In Jerez, Holy Week is not seen. It is lived. It is smelled. It is carried in the body since childhood — the weight of the processional carriage, the melted wax on the cobblestones, the *saeta* that breaks the silence of a dawn. For those who have grown up this way, an altar candlestick is not a decorative object. It is part of something much larger. It has a place in the world, a function, a dignity that deserves respect.

Everything I do comes from there.

I am a member of the Hermandad del Amor. I know this world from the inside — not as a scholar or a spectator, but as someone for whom a well-crafted wood structure, a silversmithing piece with a silver hallmark, or an Olot image with its original polychromy are not catalog categories but things that mean something. That changes the way of looking. And it changes, above all, the way of listening to those who come with a specific need.

I started in 2021, at home, almost by accident. A pair of cornucopia mirrors with imperial eagles — that was the first piece I remember clearly. Not for its value, but for what it conveyed. There are objects that have a presence that cannot be fully explained with words. A proportion, a patina, a silent history accumulated on the surface. Learning to read that takes time. And once you see it, you cannot stop seeing it.

What I do, at its core, is solve problems with soul. The confraternity that has been looking for matching lanterns for years. The parish that needs to complete an altar set with consistency in style and period. The family that has inherited devotional pieces and doesn't know what they have or whom to call. I ask myself if I can help. Almost always, I can.