And what was there before? The nothing. There was no accident carrier substance.
Someone insisted on finding in the number the principle, the arche, the complete accuracy, the absolute evidence. That even Fine Arts and Music are subject to number and measure. In this way they believed they possessed a key to interpreting the universe.
The echo of eternal silence floated on the face of the deserted abyss in the process of dying. Since then, space has played with time, the eternal dance of the seasons. Exquisite music is perceived from chords of uncertain origin. An invisible hand glides over the white keyboard, like a brush on virgin canvas.
Sound and color,
color and sound,
they put the note that magnetizes
sight and hearing.
Verlainian state of the soul, intimate landscape of my unfathomable being plastically objectified. Creative power twinned with an extraordinary discipline that knows how to extract the captivating magic of its hidden beauty from light and color.
Through this lonely paradise my nostalgic illusions roam in search of lost time. Your lands, my fields torn by the bloody and aching soul. Your colors are blood already spilled, from my veins and tormented body.
Allow me Francisco to integrate myself into that Eden through which the beings that your cosmos generated wander. I dialogue with them to get into their minds, which perhaps partly support my paradoxical ideas, which are those of all humans. They tell me their nostalgia for past worlds never finished.
Don't tell me, painter,
I don't want to know
for the pleasure of having,
Mr. Ángel Miguel de Arce López
Doctor and Professor of Art from the Autonomous University of Madrid, collaborator of the Prado Museum for the realization of conferences and member of the National Association of Art Critics. Municipal Museum of Contemporary Art Don Ángel Miguel de Arce López in Burgos.