Sub-mission (180 x 180 cms)

Gemini twist (180 x 180 cms)

Reverent (195 x 260 cms)

Backwater (195 x 260 cms)

Van der Wayden Salad I (130 x 195 cms)

Van der Wayden Salad II (130 x 195 cms)

Comparable frame (73 x 92 cms)

Brief and green (130,5 x 76,5 cms)

Woman touching her foot (180 x 180 cms)

Still-life with teapot, gin & tonic, and borrowed reflections (114 x 146 cms)

Flash of light (180 x 180 cms)

Flash of light (195 x 130 cms)

Explanation “A”
We generally associate varnish with finality in time, and with superficiality in space. It has something like a petulant cherry on a cake, and also, negatively speaking, of a certain imposture. It is the make-up of a painting, and its anti-aging cream.
Nevertheless, as a constructive material, it has such an ungovernable and liberating character that I chose it when I needed to mutilate the geometrising homing instinct that I was starting to develop. Against geometry, anarchy. Varnish as a detonant, not as a cosmetic. In the depth and at the beginning: where it itches most
Explanation “B”
Yesterday I went out in no hurry, with no apparent reason and with no keys. It happens quite often, especially the key part. I was homeless for six hours. I couldn't get in, I couldn't paint, I couldn't do anything that I can conjugate. I realised that you can't open the door with the x-ray of the doorman's daughter's neck, that Fred Flintstone's prehistoric dog was a son of a bitch, although Wilma must have been a pretty sensible primitive woman, despite her deafness, and that I couldn't care less about that sunny day full of General Strikes, unions, employers, Zapatero's politics and, practically, all parts of existence that were not locked behind the door of my studio. I'm selfish, I admit it, and at times the world seems like a sticky varnish that life pours over you when you've just had a shower. Sometimes it's just so good to be alone, painting. I don't know if the universe is infite, but it certainly has a lock.