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Events

Pepo Argilaguet “BCN. An obscure vision”

  • Avinguda de Catalunya, 2

  • From January 27th to March the 2nd

For the artist Pepo Argilaguet, photography is an almost vital necessity with which he can express his senses. The restlessness is what drives him, he lets himself be carried away by his intuition, by those intangible sensations that reach his personal world, and captures them in an image.

He started in the world of the image in Barcelona in 1989, graduated from the Institut d’Estudis Fotogràfics de Catalunya, almost belonging to the most recent generation of analogue photography. After experimenting with his father’s Werlisa, he discovered how enthusiastic he was about this discipline, being able to control the lights, the shadows, the depth of field, exploring scenes and transmiting sensations.

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Who we are

artAMILL is the headquarters for the association that bears Carles Amill’s name.

The space is in Vinyols, a small village in Tarragona’s province where Carles stablished his art studio to the end of his life.

The association is a private, non profit,  stablished a few years back, by a group of friends in his memory.

For Carles, art wasn’t solely a form of expression. He was also involved in the study and history of art, as well as his techniques and procedures.

The association mission…

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About artAmill

An art gallery-workshop located in the very center of Vinyols I els Arcs.

A precious town within Baix Camp, right next to Reus,

and about a hundred kilometers south of Barcelona.

Why here

Vinyols was the spot chosen by Carles Amill in 1999 to set up his art studio.
It’s a quiet village at the skirt of soft hills looking at the Mediterranean sea.

Vinyols is growing as a dorm for the more industrial areas of Reus

and Tarragona but keeps its charm and is very conveniently

located, at 100Km South of Barcelona.

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Elegy for Carles Amill

by Mick Stern, April 2004

He lived in caves in gypsy neighborhoods, cavernous studios without much light except the light from his paintings.

One night in Brooklyn he invited me to remove my shoes and walk shut-eyed across a canvas laid out on the cement floor to feel the voluptuous thickness of pigment through the feet of my soul.

It was after his blue period of potatoes and stone walls, but before the architectural facades and drawings of fire.

He lived his vocation like a medieval monk, didn’t understand the big hurry of modern life.

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