“He was suddenly struck by a wonderful desire to paint. I didn’t even organize myself. I grabbed a canvas that was already painted, the colors I had, and I started. I had been working on some drawings and these paintings are a natural continuation of them,” says Ernesto Ballesteros about the works on view in Room 1, by appointment and in compliance with hygiene and safety measures.
The exhibition will be accompanied by texts by Juliana Iriart and Juanjo Souto, and curated by Violeta Mollo.
Schedule your visit HERE
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Traveler of his own time.
One day he woke up under a cloudy sky
inside his head
And he arrived where everything is doubt and false memory
Better said, where the memories of memory and the inventions of the mind are mixed
Better said, where what happened and what did not happen does not matter
A kind of understanding
He finally understood what it was to be in the air and to move without vertigo
Others would call that flying
He rests the painting on the stretcher
a stretcher after so much time
as a true traveler of his own time
he returns to look for what he left in a corner of adolescence
and takes the opportunity to cry a little
connects with his first color
his first stain
blood? vomit? earth?
the first image he made
but dissatisfied, he keeps searching
because memory does not exist
there exists the equation: multiple possibilities, but not infinite
he practices
works by practicing
arrives at an end
with no further combinations
and after recreating his first stain
as in a second beginning
he feels that he is years before starting
and he takes those years
to enjoy himself, as any good time traveler would
Juanjo Souto
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Can something be seen from the inside?
In this case I would say that at least I saw it very closely:
I saw someone choosing colors by WhatsApp and waiting for them with excitement.
I saw someone repeating a gesture as if it were new every time.
Someone who welcomed any size of stretcher with joy.
Someone who waited longer than expected just to continue with the next color.
I saw someone longing for the rain to stop for just one reason.
Someone who accepted that dogs and cats want to be on top of what we make.
I saw how an unexpected drizzle added possibilities.
I saw how painting becomes contagious.
I saw how energy can be silent.
I saw how time can be counted without stories.
I saw how one color transforms another, and how one part, indeed, transforms the whole.
I saw the painter’s back of a slow warrior who perseveres in his whims, almost embarrassed,
and without realizing it he is winning the internal struggle that accompanies us as long as we are living.
Juliana Iriart
