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Image 1 of 1
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Image 1 of 1
Artist: David Frias
Title: “mirate”
Medium: Ink Block
Year: 2024
Mírate was not born from reason. It emerged as an act of surrender—a whisper from the unconscious demanding to be heard. At the time, I didn’t know why I was painting it. Only later, through a brutal conversation with myself, did I uncover its truth. Mírate is the mirror that does not forgive.
At the heart of what I call edenism, spiritual growth is not a gentle ascent—it is a confrontation. One cannot awaken without facing the past head-on, without acknowledging the shadows one has cast, without accepting that pain, too, is a teacher. This work is that threshold: the moment when art ceases to be refuge and becomes reckoning.
The figure does not seek the viewer’s gaze. It looks inward. There is no pose, no ornament. There is flesh, consciousness, memory. Mírate is a fierce reminder that we are not perfect, that humility is not a decorative virtue but a vital demand. The brushstroke does not beautify—it reveals. The atmosphere does not embrace—it strips bare. Mírate is a silent scream. An open wound. An altar where ego shatters and truth is spoken. It is the mirror that unsettles, that demands, that transforms. It is the first step toward rebirth.
Artist: David Frias
Title: “mirate”
Medium: Ink Block
Year: 2024
Mírate was not born from reason. It emerged as an act of surrender—a whisper from the unconscious demanding to be heard. At the time, I didn’t know why I was painting it. Only later, through a brutal conversation with myself, did I uncover its truth. Mírate is the mirror that does not forgive.
At the heart of what I call edenism, spiritual growth is not a gentle ascent—it is a confrontation. One cannot awaken without facing the past head-on, without acknowledging the shadows one has cast, without accepting that pain, too, is a teacher. This work is that threshold: the moment when art ceases to be refuge and becomes reckoning.
The figure does not seek the viewer’s gaze. It looks inward. There is no pose, no ornament. There is flesh, consciousness, memory. Mírate is a fierce reminder that we are not perfect, that humility is not a decorative virtue but a vital demand. The brushstroke does not beautify—it reveals. The atmosphere does not embrace—it strips bare. Mírate is a silent scream. An open wound. An altar where ego shatters and truth is spoken. It is the mirror that unsettles, that demands, that transforms. It is the first step toward rebirth.