Goya once said that he had no teachers other than the great painters and nature itself. Over the years, I’ve come to understand that looking is not just a passive act but also a way of belonging. A gaze that lingers is not merely an observation; it’s a caress that reveals a profound connection with what is observed. In my search for ideas for a new artistic project, this notion of belonging led me to Lake Kerkini in Greece, a sanctuary for birds that seems to sway with the rhythm of water and air. However, as I researched and made sketches, something about this place pulled me back to another lake, more familiar to me: l'Albufera of Valencia. In that corner of the world, I learned as a child that nature is both a generous mother and an unyielding lover.
The first time I saw images of Kerkini, with its flocks of flamingos and pelicans dancing on the surface of the water, I felt an urgent need to draw them. But not simply as a reproduction of their external beauty; rather, as a reminder of that delicate balance that allows them to exist there: the flight that draws them close, the water that nourishes them, the wind that holds them up. Like a fascinated student, I traced lines on paper, attempting to capture their forms. The sketches piled up, clumsy and imperfect, until an idea began to take shape. It was the water that connected Kerkini and l’Albufera. Water wove an umbilical cord between my homeland and this distant place.
It is often said that painting is writing with the eyes. But before color or canvas comes an intimate process of touching the idea with your hands through sketches. I drew pelicans, those creatures with beaks like baskets full of fish, and flamingos that walk on the waters with the grace of weary dancers. And among the lines created with charcoal, the shadow of l'Albufera also emerged: the aquatic plants, the herons rising with solemnity, the silhouettes of trees lost in the horizon, and the distant mountains that seem to remind us that there is no creation more sublime than nature itself.
It was then that I remembered my father, who used to tell me that birds always return to the place where they were born. I recall his stories about migration, the endless patience of birds who travel thousands of kilometers to perch on a branch that may no longer exist. In Kerkini, as in l’Albufera, the birds not only tell stories of arrival, but also of loss. Not all of them return. Sometimes the journey is too long, or the storm too strong. I also drew those absences, those voids that can only be expressed through lines, the shapes that echo the emptiness.
There is something deeply transformative in the search for an idea. The sketch is not merely a step before the final work; it is a space for conversation with oneself. A place where the reason behind the image, the place, or the memory that envelops you is revealed. Kerkini reminded me of l’Albufera, not only because of the water or the birds, but because of how both landscapes hold stories of life that are always on the verge of overflowing.
In this process of approaching art, I discovered that, like the knot of an umbilical cord, there are connections that cannot be undone. Kerkini and l’Albufera share the same fragility, the same urgency to be protected. In the end, my sketches are not just lines that represent birds; they are a way of finding myself within the ebb and flow between Kerkini and l'Albufera. A map of gestures and strokes reminds me that, like the birds, we all inhabit spaces that pass through us more than we realize.
Comments