Artesantander ’22

La cosa ha seguido durante años, como un milagro donde se produce aquello tan profundamente humano dado en llamar arte. Un hecho independiente a los afanes del estudio del artista, donde las que fueron rocas han ido conquistando parte del suelo del taller, mirando desde abajo al creador en su trabajo cotidiano, pensando, quizás, que su presencia pudiera saltar al bolsillo de algún nuevo visitante. Lo verdaderamente constatable es la existencia de piedras, rocas que van y vienen mientras la mar las moldea y todo aquello que configura la costa, dibujadas y fotografiadas, reproducidas, en suma, infinitas veces. Podemos reconocer las rocas y los lugares, o las simples piedras como tales. Lo que ya existe, lo vemos y constatamos objetivamente, existencia conocida y reconocible. A la vista de los comunes mortales.

Para el artista, para el poeta, todo tiene una vida paralela o simultánea escondida. Una vida que sin saber muy bien dónde nace, sale de la mano del artista, y sólo esa mano es capaz de conocer. El artista ve con la mano, su mirada nace en la mano que sorprende a la furtiva figura. Aparece, quizás contrariada por ser descubierta, muchas de las veces justificando su secreto. Brotan como una necesidad, como un reflejo, como un espejismo de entre los dedos de Joaquín para que ya no podamos eludirlas.

Manuel Sáenz-Messía, mayo 2022

It was the year 2013 when Joaquín Martínez Cano began to discover the figures that hide in the stones of the Nojeña coast. First there were some faces that appeared in the small scattered gray rocks, then they began to appear in the rocky groups of the shores, those that appear between the folds that remind us of the recent tide. Still shining with algae and water, the nymphs, bulls or pairs of lovers appear, half-hidden in the sand, knowing that no one sees them. Silhouetted on the horizon, an old sailor has transmuted a rock into a witness to the line of passersby along the water, he follows them with his gaze. The thing has continued for years, like a miracle where he produces that deeply human thing called art. A fact independent of the efforts of the artist’s studio, where those that were rocks have been conquering part of the floor of the workshop, looking from below at the creator in his daily work, thinking, perhaps, that their presence could jump into the pocket of some new visitor. What is truly verifiable is the existence of stones, rocks that come and go while the sea shapes them and everything that makes up the coast, drawn and photographed, reproduced, in short, infinite times. We can recognize rocks and places, or just stones as such. What already exists, we see and verify objectively, known and recognizable existence. In the sight of common mortals. For the artist, for the poet, everything has a parallel or simultaneous hidden life. A life that without knowing very well where it is born, comes from the hand of the artist, and only that hand is capable of knowing. The artist sees with his hand, his gaze is born in the hand that surprises the furtive figure. She appears, perhaps annoyed at being discovered, many times justifying her secret. They sprout like a necessity, like a reflection, like a mirage from between Joaquín’s fingers so that we can no longer avoid them.