Few things are more prosaic and humble, yet at the same time capable of eliciting so many emotions, as a Duralex glass. Isabel Quintanilla (1938-2017) painted this simple piece of tableware on more than 50 occasions—an absolute icon of the middle class in late 20th-century Spain—which was one of the most prominent motifs in the artist’s oeuvre. Her faithful representations of these objects are one of the highlights of the exhibition dedicated to the artist at the Museo Nacional Thyssen-Bornemisza. Up to 12 of these glasses can be seen in “The Intimate Realism of Isabel Quintanilla,” the first monographic exhibition of a female Spanish artist at the museum, open from February 27 to June 2.
The painter was part of the Madrid realists, a circle of friends—or, in some cases, family members—and artists that also included María Moreno (1933-2020), the brothers Julio (1930-2018) and Francisco López Hernández (1932-2017), Esperanza Parada (1928-2011), Amalia Avia (1930-2011), and probably the most well-known of them all, Antonio López (1936). Although they were not driven by a deliberate desire to form a creative group, they did share a very specific pictorial genre (realism), a historical moment (the second half of the 20th century), and a city (Madrid), circumstances that organically led them to create a community from which they all benefited. However, in the case of Quintanilla, far from resorting to the epic, large-format landscapes filled with details favored by her peers, she focused from the beginning of her career on the intimate and the domestic—things within reach—whether a pair of gloves, plants, nail polish, or the aforementioned Duralex glasses. Hers were objects as humble as they were universal, as simple as they were narrative. “At all times, she has to paint things that evoke an emotion, [things] with which she has some connection because they are everyday objects. She does not look beyond, she looks around the house… And they are all objects that her son still keeps, even today. In the small and the simple is where she finds the emotion and the invitation to paint,” explains Leticia de Cos Martín, the curator of the exhibition.
There are also some spaces, equally personal and prosaic—a courtyard, or a room in her own house—that, although always empty in Quintanilla’s paintings, contain clues about the people who inhabit them, such as a baby hammock (belonging to her son Francesco), painting utensils (belonging to her or her husband, the sculptor Francisco López Hernández), or a sewing machine (a reference to her mother, who worked as a dressmaker to support Isabel and her sister after their father’s death during the Spanish Civil War). “There are statements from her in which she said that she wasn’t of interest to the [art] authorities because she was painting those Duralex glasses, and that wasn’t exportable; it wasn’t a Dutch still life with Bohemian crystal and fine porcelain,” de Cos Martín says. It’s an anecdote that speaks volumes about the artist’s freedom, and the strong conviction that drove her to paint the small and (apparently) inconsequential, despite the work’s limited popularity at the time.
The exhibition brings together 90 works from across her career, many of which have never been seen in Spain as they belong to museums and private collections in Germany—a result of the rapport the artist established with Ernest Wuthenow, a collector and dealer who was responsible for selling the majority of her work in that country. “A significant portion of Isabel’s painting, especially from the ’70s and ’80s, is there, both in the hands of private collectors and in major art galleries… But much of the work in Germany had been lost or not requested for exhibitions. So, I spent a lot of time there, tracing and discovering wonderful things, some of which don’t appear in any catalog, and her son didn’t even remember them,” explains de Cos Martín, breaking down a meticulous, almost detective-like process that took her three years to complete.
Despite the intense bond of the Madrid realists, and even though the women outnumbered the men, the inequalities in opportunity were notable. Quintanilla, like the other women of her generation, did not receive the same recognition as her male colleagues, despite possessing a high level of technical mastery honed at various schools, in her career as an educator, and, above all, through constant and tireless work. The invisible thread connecting Quintanilla to other female artists becomes evident in the “Compañeras” (Companions) section of the exhibition, dedicated to the work of Esperanza Parada, María Moreno, and Amalia Avia—creatives with whom Quintanilla shared both her profession and a friendship. “They were study companions, became friends, then their friends became their husbands, and they ended up being sisters-in-law. Some are godmothers to the children of others. It’s a completely unusual situation,” says de Cos Martín. And although they had different personal circumstances, Quintanilla enjoyed the unwavering support of her husband. “Paco admired her, supported her, and encouraged her not to stop painting,” de Cos Martín adds.
The retrospective of Quintanilla is evidence that a new breeze is beginning to blow in major Spanish art centers at the national level—and that deserving but under-researched female artists are beginning to occupy the place they deserve. The fact is as clear as a Duralex glass.