We are managing as we could to locate in the motorcar two of the triplets, Aingeru and Asier. They had only weeks. The women were still gathering in the restaurant. A marriage with its twenty-year-old daughter they were happening for the sidewalk and were continuing observing the babies. She was missing the one that was expressing more sweet talk. And before its admiration, I clarified to him that other one was missing, Ainoa that it was the third one of the brothers and it was still in the hospital. The girl, of very good to see, was astonished more, and then I indicated to him the father, my friend Tito. And in an infantile rise of adolescent conqueror, it exclaimed one before the young woman: “And I am its friend…”
It comes to story, although it, it does not seem. Leonardo Fernandez is a prophet in Catalonia, and in Aragon. Its work is exhibited in hundreds of autonomous hearths of those communities because it is there where the light about which he speaks Pepe Morales more has opened the eyes of the admiration.
Leonardo was decorating pastries to make the living in a confectionery, but its wife, Loli pushed him to do a common alliance of survival in the shade of the art. In the linen, in the table, Leonardo splashes every day sprouts of false realism, because his is the realism for that we look perpetually in the life, that of the happiness, that of the smile, that of the solidarity.
This painter does not stop amazing us from 24 hours until the day. Continuously thinking, every day advancing, almost already was rubbing the perfection. Last Friday, in a friends’ meal, we surprised it with its last work, and more the protagonist. A few months ago it was in Alora, with Pepe Morales, and asked him to sit down in the rocking chair of its mother to do a photo to him. It was not a caprice. Leonardo delivered to its friend a spectacular pencil drawing. Only pencil on while fund, and there glistened the perfect gesture that defines another honest man as the Alora teacher. Another test of the realism that we do not see in the society, but that is to the one that we inhale.
Whenever I go to its house I am astonished more of its work, of its perfection, of its sheen of pride impregnated in the stage. And it happens to me as with my friend Tito, that they give me desire of exclaiming before a third one that admires its talent: “…And I am its friend”. As if that was giving his right to which were spraying something to me with glory. As if honour was not sufficient to continue is work closely, to the minute.

Paco Rengel

Journalist