In 1973 the world suffered the loss of three great artists. In France, home of Notre-Dame-de-Vie, Pablo Picasso blew his brush into the sky. Months later, in Chile, Pablo Neruda decide Pen rojinegra doubt about his death. And in October the same year, the cellist Pablo Casals keep quiet human voice crying forever.

If the humanity of those years, of great social upheaval, it suffered, and can you imagine how he took the news the Great God who created them. Three of his sons, the favorite, most beloved, to whom he had given the gift of creativity, had left their tools. Maybe it was true what they say mortals: the more headaches you give a child, the stronger the ties that bind you to him. And what if you had taken gray green! Sometimes came to doubt their own wisdom for having given the gift of creation. How dare to question their existence? Why did not conform with the common life of men? But past the anger, jumped in excitement when he saw the dismantling of their precious world in the paintings of Picasso, or burst out crying as Casals inner cords of his soul, or, laughed heartily at that Neruda had called a small superb collection of poems with the absurd name .. Love Poems When he saw that poetry was born of hate? Months passed and the world was becoming a gray and, at times, very black. The greatly missed. The Great God pondered all these absences as he watched growing violence born of storms and military juntas devaluations that swept the world. What to do without them?

It was early 1974, after the holiday of Candlemas, when he decided to take a handful of gifts and drop it back onto the world. Germinate Maybe, maybe not, but ...

(And here I should to terminate the delirious prologue or preamble of this article, but I can not stop ... I continue:)

One of them landed in a village .... Zacatecas, about the state of Jalisco. A son was born, marking the tenth and final take place in the family. While her mother thought black curls that child would be sentenced to owning the smiles that surround him, the little David opened his mouth in a yawn and the gift, which was falling lightly as a snowflake-first, the introduced in her womb.

Pass one, two, seven years. The child grew and all the people, with the exception of not knowing the pleasure of new clothes. Being the younger one said a closet full of family heirlooms, and a memory that over the years would go charging in vats and follies of the brothers. Two very useful saver when it comes out later.

One day, while playing with the pencils, she heard a voice behind her father's humorous "A Mijo, I got painter", and that was when ...

(And I can not stop is fiction because I have in mind the image of David Silva painting with such great confidence in himself that he did not know where it is born. Self-taught in everything, rebel without premeditated intent, conviction and human-right-owner the smiles around him)

... was then when the gift, subject to the processes of germination, extended its branch from the backbone of the young David to invade the body like Ferrara spiral. The child suffered as a tickle. It would take years, the miles under your feet to the mockery of his father acquired the value of truth. One day the family moved to Tijuana. David, unlike many, he traveled to the border against their will. It had everything that made him happy in his people, why leave? I did not know that the Great God, years ago, had a plan for their children preferred skill. Never suspected that grow candlelight prepared him to dominate the twilight on the canvas. Nor, that looks and wrinkles of the old men who told him stories in Zacatecas, would become a source of his painting ...

(And here ended the fiction. I leave it to David Silva in his study of a third floor overlooking the sea, with Edith, his companion of oak, and his two sons who strongly rooted to the rhythm of life. I go to Cha- Cha's Café to accommodate the ideas. The only thing I managed to write in my book is "do not know where the hell you trust is born ..."