The art market is often referred to as a separate sector of the economy that develops in isolation from other business areas. A part of this approach is true: art is not just any product because, whether we talk about antiques or contemporary artworks, they all have unique characteristics, they represent the spirit of their creator, they convey sensations to the viewer, they enclose emotion, passion and a critical purpose not present in any other everyday object. But the other part of this statement is not correct: the art market also suffers from the economic setbacks that affect the rest of the commercial spheres, perhaps the difference is that, due to the exclusivity of this sector, it is not so evident to everyone.

Visiting "Shark", by Damien Hirst, via Skynews

By historical and economic tradition, along with some other factors such as the lower legal restrictions or the speed of bureaucracy, the leading art world markets locate in London, New York, Paris, Milan and Geneva, and more recently, Hong Kong. Spain's position does not exceed a low 1%, a percentage that grows by one point if we stick to Europe. Despite this, we must not underestimate the importance of our national market, which progressively incorporated more professionals, absorbing artists, generating buyers and positioning Spanish contemporary art, with an estimated growth of 42% between 2009 and 2016. In this evolution, some authors point out that we have a recent democracy, compared with surrounding countries, and that before the Reina Sofía Museum was inaugurated, there was no other centre in the country dedicated to contemporary art.

But just when we sat on the top of the wave, a few years after entering the new millennium, a deep economic crisis broke out and shook all the foundations of the system. Art and culture, of course, were the first to suffer the cuts. The castle of prosperity falters, capital flows cut, goodbye to investment, languid farewell to the institutional purchases and bank collections. How does this always resilient sector overcome?

Without a doubt, the crisis has marked a before and after in many economic areas. The paralysis of investments led many businesses to reinvent themselves and resurface from their ashes like the Phoenix. The same applies to the art market. But the result of this readjustment differs quite a lot from the previous scheme, because, not only the capital reduction counts but also the entry into the digital world and a generational change that has led to a transformation in consumer habits and the way of approaching art. After those years of uncertainty, a new model emerges in which people no longer visit the galleries, there is art of online consultation, travel and tours are reserved for large events, concentrated in art fairs, new satellite proposals arise, with virtual galleries, minimal spaces, online sales, and a withdrawal of proposals.

"Tulips" by Jeff Koons

The paradox of this stage started in the second decade of the 2000s is the distance created between types of galleries. In a fully digitised environment, the contours between professional profiles blur. Now it is not only the gallery owner who promotes the artist but the artist himself who invests efforts to gain presence, which leads to a weakening of roles. And amid this tidal wave of events, a phenomenon is gaining weight progressively: the great galleries, successful survivors of the debacle, expand and grow until almost completely assimilate to a museum. From this triumphant position, they are the only ones that can afford the maintenance of large spaces, cover the costs of production of work, participate in the most renowned fairs and continue to open branches abroad. With this dynamic, it happens that these galleries have an irresistible power of attraction over the most promising artists, perhaps discovered by a local gallery now unable to guarantee the promotion to which the creators aspire. Thus, the art world pivots in a sea of ​​events, where the great white shark lives with tiny fish, but they all contribute to maintaining the ecosystem.

Therefore, what happens in the art market, little or nothing is far from what happens in other economic sectors. The influence of globalisation and the uncontrollable tendency to create giants capable of supporting future attacks establishes a network of small businesses that survive in the shadow of those few chosen. This circumstance seems to polarise the sector in two large planes: that of contemporary astronomical price artists who have created real art factories, produce on an industrial scale and are represented by the most famous galleries, and that of artists who are best known at local level, that can modestly live from their work and are distributed, when they have an international presence, between different small galleries. And this pattern is replicated in all commercial areas. The shark and the bank of fishes. With this simple metaphor, we portray one of the most repeated patterns in our capitalist society that applies to the entire industry, whether we talk about fashion, cars or food. That is why the millennial generation has begun to explore alternative models of galleries, with more attention on the artistic quality of young talents and less weight in the exhibition space: 21st-century galleries that open their doors to the future.

The work of Carmen Baena (Benalúa de Guadix, Granada, 1967) is structured as a poetic investigation into the memory of territory and its material translation into forms, textures, and gestures. Her practice stems from a life experience deeply connected to a specific landscape in southern Spain, understood not only as a geographical space but also as an affective and symbolic sedimentation. In this sense, her pieces can be approached from a perspective centered on direct experience: the landscape not as representation, but as a lived trace that emerges through doing.

Baena activates unique dialogue between historically hierarchical materials. Marble, associated with permanence and monumental tradition, coexists with embroidery, a technique linked to domestic knowledge passed down through generations, historically relegated but here reactivated as a fully-fledged artistic language. This coexistence is not presented as confrontation, but as a field of resonances where the solid and the fragile, the enduring and the tactile, interpenetrate. From a perspective attentive to connections, embodied experience, and knowledge constructed from everyday life, thread becomes a tool for sensitive knowledge.

Color, particularly in her textile works, functions as vibrational energy rather than a purely formal attribute. In contrast to the chromatic restraint of marble, embroidery introduces an open temporality in which intuitive gestures and accidents acquire structural value. Thus, the process becomes a space for listening, where the unexpected does not interrupt the work but rather constitutes it. In Carmen Baena’s practice, creating means allowing the territory—both external and internal—to continue transforming itself.

The Garden Blooms X. 2025. Acrylic and embroidery thread on canvas. 50 x 70 cm.

Your works evoke landscapes, reliefs, and topographies. How does the relationship between physical territory and symbolic or emotional territory articulate itself in your practice?

The physical territory where I was born and spent my early childhood has shaped all my work. I was born in a cave in the Guadix region (Granada), home to the largest complex of troglodyte dwellings in Europe.

The landscape there is full of contrasts: alongside the greens of the vega—fruit trees and poplars—you find the reddish ochres of the eroded hills. And facing the white of Sierra Nevada, the white of snow that still lingers in spring, there are also the greens of the wheat fields and cereal plains. Thanks to erosion and the geological layers that have been exposed over time, the area contains a series of strata that preserve extremely important continental geological records.

For this reason, the area has been designated a UNESCO Global Geopark. I spent a happy, very simple childhood in this environment—living closely connected to nature—and that is the territory that surfaces throughout the symbolism of my work.

Circular Horizons XIV. 2023. Acrylic and embroidery thread on canvas. 72 x 72 cm.

You learned embroidery in a family context, and you draw on the landscapes of your childhood. When did you realise that your immediate world—people, gestures, everyday landscapes—was no longer just a memory, but an active driving force in the construction of your artistic language?

I realised that the universe of my childhood was an active driving force in the construction of my artistic language thanks to a friend, after she visited my cave-house. Through her perspective, she made me aware of what I had been doing intuitively up until that point. This happened more than twenty years ago, and since then—even though I’m aware of it—I continue working.

I like working intuitively, and most of the time I only discover what the landscape has been afterwards. What stays with me is the sensation that inspired the piece once I have finished it.

Sea Breeze III. 2025. Acrylic and embroidery thread on canvas. 60 x 80 cm.

Marble carries historical and symbolic weight linked to monumentality, while embroidery is often associated with traditions that have been overlooked or confined to the domestic sphere. How do you negotiate this clash of cultural status in your work?

For years, marble was the material I was most interested in, and the one I used for most of my sculptural work. It wasn’t until 2007–2008 that I felt the need to incorporate embroidery—a technique I had learned as a teenager.

I began experimenting on paper, using stitching to draw landscapes and trees directly connected to the sculptures I was making at the time, and also working on small scraps of different kinds of paper. I explored the technical and visual possibilities of thread, creating small works in which colour, texture, and the thread’s vibration became the protagonists.

Later, I moved on to larger formats on canvas, where I also incorporated acrylic. These two seemingly contradictory practices—marble and embroidery—have coexisted in my studio and my work without any difficulty. Today, embroidery has completely displaced marble.

Between Heaven and Earth III. 2020. Marble and wood. 25 x 14 x 14 cm.

In your marble pieces, white and gold create an almost meditative atmosphere; in contrast, embroidery and acrylic burst into colour, activating gesture and vibration. Is this a conscious choice, or do the materials reveal their own possible colour to you?

With marble, the choice of white and gold is a conscious decision: I want to convey the spiritual atmosphere of the landscape, and the relationship between human beings and nature. By contrast, the explosion of colour in the thread emerged gradually and more intuitively, and only later did I begin to understand and use the possibilities of this material in a more conscious way.

Whisper Between the Lines XIII. 2023. Acrylic and embroidery thread on canvas. 40 x 60 cm.

To what extent do you plan your work, and how much space do you leave for the unexpected—or even for mistakes?

When it comes to making my work, I don’t like to plan too much. With embroidered pieces, I do tests on small scraps of paper—trying out colour and the stitch I’m going to use—and with that I try to visualise the final result in my mind. This way of working leaves plenty of space for things to happen while I work. It allows me to discover, learn, and make use of the unexpected.

For example, in some pieces, while embroidering, tangles can occur because the thread tension isn’t right or the thread is too loose. At first, those tangles might seem like they could ruin the piece, but when I see them, I realise they’re visually very interesting. So later I have consciously reproduced that effect in other works.