Acrylic on Pankaster paper.
320x320 mm. approx.
Colour, dust and UV protection.
Signed on the front.
Authenticity certificate attached.
It is usually prepared in less than 7 working days, and sent door to door in service 48h for Spain.
Shipping worldwide (around 10 / 15 working days).
The author reserves the right to produce a printed edition.
This artwork has been sold. Thank you!
Loneliness has nothing to do with company, it's not about having someone around or not. It's more about the deep bonds we establish with others, or with the world. It's about feeling part of a group, no matter how small.
I've never been part of anything else.
I just felt safe at home with my family, who gave me everything there was. My father couldn't stay, and every day I notice he's gone. But those who are, are with me every day.
He comes from far away. At school everything seemed hostile: the teachers, more concerned with themselves than with the students, each one with a particular pessimism... educating the children of others can be very frustrating. The other children, violent, with their snacks, the smell of sausage, teeth full of nocilla, mouth open showing the chewed cheese. The alley where they beat up everyone in the yard. The groups of girls who ran and squealed like swifts. The children who never looked at me as one more... because they already knew more than I did. I wasn't. I looked at everything as a strange dream where I floated and watched, and from which I always wanted to wake up. I was always on the side, watching. Alone.
Maybe I was a repellent, wise, observant child or, I mean, I wasn't a child. I remember that on one occasion my classmates accused me in class of something I had not done and I used the expression "God forbid. I was punished all day because they understood "I don't want God," and that to some teacher at that time seemed like a reason for punishment. The crowd is always right.
I was lucky, and I was able to fit in where I wanted to. I've been a leader and an executioner many times, perhaps to know what it felt like when others were doing it. But I've never felt part of anything, I've never believed in what I was doing.
I'm still drowning in that desire to go home. To the fireplace. To the family. Where my fears were forgotten, even if I didn't always succeed and I spent some nights sitting up in bed, crying and saying that I didn't want to die. My parents would kiss me on the eyes. What a sign. The eyes that now see everything distorted. Reality itself sided with others and left me out. Always seeing shadows, unable to recognize anyone on the street, knowing that what I'm seeing, a kind of kaleidoscopic duplicate reality, is not what others see. I'm not like you, as much as I want to be. Me, I'll always be behind an invisible glass.
They call it PAS now, Highly Sensitive People. They treat it with group therapies where there are people who also feel this way but they are not as lucky as me, they are not like me, and they have not been able to understand it or manage it in the same way.
My cardboard universe built on a false masculinity is falling apart because a man cannot be sensitive. A man cannot be sad. A man does not cry or complain about his pain.
I've never had anything stop hurting. Like molars whose pain comes and goes, but it is always the same, it always comes back.
Maybe these teeth are yours, or maybe they are mine, I don't know, but they hurt anyway.
I've wanted to put all this into what I love: painting to move, and to see that others are moved by the same thing that I am.
It's a kind of self-portrait, and at the same time it's not.
For it to be me, the scene would have to be empty, blurry, and no one would ever see it.
Nothing is ever that bad. So, also, I'm glad I'm writing this for someone else to read. It means I'm not so alone.
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