The World Book Day is celebrated every year on April 23rd. This date, which commemorates the death of some of the greatest writers such as Cervantes, Garcilaso de la Vega or Shakespeare, is a reminder of the immense value of the written word to enrich our culture and generate knowledge.

We bring you a list of recommended readings for art lovers or those who begin to be it because the world of books is for everyone:

My Museum, by Joanne Liu

It is an educational book for the little ones of a journey that approaches art from the experience of a child visiting an exhibition hall. It is about encouraging observation, attention, knowledge of different styles and themes to feed the imagination and get familiar with the range of possibilities that art offers to express themselves without limitations. Do you want to train a future artist or curator?

A Journey Through Art, by Aaron Rosen

It is a book designed for the pre-teenagers. As its title indicates, the book presents a journey through the history of art from its beginning to the present, with a content that delves into the cultural substratum of the different civilisations and societies that created the great masterpieces. A pleasant reading, full of illustrations and images that exemplifies the wonders that art has left for posterity.

Teoría de la retaguardia, cómo sobrevivir al arte contemporáneo (y a casi todo lo demás), by Ivan de la Nuez

This acidic work condenses a scathing critique of the current cultural system, the power of "institutionalisation" of museums, the "franchise" character of some museum-factories and the weakness of discourse in many contemporary artworks that are based on "social causes" of the moment, with volatile and futile propaganda. The union between art and globalisation is the raison d'etre of many of these phenomena, and De la Nuez masters these issues in his work.

What are you looking at?, by Will Gompertz.

For those who still want to become familiar with the art of our days and know the significant milestones that have shaped the contemporary art scene, our recommendation is one of the classics: "What are you looking at?", a book that has almost become a “must” to answer some of the questions we always ask ourselves about art.

Guernica, la obra maestra desconocida, by José María Juarranz de la Fuente

For those who seek a bit of intrigue and often question the "official version" of things, we recommend this study focused on the most famous work of Pablo Picasso: "The Guernica." According to its author, who has devoted 14 years to researching this issue, behind Guernica there is a different motivation to the traditionally spread out to represent the horrors of war. An excellent book to delve into the research and the essay in modern art.

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.