Antoni Tàpies has been part of my visual landscape for many years. He appeared very early on, at the beginning of my deep interest in art, as one of those names one returns to without much need for explanation. I followed him in books, in publications, in exhibitions, in visits to Barcelona and his foundation. I was always drawn to his language, that unique blend of matter, sign, silence, wound, and presence. A body of work that doesn't need to impose itself to stay with you.

That's why this visit felt different. It wasn't just about encountering his work again, but about approaching a more intimate dimension of the artist. Through the artworks, the texts, and the materials that accompanied the exhibition, a closer, more domestic, more human Tàpies emerged. Not just the great, established artist, but also the man, the space where he worked, the daily dimension of a life dedicated to creation. And that shift particularly interested me, because it allowed me to enter his universe from another place, less monumental and more authentic.

In my case, moreover, Tàpies has not just been an admired reference. He has also been a lived presence. At a stage in my life when I was able to start building a collection with some freedom, I bought several of his works. One of them has accompanied me in all my homes and in all the important places in my life, always in a prominent spot. For years it was there as a visual certainty, as a deeply personal piece, even though I didn't fully understand why yet. Only much later did I understand how profoundly that work was speaking to me about something deeper, something that was already within me before I could name it.