Visiting Alberto Garcia-Alvarez in the studio he’s worked in for the last fifty years is a treat. He is warm and welcoming, and our conversations are wide-ranging and philosophical, but I’m aware that actually I’m interrupting. There are limited hours in the day in which to paint and there are paintings, still, that Alberto wants to make.

You step down into his studio from the garden. Light floods into the space from high windows. Classical music plays on the radio. Paintings are stacked along the walls in MDF racks, and jars of brushes and tools and mixed pigments are spread on benches, tables and chairs. There’s a smell of linseed oil and paint and canvas … and raw pigment usually manages, somehow, to end up on one’s clothes. I’ve learned to wear dark colours when I visit.

The often-enormous canvases Alberto is working on are installed on the wall or leaning on brackets. Paper works are scattered across the floor. I see decades-old artworks pinned and nailed to the walls, seemingly haphazardly, alongside brand-new sketches and paintings and constructions … and my eyes can’t quite settle as they try to absorb this huge laboratory of experiments.

At 96 years old Alberto is determinedly careful on his feet. He refuses a stick or a walker, insisting they will hinder rather than help his core strength. He is often frustrated by the pace at which he is forced to move, but he goes to the studio and works every day. He is sanguine, wise and curious. A genius in our midst.

Alberto writes:

“When I go to a gallery to see one of my exhibitions there is always a sense of familiarity. I know each work so well and they tell me stories of other times … of experiences that are not obvious or available to the general visitor. They represent my own life and my own thoughts.

Equally important to the exhibition, though, are the feelings and experiences of the individual observer. His or her experiences, interests and emotions accumulate and integrate in a manner that is foreign to me. Theirs is a new world … and the experience that the viewer brings to the artwork makes it richer, sometimes, than I intended it to be.

Although the artworks in a curated exhibition are often not what I would choose myself, I am aware that my own selection might not have been any better.

Each artwork is a product of time, energy and care, but when they are selected for an exhibition they leave my studio … and then there is the possibility, albeit remote, that they will be sold and lost to me forever.

When an artwork is sold to a private collector it disappears from view – for the artist as well as the general public. When an artwork is acquired by a museum or a public collection it also usually disappears. There is satisfaction, though, in the fact that someone has appreciated it enough to buy it at all.

This exhibition, ‘Casi Ayer / Almost Yesterday’, was curated by Tim.

He visited the studio and selected the works he wanted – artworks he thought could look good together. On this occasion I believe that a single curatorial opinion is likely to be more coherent than two or more opinions.

Naturally, I wonder what criteria Tim has used to back up his selection. His knowledge of the art market will have something to do with it, but his personal likes and dislikes, based upon his own experience, will also  have driven many of his decisions.

My selection would have been different – but not necessarily better. I see each work as a unique moment of my life which should be seen alone, without the distraction of other works.

My attitude would not be very good for business!”

Alberto Garcia-Alvarez, May 2024