The truth is, it doesn’t matter to me whether Alfredo Montaña’s paintings are realistic, conceptual, post-modernist or post-Café Gijón. What maintains me stationary in front of his canvases is the impulse to decipher the enigma of the unique human geometry established: a cruel geometry of the flesh and incommunication, where landscapes, when present, are discovered much later on.
It’s as if during the prolonged initial observation of the hermetic characters that attract our attention, the landscapes don’t seem to exist or we have forgotten about them.
Because, in reality, the observer is too busy considering to what point the geometry of the clothes, muscles, women’s fair skin and looks, which are seldom directed to the spectator’s eyes, may be nothing but a wire fencing, a pit, the impassable environment of human beings.
Men and women whom you think you know, who are mistakenly familiar because one sees them everyday in the street, in the café, on the terrace of a bar, in the living room of a house listening to a conversation or a melody, when you soon discover or remember that you ignore almost everything, and that the same thing happens to those characters between themselves, although they’re sitting at the same table, although they share the same space on the beach or on the bus.
Although they touch each other or – hardly, it’s true – look at each other.
Arturo Pérez-Reverte Writer
Member of the Royal Academy of the Spanish Language