Fortunately, speaking today of the World Book Day is something familiar. It is a consolidated celebration that we all look forward to. Spring and good weather come, and walks in the park and reading a book are one of the greatest pleasures in life.

Artwork by Alicia Martín in A Cidade da Cultura, Santiago de Compostela

April 23rd is a designated date. We celebrate the anniversary of the death of Cervantes, along with the birth of Shakespeare, in 1616, as well as other important milestones for universal literature. For this reason, UNESCO decided in 1995 to dedicate a day to this celebration, and since 1996 it is celebrated worldwide, although the organisation of fairs and meetings around the book are much earlier. In fact, in Spain the first book fair is recorded in 1926 during the reign of Alfonso XIII.

There are many activities ongoing on these dates. We can highlight the exhibition "Pasa pagina. An invitation to read", in the National Library Museum. It is a proposal in which visitors are invited to reflect on the role of reading and the impact on people's personal lives. What does reading mean? A tour completed with audio and visual elements, photographs and books gathered under the maxim "the more you read, the more you live". A great truth.

Paradoxically, the Madrid Book Fair (the 77th edition) is held within a month in the Retiro park, this year with Romania as the guest country. This meeting is the ideal occasion to combine different artistic disciplines where boundaries are blurred and confused, starting with the poster of the fair, made this year by the illustrator Paula Bonet, or booths dedicated to the artist book or publishers focused on mixed illustration and narrative projects.

And for those who want to get started in art with a good reading, we bring you a short list of recommendations:

“Letters to Theo” (Vincent Van Gogh): compiles the letters that Van Gogh sent to his brother Theo and are a direct testimony of the personal artistic experience of this essential author.

“Salvador Dalí: the diary of a genius” (Salvador Dalí): a personal diary to know the most hidden intimacy of this genius so often described as lunatic.

"Leonardo da Vinci. The biography", by Walter Isaacson. This writer has already addressed the biography of other great masters. On this occasion, he reviews the vital story of this renaissance figure that is still up-to-date.

"Joan Miro. The child who spoke with trees", by Josep Massot. The writer has made a profound investigation into the life of this iconic artist of the 20th century around which there is still a great ignorance.

"Guernica. The unknown masterpiece", by José María Juarranz. This book is the result of several years of research that deals with the historical, political, social and personal context that motivated the realization of this masterpiece of the 20th century.

The painting of Daniel Bum (Villena, Alicante, 1994) takes shape as a space for subjective elaboration, where the figure emerges not so much as a representational motif but as a vital necessity. The repetition of this frontal, silent character responds to an intimate process: painting becomes a strategy for navigating difficult emotional experiences—an insistent gesture that accompanies and alleviates feelings of loneliness. In this sense, the figure acts as a mediator between the artist and a complex emotional state, linking the practice of painting to a reconnection with childhood and to a vulnerable dimension of the self.

The strong autobiographical dimension of his work coexists with a formal distance that is not the result of conscious planning, but rather functions as a protective mechanism. Visual restraint, an apparent compositional coolness, and an economy of means do not neutralize emotion; instead, they contain it, avoiding the direct exposure of the traumatic. In this way, the tension between affect and restraint becomes a structural feature of his artistic language. Likewise, the naïve and the disturbing coexist in his painting as inseparable poles, reflecting a subjectivity permeated by mystery and unconscious processes. Many images emerge without a clearly defined prior meaning and only reveal themselves over time, when temporal distance allows for the recognition of the emotional states from which they arose.

The Long Night. Oil, acrylic, and charcoal on canvas. 160 × 200 cm. 2024.

The human figure appears frequently in your work: frontal, silent, suspended. What interests you about this presence that seems both affirmative and absent?

I wouldn’t say that anything in particular interests me. I began painting this figure because there were emotions I couldn’t understand and a feeling that was very difficult for me to process. This character emerged during a very complicated moment in my life, and the act of making it—and remaking it, repeating it again and again—meant that, during the process, I didn’t feel quite so alone. At the same time, it kept me fresh and connected me to an inner child who was broken at that moment, helping me get through the experience in a slightly less bitter way.

Santito. Acrylic and oil on canvas. 81 × 65 cm. 2025.

There is a strong affective dimension in your work, but also a calculated distance, a kind of formal coldness. What role does this tension between emotion and restraint play?

I couldn’t say exactly what role that tension plays. My painting is rooted in the autobiographical, in memory, and in situations I have lived through that were quite traumatic for me. Perhaps, as a protective mechanism—to prevent direct access to that vulnerability, or to keep it from becoming harmful—that distance appears unconsciously. It is not something planned or controlled; it simply emerges and remains there.

Night Painter. Acrylic on canvas. 35 × 27 cm. 2025.

Your visual language oscillates between the naïve and the unsettling, the familiar and the strange. How do these tensions coexist for you, and what function do they serve in your visual exploration?

I think it reflects who I am. One could not exist without the other. The naïve could not exist without the unsettling; for me, they necessarily go hand in hand. I am deeply drawn to mystery and to the act of painting things that even I do not fully understand. Many of the expressions or portraits I create emerge from the unconscious; they are not planned. It is only afterwards that I begin to understand them—and almost never immediately. A considerable amount of time always passes before I can recognize how I was feeling at the moment I made them.

Qi. Acrylic on canvas. 81 × 65 cm. 2025.

The formal simplicity of your images does not seem to be a matter of economy, but of concentration. What kind of aesthetic truth do you believe painting can reach when it strips itself of everything superfluous?

I couldn’t say what aesthetic truth lies behind that simplicity. What I do know is that it is something I need in order to feel calm. I feel overwhelmed when there are too many elements in a painting, and I have always been drawn to the minimal—to moments when there is little, when there is almost nothing. I believe that this stripping away allows me to approach painting from a different state: more focused, more silent. I can’t fully explain it, but it is there that I feel able to work with greater clarity.

Crucifixion. Acrylic on canvas. 41 × 33 cm. 2025.

To what extent do you plan your work, and how much space do you leave for the unexpected—or even for mistakes?

I usually feel more comfortable leaving space for the unexpected. I am interested in uncertainty; having everything under control strikes me as rather boring. I have tried it on some occasions, especially when I set out to work on a highly planned series, with fixed sketches that I then wanted to translate into painting, but it was not something I identified with. I felt that a fundamental part of the process disappeared: play—that space in which painting can surprise even myself. For that reason, I do not tend to plan too much, and when I do, it is in a very simple way: a few lines, a plane of color. I prefer everything to happen within the painting itself.