ANTONIO DÍAZ GARCÍA - ESCULTURAS

prologue : It still feels something of a paradox that I still feel a special kind of pride in writing the prologue for this book, something that so many have invested so much in. Paradoxical maybe, but not impossible, since here I am, attempting to bring together the reasons – perhaps a better word here is ‘urges’ – that led me to skipper this impetuous crusade with the intention to illustrate an artistic discourse that, far from being yet another version of what we already know, stands out from the crowd and takes us by the hand down less well-known pathways. The works of this temperamental sculptor, made from the sturdiest of metals, breathe fire like rebellious dragons, each part subject to the most stringent of disciplines; we find the tenacious blacksmith at his forge, carrying out a kind of exorcism that subjugates the stubborn pride of the cold metal with the heat of flames as ardent as the ambition of the man stoking the fire. As such, the imagined creation is silhouetted, incandescent against a diffuse background of greys like a horizon, fruit of sleeplessness, the cause of its physical decay, naked and ardent. It is still panting, giving in to being tamed, but with its head held high. There is a silence as both participants regard each other, with no words or gestures between them like lovers after a tumultuous night, neither triumphant nor beaten. This is how Antonio Díaz’s work is born, amongst kisses and blows, a struggle fought every day in gruelling duels until the last glow of light is extinguished or the brightest of stars melts into the dawn sky. Such is his fascination with his creation that he cossets it, washing its warm skin, finessing its rough edges, draping it with silk and tulle. Thus he allows himself to unfold his sensual potential so as to passionately embrace the completion of his original idea. Indeed, this was the case when, quite by chance, I found myself looking at a piece, anointed with the noble oils of olive and sage, but practically unknown to me. It was an overwhelming collection that gave little room for objection. All of this came out of that simple man who, like a volcano about to erupt, seemed to have so much to open up to us from the deepest part of himself that it was almost intimidating. Brutal, dynamic, powerful and direct, Antonio’s work seemed to me both unusual and triumphant. When he spoke of his work, a hurried stream of words attempted to define what for him was the victorious outcome of yet another struggle. For him feeling the inflexible iron soften in his hands, if only for amoment was an almost inexplicable sensation of glory. This burning desire with which he tried to express himself was too much for words, insufficient for such a tumult of emotion. Nevertheless, when contemplating his words, and seeing Antonio face down the fire-breathing maw of the forge, feeling the beat of his trip-hammer like the beat of his racing heart, seeing him fight his loyal anvil as if it were a bull, battling like a gladiator, only then could I understand what he wanted to say to me. There was nowhere to search for meaning, no façades or hidey-holes, nor any magic formulas. Creating his dreams on the floor of his workshop, a simple, unpretentious man drew his imagination in white chalk on the rough floor, recomposing his reality over and over again, reinventing his experiences, giving them a face and a form. In a perfect line-up, like in a victory day parade, each of his devotional creations resembled monks in silent procession, solemn and mute, charged with emotion, impressive in their strangely endearing cold distance. If there is anything I have defended in my profession it has been the concept of honesty in artistic creation, by which I mean that clear, pure attitude that makes someone, one day, want to give shape to a fantasy or a project unfettered by anything or anyone. Given this I allowed myself to be seduced by these strange shapes that captured my attention like magnets and nurtured my fascination. Perhaps I was still under this spell when I decided one day, now long ago, to make a special concession within my strict figurative tendencies and to immerse myself totally in an artistic approach that not only flirted with abstraction, but in fact opened new paths into avant-guard art. The book that you are reading today is the result of a great deal of effort on everybody’s part, from the world-class professionals who have collaborated on it, to the friends and family of the artist, who have wanted to be part of the project in some way or another. Moreover, this book is the fruit of a huge amount of love and enthusiasm. The three collections around which the works are based in this book make up three perfectly defined stages in the work of Antonio Díaz, AD. The first of these stages, Díaz’s primordial works, here called First Works is characterised by its great novelty and freshness, including thirteen magnificent pieces which mark not only AD’s determination and his own particular style, but also the great zeal in his attention to detail. The second collection, or The Unfolding, somewhat greater in quantity, remains faithful to the sculptor’s artistic discourse, and shows the entirety of his expressive potential through a wide exhibition of forms that suggest and evoke different feelings in the viewer. The third and final collection considered, Licences, brings together a meticulous series of artistic licences that make up a constant personal and creative evolution that has only just begun. I am certain that nobody will be left indifferent. Luisa Noriega Montiel LLEI D’ART Editor-in-chief Innocent artist, savage titan An image of Antonio Díaz! Unorthodox, instinctive, intuitive, sensitive, a searcher, different from the rest, free! I had my first image of him, an image of his work, in a strange, denuded Lleida, not the Lleida of Catalan writer Màrius Torres, but one that is there nevertheless, spurred on by a few. And his works were an amalgam of strength and fortune, of passion and anxieties, a torrent of differing visions that loudly proclaimed the overflowing love of one who has discovered chinks and niches that let the light in. Not only the light, but also the dark. Leonard Cohen sings: “There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in”. There were…many chinks, perspectives, suggestions, with references even to those he doesn’t know. This is not strange, sometimes one can coincide in both opinion and feeling, but one can never ignore the past and even less so in the world of art. We must become familiar with the tradition in order that it may continue, so that our approach may make it endure. Every copy is a cancellation of respect. It is a negation of respect. Later on, I met the sculptor briefly, taking photos amongst his sculptures for an interview I had had with Luisa Noriega. Rather than explaining his work, he seemed to want to ask questions. Although he hid it, he was anxious to talk, to have dialogue with one of his own who was outside of his day-to-day. However, he merely smiled, kept quiet, and merely looked, didn’t dare to approach, his reserve held him back. Time passed and we met each, this time in Alpicat, where Luisa Noriega, ever a whirlwind of activity, was presenting a proposal to bring together various kinds of arts in a collaboration. He was there, looking docile, with his works and his good-natured, reserved manner, timid, closed-off in a world that he can see and understand, but not quite clearly enough. We spoke and he introduced me with great admiration, affection and respect to Cinto Casanovas, a Jesuit and sculptor. I observed AD, but he went off into his dreams, letting himself be studied, displaying the great amounts of tenderness and innocence that he is made of and which have shaped his unpretentious, straightforward nature, his palace of light and shadow where he reigns, like a giant in a fabulous, unknown tale. A titan made of dew and dawn! I saw how he openly gazed at his works, where there are mineral and metal suns that once were the embers of that same sun; flashes and comets, beams of lines, fire and mandrakes, symbols and signs, the heat of the South that becomes mineral in the North. Suns that shatter, drawing trees and branches where dreams nest. There are many suns in Antonio’s eyes that come to earth and overlap each other in his work. He is a big, stocky guy, and as Antonio Porchia says in “Voces”: “Even the smallest of beings carries a sun in their eyes!” After the opening of the exhibition in Alpicat there was a dinner, where he related stories and personal anecdotes, at all times surrounded by a halo of respect, modesty, vulnerability, weakness even. It was hard for him to be anything but sincere; he spoke of his daily work and the respite his work brought him, where he enjoyed himself without taking anyone but himself into account. In his forge-smithy-workshop, he lives off constructing metal parts for industrial use, but he lives for the ambition that the feeling of art gives him, and makes use of an artistic language that masters forms (and even invents them) that longs to be essential in time, and a constant aspiration to excellence, with disappointments and moments of clarity. Not everyone who manipulates form is an artist. Neither is every artist an innocent. On the other hand, song always is innocent, for it transforms the messages of the gods into melody. Not all