pagina 6_siete



pagina 6_siete
Muera el PCUS
Acrílico / carton impreso
28 x 39 cm. (2.012)
Acrílico / carton impreso
28 x 39 cm. (2.012)
We don’t choose the way that we take in painting, but we walk as we
can… barefoot or on shoes”
Nicolas de Stäel, Antibes 1955
A text by Amaya Bozal, Painter and sculptor
Not many artists have a linear or directed career, and those who have it,
they usually have no more interest. The painter is carried away by the
materials, the vision, by what he has read, listened to ,sang or tasted...
luck conforms an intrinsic part of painting, of the best painting.
Alejandro Carro has always worked with a meticulous drawing, almost
calligraphic, apparently monochromatic, because it contains the colour.
In those lines, almost filigrees, on can glimpse a motivation, a need to
spill creativity, to take one’s shoes off, to devote oneself to the pleasure
of the color, the stroke, luck.
Once barefooted, calligraphy gave way to letters and this to the gesture
and that to luck. Over mass produced supports, newspapers, the
gesture starts to progress, and the pop, of letter over letter, derives to
the stain, the paint blot, in an abstract expressionism in which the
painter walks as he cans, barefooted and in the hands of chance,
committed to the true pleasure of painting.
Öleo / cartón
100 x72 (2.013)
Öleo / cartón
100 x72 (2.013)
INTRICACIES, a text written by Iñaki Ábalos, architect and writer Alejandro Carro is different from other architects that have toyed with the painting along their careers in that, since the beginning of times he has been an artist that flirts with the architecture, and this aspect is present in all he does. For instance in his collection of pencils, Conté sticks an charcoals, while he was student at ETSAM, already some years since then, many of us learned with him 9
Oleo / carton
73 x 100 cm. (2.013)
on how to discern between what different French, German or Italian brands could give us by listening to him describing the stroke, the silkiness or sharpness of it, the homogeneity or the texture of the color, whether he pasted or not the plans... always speaking of them as if the rest of us understood this world, without ending the sentences, just suggesting, in a complicit way, and even though using a language of accurate images, in the same way as an enologist speaks while tasting his wines...
Alejandro has kept alive since then an intense relationship with the color, the stroke, the line, the surface, the lightness or the thickness of the surfaces, the proximity or the deepness of lines and planes and of course with the instruments that allow him to develop his own fantastic world, a world that only occasionally at the beginning and later on, in a more continued way, has been portrayed in oil or gouache and hardly ever without the presence of the line, but rather establishing a fight or a conversation between the means that are developed layer by layer.
This layers are another feature that remains recurrent in his works: as if all that enters in his creative universe does it necessarily by constructing dialectic battles: the one brings to the other, which is generally opposed, which in turn refers us to a third element in conflict, that after some rest returns to the attack, trying to capitalize the struggle, but as soon as new unexpected elements irrupt, new rules are created which substitute or recompose the preexistent ones… and so on, until only him ‐if anybody else‐ knows why, decides that the battle is finished. There, in those terrains in which Alejandro’s head eases, are difficult to penetrate, as if it was a useless and unnecessary effort: it is his world and it hides and reveals itself at the same time in a game of layers, lines, spots, veils, cross outs and techniques in struggle that conform the plastic territory of the painting or whatever the way we want to call the stuff or entity that Alejandro leaves us there, in front of us, as if it said to us “Do whatever you want with me, I’m self‐sufficient, I am hardened in a thousand of neuronal battles from which I am unable to reconstruct any hypothetical genealogy, immerse yourself as much as you wish, want or can, for me it’s enough an inattentive glance or either an exhaustive analysis of the process, it doesn’t matter, because I know that in one way or the other, you will be trapped anyway and that’s the purpose, making you unable to elucidate if it is a work about deepness or surfaces, order or disorder. 11
It always happens when the elements are hiding and showing simultaneously, that was called long ago intricacy, and even though some late 18th century English gardeners thought to have discovered the plea‐ sures of the intricacy in their sinusoid paths in between abandoned forests, any visit to Alhambra brings us back to centuries of wisdom making our glance stop in a blurred limbo, in the same way as looking to the sea in a rainy day does, until something brings us back to what we call reality and then we realize that this entanglements of the intricacy must have some secret pact with our brain’s circumvolutions, to whom not in a casual way they resemble so much, if not directly imitate. And so on, one day letters appeared and some words or proto‐words here and there, most of the time forming structures that again, and not by chance, remind us to all those inscriptions in the temple wall’s of different faiths that we can barely read and we are not even interested in doing that as phonemes an morphemes but to locate them in the plastic reality of the filigree and the doodle, impelling us not to enter in that game of back‐grounds and figures that are intrinsic to the line of the alphabet and the word given that we know that it is not the proposed game, and so fading them voluntarily in our retina to move them away as much as possible in that sense which is not inherent of what we really see, in order to enter a labyrinth game of standardized order and disorder, of flights and flat realities or complementary colors that make even more difficult to read if there is a background or figure, labyrinth or composition, meaning or a formal game, holes or colors, order or chaos…
I don’t want to keep distracting the reader with disquisitions of an abducted believer; to this point I’m making clear my surrendered admiration to the plastic talent of the author and his inscrutable and at the same time generously communicative way of being, thinking and doing, that makes him different from the rest of the mortals for our luck, that of our eyes and our need, never fully fulfilled, of knowledge and wisdom.