Joan Bennàssar

What do you feel when you trace or sculpt that man and that woman in a way that’s unmistakably Joan Bennàssar?

I’ve always searched for a goddess—maybe my mother, maybe my lover—but always a truth, an essence. And while truths evolve, I believe in the discipline of work, in a certain order. Europe, to me, is the world’s paradise. I only hope we know how to defend it. We still need to dream. To seek what we believe in. We live in a time when the future feels threatened—by overpopulation, by climate change. After World War II, we were 2.5 billion. Now we’re approaching 9 billion. They say we’ll hit 11—and that might be too many. We can see it as a collapse, or as a challenge. We transformed Dubai from desert to metropolis. Maybe one day we’ll make it to the Moon. Perhaps the stars will be our escape. Lately, I’ve been drawn to the Argonauts—those demigods seeking the Golden Fleece. Today, we’re part human, part machine. We wear glasses, pacemakers, implants. We’re becoming a new kind of humanity.

What is Mallorca to you?

Mallorca is a land of welcome and reflection. Its landscape is brutal in its beauty. When I was young, I rejected it, wanting to break free of convention. Now I gather inspiration from it—from the fields, in a way that connects with Japanese art. It’s so sublime it’s almost impossible to capture. But it’s here, ready to be experienced without needing to go elsewhere. Mallorca is the best showcase for art in Europe. Living here is a privilege. If a Mallorcan complains, maybe they’ve never left. Because when you’ve lived elsewhere, you see how complicated life can be. We’re only a million across the islands, and every newcomer adds something. Yes, some are less positive—but that’s part of the global game. We’ve always been a melting pot: Phoenicians, Romans, Arabs, French, English... And yet we’ve never lost our identity. Mallorca is evolving—in gastronomy, fashion, history. We’re growing more diverse. And in a world with so much to sell, Mallorca has a lot to offer.

When you enter your studio, you call it “work.” But isn’t that time the true value of your art—like a clock marking the hours of your life from within?

Yes… in a way, I live for certain things. Saying I live for art might sound exaggerated, but everything—family, home, friendships—revolves around my work. Don’t be cynical—we work to survive, yes. Especially in the early years, when I had young children. But now I work out of pride, out of a desire to put things in their place, to be understood. Maybe even a little selfishness. I’ve read many classics. One book that marked me was King Jesus by Robert Graves. I like writers who speak of the present through the past. I’m an atheist, but I have a thousand gods: any intelligent woman or man can be one. There’s a line that stayed with me: “Love work, hate office, and be no friend of those in power.” Maybe it shaped me too much—I’ve never chased public approval. I believe in human adaptability. My father worked 67 hours a week. Today we talk about 37. Something’s off. In Europe, we average 1,600 working hours a year. In America, it’s 1,900. The future comes from effort. I’m a painter because I have the skill. Today, in Fine Arts schools, that’s often lost. Concepts are prioritised over craftsmanship. Many professors can explain—but not do. It’s like football: it wouldn’t be the same if only coaches played. Footballers have skill, speed, character. Art lost something when the gallery owner became more important than the artist. When the curator speaks for the artist, the magic fades. And without magic, art is reduced to price. And art without soul is nothing.