What if something similar were to happen in these new paintings? What if an unusual stratagem wanted to make us forget the most established themes of art and force us to look painting itself in the face? What if the inconsequential seduction of these new canvases were to give the loudest cry to divert us? If behind the high ideality of these landscapes of digital origin and beauty, Ponjuán wanted to show us his demonic greed for pigment, the rapture of a brushstroke, the stormy decision of a tone, or the roughness of the support? What if he has preferred the challenge of choosing the most puerile of images to bend it in that tremendous battle that is painting; that battle in which, starting from nothing, from a piece of empty canvas, from a total absence, a canvas can be transfigured into the place where all the thirst of a man can be found?

There will always be beings who need to be more, to be others, to be many. Pessoa was right.

Corina Matamoros

Tell Eduardo that there are letters that are only written to look at the rising sun. Hours to the zenith. There are many blind people who are in satori for looking at the sun. Never mind the suns that he has traced to Vincent himself. The easels that remained in the basement. The same are the feet smeared with sun. 24 carat soles when they always glitter on the frost. To read letters under the sun all you need is a pair of comfortable boots. It doesn't matter if they are boots painted by Vincent himself. Even Heidegger, when he looked at the boots painted by Vincent himself, was only interested in the icy wind, the barren wasteland of the winter field. All that imprisoned under the soles (Vincent sees everything in the same color. He sees the white sheet of the card in the same yellow color that he would see an avalanche over the blue mountains)

larry