We live in a world of flat images.
Every day, thousands of photographs pass before our eyes, disappearing almost as quickly as they appear. They are consumed in seconds, reduced to pixels on a screen.
Perhaps that's why I've never wanted to create paintings that exist only as images.
I want them to exist as objects.
Objects that occupy space.
Objects that interact with light.
Objects that invite people to slow down.
Because a painting should never end where the canvas begins.
I Paint the Memory of Materials
People often ask why my paintings look weathered.
The answer is simple.
I'm not interested in making something look old.
I'm interested in making something feel lived.
A cracked wall, an eroded façade or a worn industrial surface tells a story without words. Layers accumulate. Time leaves traces. Imperfection becomes identity.
I don't try to erase those marks.
I celebrate them.
That's why I often describe my work with a simple sentence:
I paint the memory of materials.
For me, materials are never passive.
They remember.
And every painting begins by listening to what those materials have to say.
Texture Is Not an Effect
Texture isn't something I apply at the end of a painting.
It isn't decoration.
It isn't a visual trick.
It is the language of the work itself.
Every layer of plaster, marble dust, sawdust, collage, mineral pigments and weathered surfaces becomes part of the narrative.
Some layers disappear.
Others remain visible.
Like memories, they coexist.
Nothing is hidden.
Everything leaves a trace.
Painting Beyond the Screen
Today, almost every artwork is first encountered on a phone.
Ironically, my paintings are created to resist that experience.
A photograph can show composition.
It can show colour.
It can even suggest atmosphere.
But it cannot reveal weight.
It cannot reveal relief.
It cannot reveal the way light moves across a textured surface throughout the day.
Those qualities only exist in front of the original work.
And that difference matters.
The Story Comes Before the Image
I never begin with the question:
"What should this painting look like?"
Instead, I ask:
"What story should it tell?"
The materials answer that question long before the colours do.
Every crack suggests resilience.
Every eroded surface speaks about time.
Every fragment of collage carries the memory of another life.
Texture allows those stories to become physical.
Without it, they would remain only ideas.
Art That Belongs to a Space
I don't believe artworks should simply decorate interiors.
The best pieces become part of the identity of a place.
They shape atmosphere.
They create silence.
They invite curiosity.
They make people stop.
In that sense, I believe contemporary art and interior design share the same purpose.
Neither is about filling space.
Both are about creating meaning.
When they speak the same language, an artwork doesn't simply hang on a wall.
It belongs there.
Why I Refuse to Paint Flat Surfaces
A perfectly smooth painting can be beautiful.
But it doesn't speak my language.
I'm fascinated by surfaces that reveal their history rather than hide it.
By materials that age with dignity.
By imperfections that become more meaningful over time.
Because life isn't flat.
Architecture isn't flat.
Memory isn't flat.
So my paintings shouldn't be either.
Every layer I add is an invitation to look a little longer.
To move closer.
To discover something that wasn't visible at first glance.
In a world that encourages us to consume images as quickly as possible, I choose to create works that ask for the opposite.
To slow down.
To observe.
To discover.
Because the most meaningful things in life are rarely found on the surface.
Sergio Aranda
Texture is where time becomes visible