Serie Rocinante

A wooden toy horse on tiny wheels rests at the bottom edge of the canvas, barely supported by a narrow strip of scraped white that mimics a shelf or baseboard. The object, outlined with precise black contours and painted in an ochre that simulates handcrafted solidity, appears miniature against the dark abyss rising behind it. The contrast of scale and mass is immediate: the naive, domestic child's figure confronts an impenetrable wall of shadow and memory.

That background is not a flat void, but a stratigraphy of dense glazes through which circular patterns of lace and botanical filigree emerge. Produced like direct textile impressions onto the surface, these rosettes surface in olive greens and rusty undertones, conjuring the atmosphere of an attic, inherited relics, or shuttered domestic interiors. The painted surface accumulates rubbing, scraping, and a sudden intrusion of liquid cerulean blue in the lower right corner, destabilizing the gloom and suggesting an escape route or a sudden influx of cool light.

The vertical axis governs the image, compelling the eye to travel from the almost graphic innocence of the toy toward the nocturnal density of the suspended lace above. The horse casts a slight shadow onto the ledge, asserting itself as tangible and present, yet its fixed, static gaze turns it into a witness rather than an active protagonist of its heavy surroundings.

The allusion to Quixote's Rocinante redefines the modesty of the wheeled figure: this is not an idealized battle steed, but the fragile surrogate through which imagination embarks on disproportionate quests. Set against domestic shadows that threaten to engulf it, the small toy embodies the vulnerability of play and the persistence of a solitary vigil.