Quintana stages a violent inversion of power and prey. A colossal, wounded rabbit head — pale, bruised, and rendered in raw, dripping strokes — looms over a contorted, emaciated body that can barely sustain its own weight. On the figure’s hand perches a small falcon, the traditional hunter now reduced to a fragile spectator, the natural order brutally reversed.

Quintana transforms the rabbit, long a symbol of vulnerability and fear, into a grotesque monument to the Cuban ego under historical pressure. The oversized head, with its ghostly ears rising like instruments of dread, embodies a consciousness deformed by repression and scarcity — a self that has grown monstrously large while the body beneath it withers into vestigial form. The falcon, once predator, now sits contained and diminished, underscoring how oppression inverts and internalizes power.

In this dark, visceral square, Quintana offers no consolation. He presents the self as a site of perpetual mutation and quiet violence, where the grotesque is not deviation but the precise anatomy of endurance. The rabbit does not escape. It confronts us, its swollen head a testament to the terrifying cost of survival when the soul has outgrown its own life.