flower in blue Print

The presence of the things When I began to paint, the painting was an incomprehensible appearance, something that was emerging with forms and colors, from a distant, remote place, since for the first time I went to the Museum of Fine arts in Santiago of Chile, trying to understand the meaning of the act of doing, or of what turned a need, and in all this process of going and coming of different moments, there was always the present of the same substance with which he receives life what makes itself up, the trace, which stays of the painter at once of doing, this way to do turns then a presence, a declaration of the being of another turned picture, turned painting, a declaration that he returns us with the essence of the things, to do, and to understand the painting means to penetrate into the geology of the picture to understand his layers, the multiple temporary acts leaving his residue of an almost imperceptible way and finally a gesture, a spot, a light, a sheen loaded with trace, loaded with matter, a presence that makes from not alone real object to my sight, but present, do this way turned an act an internal force that comes from the things themselves presenting itself every day as a gift of the look. When I saw a painting of Claudio Bravo, in a close-up, only a small detail of a ball of stamen in which there were seen fibers of thread of color, I understood that there was, there the biggest declaration that it makes real on a linen, he receives life, because this fiber of thread becomes the present, it is already not a representation, a naturalization of the sight that makes us recognize the identical thing, but, it is the thread, it is the stamen in all his humble plenitude. This way the reason for the one that spotted he has to see with the presence, has to see in spite of returning present the object, to show it, to turn it really, to turn one more space of the reality in the form of a picture, the painting then goes beyond the reality, goes beyond this space that exists in the representation, up to there where the object receives life, it becomes present, and is sick to us then to the contemplation. What would be of the human being without the contemplation? My painting is alone the humblest form of a transmuted reality.