In the 1950s of the last century, in the eternally golden Tarraco, there was a boy with shining eyes and curly hair, who from a very young age aspired to be a painter and collected colored papers, fabric scraps, and threads he found on the street, and as if they were treasures, he kept them in a mysterious box, which he later forgot. A long journey filled with hopes and challenges. At times, yes. At times, no. With more forgotten moments than cherished memories, it has been the difficulties, rather than the triumphs, that have shaped him as a person and as an artist. And despite being a bit temperamental, or perhaps because of it, he has prevailed in various fields and has had the good fortune of making friends.
It is by no means easy to speak about oneself, without falling into the pitfalls of forgetfulness or idealized, even complacent, memories. Perhaps it would be better, emulating Arthur Cravan, to fire a shot into the air and embark on a swift race towards the future.
Now, when the world we have known until recently crumbles as if made of plaster. And culture, considered a dispensable good, struggles and survives under duress, so as not to fall prey to the dogmatic clutches of hungry wolves or into the murky waters of idleness. Now, when we wish to catch utopia by the tail. The representatives of this historic city, which is my own, honor me by bestowing upon me the recognition of “Favorite Son of Tarragona”. A designation of which I received welcome and surprising news, in the midst of the summer solstice. While the bonfires of Saint John burned, amidst a grand fiery spectacle.
Welcome the time of praise, may it be like rain upon the earth, which fructifies, and makes green foliage burst forth on trees, brings forth flowers and fruits in fields and orchards, in gardens and in the hearts of pedestrians and skaters. They say that the hands painted in the deepest recesses of the ancestral Paleolithic caves are not those of a single artist, but of many, who through the centuries, in silence or not, and by the reddish light of torches, left their mark alongside those who came before, in a ritual of permanence and continuity. What remains are the features, the assumptions, and the blurred mist of time. Influences, knowledge, diffused traces that spread throughout the artist’s works. The warmth of friendship from so many companions with whom I have journeyed, and of course, Art. This demanding magician, singular in its masculine form, plural in its feminine, who with his kaleidoscope, randomly reveals and conceals twists and turns and offshoots.
If we are, it is because, in one way or another, we are the sum of those who have preceded us. We walk with hesitant steps, along uncertain paths, upon the footprints left by other travelers. And the dust of the world molds our footprints, which will gradually fade with the passage of those to come, as we gaze at the star-filled universe above our heads, like an immense umbrella.
I am pleased to receive this designation. Not so much as a privilege, but as an act of generous friendship from the city, which, although it often seems dormant like a classical goddess. Like the sea, it boils and pulses in the blood of the people who bring it to life day by day. Thank you.
————————————-Josep Maria Rosselló————————————————————-
Photography: “Diari de Tarragona”, 16-2-2014
