Art Madrid'23 presents the section of interviews conducted by the art critic and curator Alfonso de la Torre in which he discovers, in greater depth, the artistic universe of the eight most outstanding creators of the following Art Madrid edition. The section, which presents the artists from private conversations and with its own content, will be included in a common theme around the figure of the artist and their practices in the national art market.

Starting on January 13, we will enjoy two weekly interviews that can be read in full on the Art Madrid website or viewed on video on the fair's Instagram channel.

About Alfonso de la Torre:

Alfonso de la Torre (Madrid, 1960) theoretician and art critic. Specialist in contemporary Spanish art. He has curated more than a hundred exhibitions; He has published essays and poetry and taught courses at various universities and institutions: MNCARS, Museum of Teruel, University of the Andes, Menéndez y Pelayo International University, University of Córdoba, University of Granada, University of Castilla-La Mancha, UIMP, UNIA, Nebrija University or the University of La Sorbonne. He belongs to the International Association of Art Critics (AICA).

Alfonso de la Torre, photo by Carlos Schwartz ©

Perceval Graells, (Elche, 1983) (Alba Cabrera Gallery) seeks, through her works, to provoke a personal reflection in viewers about how we face the process of overcoming pain throughout our history; turning that pain into a space of peace and calm where we can recreate ourselves and reflect. In the work of Martínez Cánovas (Murcia, 1980) (Inéditad) we will find, through a surreal and symbolic imaginary, a direct connection with the philosophical thought of antiquity in philosophers who, like Aristotle, argued that death is the most terrible of all things and that fearing this and other truths is even fair and noble. The works of Cristina Gamón, (Valencia, 1987) (Shiras Galería) are distinguished by a visual freshness that the artist manages to achieve through a complex technique of unreal images, capable of transporting us to the oceanic abysses in which our mere presence is astonished before the magnitude of the color.

The works of Nicolás Lisardo (Las Palmas de Gran Canaria, 1978) (Manuel Ojeda Gallery) aim to assess existential limits, adding a metaphysical tonality to those eroded facades of the city. It is an anti-picturesque scenario, which has the firm intention of moving us to the perception of the idea (eidos forme).

Isabela Puga's (Caracas, 1997) (BAT Alberto Cornejo Gallery) interest in architecture and urbanism make these disciplines a substantial part of her creative process, from which she drinks and adopts, especially her own geometric style. - pictorial. Starting from opposites: the shine of gold and the darkness of black, the artist questions and investigates essential elements such as depth, color, light, and space in her works. She intends to foster the relationship between subject-object and space. The paintings by Francisco Mayor Maestre, (Madrid, 1990) (Aurora Vigil-Escalera Gallery) flood the set with color, excessive vegetation, and impossible planes that break the figuration of the work. Outstanding in his conception of shared spatiality are curtains, awnings, laundry, and air conditioning units... In an investigation of the freedom of painting, the exploration of spaces, and the claim of individuality. The plastic works that Pedro Peña Gil (Jaén, 1978) (Metro Gallery) has carried out in recent years, constitute a return to the attitude of those explorers who wanted to extract the light qualities. Although, in his case, adding the element that best presents him: color. The experimentation of these works, like the first photographers, leads him to take the images of the world as a metaphor for the anonymous Petri dishes. Mario Soria (Barcelona, 1966) (Gallery N2) is a profound connoisseur of the western pictorial tradition and its techniques, and he uses them to subvert them with his particular sense of humor. His works mix American pop art and the European tradition he calls “interstellar pop surrealism.”

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.