Comb for a staircase without circumstance (180 x 130 cms)

The conformist (180 x 260 cms)


Ex aequo 3

Fake horizons I

Fake horizons II


Basic sur-vival

Girl and pouf

Neither girl nor pouf


Explanation “A”
Everything that is fattening. Within this group there are transient paintings, and others that stay for ever. The first will fly off when they create inertia and in their wake a new series ends up being formed. The latter are solitary souls, strange individuals who lack very obvious connections with others, although I love them just as much. Sometimes, precisely because of that.
Explanation “B”
The man who fantasised quite frequently.
The guy would have liked to write a novel, but he could only come up with the beginnings: the first phrase, the initial paragraph, or a couple of chapters, at the most. He also wanted to fall in love again, but was incapable of visualising that love story beyond the phase of courtship, conquest included. He couldn't quite envisage the rest of the plot, with or without alimony at the end. For the novel he'd written almost a dozen possible beginnings, each very different, and more than one frankly absurd. Regarding his love story, he had imagined a bunch of women as candidates to star with them in a definitive and imprecise romance, some of them he even knew, although not in person.
He was crazy about, for example, Romina Power, when he was an adolescent, a long time ago. At that time the singer was 30 years old. Neither that she doubled him in age, nor her sickly sweet music was an impediment for the platonic love that he professed for her from his unbridled hormones. He also loved all the girls at school who looked like her, however remotely remarkable the likeness. He considered Romina to be perfect, distant, and yet, conquerable. Every time he had seen her on television, he couldn't avoid an annoying and poorly disguised flush, because he thought his whole family was conscious of his naive and clandestine passion and of his manifest erections. He was convinced that if that goddess was capable of marrying that midget of an Albano, with his platforms, glasses and other parafernalia, then it would be inevitable that she would fall into a swoon over him, were he to make a little effort. In fact, on one occasion he was about to have his wicked way with her. It ocurred in a department store in Madrid. The guy walked adolescently down some non-mechanical stairs, ready to exit the establishment. While he was descending the last flight of stairs, the one that takes you to the ground floor of the building, he suddenly came across an enthusiastic crowd of vociferous people. At the center of that commotion he could clearly distinguish Romina. Her face was half covered by her long hair, and she was tirelessly signing the records which admirers were holding out to her from all angles. He slowed his pace while he continued to look at her. From where he was, he had a clear view, although distant, of the woman who occupied such and important place in his dreams and in his right hand. And then it happened: Romina lifted her eyes for a few moments, and their looks found each other mid air, above the mob, flying over counters, ignoring the public, the sales girls, the records, crashing loudly, he thought, with a crash as irresistible as the smile that the beautiful American gave him. The guy lowered his eyes, descended the final steps that remained, and avoiding the growing crowd went out to the wintry cold of Calle Serrano. Idiot, idiot, idiot. Just a little more and I pick her up.
Well that is what happens with the paintings in this section: They are only beginnings, more or less promising.