Anton and home

Antonio Gala died. Antonio Gala died. Antonio Gala died. I had to repeat the spell three times, the last time out loud, for the information to consolidate, crystallize, become true. To remember Antonius, of course, is to speak of a writer for the press, a brilliant orator or a free man who understood better than anyone what it is to live; but he must also be considered one of the most important patrons of a country where dedication to culture is little more than a chimera: his foundation, which received so many of us when no one gave us a chance, is his most beloved work, his universal heir, a pagan miracle that year after year, it makes us believe anew that the world can sometimes be beautiful and just.

It gives young creators the time and space necessary for the realization of works, the realization of which always implies blindness, slowness and clumsiness characteristic of the first times. The rare possibility of leaving the future in favor of the purest present for a few months turned, thanks to Antonio’s generosity, the old Cordovan monastery into a home where, even years after we left, we are still expected. A tree from Retiro, in the middle of the Madrid Book Fair, protects the bench where I sit as I write after I toasted his health. I imagine he would have liked the stamp: more than 300 artists and writers who have passed through the foundation, he was just asking us to go overboard. Too many of us, he said and hit us with a stick. Judging by the amount of unique talent he’s unleashed, anyone would say we’re on it.