Enrique López Pacheco
Is a Mexican artist who has left an indelible imprint in my life. I met him in Manolo Rojas’ art gallery in the summer 2002. I immediately liked his much simple and quiet character, his spirituality and a very particular sense of humour. We worked together a few times once settled in a remote beach in Cadiz and then a few times in my atelier. He used to work with plastic cards employing them as scrapers or spatulas and much liked to undergo new techniques. He could improvise a drawing using black soot from gas heater or achieve a watercolour by moistening the paintbrush in a cup of coffee. While working he used to talk about painting, about movements of avant-garde dealing with abstraction and about everything related to his much loved Robert Motherwell.
Enrique’s paints are full of symbols: a chair that seems to float, the surroundings of a woman body merely suggested, calligraphic signs. Endowed with an unbreakable faith, he is a true artist whose true mighty interests must always been chimerical, never calculated interests just the ones he can dream of.