One of the design works that most impact and that usually falls into oblivion is the advertising posters. Metres and metres of billboards, bulletin boards, canopies, banderoles... covered with numerous layers of glued paper. Although the nostalgic people always want to keep the concert that made history or the movie that marked his childhood.

A group of entrepreneurs Bilbao has launched an app that develops a cultural agenda based on the posters designed to announce each of the activities: Postwall. This initiative has already exceeded 5,000 downloads in its five months of life. With these figures, it is evident that the communicative power of the poster resides in its visual impact and that the public is still sensitive to the quality of good design, something increasingly demanding and complicated in an environment of permanent competition in digital communication.

Beyond the fetishists and collectors who paper the walls of their rooms with posters of their small vital "milestones" (where there is no movie poster - especially Star Wars or similar - or a musical star - from Michael Jackson to Beyoncée-?), it is good to keep in mind that behind all good posters there are many hours of work. It is about harmonizing the information with an image that impacts, and a lot of design work in which the main artistic trends of the moment concentrate.

In fact, a poster can be used for much more than to announce an activity. It can create a tendency, influence the style of an era, become a reference of art for posterity. This has happened with communist aesthetics during the Cold War, with a propaganda poster that today is updated in the hands of authors such as Shepard Fairey, apart from other paradigmatic examples such as Mucha and his compositions Art Deco (sometimes it is difficult to know what was before , the poster or the style itself), or the total fusion of trends by Víctor Moscoso, a Galician poster designer based in California who set a trend in the 60s to generate an unmistakable style.

As Patrick San Juan, one of the founders of Postwall, explains, a good poster anticipates the experience of the event it announces. However, the graphic designer, the true alma mater of these works, goes completely unnoticed and remains forgotten to the value chain associated with the event at stake. This idea, added to the need to collect in one place all the cultural offer of the city, motivated the creation of this app that so far, without reaching the half year of life, already works in all Basque Country, Barcelona and Madrid and continues to expand to Seville and Valencia.

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.