Elvira López

What made you decide to become an artist, so late in your career?

I didn't "decide" in the usual sense. Art was in me since childhood, but life led me elsewhere for decades. When the world stopped in 2020, something very profound resurfaced. I found myself face-to-face with myself, with no professional escape, and that's when I understood that I no longer had the right to make this inner voice wait. It wasn't a choice; it was an obvious truth.

How would you describe your creative process?

I always start without a plan. Never a preliminary sketch, never a fixed mental image of what the work should become. I prepare my materials — acrylic, resin, pigments, gold leaf — and I let the first layer tell me where to go. Each gesture calls for the next. It's a dialogue, almost a conversation between me and the material. I build, I destroy, I cover, I reveal. The work appears to me as I go. When I feel that it is there, that nothing is missing and nothing is extraneous, I stop.

Why these materials in particular? Resin, pigments, gold...

Because each of them has its own memory. Resin freezes time; it traps light. Pure pigments have a density that industrial colors will never have — they carry a mineral presence, almost sacred. And gold... gold is not a decorative effect for me. It's a cultural heritage, a light that doesn't come from the outside but seems to emanate from the work itself. Together, these materials allow me to create works that are not just looked at, but experienced.

What inspires you today?

Silence, above all. Moments when you no longer expect anything. I am also deeply sensitive to Mediterranean light — that particular quality of Spanish light, which doesn't just illuminate but reveals. And then nature in its most elemental forms: the textures of bark, the movement of water, the patina that time deposits on things. I don't try to reproduce these phenomena. I try to respond to them.

What is your relationship with your artworks once they leave the studio?

It's always a special moment. When a work goes to a collector, I feel that it continues its life without me — and that's good. I believe that a work never truly belongs to the person who made it. It belongs to the gaze that receives it, to the light of the place that welcomes it, to the moment when someone stops in front of it and feels something. My work ends when its work begins.

What would you like a collector to feel when looking at one of your artworks?

I don't wish for anything specific. I would simply like them to pause. For time to stand still for a moment. For something silent to settle. Some collectors tell me they bought one of my works because it reminded them of a memory, or because it calmed them. Others can't explain what touched them. Both responses suit me. As long as there is an encounter, the work has done its job.

Any advice for someone who is discovering your work and is hesitant to start collecting?

I would say: forget what you think you should like. Don't ask yourself if a work is "well-rated" or if it "will increase in value." Simply ask yourself if it resonates with you — if you want to live with it, to look at it in the morning, to find it again in the evening. A work you love never loses its value. Collecting is primarily a dialogue between a work and you. The rest is secondary.