My first set of oils was a gift from my aunt and uncle. I was very young and had no idea what oil, tempera or watercolor paints were. I remember someone talked me into painting part of my bicycle. Which I did. It goes without saying that I didn’t realize oil paint took such a long time to dry. I ended up with paint-stained pants and a severe reprimand.
I remember the turpentine we used back then to thin oil paint bothered everyone else, but the smell of it filled me with an enormouse sense of satisfaction, in the same way the smell of new books do.
When I was little and would go to my grandmother’s house in L´Hospitalet de Llobregat, I remember the pleasant, synchronous noise of the nearby trains coming and going. A visual memory of a framed illustration of a scene from the Bible in which a little boy was crying. I remember time passing slowly and rhythmically in a rocking chair. The unbearable boredom of going to mass in Plaza Española on Sunday mornings. My only relief was to amuse myself by gazing at the murals painted on the walls.
This all happened a long time ago. I ended up studying Painting Procedures and Mural Painting, and worked at hundreds of jobs, including as Color Specialist for a historic study on ancient architecture in Barcelona. I now have my own studio, in the same city of L´Hospitalet de Llobregat, with large windows through which I can see the trains and hear a pleasant noise that very likely connects me to my childhood.