Looking at Hiram Latorre’s paintings, it feels natural—even pleasurable—to follow their references: recalling the tradition of still lifes, and later Matisse; identifying Lina Bo Bardi’s furniture or an unlikely art history woven around bananas. The power of these connections seduces us, guiding our contented gaze toward tranquil waters, where pleasure lingers in the colors, shapes, and the sensuality of the surfaces. From the familiar, shared comfort flows the joy of seeing beautiful things.

The colors—ochre, olive, gold, terracotta, and sapphire—are mixed with beeswax and stretched across surfaces layered atop one another. Their matte quality, devoid of shine or transparency, allows them to rest heavily on the fine linen of the canvas, concealing the secrets of their self-assured layers. It is these colors that set the ambiguous mood of the still lifes, luxuriantly illuminated and constructed.

A dim light controls the tones of the paintings, deepening their values and keeping them latent in a kind of twilight. At the same time, the consistent density throughout gives space and objects the same weight, blurring the distinction between structural planes and decoration, as in the fleeting spaces of tents where everything becomes ornament—whether the patterns on tablecloths or the voids between objects. In short, a palpable world, a luxurious reality. If still life is one way for artists to organize small realities in their studios—arranging the world to express their proficiency—Hiram’s fascination with this opulent and sensual beauty, in an atmosphere of delight and pleasure, becomes a challenge for his sharp observation, revealing his distinct way of seeing the everyday.

And yet, something has happened here, something which is evident in the improbable balance of objects, the draping of tablecloths, the scattering of fruit, and in pomegranates coming alive like serpents, or chairs stretching out their legs to hold hands or embrace. These occurrences reveal there is no real-world counterpart to these still lifes; they have no model and have never been seen. They are pure imagination. This disconnect from reality pushes Hiram’s work away from the urgency of the present, drifting toward dreams or the hallucination of a pleasurable world. Hiram doesn’t observe; he imagines a reality in which he would find joy.

Something indeed happens in these paintings—serious as art itself—that hints at a new state of being, still hard to comprehend: the belief in a better world—and in the role of artists as its organizers—has been replaced by a commitment to solidifying the imaginary, trusting that before the plan comes the dream. As such, Hiram creates a tranquil chaos, where voids are sensual, things desire each other like people, pomegranates arrange themselves for a kiss, and S2S2S2.