On his recent visit to Madrid, my son James finally did what I only ever do with a sketchbook — he actually went inside España Cañí. I had painted the façade, admired the tiles, obsessed over the light. James walked straight through the door like a normal person.

He arrived early — far too early — because the bar had just opened. Instead of the loud, crowded, gloriously chaotic Madrid scene he was expecting, he found calm, silence, and a bartender who had clearly not yet emotionally clocked in. I should have reminded him that Madrid wakes up late and eats even later. James said the walls felt old, which in Madrid usually means older than your entire country.

I told him that if he introduced himself and showed the owner a photo of my painting, he might score a free beer or at least a pity tapa. Unfortunately, the owner wasn’t there, and the guy behind the bar couldn’t have cared less. No free beer. No free food. Just rejection — Spanish style.

Still, James did manage to take a great photo and send it to me, which is arguably worth more than a free tapa. (Arguably.)

Outside, the façade looked exactly the same — beautiful, stubborn, and completely uninterested in our opinions. But now when I look at it, I don’t just think about colour and composition. I think about my son inside, attempting mild art-based fraud while pretending he totally belonged there.

Which, honestly, is the most accurate portrait I could ever make.