They are not comparable to Michelangelo's David, or Leonardo's Gioconda, nor will they be considered one of the Seven Wonders of the 21st Century.
They do not carry any cryptic message, such as the disconcerting works of Hieronymus Bosch, the Bosco, nor will they serve as a sambenito to the epilogue of the life of kings, such as Philip II.
His message, far from existential ambiguities, reflects the hue as clear as the bright varnish that reflects the faces of all those who come daily to photograph them.
They arrived in Bilbao on May 11, 2007, and there they continue, in one of the outdoor terraces of the Gugenhein Museum, exposed, like any human being, to the circumstances of that bad habit, metaphorically speaking, that the romantic poets called sufferings of life.
Together with the visitor, they share the cool breeze that the zephyr lifts the Ria; the August sun, which illuminates the white facades of adjacent buildings and removes fog from the tops of the mountains and even the raindrops that slide down its surface, freeing its enamel from the faces of the past, leaving room for the of the present and waiting patiently for those of the future.
They are the Tulips of Jeff Koons, the distant relative of whom this artist has just opened in Paris under a shower of envy and controversy.
Because there lies his secret: in the best memory that someone can take, which is not another thing that always offers the beauty of the simple.
NOTICE: Both the text and the accompanying photographs are my exclusive intellectual property.
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