The Palace That Was a Nightclub
For years, the Palacio Valeriola — a seventeenth-century Baroque residence wedged into a narrow block between Calle del Mar and Calle San Cristóbal in the historic center of Valencia — served as a nightclub, its dance floors throbbing beneath ceilings that had once sheltered a Jewish family of butchers, then a succession of Valencian nobles, then the editorial offices of the regional newspaper Las Provincias. Two living lions paced in cages by the entrance. The building was, by any reasonable assessment, in ruins. The plaster was crumbling, the original stonework lost beneath decades of neglect and the particular indignities of adaptive reuse — nightclub lighting bolted to Gothic arches, the Roman circus buried beneath the foundation forgotten entirely. Nobody of consequence was looking at it.
Hortensia Herrero was looking at it.
She had not set out to become one of Spain's most significant private arts patrons, nor to build a museum, nor to restore a city's architectural patrimony as a kind of parallel vocation running alongside the supermarket empire she and her husband had spent four decades assembling. What she had set out to do — if the word "set out" even applies, given the organic, almost accidental quality she describes — was to buy paintings she liked. One painting, then another, then a conversation with a curator in a sculptor's studio, and then, quite suddenly, a collection that demanded a building, and a building that demanded rescue. The Palacio Valeriola came available for purchase in 2016, and Herrero bought it, along with the stationery shop across the street — which would become the ticket office. She entrusted the seven-year, €40-million rehabilitation to ERRE studio, led by her own daughter Amparo Roig and the architect José Martí. When the Centro de Arte Hortensia Herrero opened on November 11, 2023, visitors descending to the lowest level found themselves standing inside a fragment of the Roman circus of ancient Valentia — a colossal second-century structure that extends, beneath the streets above, over an area larger than three football fields. Sections of thick grandstand wall, transverse walls, and buttresses had been excavated and made visible. The nightclub lions were gone. In their place: Tomás Saraceno's vast spider-silk installation Corona Australis 38.89 suspended in the entrance hall, Cristina Iglesias's cave-like Tránsito mineral serving as a passage between the palace's two wings, Jaume Plensa's luminous figures, Olafur Eliasson's light works, and a hundred-odd pieces — from Miró and Calder to Anselm Kiefer and Andreas Gursky — arrayed across 3,500 square meters of exhibition space on four levels.
The trajectory from a woman who "bought the odd picture" to the patron behind what The New York Times in 2024 identified as a primary reason to visit Valencia is, on its surface, a familiar story of wealth converting itself into cultural capital. But the specifics resist that framing. Herrero did not parachute into a capital city's art scene; she stayed in Valencia, the city of her birth, the city where she studied economics, met her husband, raised four daughters, and built — from her position as vice president and 28% shareholder of Mercadona — what would become Spain's largest supermarket chain. The philanthropic infrastructure she created isn't a vanity appendage to a life lived elsewhere. It is the life. And the art center is not even the first act. Before the Palacio Valeriola, there was the Church of San Nicolás. The College of High Silk Art. The Santa Lucía Hermitage. The restoration of the image and niche of the Virgen de los Desamparados. Years of painstaking rescue work on buildings most cities would have left to rot.
The question that makes her story interesting — more interesting than the usual billionaire-builds-museum narrative — is why. Not the surface answer (she likes art; she loves Valencia) but the structural one. What kind of person spends decades inside the relentless operational machinery of a 1,600-store, 100,000-employee supermarket business and simultaneously develops the aesthetic sensibility, the institutional patience, and the curatorial vision to build something that the New York Times, ARTnews, Flash Art, and Monocle all treat as genuinely consequential? The answer, it turns out, lies in the same set of principles that built Mercadona.
By the Numbers
The Herrero–Roig Empire
28%Herrero's ownership stake in Mercadona
1,600+Mercadona supermarket locations (Spain and Portugal)
100,000+Mercadona employees
~$3.5BHerrero's estimated net worth (2024)
€40MInvestment in the Palacio Valeriola rehabilitation
3,500 m²Exhibition space at the Hortensia Herrero Art Centre
100+Works by 50+ artists in the CAHH collection
The Economics of a Marriage
She was born Hortensia Herrero Chacón on May 20, 1950, in Valencia — Spain's third-largest city, a place of Mediterranean light and silted-up commercial grandeur, the former terminus of the Silk Road at kilometer 9,090, home to the Lonja de la Seda (Silk Exchange) whose Gothic tracery had been a UNESCO World Heritage site since 1996. Valencia in 1950 was Franco's Spain: inward-looking, economically stagnant, culturally suffocated. The Herrero family's circumstances remain largely private — Hortensia has never been a public autobiographer — but the known facts sketch a woman shaped by postwar austerity and a particular Valencian pragmatism. She enrolled at the University of Valencia to study economics. It was there, in the late 1960s or early 1970s, amid lecture halls and the tentative intellectual thaw of late Francoism, that she met Juan Roig Alfonso.
Roig came from a grocer's family. His father, Francisco Roig Ballester, owned a cluster of small grocery shops — eight in all — operating under the Mercadona name. The stores were modest, neighborhood-scale operations in and around Valencia, the kind of business a Spanish family might run for generations without ever breaching the regional press. Juan and Hortensia married in 1973. Eight years later, in 1981, they acquired the family business from Juan's father. The price is not a matter of public record. What is: they took eight small stores and, over the next four decades, turned them into the dominant force in Spanish grocery retail.
The partnership was not merely marital but operational. Since 1990, Herrero has served as vice president of Mercadona, and together with Juan Roig — who holds 51% of shares and serves as executive president — she has maintained family control of the company across its entire arc of growth. Their four daughters — Hortensia, Carolina, Amparo, and Juana — sit on the board. The Roig-Herrero clan is, in the parlance of Spanish business journalism, an empresa familiar of the purest type: tightly held, succession-obsessed, philosophically allergic to external capital or public markets.
The numbers are almost absurd. Mercadona's revenue hit €19.1 billion in 2012, during the worst of Spain's economic crisis — a year when the country's unemployment rate exceeded 25% and
GDP was contracting. The company hired 4,000 workers that year. Revenue has continued climbing, surpassing €24 billion, and the store count now exceeds 1,600 across Spain and Portugal. The business model — private-label goods, deep supplier relationships, relentless operational efficiency, permanent contracts for employees — has been studied at business schools from IESE to Kellogg. What has been studied less is the division of labor and attention at the top: Roig as the public face, the economic commentator who makes pronouncements in the Spanish press, the man
Forbes profiles; Herrero as the quieter shareholder, the institutional spine, the woman whose name goes not on the stores but on the church restorations and the art center.
"This family model has been crucial for Mercadona," one analysis noted, "allowing it to make unified decisions and ensure that the company's vision and values remain intact." The word "unified" is doing considerable work in that sentence. What it really describes is a marriage in which both partners understood, from the beginning, that the business was not separable from the family, and the family was not separable from Valencia.
What the Silk Looms Remember
The Hortensia Herrero Foundation was established in 2012. Its stated mission — "to recover, develop and share the historical and cultural sensibility of the Comunitat Valenciana" — sounds anodyne, the kind of language that foundations adopt as a matter of bureaucratic necessity. The early projects, however, were anything but generic.
The first major restoration was the Church of San Nicolás de Bari y San Pedro Mártir, a thirteenth-century church in Valencia's old city known as the "Sistine Chapel of Valencia" for its painted ceiling — a riot of Baroque frescoes that had been accumulating grime and damage for centuries. The restoration was painstaking, expensive, and — critically — privately funded by the Herrero Foundation. It was not a vanity project in the sense of a name on a wing. It was structural: cleaning, consolidating, revealing what time had obscured.
Then came the College of High Silk Art. This was, if anything, a more revealing choice. Valencia's silk industry — the reason for the Lonja de la Seda, the reason the city sat on the Silk Road — had been one of the great engines of Valencian prosperity from the fifteenth through the eighteenth centuries. The College, a historical building and symbol of that trade, had fallen into disrepair. The Hortensia Herrero Foundation invested nearly two million euros in its restoration, and in June 2016 it reopened as the Silk Museum of Valencia. Visitors could now see the Historical Archive, the Chapel, the Pometa Hall, the Hall of Fame, and, at the looms, a demonstration of the artisanal elaboration process of the small shuttles called espolín.
The pattern is worth pausing over. Herrero was not collecting contemporary art yet — or not seriously. She was restoring the physical fabric of her city's commercial and spiritual history: a church, a silk college, a hermitage, a sacred image. These are the acts of someone who understands, perhaps intuitively, that culture is not a luxury layered atop an economy but the infrastructure upon which economies are built. Valencia's silk trade made the Lonja possible; the Lonja made Valencia a UNESCO site; the UNESCO designation made Valencia a destination. Herrero's restorations were not acts of nostalgia. They were investments in the idea that a city's past is an economic asset — the same logic, transposed into the cultural register, that drove Mercadona's obsessive attention to supply chains and store infrastructure.
The Foundation also launched the charity gala Valencia Danza / Somos Arte beginning in 2014, supporting dance, ballet, and music. It collaborated with the Faculty of Fine Arts at the University of Valencia, funded a Master's degree in Audiovisual and Multimedia Productions, and supported "Open Valencia," an initiative promoted by the Association of Contemporary Art Galleries of Valencia. These are the moves of someone building an ecosystem, not writing checks.
In 2014, the city of Valencia named Hortensia Herrero hija predilecta — "favorite daughter." The honor was neither perfunctory nor unearned. By then, she had put more than $10 million into restoring the city's physical heritage. But the honor also marked a turning point. From restoring the past, she would soon pivot to commissioning the present.
The Collector Who Became a Collector
Herrero tells the story of her own conversion with the bemused precision of someone who knows it sounds unlikely. "I've always enjoyed painting, art in general, handicrafts," she said at the CAHH opening. "I visited galleries, museums… and bought the odd picture, becoming a collector without realising."
The pivot came through people. Elena Tejedor, whom Herrero describes as her "fantastic project initiator at the Foundation," introduced her to Javier Molins while visiting the studio of the Valencian sculptor Andreu Alfaro. Alfaro — who died in 2013 — was a towering figure in Spanish contemporary art, a man who had spent decades making abstract steel sculptures that married engineering precision with lyrical form. His studio was exactly the kind of place where a certain kind of Valencian might encounter the full force of contemporary art for the first time: not in a white-cube gallery or at Art Basel, but in a working artist's space, amid the smell of welding and turpentine, surrounded by monumental objects that were unmistakably of Valencia even as they spoke an international visual language.
Molins — a Valencian curator with an eye for international scope — became Herrero's artistic advisor. "With Javier we arranged the purchases so that everything was harmonious and made sense," Herrero recalled. "That's how we got involved in the world of art." The casualness of the phrasing belies the speed and ambition of what followed.
The collection's true expansion began after a specific encounter. In 2013, Herrero attended the opening of the "Sorolla and America" exhibition at the Meadows Museum in Dallas. Joaquín Sorolla — the great Valencian Impressionist, the painter of Mediterranean light — was in some sense Herrero's artistic countryman; she would have grown up seeing his work everywhere. But the Meadows show reframed Sorolla within an international context, and it was there that Herrero and Molins deepened their collaboration. He advised her to look beyond Valencia, beyond Spain. She listened.
We started visiting art fairs, biennials, exhibitions, studios together. Fortunately, Hortensia and I have similar tastes.
That quotation is from Molins, but Herrero's own account corroborates the dynamic: a partnership of trust between patron and advisor, grounded in shared aesthetic instinct rather than market speculation. The first work they agreed on was Anselm Kiefer's Böse Blumen (2012–2016), encountered at the Royal Academy in London. Kiefer — the German painter-sculptor-alchemist whose monumental canvases wrestle with memory, destruction, and renewal — was an inspired first acquisition. Böse Blumen (literally "Evil Flowers," a reference to Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du Mal) shows flowers timidly sprouting from the cracks of a thick, dry surface. At nearly twenty feet wide and ten feet tall, the painting is an object that resists domestication. It demands a building.
And so the building became necessary.
Ruins Into Rooms
The Palacio Valeriola presented a problem that was also an opportunity: it was not a blank canvas but a palimpsest, a building whose walls encoded Valencia's entire history. Roman foundations. Visigoth traces. Islamic-era construction. Christian-era elaboration into a Baroque palace. Nineteenth-century conversion into newspaper offices. Twentieth-century debasement into a nightclub. The rehabilitation could not simply gut the interior and insert white walls. It had to be, as the ERRE architects described it, "another episode in the history of the building."
Amparo Roig — Herrero's daughter, an architect at ERRE — and José Martí spent more than five years on the project. "This building captivated us, despite being in ruins," Amparo said. "It was fortunate enough to catch the attention of Hortensia Herrero, who invested time, resources, and unrestricted passion." The phrase "unrestricted passion" from a daughter describing her mother's commitment has a particular resonance; it is both professional assessment and filial acknowledgment.
The architectural challenge was to create a continuous route that offered "a comfortable and pleasant experience for visitors" — ascending through the Calle del Mar wing of the palace and descending through the second volume on Calle San Cristóbal. The second building had to be almost entirely reconstructed. Original materials were recycled into the underside of a new set of stairs. Deteriorated elements were consolidated rather than replaced. The goal, as ERRE described it, was to "recover the original character of the existing building… creating an exhibition space with the contemporary features it deserves."
The excavation process itself became part of the exhibit. Beneath the palace, archaeologists uncovered sections of the western grandstand of the Roman circus — a massive entertainment venue from the second century AD. These fragments — thick walls, transverse structures, buttresses — are now visible to visitors on the center's lowest level, making the simple act of descending a staircase into a journey through two millennia of Valencian civilization.
The six site-specific commissions are the building's connective tissue. Saraceno's gossamer installation in the entrance hall. Plensa's translucent figures. Sean Scully's striated color fields. Eliasson's light pieces. Mat Collishaw's immersive environments. And Iglesias's Tránsito mineral, which functions not just as an artwork but as an architectural passage — you walk through it to move between the two halves of the center. The art is not placed in the building; it is woven into the building's circulation, making the experience of moving through the space itself an aesthetic act.
The total investment: approximately $42 million. The result: 17 exhibition halls, 100-plus works by more than 50 artists, and a building that is simultaneously a contemporary art museum, an archaeological site, and a living argument about the relationship between past and present.
The Ketchup Theory of Patronage
There is a specific logic to how Mercadona operates that illuminates, unexpectedly, how Herrero builds cultural infrastructure.
Mercadona's defining strategic insight — the one that business school case studies fixate on — is its relationship with suppliers, whom the company calls interproveedores (interpartners). Rather than squeezing suppliers on price and playing them against each other, Mercadona builds deep, long-term relationships with a small number of preferred manufacturers. The company commits to volume; the supplier commits to quality, innovation, and exclusivity. The result is a private-label ecosystem that accounts for the vast majority of Mercadona's product offerings — goods that are often indistinguishable from (or superior to) branded equivalents, at significantly lower prices.
Now consider how Herrero builds her collection and her cultural projects. She does not buy at auction, chasing trophies. She builds relationships: with Molins as advisor, with living artists whose work she commissions for specific spaces, with architects (her own daughter) who understand her vision intimately, with a foundation team led by Alejandra Silvestre that operates with the institutional rigor of a corporate division. The site-specific commissions — Saraceno, Iglesias, Plensa, Scully, Eliasson, Collishaw — are not purchases from a catalog. They are collaborations, the cultural equivalent of interpartner relationships. The artist commits to making something that responds to this specific building, this specific city, this specific collection. The patron commits to the space, the resources, and the trust.
This is not a coincidence. It is a worldview. The Mercadona model is built on the conviction that long-term relationships produce better outcomes than transactional ones — that the patient cultivation of a shared enterprise yields compounding returns. Herrero applies the same logic to cultural production. The Church of San Nicolás was not a one-off donation; it was the beginning of a decades-long commitment to the built environment of Valencia. The Silk Museum was not a standalone gesture; it was a node in an expanding network of restorations. The art center is not an endpoint; it is the most visible expression of an institutional philosophy that has been developing for more than a decade.
One of the objectives of my foundation is to care for the city's heritage, to bring to light the beauty of buildings that are our history and are in ruins. With this restoration I think that objective is being fulfilled. Add to that my art collection and I think we're creating a cultural focus in Valencia for both residents and visitors to enjoy.
"Cultural focus" is an interesting phrase. Not "cultural institution" or "cultural destination" — both of which would be accurate — but "focus." A lens that concentrates attention. A point around which other things organize. This is the language of someone who thinks in systems.
The Daughter's Hand
The involvement of Amparo Roig Herrero as lead architect on the CAHH project introduces a dimension that most profiles of wealthy patrons elide: the question of succession, and the ways in which the next generation inherits not just assets but sensibility.
Amparo studied architecture and co-founded ERRE with José Martí. Her professional formation was independent of the family business — she did not go into supermarkets — but her aesthetic formation was clearly shaped by growing up in a household where the physical environment of Valencia was a matter of active concern. When Herrero describes the CAHH project, she specifically names her daughter's role: "I especially want to thank my daughter Amparo for the loving care and the hours she has put into this project. They've managed to adapt the unique features of the building, its nooks and crannies, its passages… to house great works."
The word "loving" is doing something specific. It marks the project as familial, not merely professional. Amparo's architecture for the CAHH — her attention to the original traces, her refusal to bulldoze the palimpsest, her design of a circulation route that respects the building's irregularities rather than imposing a grid — reflects an approach that is both technically sophisticated and emotionally rooted. She is not a starchitect parachuting in with a signature style. She is a Valencian architect restoring a Valencian building for her Valencian mother's collection. The intimacy of that relationship is legible in the building itself.
At Mercadona, the succession question is handled with similar deliberateness. The board's 2025 decision to reelect Herrero as vice president and extend directors' terms from five to six years signals institutional continuity. All four daughters serve on the board. The company's recent move of its headquarters from Tavernes Blanques (where it had been since 1977) to Albalat dels Sorells reflects the same willingness to evolve physically while maintaining structural stability. The Roig-Herrero family model — leadership distributed across the next generation, each daughter finding her own lane within the broader family enterprise — mirrors the decentralized-but-unified approach that characterizes Mercadona's operational philosophy.
Amparo builds buildings. Carolina, Hortensia, and Juana occupy other positions on the board. The mother presides over the cultural wing. The father runs the business. Each piece interlocks. The family is itself a kind of architecture.
Valencia as Argument
The New York Times included Valencia at number 20 on its 2024 list of "52 Places to Go." The reasoning was twofold: the city's designation as the European Commission's "green capital" for 2024, and the Hortensia Herrero Art Centre. The entry noted that Valencia "has long been overshadowed by Barcelona, despite sharing similar characteristics: miles of velvety sand beaches along the country's east coast, a vibrant cultural scene and a rich gastronomic tradition." The CAHH was positioned as evidence that the overshadowing might be ending.
This matters not as a vanity metric but as an argument about urban strategy. Barcelona has the Fundació Joan Miró, MACBA, the CCCB, the Fundació Antoni Tàpies. Madrid has the Prado, the Reina Sofía, the Thyssen-Bornemisza, the CaixaForum. Bilbao has the Guggenheim. Valencia, until recently, had the City of Arts and Sciences — Santiago Calatrava's futuristic campus — and the IVAM, but nothing that positioned it in the top tier of European contemporary art destinations.
Herrero's project changes that calculus. The CAHH collection — Calder, Kiefer, Gursky, Kapoor, Hockney, Barceló, Tony Cragg, Georg Baselitz — is museum-quality by any standard.
Flash Art,
ARTnews, and
Monocle have all treated the opening as a significant event. The catalog, published by Skira under the title
Hortensia Herrero Collection: From Calder to Kiefer, positions the collection within the lineage of major European private collections.
But what distinguishes Herrero's project from, say, the Pinault Collection in Venice or the Broad in Los Angeles is its relationship to place. The Palacio Valeriola is not a repurposed industrial space or a purpose-built container. It is a specific building in a specific city, layered with the specific history of that city, and the collection is arranged to respond to the building's eccentricities rather than the other way around. The site-specific commissions are not interchangeable. Iglesias's Tránsito mineral works because it functions as a passage between two architecturally distinct wings. Saraceno's installation works because the entrance hall has the height and light to hold it. The building shapes the art, and the art activates the building. This is urban cultural strategy of the highest order — and it comes not from a city government or a national ministry but from a single family's foundation.
The Quiet Vice President
One of the striking features of Hortensia Herrero's public profile is its modesty relative to her actual power. Forbes and Bloomberg track her net worth (approximately $3.5 billion as of late 2024, fluctuating with Mercadona's performance). Celebrity Net Worth lists her at $2.6 billion. She appears on Spanish billionaire lists. But she is not, by any measure, a public figure in the way that her husband Juan Roig is.
Roig gives speeches. Roig makes economic pronouncements. Roig is profiled as "Spain's fourth-richest person" and described as "a well-known figure in the Spanish press." Herrero is identified, almost invariably, as "the wife of supermarket tycoon Juan Roig" — a framing that is factually accurate and analytically misleading. She owns 28% of Mercadona. She has been vice president for more than three decades. Her foundation has spent tens of millions on cultural infrastructure. Her art center was the reason the New York Times told people to visit Valencia. And yet the reflexive descriptor is "wife of."
This is not, it seems, a source of great anguish for Herrero. The evidence suggests a person who has chosen, deliberately, to operate through institutions rather than celebrity. The Foundation bears her name; the art center bears her name; the collection bears her name. But the woman herself does not give TED talks, does not maintain a social media presence, does not court the international press. Her public statements — at the CAHH opening, in catalog introductions — are warm, specific, and brief. She credits her team. She credits her daughter. She credits her advisor. She does not perform the role of visionary patron.
This reticence is itself a form of strategy. In the Spanish context, where conspicuous consumption by the wealthy is culturally fraught — especially during and after the economic crisis of 2008–2013, when unemployment hit 27% and austerity measures ravaged public services — Herrero's low profile is both prudent and principled. Mercadona's hiring of 4,000 workers during the crisis, while Spain's economy was hemorrhaging jobs, was a decision with Herrero's fingerprints on it (she was, after all, vice president and co-owner). The company's emphasis on permanent contracts, profit-sharing, and internal promotion is not separate from the family's philanthropic philosophy; it is the commercial expression of the same values.
To build things. To employ people. To restore what has been neglected. To do this in Valencia, not Madrid or London or New York. To do this quietly. There is a word for this in Valencian culture, though it resists neat translation: something between discreción and compromiso, between discretion and commitment. Herrero embodies both.
What Lies Beneath the Grandstand
The Roman circus beneath the Palacio Valeriola is not a metaphor, but it functions as one.
The circus — a massive structure from the second century AD, used for chariot races in the Roman city of Valentia — was built when the city was a provincial outpost of empire, a place where Mediterranean trade routes converged and local elites competed for status through public entertainments. It was enormous: larger than three football fields, capable of seating thousands. When the empire contracted, the circus was abandoned, built over, forgotten. Layers of subsequent civilization — Visigoth, Islamic, Christian, Baroque, modern — accumulated on top of it. The building that became a nightclub sat atop the building that once hosted chariot races. Nobody knew. Or rather, everybody had forgotten.
The excavation that accompanied the CAHH rehabilitation brought the circus back to light. Visitors now descend through the layers — contemporary art, Baroque architecture, medieval traces — to reach the Roman fragments at the bottom. The experience is vertiginous in a temporal sense: standing in a space that has been continuously occupied for nearly two thousand years, looking at thick stone walls that were last visible when an empire still commanded the Mediterranean.
Herrero did not plan this discovery; it was a consequence of doing the restoration properly, of digging before building, of treating the ground beneath the palace as worthy of investigation rather than merely structural support. But the discovery is perfectly consonant with her larger project. The Roman circus is Valencia's deepest layer, the proof that this city has been a place of gathering, spectacle, and commerce since antiquity. To make it visible within a contemporary art center is to argue — without saying a word — that the present is not disconnected from the past, that the act of looking at a Kiefer painting and the act of watching chariot races are related human impulses, separated by centuries but united by the desire to experience something extraordinary in a shared space.
This is a little jewel in the heart of Valencia and they've brought out the very best in it.
The Long Game of the Quiet Builder
In October 2024,
El País published a sweeping investigation into how the world's richest business families were planning their successions.
Warren Buffett and Greg Abel. The Arnault children at LVMH. The question of what happens when the patriarch — and it is almost always a patriarch — steps back. The article quoted Alberto Gimeno of Esade: "Replacing a charismatic leader is always complicated and often implies a shift in the company's model."
The Roig-Herrero succession is, by these standards, unusually legible. Juan Roig, born in 1949, and Hortensia Herrero, born in 1950, are both in their mid-seventies. Their four daughters are already on the board. The company's 2025 shareholders' meeting extended board terms to six years, reelected Herrero as vice president, and moved the headquarters — a symbolic break with the past that signals the next generation's physical claim on the enterprise. The family has not made the mistake that Gimeno warns against: forcing heirs to compete. Instead, each daughter occupies a distinct role. Amparo builds buildings. The others govern.
The CAHH itself is a succession instrument, though it would be crude to describe it only in those terms. It is the institution through which Herrero's aesthetic and cultural values will outlive her direct involvement. A foundation, properly endowed and professionally staffed, can maintain a collection, commission new work, and sustain a building for generations. The Silk Museum continues to operate. The Church of San Nicolás continues to welcome visitors. The art center, with its site-specific commissions and its growing collection, is designed to accumulate meaning over time — each new exhibition, each new restoration project, each new gala adding another layer to the palimpsest.
In April 2025, the Mercadona board reelected Herrero once more. The supermarket chain announced yet another year of growth, another round of hiring, another expansion into Portugal. The company is seventy-five years old if you count from its founding, forty-four if you count from the Roig-Herrero acquisition. It operates in an industry — grocery retail — that rewards patience, consistency, and the slow accumulation of trust. These are not the qualities that make headlines. They are the qualities that make institutions.
Somewhere in Valencia, in a seventeenth-century palace that was once a nightclub and before that a newspaper office and before that a nobleman's residence and before that a Jewish butcher's home and below all of that a Roman circus, a collection of contemporary art hangs on walls that have been standing, in one form or another, for two thousand years. Flowers sprout from the cracks of Kiefer's dry surface. Spider silk catches the light in Saraceno's installation. The looms at the Silk Museum still demonstrate the espolín technique, the small shuttles moving back and forth, back and forth, building pattern from repetition, making something beautiful out of the work of the hand.
