Ivan Forcadell: "I've tried wines that weren't good because I really liked the label."

The multidisciplinary artist Ivan Forcadell (Alcanar, 1993) champions the persistence and discipline of the countryside as a creative driving force. Between tradition and irony, Forcadell rescues objects and memories from the rural world to give them a new aesthetic life and reveal a universe of their own. His latest exhibition, No title, can be visited from September 18 at the SELTZ gallery in Barcelona.

How is the exhibition going?

— Very, very good, really. Many more people are coming, and it's being experienced from a different perspective. And, obviously, it's also noticeable in sales.

What point of view?

— The world is very gray and tense, and I continue to rely on joy and color.

Likewise, the works you exhibit have black and white photographs inside.

— My pieces aren't exactly joyful—which they are—but the foundation is born from black and white, from the past, from oblivion, from abandonment. I do this exercise, and I also invite people to do it: to take the stage and turn it around. People like this. It has that hopeful quality.

Do any of these photographs feature the world of wine?

— Wine always bears witness to many things. Wine always appears, especially during celebrations: the bottles on the tables, and this is very important to emphasize. It's funny to me, because I only drink wine; I don't drink any other alcohol.

There are several bottles and glasses in your study.

— Always. But, curiously, I never drink while there's sunlight.

Because?

— I get up very early and work all day. Wine has that thing that brings you down, makes you sleepy, and I want to be at full throttle All day. When I'm done working, I'll have a couple of glasses, or one, or three. I suppose it's also a way of connecting with the life scenario of when the farmer finishes the day and has a glass of wine. It's a bit of a micro-celebration, of going out and being with your people. I'm not one for drinking alone: I have to be with someone, and that someone has to drink with me. If you meet someone and have wine, it means you're willing to have more than one. And that's a very good thing.

The wines you have in the studio, how do you decide on them?

— I get a lot of gifts, just about anything. But there's someone who gives me advice, Gil, from Viniteca Vinya Celler Masia, where they work a lot with local wines. Gil is the person I know who knows the most about wines, and when I want a new one, he always gives me great advice. I invite everyone who goes there to have him serve them.

Do you have any preference?

— I always chose red, but lately I've been going for white wine or, a little, orange. I always like a touch of fruit. And if I can choose, I always want it to be from the region, from the Delta.

Any specific names?

— There's a wine I really like, the one from Venta d'Aubert. They also have a really cool project, closely linked to art.

How did you meet them?

— They're gallery owners and invited me to the winery. I tasted the wines, which I really liked. It's a very honest wine, very much from our land, very well made. I'm interested in things being well cared for.

Do you also pay attention to aesthetics?

— A lot. There's so much on offer that at least it's beautiful. In fact, I have to say I've had wines that weren't good again because I really liked the label. It was well curated, you could tell the work was well done... In the end, we're always that absurd person, and maybe you give it a second chance if it has a good label. Not a third time, but another time, yes. It's easier for them to think that maybe it was that specific bottle, or that it wasn't cold enough, or that it wasn't well aerated. Besides, a wine with a good label makes a very good gift.

Have you done any?

— I have designed labels for some private wineries.

What interests you about the world of labeling?

— Having four fingers to express something that farmers and wineries have worked hard to achieve and that they can't defend solely with their products. I think art plays a very important role here, and I think people generally stick to the more traditional format.

Does being a ceramist make you pay more attention to bottles?

— Yes. In fact, one of the ceramic models that I produce the most comes from one mix of the amphora used to carry oil and wine. I'm very interested, and I think we could go further and play more with shapes. I don't know if wine is art, but to achieve this production, you have to be something of an artist. I'm sorry the bottles are left in no man's land.

Why do you think this happens?

— It's very expensive. Perhaps a group should be formed and everyone should follow a design. For example, a designation that uses a specific mold and everyone makes a different type of bottle to differentiate themselves. It would make sense and could be removed.

You said in an interview that art isn't snobbish at all, but the art world is very snobbish. Do you think the same thing happens with wine?

— Absolutely. There's some serious nonsense, right? But of course, prices must also be justified. But the best wine in the world will always be the company you have. The wine can be as bad as you want, but if the company is good, you'll have two or three glasses. And you'll say, "What a terrible wine, haha."

Is there nonsense in the art world too?

— Of course, and that's fine, and it's my world. But it's true sometimes. We waste our wine in tastings. Never better said.

You also say that being a peasant and being an artist are the same thing.

— To a person who knows nothing—a blank mind—you give them a seed and tell them that from that seed, if they work hard, a vine will grow, and that if they harvest and process it, they can make wine. At first, it's very hard to believe. If I were to put a pencil in your hand now and say, "If you spend your life doing this, you might even grow your own forest..."

So you don't think an artist should have innate talent?

— No. You must have an innate talent for persistence, determination, the pursuit of your own pleasure, a great deal of discipline, and above all, knowing how to get up whenever you fall. A peasant does the same.

Art as a discipline?

— There's an oft-repeated Picasso quote, because it's true: inspiration comes through work. The only way to get things done is through work.The path is made by walking": it never fails. You, sitting at home, might think, "I could move some brushes," but if you do nothing, nothing will happen.

You started painting with yellow, black and blue, except for the materials you had at your disposal.

— I always say that the most environmentally friendly people, sadly, are those with fewer resources. If you don't have any, you don't spend. And, above all, you make the most of it. My grandmother always said a wonderful phrase that should be a mantra for society: the old keeps the new. My way of spending and living is, although I have no filter when it comes to food, to buy the best I can afford at the moment and make the most of it until it's no longer useful.

Has coming from a peasant family influenced you?

— Absolutely, a family without resources, where many things had to be made use of. One of my fondest memories is that on Saturday we would kill the rabbit for the Sunday frying pan, and when we drained the blood, we would cook the cut and fried blood, and it was the starter. And superb, huh? I wouldn't change it for anything in the world.

I imagine most artists in Barcelona don't have experiences like this.

— They're different experiences. For example, I'll always have a village, a community based on names and surnames. But I don't have an apartment here in Barcelona, and now it's a mess. Life gives you one thing or another. I'd rather not own an apartment in Barcelona, but rather have a village. People here [in Barcelona] don't help each other as much; they don't cling to the community as much as they do to a village.

Have you worked on your family's land?

— In the orchard, yes, but very little in the orange tree. There are some farm jobs I can't stand.

For example?

— Harvesting olives. I can't stand it. On the other hand, planting, tending the garden, scraping... I love it.

Has this close relationship with the land influenced your way of relating to yourself as an artist?

— Of course.