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When you cast your eyes upon a painting by Francisco Mendes Moreira, you are like a commuter standing at the edge of the platform, resisting the pull of a high-speed train rushing past at full speed. His painting opens a window onto a vertiginous and hypnotic unconscious. What I mean by this is that a first glance is not enough to grasp the full extent of its magnetic power. The pictorial energy emanating from Francisco’s work reminds me of a sensation I experienced at the Museum of Modern Art when standing before a work by Max Beckmann, Max Ernst, Soutine and, of course, Picasso. Yet his universe may be closer to that of Frida Kahlo and René Magritte. The game of comparisons says more about the critic than about the painting itself, but the superlative nature of these comparisons reflects my conviction of the artistic excellence of the subject I am defending here.