The life of Joaquín Sorolla (Valencia, 1863-Cercedilla, Madrid, 1923) began in the shadows, but he managed to emerge into the light that would also dominate his painting, to the point of being (re)known almost by it. The so-called painter of light lost his parents at the age of two, and yet a large part of his work exudes an overflowing sensation of happiness: say Sorolla and the image of children playing in the waves, burning in the sea, will immediately come to mind. the sand, it would almost be said that their cries of joy can be heard when the water rolls their small, naked bodies.
Say Sorolla and you will think of the ladies, Clotilde and her daughters, other strollers, walking on the beach dressed in white, their skirts blowing in the breeze and the protective umbrella in hand, elegant even under a sun so bright that it almost makes squint at the viewer. Ladies who lean out from the catwalks to contemplate the sea without getting wet, women from the town who wrap their children with towels who still smell of the sea.
Say Sorolla and the gardens will explode with plants and flowers of thousands of colors from the most impressionist painter we’ve ever had, pinks, greens, reds, violets, yellows, oranges, even blues that are illuminated again until they make us believe that paradise must be like that. Say Sorolla and the painter will take us to the gardens of his house, which he himself helped to design, or to those of the Alhambra with its fountains, which he always preferred to all the others and which opened a new path for his painting when he contemplated them from first time.
Say Sorolla and dances and men on horseback, pilgrimages and bullfighters, bread festivals and bowling games will appear as if by magic, the most costumbrist Spain that only exists in his paintings, bullfighting, women who sew the sails, one imagines. than singing in a patio full of flowers or having a snack in the hermitage decorated with the patron saint, or ships that now no longer suffer from the accidents of sailors, but rather enjoy their meals on the back of the sea.
Say Sorolla and Clotilde will become a sensual woman who poses naked for the eyes of the artist who is also her husband, and who once again under his brushes will become an elegant woman of the world, under black velvet for parties and pink satins for evenings. elegant afternoons, but also a loving mother who cradles the couple’s three children, who will look quiet and combed in their portraits and mischievous in their games and walks, in which they will make the viewer participate.
Say Sorolla and men and women of rank will suddenly appear before our envious eyes, gentlemen and ladies who seem to have just left the opera or a sumptuous meal before retiring to the smoking room, and probably so, portraits that could almost be signed by the American John Singer Sargent and that they were as successful in the United States as those of him. Or closer portraits, the actress María Guerrero as a menina, or Benito Pérez Galdós pondering on his next writing as the painter should on how to reflect his soul.
But say Sorolla, and sailors will suffer accidents and die on the ships, and the stunted children of the hospice will also play on the beach, and the women will sleep on trains that take them to their sad destination in a brothel or jail. There is a Sorolla who also painted dark society who was not lucky enough to enjoy everything he finally achieved: painting, a woman, a family he adored, multiple commissions, international success.
Perhaps that is why Sorolla has been and is so popular, because he reflects the possibility of a sun that illuminates and warms lives that we know are lurking in the shadows.