TINTO RIVER

Five thousand years ago—which is almost to say, a lifetime ago—the Río Tinto had neither a name nor a color. It was the hand of man, and the lives left behind in the effort, that struck the earth with picks and unearthed the blood-red hue that now stains the river. Its waters are dense, rich in iron, and starved of oxygen—an allegory of death itself.

The river winds through forests of stone pines, whose reflections ripple across the surface, creating illusions and atmospheres as surreal as those imagined by the Romantic painters. Up close, it's music for the senses: a chromatic, structural, and formal symphony. Its cracked surfaces and layered mineral textures are pure abstraction—painting without a brush.

I work among slag and play with the foam like a child, chasing shapes and stories in every swirl. Here, art isn’t created—it’s discovered.

With the changing seasons, the Tinto transforms. It shifts so dramatically that it feels as though you’ve landed on another planet. And if you don’t believe it, just ask NASA—they’ve been here too, as lost as if they were wandering Mars.