Aurelio San Pedro

CONVERSATIONS WITH MARISOL SALANOVA. INTERVIEW PROGRAM. ART MADRID'25

Aurelio San Pedro (Barcelona, 1983) draws with great delicacy, focusing his attention on natural settings and favoring black and white. Memory plays a crucial role in his creative process, which is based on treating recollection as a means of artistic expression. His background in engineering and topography influences his search for inspiring images, helping him select the ideal landscapes—ones that stem from both real and imagined places.

Each of his pieces follows a slow and meticulous process, requiring deep introspection. Paper is almost a fetish for him; both the areas he chooses to intervene in and those he leaves blank hold equal importance. He navigates between abstraction and figuration while maintaining a distinctive and deeply resonant style.

Return to Oneself. From the series Books and Landscapes. 2024. Mixed media. 100 x 100 cm.

What role does experimentation play in your creative process?

Experimentation is fundamental in my creative process, both conceptually and aesthetically. My work evolves in parallel with unfolding events, gradually shaping what will become the final piece. However, in terms of production, the role of experimentation depends heavily on the series I am working on at the time.

For example, in the Books series, which is created using book fragments, three-dimensionality is essential. While working on it, I encountered trial and error, residue, simplification, and the streamlining of processes.

In contrast, when it comes to drawings, physical experimentation is much less pronounced. However, there are still discoveries, searches for tools, trials, and shifts within the working process. For instance, in Landscapes, I use a pencil with three extenders that measures about fifty to sixty centimeters. In my two latest series, Iceland and Nature, I had to learn how to move and position myself within nature, while also refining my drawing technique significantly.

Always Stumbled Upon the Same Stone.Detail. From the series Books and Landscapes. 2024. Mixed media. 10 x 19 cm.

What are your references?

I cannot pinpoint specific aesthetic influences, but I can mention those who have left a mark on my artistic journey. First and foremost, my father, due to his connection with art and architecture. I also had the privilege of learning for a year in the studio of Antoni Marqués, a renowned Catalan artist.

Historically, the works of Magritte and Joseph Kosuth have had a profound influence on me. Formally, I find a certain connection with Arte Povera, and I identify with minimalism.

Twenty Dark Episodes. 2024. From the series Books and Landscapes. Mixed media. 100 x 100 cm.

How do memory and recollection influence your drawings?

Much of my work, if not all, is rooted in memory. I began with the Diane series, a collection of pencil drawings based on old photographs by Diane Arbus. In these drawings, I removed the main subjects, leaving only the backgrounds. They were complemented by diptychs that included descriptions of the absent characters, the location where the photograph was taken, and the year. This approach created a dialogue between presence and absence, exploring themes of memory and recollection.

Later, I worked on Landscapes, a much more ethereal series in which I sought to represent an idealized and undefined image through personal memory. Currently, I am developing Nature and Iceland, projects that reflect on natural memory in relation to the landscape’s own form.

I am interested in posing questions such as: How did this rock end up here? How was this meandering river formed? A simple landscape holds countless traces and processes. For me, that is the essence of memory in my work.

ST.3. From the series Iceland. 2024. Pencil on paper. 120 x 100 cm.

How long does it take you to complete your works?

The time I dedicate to each piece depends mainly on its complexity and specific characteristics. Generally, I spend between two and four weeks on each piece, with an average of about three weeks. This varies, as some works require more time for reflection, adjustments, or details, while others emerge more fluidly. The diversity of the creative process is what makes the difference, each piece has its own demands and rhythms, making every artistic experience unique.

Return to Oneself. From the series Books and Landscapes. 2024. Mixed media. 100 x 100 cm.

Why do you choose to work in black and white?

I am deeply drawn to black and white for its timelessness. This visual approach not only eliminates distractions but also removes certain details that might diminish the work’s mystery, allowing the viewer to focus on the essential. The absence of color and the diffuse light I use contribute to a sense of distortion and vagueness, which, to me, enhances the enigmatic nature of the image.

By omitting volume and color, I create an atmosphere that invites interpretation, leaving room for the viewer to project their own narrative onto what they see. This quality of uncertainty and suggestion is what I find so powerful about working in black and white.

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.