Twenty years ago, some of us bought the paper newspaper every morning. Even though we knew it was loaded with catastrophes and human blunders, we let ourselves be intoxicated by the smell of fresh ink and felt welcomed by the rough touch of the paper. El Periódico was never my newspaper—the one I read with a certain devotion—but when one of my illustrations appeared on the cover of its book supplement or on the inside pages of the Sunday paper, I was especially excited. Maybe in a few hours they would be useful to wrap a sandwich or protect the kitchen floor from oil splashes. Those drawings were created, most of the time, against the clock, but even though they were destined to fleetingness and oblivion, one did what one could best. Today there are few places where one can publish in the press, which is a shame, because, as an illustrator, it is one of my favorite jobs.