise necklaces, immense heads, countless vestiges of unknown beings whom one must discover and name so that they answer from their secular silence.

If in an island of ours Picasso's successive caps were found, his monumental abstraction, his cave creation, his exact jewels, his happiness and terror tables, the astonished archeologists would seek the inhabitants, the cultures that so much made accumulating fabulous games and miracles.

Picasso is an island. A continent populated by argonauts, Caribbeans, bulls and oranges. Picasso is a race. The sun does not set in his heart.

Written because of the celebration in Paris of the 90º Picasso's birthday, October, 1971.