We propose a tour of some desacralised churches in Cuenca to start a journey that invites to withdrawal and the search for spirituality through the work of Bill Viola. The Church of San Andrés, the Convent of Las Angélicas (now turned into the Cruz Novillo Art Center) and the Church of San Miguel, to which the Museum of Spanish Abstract Art and the Museum of Holy Week joint, are the spaces that host 16 pieces of this creator in love with video art.

Frames from “Fire Woman”, 2005 (left) and “Tristan’s Ascension”, 2005 (right)

Bill Viola has become today a reference in this discipline, not only for the innovation of his proposals, with which he found his way when video creation was still little exploited; but also because throughout his career a constant discursive line stands which becomes omnipresent and permeates every single piece in an unmistakable way. Today, part of his work is articulated in a "Mystic Way" distributed in these five spaces of the old town of Cuenca. This project, which involves a physical and temporary tour, becomes the perfect match between the places of exhibition, the old centres dedicated to worship and prayer, and the message of his works, which seem conceived for this installation.

“The Quintet of the Silent”, 2000

The search and representation of the spirituality in Viola's creations draw directly from Renaissance classicism and the Judeo-Christian tradition that has marked the history of European art since the Middle Ages. Many of his pieces emulate religious paintings that we can easily relate to our most immediate cultural heritage, both for its composition and for the use of colour and light. The author approaches his works as pictures in movement. The influence of pictorialism is clear, but the technical flair in the making and the exquisiteness of the finishes transports us to a point, suspended in time and space, which transcends everything seen so far.

“Water Martyr”, 2004

One of the star pieces of this exhibition is entitled "Tristan’s Ascension." In it, the artist wants to represent the ascent of the soul in space with a sequence in a blue tone that conveys peace and serenity. The atmosphere anticipates the climax, the enveloping sound of water abstracts us from the world, the blackness that surrounds the spectator leads his sight towards the artwork that, hypnotic, traps us to contemplate -not to observe- this process. Mysticism almost becomes material.

“Emergence”, 2002

This work delves into the relation of modern man with his spirituality, an aspect today largely abandoned and relegated to the purely personal sphere of the individual. However, our cultural heritage is very much concerned with religion, not only because of the importance of our heritage for the immense collections of works focused on these themes and the architectural treasures of the European churches and cathedrals; but also because this legacy is still present in the construction of our way of thinking (and even feeling) collectively, in our relationships with our fellowmen, the conception of good or evil, and the burden today called morality that determines to a large extent our behaviour. Above all, Bill Viola reflects with an addictive, raw work that invites, while doing self-criticism, to recover that banished part of the individual. A mystical route to walk through without haste, with the dedication that deserves to think of oneself as a being.

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.