Men and image have remained together since the very beginning of the species, even above and beyond the fantastic daguerreotype introduced at the French Academy of Sciences, in 1839.

His work is a tribute to art and spirit, it is a mysterious alloy between mercury and silver. These images already existed since forever in his mind, they were alive even before his camera would shot.

They are a genetic proof of the artist that resides in Mario’s soul, gravitate in the eye of his Cyclops, and fabricate the honey in his heart like the bees from Martin Tinajero’s, running wild like Fidias’s horses.

I have had the privilege of prefacing his genius, and I can only say: He was a sculptor, engraver and embosser at the Athens of Pericles, and he is not asking for more fame than Lord Byron’s dog had, or even Polly Nichols, the first victim from the skilled ripper.

His being does not admit vileness, and the beauty for him is a telescope that he uses to scan the horizon.

Boris Bueno.