CaixaForum Madrid will open on July 17th an exhibition dedicated to Disney, where many works of this big-fish of animated films meet since its founding to the present day. After having passed through Barcelona, the collection arrives in the capital along with a program of activities both for adults and children.

With the title "The Art of Telling Stories", the exhibition rescues the origins of Disney, a company created around the passion of its creator, Walter Elias Disney, who began working as a draftsman in the early 20th century. In 1920, he and his brother decided to settle in Hollywood to launch the first large cartoon factory in the world. In those early days, Mickey Mouse was the star, but still in black and white.

Disney has strongly bet on technological innovation. In 1928 his film "The Steam Boat" was the first animated product in which image and sound were perfectly synchronised. The technicolour arrived in 1932, with the short-film "Flowers and trees". The next milestone was a full-length cartoon-film, "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs", which was released just five years later, in 1937.

The childhood of many of us would not have been the same without Disney’s stories. Although in recent years the company has become a giant of the film industry with capacity to acquire the production of other major labels, such as Marvel, the origins were clearly aimed at a kid's audience eager for fun and entertainment. Nor can we forget the impact of Disney on our way of understanding nowadays many classic stories that have been completely transformed to adapt to the tastes and ideology of the company. The factory was also (let's not forget it) a product of its time, emerged in full American economic boom, in a postwar period very sensitive to tragic and dramatic ends that chose to offer a rereading of the stories to become the paradigm of the happiness that they are today.

If there is something to acknowledge on Disney is its ability to create myths. Its proposals have gone far beyond the drawings with which the company grew up, it has transcended borders beyond imagining, and has created an empire close to reaching its first century of trajectory. And as a final touch is its founder, who died in 1966, around which emerged one of the most widespread urban legends of our time: that his body was cryopreserved awaiting new technological advances to revive it. A way to make the fantasy eternal.

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.