Mateo Vidal

Mateo Vidal paints with the knife. Thick, worked surfaces — scraped, layered, left raw at the edges — carry scenes that feel remembered rather than documented: a figure beneath a wide-brimmed hat, sun falling through branches onto water, a bull standing against flat planes of teal and ochre.

The titles read like short stories — After Closing, She Never Told Me Her Name, Evening Comes Slow — and the paintings hold the same narrative patience: one moment, framed and left open.

Across the range, from graphic silhouette to dense impasto, the constant is warmth: grounds of sand and chalk, and light that arrives low and golden.