My story

I grew up a stone’s throw from the salt flats, in the smell of mud and salt. As a child I spent my afternoons watching the light change its mood over the water: golden at dawn, white at noon, mauve just before the streetlamps came on. I learned to look before I learned to speak, and I think I still do it that way.

There was no single day when I decided to become a painter. It was more that I never stopped drawing: the margins of my school notebooks, the napkins in bars, the little pad I always carry in my pocket. The marsh taught me that what matters is not what you see, but the light you see it by.

I work mostly in oils, slowly, letting each layer dry and tell me what the next one needs. I also slip away with watercolour when it rains, because some days ask for water and haste. I take my easel out on my back whenever I can: the studio is good for finishing, but paintings begin outdoors, with your feet in the mud.

Almost everything I paint is born on a walk: the little boat that crosses to Doñana, the stone pines, an impertinent flamingo, the square with its awnings rolled up after a shower. I keep those colour notes the way you keep letters, and out of them, months later, come the paintings.

“Pitijopo” is what we call the dragonfly here: a small, stubborn creature that flies over the water without a sound. It felt like the right name for this corner, because it is what I try to do with what I paint and write: settle on things for a moment and take flight again.

Here I leave the studio’s notebook, the videos of the process and, when a work finds the right words, its story too. I am in no hurry to sell you anything; it is enough for me if you stay a while, look slowly and, if you feel like it, come along on the flight.