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His assistant, María, guides us through the labyrinth of the still-closed museum to a small staircase leading to his private studio. The anteroom is a large chamber with walls covered with paintings and a big window that opens onto a balcony and the omnipresent sea. A few steps more take us into the workshop, which is almost split in two by an enormous table with a cheerful jumble of piles of books and magazines, canvases, brushes and jars of paint. From a corner near the window, Carlos Páez Vilaró emerges from behind the computer. He is all friendliness. We sit at the other end, near the chimney and the leather chairs.
Páez Vilaró’s conversation is a leafy tree branching out into infinity. He starts on one branch, stops at a leaf, returns to the trunk, descends to the roots and crouches on a knotty bough to suddenly jump to another branch with no warning. It would be nice to have infinite time to listen to him. He is an expert in interviews. One must be very expert to know when to interrupt him and when to forget about the prepared questionnaire, because one does not have infinite time.