CARLES GRAELL – ELENA MONTULL – FRANCESC NAVARRO-GERARD MARTÍN – JOSEP MILLÀSNew artists at Sala Rusiñol

Last May we opened a call for new artists to join our gallery. From among all the participants we selected five candidates to form part of a joint exhibition. As a result of this action we now present “New artists in the Sala Rusiñol”, where the recent works of Carles Graell, Elena Montull, Francesc Navarro, Gerard Martín and Josep Millàs are showns.

CARLES GRAELL – ELENA MONTULL – FRANCESC NAVARRO –

GERARD MARTÍN – JOSEP MILLÀS

 

“Intertwined solitudes”

por Anna Tamayo

Isolations that decontextualise, a genuine look at a singularity. The eyes pour the view to an instant in which everything depends on a momentary calm, and it is in this tension between what the author chooses to represent and what he leaves on the margins of the scene, where the secret that traps us is born. It captures a time in which we walk among elliptical silences, pleasant allusions, intentional forgetfulness and metaphors of stimulating mood, celebrating the heartbeat of beautiful things.

Trees, trunks and dry vines point to dry cliffs, where barren branches on which the cold rests, present us with warm red fields and golden skies. This solitude strolls with the subtle age of innocence, promising to fill with caressing locks of hair the unknown gaze, drinking in with its eyes the tenderness that young faces give off, melting placidly with softly floating boats, showing the sediments and pebbles under the green water. Solitudes compared in their pleasant depths, and parallel to drifting ships, without anchor or moorings, prowling the shore, knowing the unpronounceable tales, pointing the direction in which they will be told. The house at the big door becomes a mirage of companionship, welcoming in the thickness of the early morning yawn, the slight arrival of the white boat sailing silently through the calm waters.

Isolations desired and necessary to be able to see the way clearly. Poetry riding on the mute silence of the small and random waves, where the boats full of human absence, insinuate the indolent siesta oriented in the unpredictable sign of the stars. Orphaned of company, they set sail towards a destination with no known destination, under a sky of eternal spring covering everything, with the promise of a good port.

In the desert of the solitary journey, they cross paths with anonymous walkers committed to the daily urgency. Silent, they move in groups or disperse, depending on their wanderings, casting shadows on the ground that bear witness to their movement in space. They thus fill trajectories drawn by their comings and goings, an emptiness that speaks of shared urban solitudes.

The sum of solitudes culminates in the still lifes, arranged in ancient porcelain blues reflected in timeless mirrors, where the presence of delicate flowers embroiders the necessary complicity to become in summary a spectacular Mediterranean, bathing any town, white with midday sun, in the lazy hour in which everything is possible, in which we wish that in the dream of this magically weightless time, we can make all the ghosts that torment us with the threat of a long winter of despair flee. In which loneliness is synonymous with the blackness of unanswered questions, those that make us get lost in sharp corners, without understanding anything.

These small samples of singularity give us moments of enlightening light, in which the corners of water and sun enter through the cracks. They make of solitudes, spaces where the right intimacy flourishes to order priorities, order concepts or simply let it illuminate dark parts, turning into hope.