The coexistence of the arts is, more than a fact, a necessity. Inspiration calls for inspiration, and it is difficult not to surrender to the beauty of some works that have passed into the history of art as an essential. That’s why it is not strange that cinema, the art of image par excellence, look for its models in some iconic artworks. Beyond the films about the lives of the most famous painters, there is also a less perceptible, more meditated influence that comes to light among film-frames to recreate imperishable scenes.

One of the easiest references to identify is the house of Psycho (the genuine one, the Hitchcock's masterpiece), directly drawn from one of Edward Hopper's paintings. The resemblance is huge, and although the architecture is not identical, both the framing and the environment refer us immediately to the work of the American painter.

Emulation is not exclusive to the first years of the 7th Art. The current cinema, in a context of overabundance of special effects, fantasy worlds and supernatural powers, seeks to consolidate its artistic language with productions of exquisite photographic composition based on masterpieces of the history of painting. To give just a few examples, we can mention Dunkirk (2017), with instants inspired by "Wanderer above the Sea of Fog" (1818), by Caspar David Friedrich.

Classic paintings have always been a source of inspiration, especially if the reference is known worldwide. So it is with this scene of "About Schmidt" (2002), by Alexander Payne, where Jack Nicholson languishes in his bathtub in the same way as the famous painting "Death of Marat" (1793) by Jacques-Louis David.

The references are also taken from contemporary art. The beginning of "Lost in translation" (2003) by Sofia Coppola, is identical to the work "Jutta" (1973) by John Kacere.

And we can also mention the painting by the Swedish artist Odd Nerdrum "Drawn" (1990), whose disconcerting and terrifying idea is taken for a sequence of "The cell" (2000), a film loaded with surrealist and colourful images that represent chaos and mystery of the human mind. In fact, this film includes other striking images inspired by contemporary works such as the series of animals preserved in formaldehyde by Damien Hirst.

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.