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Leonard Batts is a passionate critic of comic journey through the unknown New Zealand. Their destination is the remote coastal town Hickville and its objective, documented the origins of Dick Burger, a former resident of the village to which the success of his character Captain Tomorrow became a powerful magnate, concerning all of the business, the man on whom writing a book. And that is the task of Batts: insight into the origins of the great man, closer to the broth s culture which developed his genius. Will soon meet (or rather, collide with) many villagers to discover that in Hickville: A) tod @ s without exception have an encyclopedic knowledge of comics, and B) tod @ s, almost without exception , cast foaming at the mouth when appointing Burger. Surrounded by hostility in this chimeric population plagued by incunabula, scholars, municipal employees, missing masterpieces and closets full of skeletons, Leonard decides it is time to flag up some bones.

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Inside was a fugacity bottomless void in which only remained the impression of the moment. As an orphan terrain and vegetation roots, unable to sustain or support to others. No lasting records, except for a recurring cycle of thought, sometimes obsessive, author of monologues, sketches and Dramon appealing to the lowest common denominators. Mind Games, barriers built around a stunted emotional corpus over time had become infamous prison, making hell a place located in his chest. After years of neglect, was considering the needs or knew that he could hardly shape. And so, after assertive smile lay a complex web that made him feel emotional inhabitant of a wilderness of confusion and bewilderment. Inhabited by a monster empty of breath and sharp teeth boiling, always hungry, always ready to take hold when the lights dimmed and the audience were resting away, safe. Inside, alone, persecuted, Cork Brain screaming, howling for help. Maybe that's why finding a cure for pain, maybe that's why his selfish concern for those around him. Unconsciously, I never give anything without expecting something in return, and each act was a plea, a "help me" sung in a language created by himself, incomprehensible to the rest. Designed to meet the demands of your ego self-pitying. Receiving a signal, too designed to interpret without filters. But I sensed that the acceptance of incomplete and distorted nature of this confusion, this imbalance could make her understand that all lived inside. Pain. The shadow. Light. Giving access to a fuller understanding of the process which reduced their existence. And so, perhaps, be happy. Maybe ...

What sounded? Bélmez

~ Appearances (Acuarela, 2009)

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