A jump into the abyss

Whether we like it or not, we come into this life alone, and we will leave it the same way [if that is not so, before or after life, that’s another story]. Beyond the snake-charmer Dalí, the tormented Kahlo, the surreal chronicler Breton, the confrontational yet elegant Varo, or the queen of nightmares Carrington, there is a bridge that unites the surreal with the solitude we endure, more often than we dare to admit.

Among all those dreamlike and fantastic monsters, there is one figure who, strangely enough, is often left aside: Giorgio de Chirico. For me, he is not just a reference, but a foundation stone of my artistic path. The master of emptiness. The father of metaphysical painting [I’m not sure why yet]. The one who dared to stage silence as if it were a scream.

The enigma of a day, 1914

His paintings are not flamboyant, nor desperate to seduce the gaze with shock. They are black mirrors, whispering the greatest fear of our species: oblivion. De Chirico seems to murmur with every plaza, every statue, every shadow: “No matter what you do, we are all condemned to be forgotten.”

No marketing, no spectacle, no decorative pretension. Just a plain and brutal truth, stripped of masks, staring back at us like a punch from life itself.

And perhaps, that’s why I return to his work again and again, because it reminds me that loneliness is not the void, but the stage. A stage where memory and oblivion dance under an eternal, motionless sky.

A jump into the abyss