Guernica
I always grew up with art in my house. I cannot complain. I'm not talking just about painting. I'm talking about music, and drawing...
One of my favorite things when I was a child was asking my mom to draw me the silhouette of a woman she always used to do. It was beautiful and I used to imagine that silhouette as if it was real.
One day I discovered my dad's old sketches from back in the day when he was studying arts at school. The shapes of arms, eyes, hands...
One of my more painful memories was being at the hospital after a surgery to take out my tonsils, my hand all swollen because I had been all day painting with the new colors my aunt had gave me using the same hand that was holding my IV. It hurt and I they took the colors away: I was not allowed to paint anymore until I recovered.
I had a friend in highschool who painted. I loved to see how she held the pencil, learning also from her technique.
Going to art class was one of my favorite times of the day. The first teacher we had used to make us go over lines. Over and over again. Just following dots, making oval, shapes, following just boring perfection. Then Miguel came. I didn't like how other classmates used to make fun of him, how disrespectful they were to him. Just because he was different and easy going. Just because of that I always though he deserved more respect. He was giving us free will. Some people took it as a way to use that class to spend an hour doing nothing. For me it was the moment I was able to use my imagination.
I grew up knowing my family history, the civil war, what it did to us. The people we lost, the repression. The heroes who fought for our freedom, national and international one. The numerous painters, writers, musicians who had to flee or who stayed and die in the hands of fascism.
In my house we always had a Guernica made by my dad with a technique which consists in engraving a mirror to get a black background with the picture of your desire exposed in that mirror.
When I was 15 or so, Miguel gave us the assignment of drawing something abstract: shapes, lines, nothing defined but with meaning... And I couldn't but to take my dad's design and make my own version of the Guernica.
Now, my professor of photography had gave us a new assignment. It has nothing to do with vivid colors, but it's about shapes, meaning and drawing with light and playing with black, white and the infinite greys in the middle which light creates by absorbing colors and going through objects...
And it is going to be perfect.
One of my favorite things when I was a child was asking my mom to draw me the silhouette of a woman she always used to do. It was beautiful and I used to imagine that silhouette as if it was real.
One day I discovered my dad's old sketches from back in the day when he was studying arts at school. The shapes of arms, eyes, hands...
One of my more painful memories was being at the hospital after a surgery to take out my tonsils, my hand all swollen because I had been all day painting with the new colors my aunt had gave me using the same hand that was holding my IV. It hurt and I they took the colors away: I was not allowed to paint anymore until I recovered.
I had a friend in highschool who painted. I loved to see how she held the pencil, learning also from her technique.
Going to art class was one of my favorite times of the day. The first teacher we had used to make us go over lines. Over and over again. Just following dots, making oval, shapes, following just boring perfection. Then Miguel came. I didn't like how other classmates used to make fun of him, how disrespectful they were to him. Just because he was different and easy going. Just because of that I always though he deserved more respect. He was giving us free will. Some people took it as a way to use that class to spend an hour doing nothing. For me it was the moment I was able to use my imagination.
I grew up knowing my family history, the civil war, what it did to us. The people we lost, the repression. The heroes who fought for our freedom, national and international one. The numerous painters, writers, musicians who had to flee or who stayed and die in the hands of fascism.
In my house we always had a Guernica made by my dad with a technique which consists in engraving a mirror to get a black background with the picture of your desire exposed in that mirror.
When I was 15 or so, Miguel gave us the assignment of drawing something abstract: shapes, lines, nothing defined but with meaning... And I couldn't but to take my dad's design and make my own version of the Guernica.
Now, my professor of photography had gave us a new assignment. It has nothing to do with vivid colors, but it's about shapes, meaning and drawing with light and playing with black, white and the infinite greys in the middle which light creates by absorbing colors and going through objects...
And it is going to be perfect.
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| Guernica(s) |
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