“Connections” is a project launched thanks to the collaboration of the ABC Museum and the Banco Santander Foundation in which an artist is invited to develop a collection of pieces that open a dialogue between a selected work of the Banco collection Santander and others taken from the ABC Museum funds. This initiative tries to promote the diffusion and artistic production around contemporary drawing, so the invited authors work almost exclusively on this discipline.

Guillermo Peñalver, “Yo, dibujando” (detail), 2019

For this 17th edition of the program, the curator Óscar Alonso Molina has invited Guillermo Peñalver. This illustrator and paper lover has been inspired by the work “Modulation number 66” (1976) by the Argentinian artist Julio Le Parc, from the Banco Santander collection, and from the ABC Museum he has chosen three illustrations: “Brígida y su Boda ”(1929), by Emilio Ferrer; “The boy and the showcase” (1924), by Ángel Díaz Huertas; and "The Manly Man" (1932), by Antonio Barbero. Around these selected pieces, Peñalver has developed a project that takes as a starting point his day to day in a precarious context in which the most common and homely actions mix with the time and space dedicated to the creation of his work.

Julio Le Parc, Modulation no. 66, 1976. Banco Santander Collection

Under the title "Autorretrato en interior", the artist recreates scenes of his daily life in pieces of large format that merge the technique of collage with the pencil drawing. Overlapping cut-offs of different papers, he plays with the many shades of white, from ivory to pearl. The images take us to a known environment, to everyday situations in which we can recognise ourselves and find our own personal history.

Guillermo Peñalver, “Ser tú” (detail), 2019

Peñalver wants to convey with this collection the presence that the creative spirit has in his daily life and the lack of resources that artists sometimes face. The scenes show a shared space, where the resting area and the workplace blend in, making it clear that it is not always possible to own a private studio to create; but, at the same time, it is remarkable the naturalness with which the artistic desire is part of the author's life hardly without transition between the different activities of his daily work.

Guillermo Peñalver, “Máscara”, 2018.

The author shares with the viewer the intimacies of this creative process, where the smallest detail can trigger a desire to cut, fold and draw. The set of pieces condenses that uncontrollable impulse to create, which permeates each of the elements of its reality. The result is an intimate and honest work, where situations and thoughts materialise in clean and delicate pieces that need attention, not only to notice the depth of the white colour, always used intentionally, but to discover all the details, the invisible work, the care put into these everyday scenes. Peñalver subtly opens his inner world for us to find him as a spy looking through a window, and faces the naturalness of the home and things done without artifice or imposture.

ABC Museum. "Autorretrato en interior" by Guillermo Peñalver. Until 15th September.

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.