Texto curatorial
There it is. You may not be able to say so, and perhaps it cannot be seen by all eyes, but it is there.
How not wanting to see it when the eyes are in front of the painting, without that wish of clutching onto it makes it slip through your hands? It tends to slide sideways, which is untrappable. And nevertheless, there it is. In the serenity it just unwittingly appears, sprouting up from raw feeling, dark yet at times radiant. Abruptly there, in irrevocable, yet discrete sovereignty.
No watching eye wonders about its inception. Like colour, it leaps out at our perceptions from colour, the painting arises from painting in a celebration of visibility. It unfolds in the punctuality of each of its instants: in the workshop, in the woodwork of the frame and the tensing of the canvas, in the laying out of its layers, now before our eyes and at all times when it rises as a visible exception. The amazing thing is physical. Wondering about its surface, words fail. There lies the declaration of its primal origin, lacking a beginning.
It is there. In precise punctuality, something wants to celebrate that failure when it blends to be merged in confusion with us. It is not placed in a space, in front. Its place is not measurable. It is the pupil, the whole body, that travels in the uncertainty of a space that has already been altered for a profane look. You notice it. This painting no longer paints anything, nor does it allow being something among others. It never did. Quite the contrary, it is intensely born out of deflagration, expanding by vibration in oscillation that cannot be circumscribed in a measurable space; always exceeding and containing itself. Even extended, its presence is in the form of a flash. And it is in that expansion where the space dilates oscillation to capture the eye, and turns it all around. That is how the conventional look fails and is beaten: colour does not inhabit as wanted, nor is it discerned in a manageable way. But how can we not want to see?
There is some earlier knowledge because the eye does not want to see. It is the painting that turns the vision to the initiative. The pupil dilates and contracts in time, always ready, on the sharp edge balancing between the flight of that imperceptible something and the overpowering propagation of sight. It being there is singular. Its state is pulsating. Nor is it just in front, nor is it anything. It is there however. Something close to nothing, now it is. In the end, painting is resistance.
—David Peidro. Estiu de l’any 2021