Let’s call it celestial greed. Like the siege of the sun over a rock that is about to break. Or the strength of an infant who falls and rises while learning to walk. When he splits his forehead with a table and his protectors have not realized his accident, he keeps turning the crank of a strange box sprouting sensuality and redemptive fantasy, cure and incentive*. Say it as you wish. There lies the resistance of these two stubborn examples of the origin of art making. With their energies set to get hold of paintbrushes and droppers blending with their conviction and then again embracing the plans of the cave’s end, to stand over white surfaces, or black ones, swallowed with mythologies, with uncertain mundanity, with wild flowers and critters, with erotism, with acid snow scattered over reproductions of masterworks… Tenacious crawlings of uncertainty projecting unto the sky with unmeasured value, or the same, welding almost without fire. Their exoteric breath is enough (both of them chain-smokers). The pleasure of the colorfield. The pleasure of painting. The right to call oneself a Painter. The self-imposed obligation of buying time. Their paintings are providence in de- votion as well as in contempt. For high up here in the worlds of Pol Bassegoda and César Macías everything prosaic and vulgar does not count, but rather flows in peace without a care for someone else’s creativity being swallowed by marketing or the blood and soul of fantasy or the unmistakably singular barely surviving in other places to the twist and turns of room design striped over the neo- liberal mirror or the bites and mistreatment of the chile-counting fingers… Here then, a transparent adjustment to something worn out in common thought, including their fashionable esthetics. An im- pulse towards eminent keys for those who eventually question the true sense of art but above all a tribute to those who rightfully deserve it.
Guillermo Santamarina
* But what happened to that kid? Well, though his guardians preferred to ignore him, he continued to turn the handle of the bizarre box until his fingers bled. Without shaving. Smelling of night, sex and alcohol, or to ta- cos from the stand in the corner. As a wet stereotyped dog. Of sweat after the most exciting and loudest rave. As wood from a coffin. As cigarette butts, altar candle and incense.