We suggest a tour of some amazing buildings and monuments at a time when cement was the building material par excellence. In the 60s and 70s, many avant-garde architectural projects opted for a resounding and forceful aesthetic, often with reminiscences of Soviet sobriety, which old Europe channelled into public buildings and monuments of great importance. The material was versatile, ductile, resistant and affordable. On the other hand, its final finish does not require painting for its conservation, and that lowers the costs of maintenance and production. Sometime later it was learned that cement of poor quality is irreversibly affected by "aluminosis", and this resulted in serious crumbles and cracks in many neighbourhoods in the outskirts of large cities.

“Tito’s fist”, by Boško Kućanski.

In fact, one of the cases we bring here is the monument to the partisans of the former Yugoslavia who, under the orders of Josip Tito, defended with their lives the bridge of the Neretva River in the battle of the same name, when the German and Italian troops threatened with the occupation in February and March of 1943. The tribute was a colossal fist, futuristic in style, made by the artist Boško Kućanski, winner of an open public call for projects for the memorial. The work was erected in Makljen and was officially inaugurated on November 12th, 1978, in an act attended by Josip Tito himself. The monument was popularly called "Tito’s fist". Today this work has collapsed due to lack of conservation.

L: Honoring the revolution of the people of the region of Moslavina against German occupation (Podgaric, Croatia) - R: Memorial to the fallen in the II World War (Niksic, Montenegro)

Among the most amazing constructions, memorials occupy a prominent place, because by not having a functional use, they leave more room for imagination and design. The sculptures that homage to the fallen in armed conflicts in Eastern Europe are the most enigmatic. They condense the aesthetic heritage of the Soviet period and the Cold War with a futuristic, cold and robust style that has already become the paradigm of an entire era and we must understand in their own context. These monumental works are known in Serbian as "spomeniks", a term widely accepted to refer to them, and means precisely that, sculptures of large dimensions created to commemorate an event.

L: Dedicated to victims of the Jasenovac concentration camp (Jasenovac, Croatia) - R: The fists-shaped Babanj monument, honoring fallen Yugoslavian fighters in World War II (near Niš, Serbia)

Most of these works are abstract and avoid including specific references to an individual or social group. Likewise, they do not incorporate recognisable elements or reproduce human figures. We must not forget that the societies affected by an armed conflict retain a repository of memory that extends over time and that goes beyond the specific events that took place, and in cases where there are also internal divisions for religious and ethnic reasons, besides the political ones, abstraction seems a good option. Its appearance, however, leads many to be ironical about the extraterrestrial influence of these designs.

Cultural Heritage Institute of Spain

In our country cement also boomed at the time. A good example is the headquarters of the Institute of Cultural Heritage of Spain, located in the university area of Madrid. This building is a project of the architects Fernando Higueras and Rafael Moneo, who obtained in 1961 the National Architecture Prize. Initially conceived to house the "Artistic Restoration Center", the final execution of the design in 1965, which counted on the collaboration of Antonio Miró, reduced its dimensions a little and maintained its circular structure. The building was declared an Asset of Cultural Interest in 2001 in the monument category.

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.