Victor Ruano

There are four elements that make up the foundation of my memories and of my present, that is to say, of me. They gave birth to and laced themselves through all the situations that mold my life.

Two of them arrived at the same time, while I was still a child: my mother’s garden and my father’s library. I remember the first one deeply, like a cloudy horizon. A forest of roses, with stems that reached to the sky. And the second one, luminous and impenetrable. A mysterious, long room with a small window full of light, which spelled the garden outside of it. Time stood still in both places, and I grew up without knowing that what we call life was outside.

The third one arrived all the sudden, at night, eyes without a face. The icy bitch or the mother of the young peoples. The war began in 1980 and El Salvador exploded. The garden was a very tall wall crowned with razor wire, and the luminous window of the library was a television screen. The world was outside, waiting; the world was inside a luminous box, howling.

The fourth one was a result of the three previous ones; perhaps it was born as a possibility to revive the past, to survive the present and to live the future. The necessity of art. Anything was a good surface on which to draw, to color, to paint and to write, and to decipher the world deciphering me. A cloud, a wall, a body, a wing, a window, a halo.

Biographies reveal us to the others or they introduce a stranger with us. In the case of the artist like the children only their sketches.

With esteem and pride I present to you what is mine.

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