Over time, I've realized that some writers that I follow, to the point of reading them fruitively, place themselves, not in the artist's place, but in the craftsman's place. In the first blow, I am drawn to the approach, which shows humility in the face of the routinely proud writers – if it is not false humility, then I would demonstrate the vulgarity of the writers. I have recently read it to the writer Merce Ibarz, following the collection of Triptic narratives of the terra. In this way artisan, even with reference to the title of the book, cultivator, word cultivator. But beyond the topic, what the hell is that craft?

Richard Sennett is here to help us – that the editor Jorge Herralde initially rejected it in 1977: “I am sorry to say that the publication of your texts is not possible to us”; then, from 2000 until now, to publish a total of eight books. Don't despair, dear writers. Sennette says that the craftsman responds to a human impulse to do things right, with skill, commitment, common sense, whether it's computer programmer, doctor or, concho, artist. He suggests diligence: a carpenter or musician takes ten thousand hours to get to master's degree, four or five hours a day, for five or six years. It would be a temptation to see the craftsman as resilient to today's speed, then fresh air in these turbo-apitalist times, in which the accumulated experience is greater, if worth less. The commitment of the craftsman would have nothing to do with mere survival, but with the value that culture adds to work. And it's true that you can spend your life without getting too wet, but the craftsman would symbolize a particular human condition of the person who gets involved and focuses on what they do. Following Sennett, therefore, I would claim myself as an artisan, if it were not an exercise of pride for the craftsman.