The first city my eyes ever beheld was Valencia, an ancient place steeped in the fragrance of orange blossoms and the tang of saltwater. It is a land of expansive rice fields where the sun rises over the Mediterranean and sets behind the Calderona mountains—a city shaped by its own history. Iberians, Greeks, Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Romans, Visigoths, Arabs, Berbers, Christians, Jews, and Moors have all left their mark here. Like them, I have come to understand the extraordinary fertility of this land.
I am a painter and draftsman. I read whenever time allows, and I write when words rise unbidden from my soul. I tear through fabrics, papers, and zinc plates, I often repainting what I have already created. Many of my images are layered with the stages of my life, reflecting the morphology of my beloved city. Sometimes, the layers conceal what lies beneath, leaving earlier versions in shadow; at other times, I expose fragments to preserve the memory of who I was and who I no longer am. There are moments when I veil these layers, allowing them to merge and dissolve into one another.
Now, I find myself on the opposite shore of the Mediterranean. Yet when I pause, stepping away from the frenetic rhythms of our world, and think of the city that saw me grow, my feelings for it remain steadfast. Whether in Palermo or Oxford, these emotions are unchanged, as though I carry them within a small pinewood box filled with memories—one I handle with care to preserve its edges from fraying.
At El Prat Airport, waiting for a flight to a city bathed by the Aegean Sea, I began Self-Portrait by Celia Paul. Her words made me wonder if Francis Bacon had ever thanked her for the profound impact she had on his life. As I sat there, I reflected on the importance of breaking free from automatic expressions of gratitude—those hollow formulas repeated by habit. Instead, I sought to embrace the profound joy that comes from a sincere 'thank you.' When gratitude is spoken thoughtlessly, it only deepens the void of its absence.
Distance often pulls my mind back to those who have been unwaveringly authentic with me, piercing through the shadows of concealed intentions disguised as kindness. There are friends and family who understand my flaws yet nurture my potential. What I treasure most about them is their ability to guide my devotion in visual language toward fruitful paths, while also embracing the personal spaces I have created. Above all, they offer their love unconditionally. My parents, in particular, have respected every decision I’ve made, even when they didn’t fully understand them. They have supported me at every turn. I know that fifteen years ago, they might have wished for their son to choose a stable, predictable life. Instead, here I am—smelling of turpentine, spattered with paint, and living between one part and another of the Mediterranean in search of my destiny.
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