In Beatriz Martín Vidal’s paintings, the first thing I always sense is the weight of “existence” itself. The figures she depicts are often female, but this is not merely a statement about gender; it is a condensation of human archetypes. These figures carry a neutral purity, unbound by time or identity, serving as vessels of the soul that quietly pose profound questions to the viewer: How do I exist? What are the issues that define my life?

She does not pursue narrative, nor does she fill her canvases with elaborate scenes. In her hands, the canvas becomes a space for thought. Light and shadow are not merely formal elements; they are metaphors for life and eternity. Light falls precisely upon the subject, compelling the viewer to confront it; shadows engulf the remainder, reminding us of the unknown depths. Sometimes, I feel that she is not arranging a composition but setting up a silent room in which one must pause and reflect.

In one painting, I see a young woman with her eyes closed, holding a rabbit in her arms. Her fingers rest gently on the animal, a subtle gesture that conveys intimacy and trust. The rabbit peeks through the grass, as if breathing alongside her. The scene is bathed in bluish-purple tones, yet the figure’s skin glows warmly, like a light emerging from within her soul.

This is precisely the power of Beatriz’s painting. Her figures often gaze directly at the viewer, yet these eyes are not a form of interpersonal communication—they are a call from the soul. Silent but resolute, they require us to pause and recognize the presence of the soul. Sometimes, I find it difficult to describe; it feels as though her gaze pierces straight through me. Her paintings remind me that the soul is not an abstract concept—it can be seen and felt on canvas.

Such a gaze simultaneously conveys freedom. The figures have no names and are unbound by gender, time, or social constraints. They are simply “the purest self.” This freedom is not granted by the external world, but is an internal acknowledgment: only when we face our own soul can we truly possess freedom.

Her works also carry a sense of “eternity.” The interplay of light and shadow, the frozen postures of her figures, make time appear to stand still. This stillness is not death, but elevation; a single moment is transformed into a universal symbol. She has said, “In the process of painting, I am always unconsciously moving toward God.” Perhaps this is why her works possess a depth akin to prayer.

Sometimes I wonder if we can locate her within the tradition of art history. Her strong handling of light and shadow may momentarily evoke Caravaggio; her direct, pure gaze recalls Vermeer or even the Pre-Raphaelites; her dreamlike atmospheres sometimes approach Magritte’s surrealism; and the presence of animals and female figures may invite comparison with Paula Rego. Yet these associations remain superficial. The essence of Beatriz is neither in formal echoes nor in symbolic inheritance. Her visual language is independent, even solitary, as if she has stepped out of the overlapping currents of art history, leaving only the most fundamental questions: existence, freedom, the soul, and eternity. For this reason, she is like no one else—she belongs entirely to herself.

Within the context of contemporary art, Beatriz Martín Vidal’s work feels remarkably quiet yet profoundly deep. While many contemporary works strive for spectacle or engage directly with social issues, she returns to humanity’s most essential questions: existence, soul, freedom, and eternity. With the simplest imagery, she touches upon humanity’s deepest reflections.

Her paintings convince me that the ultimate meaning of art lies not in providing answers, but in inspiring us to continue asking, returning time and again to her works to gaze anew.