End of August in Madrid. Noon. It doesn’t seem like a good idea to walk down Gran Vía during the hours of extreme heat, so we decided to go up to the top floor of a well-known shopping center where there is a gourmet area to “snack” on something under the air conditioning and enjoy some beautiful views.
And it is there where, without expecting it, we meet the teacher. As we exit the escalators we see a crowd near the main window that gives the best views of the city. We get closer and look at each other with big eyes: is it him? Are we seeing Don Antonio López painting the Gran Vía? Silence in the midst of chaos, time stops, and we know that the program of activities planned for this day has just been put on hold until further notice. Opportunity dictates and we are aware that something like this does not happen every day, far from it.
We can get so close to the painter that we feel a little hesitant, for the sake of not disturbing, but we immediately realize that Don Antonio is not there, he is in another place, the one where the act of painting takes you. Despite the background music, the tourists making room to take pictures in front of the window, those who comment on what they think of the work, or those who ask for space to take selfies “with this man who is making a painting”, Don Antonio He doesn’t even flinch. In the midst of the bustle he picks up his plumb line, looks at the glass, measures, returns to the canvas, observes, and prepares the brushes, nothing else exists. He frowns and on other occasions even smiles at the canvas. He measures, observes, measures, observes, there is no rush…, watching him work gives peace.
He simmers the painting. We see him writing figures on the side of the canvas with a pen. They look like dates and times. We discovered that they span years, always in the same range, between July and September around three in the afternoon. We see him patiently measure, over and over again, with a homemade-looking wooden contraption that forms a square which he rests on his chin to keep the distance from his eyes firm, and on the opposite end, he rests, sometimes in a horizontal position and other times. vertically, a compass with which he measures infinite times to transfer that measurement onto strips of white tape glued to the painting where he multiplies them and takes them to the work. We see him look with such skill, with so much patience, like a chess player meticulously preparing his next move, and it is only then that he picks up a palette and brushes, mixes the colors with mathematical precision, and ends up applying the brushstroke he has been looking for. Normally one or two brush strokes that he looks at with a serious, deep expression, as if he were having a conversation with the canvas.
It gives a feeling of vertigo. The next morning the Prado awaits us, a museum that we want to revisit with new eyes now that we have just named Illustrators, but when we see Don Antonio we have the sensation of seeing, from a privileged place, the greats of painting represented. in their good work… We imagine Sorolla, Goya, or Velázquez applying the same “doses” of oil and patience to create the works that we all revere.
After a few hours, he decides that it has been enough, but not because he shows signs of fatigue, far from it. Without saying a word he begins to pick up his things, we try to help him with the transfer by holding the canvas. After thanking us for his intention, he grabs the frame with enviable vitality and strength and leaves with his small and endearing team of assistants and/or apprentices through the crowd that gathers eagerly to see the views of the city.
Everything returns to normal except the feeling of wanting to preserve in memory everything we have seen, and what we have experienced alongside Maestro Antonio. We leave, and the Gran Vía awaits us, although, in our eyes, it will never be the same.
María Paz Díaz Gorrín
Javier Nóbrega de la Cruz