Between ancient rock formations and figures that seem to rise from the depths of stone, Peñalta’s work creates a universe built on a dialogue between nature and memory. His practice, both deeply intuitive and rigorously crafted, reveals faces, animals, and emotions that he envisions trapped inside the stone—inviting us to remember that, in the age of artificial intelligence, the tangible still holds irreplaceable power.
What does stone mean to you beyond being a material?
It’s a refuge, a place of peace. It’s also a medium through which I harmonize with nature. It allows me to communicate what’s within me, in sync with what lives deep inside nature itself—in this case, the stone.
You talk about “listening to the murmur” of the rock. How do you translate that into a pictorial gesture?
When I search for material, I visit stone and marble workshops with full attention. I listen. Sometimes there’s a murmur, other times a scream—as if something inside is asking to be released. That internal sound guides me. I translate it into a gesture, into finding and freeing the being that lives inside the mass. That’s the act of painting: giving form to something that was already there, waiting.
Your work seems to arise more from contemplation than planning. How do you balance intuition and technique?
Intuition is immediate—it happens while walking through workshops, among already-cut blocks. That moment of connection, when something calls to me without explanation, is the first encounter. Then comes the cutting, framing the figure I perceived, and from there, contemplation begins.
In the studio, with the stone in front of me, I sit and observe it quietly. I listen to music and enter a meditative state. I can spend hours, days, even years in front of a piece until the character finally reveals its story. Then comes the technique. The balance lies in honoring the intuitive discovery while translating it with precision.
You often mention “Dantean” figures. What role do literature and mythology play in your creative process?
They’re essential. I constantly work with imagination. The Medusa sculpture installed at the UNAM Institute of Geology speaks to that: a fragmented figure that alludes to the power of the gaze and to nature as an incomplete force. Medusa’s head, turned into a shield, acts as a symbol of protection. It’s also a bridge with geologists, who, like me, are passionate about stone—but from a different world. As a geologist friend once said, “Rocks are the bones of the Earth.” That’s where it all begins for me.
Faces are a recurring motif in your work. Why do they appear so often?
I don’t know exactly why—but I need to paint them. It’s almost an obsession. I’ve been drawing faces since I was a kid. I see them everywhere: in daily life, in shadows, in textures. I’m constantly looking for them. Maybe it’s pareidolia—an ancestral mechanism that helped us survive by recognizing faces. Faces have always held a powerful presence for humans. I’m no exception. In my case, it’s compulsive: I see them, and I draw them.
What role do animals play in your world?
I feel deeply connected to animals, especially wild ones. I identify with them—their presence, strength, even their fragility, moves me. In my work, they represent instinct, the essential. Observing them is a way to connect with something primal, beyond the rational.
What do you hope to evoke in viewers when you release these figures from the stone?
I aim to spark an experience. I release figures from my story and what the stone tells me—but once the work is exhibited, the viewer enters the picture. If someone stops looking at a screen and stands in front of a rock, that’s already a win. Everyone projects something onto it—fear, memories, desire. If someone sees a horse where I don’t, it’s because their story is speaking to the piece. What matters most is that the work awakens something personal, that the stone suddenly stops being just a stone—and becomes a mirror.
What role do mistakes or accidents play in your technique, especially in petrovitapainting?
I work on geological accidents—veins, fractures, tonalities that occurred millions of years ago. My process starts there, just like in life. It’s not a blank canvas you control. It’s a rock slab full of imperfections. You can either regret a vein that “ruins” your composition or build from what you have. Many times, what seems like a flaw reveals something unexpected. The accident doesn’t get in the way—it becomes a central part of creation.
In a world increasingly shaped by AI and virtual reality, how does your work engage with these new forms?
My work engages with AI and VR as a counterbalance. We’re living in an age of exponential advancements that reshape how we perceive reality. But in the face of all that, touching stone, something tangible and ancient, becomes even more valuable. In a world that’s becoming less physical, what carries time within it gains weight. My work finds its place there—as an anchor in a moment of intangible acceleration.
Website: https://www.penalta.mx/
Instagram: @penalta_17
