Creation, in all its forms, seeks to illuminate the darkest and farthest truths. One of its most essential purposes is to give birth to meaning, even from pain. But only those who have sat in the hardest corners, who have suffered and survived, who can describe it, paint it, write it, truly understand the personal cost involved. Sacrifices. Paula Bonet (Villarreal, 1980), who calls herself the “painter who writes,” embodies this tension in abundance. She dares to look ahead. In her latest body of work, the gaze is bright, almost luminous, restrained, and deliberate, as if the artist created through living through what she has endured. The abuse she endured for years, and the prison sentence handed to her attacker last July, sit alongside the abortions she experienced, both of which haunt a past that still informs her pictorial and literary practice. Now, as she sits at home among books that heal, she describes everything as “so clean.” She knows what she wants, what she is seeking, and where she is headed. Like honest, unguarded people, she invites readers into this singular conversation, step by step.
Painter, writer, creator… Who is Paula Bonet?
She describes herself as a painter first, since every work begins with gaze and materiality, while her literary work is equally concrete, intensely concerned with the body in a tactile, physical way.
And where does this gaze lead?
Every artist, including her, is part of a long journey where each project interlocks with the next. The subconscious forges that path. When her work’s popularity peaked around 2010, she did not handle it well. In such a short career, with something so singular, the sudden attention felt almost alien and threatening. It seemed to threaten the very thing that gave life to her art. That intense focus now shines more clearly through consciousness. She intends to keep pursuing themes that matter to her, or that arrive with a sense of necessity. Violence, though not her initial aim, appears repeatedly in her work.
Do women walk to see or to be seen?
Women walk to see, yet they move within a context that concentrates attention on them. There are moments when one starts walking knowing they are being watched. This is a social construct at work.
What is possible to get out?
Immediately, there is no simple answer. Yet the more aware one becomes, the more one notices.
And you suffer more.
And you suffer more. She has seen herself approached, assessed, and engaged with repeatedly, even in moments of disengagement. She refuses to reduce her experience to black-and-white labels or a single scream…
More than anyone else, we should steer away from simplistic binaries of light and dark.
Yet she suspects that if she were not a woman, the way the workspace was divided and interrupted would have looked different.
Where did the Eel Diaries arise from, what desire?
It was a need to fix the gaze and to pause for breath.
And is this pause possible now, in creation?
Difficult, but possible. A great effort must be made.
I say this because I feel instantly consummated.
Yes to innovation, staying current…
And I wonder, is it possible to stop the wheel we ride like a hamster?
I’d like to think so too, but it rarely happens. Building these spaces for readers becomes harder with time. Many visitors assume I always reach into an eel basket, like a childlike moment of Chirbes reaching into a basket, disgusted yet compelled to pull more out. I am seeking light on these topics.
And why do you feel people assume that?
Because it is stated. The challenge is learning to care for oneself without fear. I’m moving toward a metaphor-free, self-portrait space. In today’s world of immediacy, the unvarnished self-view—the gaze you offer, and the mirror you hold up—can feel overwhelming. It’s hard, but when it happens, it is deeply satisfying.
In this oversaturation, creators gain more exposure. What did you learn through this process that feels restorative?
The value of owning one’s own space and proximity. This interview is a moment, and it may be a long time before another comes. The speaker isn’t concerned with how the broader context wants to place them, but with where one can go by facing those mirrors they once avoided.
Why is it so hard to demand privacy?
There is no simple answer. At times it feels like deleting social networks would be ideal. How often does one think this? Still, tools like networks bring visibility to a workshop. The toxic competitiveness of online platforms often overshadows the intimate, communal celebration that happens when people share work.
Has art been therapeutic for you or has it been something else?
Both. Works such as Rodents and The Diaries, and La Anguilla act as social bridges more than personal cures. Psychoanalysis supports personal healing, and capturing distance through art helps too. There are many more embryo drawings and abortion-related texts she would not publish, as part of healing through art, but that remains personal.
The pain of abortion is a topic society has long waited to address. Why the silence?
No one wants to reveal themselves as a victim or a fool. Yet speaking after moving beyond victimhood is essential. The aim is to address intimacy honestly, without triggering jealousy or stigma, so that intimate pain can inspire a healthier social fabric.
But art’s function is to reveal disturbing truths.
Indeed. Eel is a provocative work that unsettles readers, a deliberate choice to confront discomfort. It is not merely memoir, but a material the artist uses to probe complex realities.
Something else happens.
Yes. How can this be explained to readers? One interview about La Anguila carried the headline “My rapist…”, a startling moment that forces the reader to confront the author’s honesty. This is not a complaint to police but a novel, a book that others interpret as they wish.
When will motherhood cease to be at the center of what it means to be a woman?
There was a moment when escape felt possible. At 36, many personal reasons argued against motherhood, yet two miscarriages later, another form of understanding emerged. The artist chose not to become a biological mother, recognizing the many forms motherhood can take. Rodents opened a space where traditional expectations seemed reversed, shifting the center of gravity away from a single, sacred idea of motherhood.
Traditional motherhood
The cultural script is strong and persists, equating womb with a ready-made path to womanhood. We stand at a dangerous juncture, reassessing those inherited roles.
Have you seen the Khloé Kardashian photo with a newborn surrogate?
Yes, I saw it.
What did you think?
A few years ago I would have spoken out loudly. Today, the concern is less about sensational headlines and more about the reality of using bodies for economic reasons in the idea of motherhood. The ideal that anyone can choose motherhood is far from reality.
The Eel Diaries includes an autobiographical essay on artistic creation and the abuse of women. What conclusion emerged after writing it?
Results are elusive. The need to create arises from a freedom that remains difficult for women. The author confronts the limits that should not be crossed and the long, slow process of seeking accountability. The aim is to avoid re-victimization and to build a healthier collective, even at the risk of disagreement. The strongest revelations come from facing collective truth rather than clinging to a solitary one, which can mislead an entire dialogue.
In The Diaries, what readings kept the author grounded: Lina Meruane, Flaubert, Maggie O’Farrell, Gabriela Mistral, John Berger… What did those works save her from?
Reading, in its sincerity, offers healing that exhibitions rarely provide. Each work travels a different route, and the moment of reading shapes what is learned. Literature remains a guiding, honest companion that helps navigate difficult truths with quiet resilience.