The Bread that is Kneaded

In this life, we all live under the sign of contradiction.
We do what we can to keep moving forward. It's nice to think of painting as a space of personal fantasy where we can project ourselves in the way we believe our life could be friendlier. A dream, an idea, a desire, or a joke. But painting is not life, it is painting, but sometimes it is also life. It is and it is not, and there lies its power or rather its capacity. In that square meter, we can carry out our poetic program and infect our existence. An existence that is contradictory. We say what we can, negotiating with modesty, joy, desire, friends, and pain: all the things we consider part of our vital repertoire. Sometimes it happens that things that are common and true to us, like religious affiliation, make us feel modest. We think they are something we have to hide. And no. When we stop negotiating for a while with our ghosts and can carry out that problematic, vital, and sovereign program of telling life through art — which is difficult but not impossible — we realize that when it happens, it is simply beautiful, like a dog sleeping in the sun.

Santiago Rey, August 2021