Richard García. Courtesy of the artist.

ARTE & PALABRA. CONVERSATIONS WITH CARLOS DEL AMOR

In Richard García's work there is something that captures the viewer's gaze. Whether it's the colour, the recognisable but undefined landscape, or the real but seemingly imaginary creatures that inhabit that landscape, I can't say. There are many layers to lose oneself in in each of his works, and in each one there is something underlying the previous one, as if it had been left there for us to follow the trail of a creative process in which meticulous study and chance seem to follow parallel paths, knowing that somewhere along the way they will meet.

A brushstroke creates a new territory, perhaps covering something that has already been done, but which would otherwise have no identity of its own, and this new territory, delineated by colour, illuminates a new path, a new layer, a new perspective. Richard's street origins are evident, his works have the restless pulse of someone who is moved by the spark of an idea which will be followed by a new one, and aspiration to the end of a work that can be infinite because there are infinite details we can dwell on.

Of course, he gives importance to the dream, and in the end the dream is just that, a superimposition of real layers that in the end form an impossible world. To contradict myself, it is not an impossible world because the artist has made it visible and therefore real. Painted, but real and ready for us to pass through without knowing where it will lead us.

Reclaiming nature. Acrylic, oil, wax and spray on board. 2023.

If you had to define yourself in one sentence, which one would you use?

It is often said that to define oneself is to limit oneself, so I don't like to do it. But if I had to, I would describe myself as a passionate, disciplined and dedicated person, and above all a perfectionist.

What is left of the boy who began painting on the walls of the streets?

Everything about graffiti remains, except the anonymity. At high school I made some friends who were involved in the world of graffiti and they shared their experiences and adrenaline filled anecdotes with me, and all of this gave me the desire to try street painting. It came very naturally, the learning process was self-taught, from other colleagues, from urban artists that I had as references. I didn't even have established artists in the history of art as references. It was a beginning that had a profound effect on my development, because it was thanks to them that I decided to study Fine Arts and train as an artist.

In terms of the way I work or paint, I still use the sprays, strokes and gestures typical of graffiti, except that they have been transferred to other supports, such as a wooden board, a canvas or many others. But it is true that in my work I continue to make references to elements that I find in the street and that refer to graffiti, such as writers' signatures, stickers or registers typical of urban art. Let's say it was something I identified with in my early days and that is still present in my work today.

Blue summer. Acrylic, oil, wax and spray on board. 2023.

Whenever you talk about your work, the word dream appears. In your paintings all the elements are recognizable but they form an unreal reality. How do you capture, paint a dream?

Actually my creative process is very intuitive, unconscious. I don't really know where it will take me. It is precisely this element of surprise, of the unexpected, of what emerges, that makes my work special, or what I consider to be special, and what emerges from it. In a way, I start from the reality in which I move and I collect moments through photography to later generate a new image through a strategy of digital sketches, where I give myself the freedom to transform it based on my imagination, my desires and my dreams. After all, who doesn't dream, wish, fantasize? It's not so much what I paint as how the viewer wants to interpret my work.

In dreams, everything is superimposed, the images run over each other, and this can be seen in your paintings. It's as if one layer isn't enough, you need several superimposed layers to get to the bottom of what you want to say. When you paint the first one, do you know where you will end up?

It is true that my painting has a transformative power of accumulation of layers as well as thoughts. It all begins as a constant dance between the controlled and the uncontrolled. Through the plastic possibilities offered by the materials I work with, I leave a lot of room from the beginning for chance and coincidence to generate a thousand stimuli which, through the superimposition of layers, will gradually mutate from the more abstract language of painting to a more figurative or recognisable language. I see it as a constant dialogue between what painting offers you in an almost magical way as a discovery and the choices you make in the process to arrive at the final work. That's why there's something magical about painting that takes you to places you never expected.

It is best to wake up without an alarm. Acrylic, oil, wax and spray on board. 2023.

Maybe it's just intuition, but your work reminded me of Richard Estes' paintings, probably because of the use of reflections. Here's a question in the form of a play on words: How difficult is it to reflect a reflection in a work of art? And in that reflection we can be ourselves or a reality that would not exist if it were not reflected.

Yes, it is true that we both use the concept of reflection in our work, but I think in very different ways. In the case of Richard Estes, I think he uses photography to approach reflection in a more faithful, objective or literal way. It is this aesthetic of photorealism, of hyperrealism, that interests him. In his painting, each part of the image is focused on equally or with equal importance. In my case, I am interested in the sensations created by the reflection itself. When I observe how light hits a glass, a distorted reality is created, where the different spaces overlap, creating a fantasy world that can be imagined. Similarly, where figuration and abstraction are in constant dialogue, something similar happens in my painting.

I'm also very interested in the very plasticity of painting, the way it is done. How each part of the painting is resolved and how the different languages that emerge in the process itself coexist. There is something that is important to me, and that is the reading that the painting itself has, from the first layers and how they emerge in a more intuitive way, or where the accident has a great weight, to the last layers that are more gestural or more closed with more matter, more figuration. But in reality it's not so much whether it's easy or difficult, it's more the process itself and everything that happens during it that leads me to an unreal reality, to create an optical illusion.

Green was the silence. Acrylic, oil, wax and spray on board. 2023.

Your work takes me to the urban, and yet there are "green" elements, nature, in all of them. The city is becoming more gray and less green, is this an attempt to immortalize spaces that are on the verge of extinction?

I was born in a city where everything has grown and changed, just as I have, and this has influenced my identity or who I am today. In this process of walking in search of stimuli to bring to painting, reflections, experiences, concerns arise that will inevitably be reflected in my work as an extension of myself. It is in this process of walking that I realize how modern life has increasingly distanced nature from our lives. Therefore I create contemporary scenarios in which wild animals - outside their natural habitat - appear to make us reflect on the importance of our origin: nature.

Where do you think your painting is going?

I really don't know. I don't want to think about it directly. Where the painting and the process itself wants to take me. It's the surprise factor and all the magic that painting has, that you can't control, that feeds me so much and I hope to evolve and continue to do it with the same joy, passion and enthusiasm.

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.