credit cards (chapter 3)

A wicked joke circulated Mexico at the end of 1994. It went something like this:

There was a boisterous Texan who came to a border town Mexican bar.

After much drinking  he called for his bill.

“It’s 100 pesos senor,” he was told.

 “Come again?” he slurred a little incoherently as he pulled out a thick billfold of dollars and waved it over his head.

“100 pesos, senor,” the barman told him again.

“No, in dollars,” he spit.

The barman rolled his eyes and shrugged. “Oh, ok… then its nothing,”

The year 1994 was a violent one in Mexican politics. Theassassination, among others, of  the ruling party´s presidential candidate, and the guerrilla war that exploded in the state of Chiapas made the Mexican peso tumble into a free fall. By the end of that year Mexico found itself in an economic crisis that paralyzed the sale of art. Interest rates soared and many of my wealthy clients had to suddenly sell their houses at considerable losses and look for business in other countries like Chile or the United States. Under such circumstances, people cannot think about buying art; they are worried enough with their immediate future. Even buying groceries becomes a serious concern. I remember the case of one friend who had been looking to buy a Mercedes Benz only he couldn’t decide what model he wanted. A few weeks later he was selling all his cars except for a quite modest one.

I found myself in similar circumstance. A few weeks before the peso devaluated I had sold one painting over the phone for $4,000.00 dollars. I felt successful and optimistic. That mood fell instantly as I found my $1,000.00 credit card debt growing rapidly with compounding interest rates, and no prospective clients for my art in sight. As a painter  artist and a parent of  three school age boys, my situation was critical.  I called the wife of one possible client and offered to sell a small painting she had expressed considerable interest in for half the price. She asked for a little time to consult with her husband. After a few hours she called back and politely said: “my husband says these are not art buying times…”  and she was right. Note: this is great! Just what I was looking for. It pulls it all together, yes? I felt worried and anxious.

Then I was hit with a crazy idea, as I frequently am when under pressure. I reached for the thick telephone directory and after a couple of calls found out who  the president of the bank I owed the money to was, and  the name of his secretary. Comermex (later to become Scotia-Inverlat Bank),  was one of the three largest banks operating nationwide. Mustering as much courage and confidence in the value of my works as I could I phoned his office and asked, not for him, but for his private secretary, who did not know me from Adam. During the brief interval it took for the phone to ring and be answered I hesitated and almost hung up, but before I could do that a kind female voice came through:

“Presidents office?” she said.

“Is this Señorita Trini, secretary to Don Augustin Legorreta?” I questioned in my best voice laden with authority.

“Yes it is, Sir,” I could almost see her smile respectfully through the telephone.

I took a deep breath and started:

“Señorita Trini, I am a client of the bank. A painter, an artist, by profession. I am calling to inform you that I have just sent a portfolio of my work. If you like the paintings could you pass them on to Don Augustin? I would like to see if there is a possibility to pay my credit card debt with painting. Otherwise, with such rising interest, it will be impossible for me to pay it at all. On the other hand, if you don’t like what you see just return it and worry no more about it.”

I hung up and sent my portfolio by messenger to Don Augustin Legorretta.

To my great surprise Trini did call back two days later to invite me to meet Señor Legoretta for coffee in his office at the grand bank building on Paseo de la Reforma and Periférico.

The Comermex Plaza building stands 22 flights high in one of Mexico City’s most fashionable and historic areas. Ten minutes before the appointed time I went through tight security and walked through the ample marble alleys of the building’s numerous elevators. Little lights with numbers and bells indicated nervous activity. Nobody would have thought of me as an artist dressed up in my tweed suit , a remnant from my days as entrepreneur and insurance broker. I felt somewhat good about of my appearance, yet inside I suffered. What would a man with all the means to buy the best art think of my own artwork? Up I went to level 22. The elevator door opened wide and after a brief wait I was ushered  to a large office with a lounge, a library and two comfortable seats by a coffee table.  At my feet a wonderful view of Chapultepec Park with Maximilians Castle in the middle. Higher on the horizon of the vast Anahuac valley the two snow-capped volcanoes, the Popocatéptl and the Ixtaccihuatl reflecting splendorous sunshine after a bit of afternoon rain.  At one time, Mexico City was known as “the most transparent region” — not very often nowadays.

Don Agustín arrived shortly. He was all you would expect from a well polished gentleman.Note: perhaps a little more description of the man here or dialog, what he said. He showed me around his art collection. Magnificently carved Estofados or wooden Catholic icons from colonial times, plated with gold and silver, paintings from Mexican masters and commemorative silver trays. Note: I for one would like to know more details about what he had in his art collection and assume art collectors of your work and reading this book would too. You could also include your observations, for instance a piece that struck you, what you thought when you saw it and so on. Then we sat and discussed my situation. He was very understanding and basically accepted some kind of bartering with the single condition that it would not ever be repeated. I did not ever want to be in the present situation, at the mercy of a bank, either.  Suddenly, he stood up and asked me to follow him to floor nine: the bank’s meeting room and directors dining hall.  As we walked out of the elevator we came into a wide room with a bare wall about 28 feet long, 6.5 feet high before us. Would I envision a mural there? He asked. Of course, I answered yes. He then asked me what subject I would choose for the mural. I took a few minutes to answer, while he suggested themes with  historical portraits.  Then it came to me. I gestured with my arms the width of the image I foresaw:  peppers! Mexican peppers, red and green, jalapeño and poblano, making an attractive pattern  with the national colors. I was afraid he would not like it…but as it happened, he did. He immediately phoned his cousin for approval, the well know architect who had designed the dinning area.  I suffered through a two day waiting period, and to my surprise, the famous architecto Legorreta said the idea of the peppers was great!

And so I began painting to pay my credit card debt, through three weeks of painting — and wining and dining with bankers., with my signature and many happy memories of how every day a butler named Prócoro would call me to lunch in distinguished company. Its funny how, under those circumstances, bankers seemed so friendly.  The rumors of a mural being painted on the 9th floor soon spread all over the bank’s building.  In an environment where people spend their long work hours looking at numbers and money transactions, a painter and his product surely will stand out. So many clerical workers found reason to take an elevator trip and have a peek. Among my visitors came a group of secretaries on their way to lunch, some half a dozen of them, mostly atractive and smart -as bankers often choose them. They came behind me quietly and stared, not meaning to disturb my work in anyway at first. I could feel their looks at my brushstrokes from behind. Closer and closer they came quietly, until I turned and gave them a warm hello. They answered with giggle and continued  watching quietly ..till one of them cracked a question: Sir? why so many peppers when one single good one would be enough?   On another occasion,  Mr.____ who at that time held an important position at the banks board, was showing some investors around; five or six gentlemen in grey and navy suits, white collars, gold cufflinks and cologne. They stood quietly watching, like the girls had done before. Again, a wise crack, this time from the prominent banker, who ceremoniously proclaimed:  “…and this, gentlemen, is the graphic expression of our current interest rates”.

You can still see the mural of the peppers in the ninth floor.

I tried this same strategy with other credit cards, but their conditions were abusive and offensive, so I paid them slowly with money instead of art, since it was the only value they knew.

new york

Noche estrellada en Puerto Escondido – Oleo on canvas, 1994 – 120 x 160 cm.

New York ought to be, at least once in the life of every artist a compulsory destiny. It attracted me unexpectedly, like a magnet.  Still deep into Mexico’s  1994 economic crisis, and while I painted my version of Stary Night   ( a chair and a palapa on the beach under the stars) I was listening to  Richard & Wendy Musk’s “Present Dreams” album. I was captivated  by this soft music. I played it over and over until I finished the painting. Feeling somehow grateful for the inspiration, as I came out of the right side of my brain  to love the results, I looked for some contact information on the album’s cover. I sent these wonderful musicians a photograph of the painting I had produced with the help of their sounds. To my surprise, a few weeks later I received an invitation to visit them in New York!

I rushed to accept the invitation. Quickly and without much money I  did all  preparations for the trip, in spite of this not being good moment for unexpected expenses.  As I have mentioned before, art sales were totally depressed and I was struggling to pay my bills…but something inside moved me from the start. Anyway, I found myself flying to New York shortly afterward, with my portable easel and my photograph album as carry-ons.  I still have the old easel: one of those classic French field models with
three legs that pull out and a box that opens to hold the canvas. While staring at the clouds through the airplane’s window, a passenger near me asked what my box was, and I explained. Naturally, his next request was to see photographs of my paintings, so I handed him my album, which I always carry with me, just in case. Another passenger got interested and then one more: I relished my artistic ego. When one of them heard I was going to spend the night in New Canaan, he offered me a ride to the Melba Inn -the
hotel Richard and Wendy suggested I stay at- and so it was that New York treated me well from the very begining, since my ride had an elegant limousine waiting to take him home.

New Canaan  is a beautiful town, typical of Connecticut, with much of that simple New England elegance.Close to Manhattan, but very quiet, well connected by the train with the end of the line station across the hotel. After a silent restful night I called Richard and Wendy. They had left a fruit basket in my room and a number to call. We met and shared the whole day: exchanging ideas, experiences and projects. Artists share many dreams
and none of them has an easy road to follow; what is magic is that there is always someone interested and ready to help. From this first visit evolved many contacts unforeseen.  Among them, Doug Major, owner of  the towns limo service offered to take me to and from La Guardia every time I came to New York, all because I gave him a tiny watercolor as a present. The man was totally committed to  helping the arts any way he could. He also vowed to find me some buyers.

From this first visit was born my constant passion for New York; every time I land there I feel electricity below my feet, as if they moved on their own.  I did not sell anything on this visit -maybe because I had nothing to sell,  I had only photographs to show.  In my haste to get there I had come unprepared for so much potential. So I dedicated myself to walk Manhattan, visiting every gallery in Soho, Greenwhich and everywhere I could. I then returned to Mexico City, very excited, but still without money. I quickly sold what I could at bargain prices and packed five paintings. I convinced Luli to come with me and shortly after I was back in NYC, with my wife and four hundred dollars -nothing, by the city’s standards…yet I had a limousine waiting for us in La Guardia Airport.

Luli and I woke up in New Canaan and, as soon as Doug was ready, we put four paintings into his car (the paintings were rolled unstretched) and drove off to see an art dealer. He had a large gallery in Greenwhich Connecticut, on a second floor “Genesis” was its name. He was a polite but dry and practical man  -much like most New Yorkers are.  As a kind gesture to Doug, who often bartered his services in exchange for items for his art collection, he quickly granted us his total attention. As I rolled out each painting on the
floor (my formats have always been large and therefore difficult to extend over tables) I was very nervous. He carefully looked at my work. I began to breathe easier when I saw his interest awaken. Finally he asked us into his office and as we sat down he went straight into business and asked me if I would accept a $5,000 dollar offer for my four paintings: ” Three thousand cash and two thousand in coupons” he said.  “Coupons!” I replied “What will I do with coupons?” along with the peace I initially felt when I knew we
were having a sale, I felt anguish to suspect the deal would not be fair. Yet Ed Eglowsky as a shrewd Jewish art dealer and he knew artists, he knew how to work out a win-win situation.  He calmed me down “you did not come to New York to sell only four paintings, now did you?  the coupons will give you staying power. You’ll stay in good hotels, eat some fine food …while I find you something else. I understand if the deal seems unfavorable to you, but I am in business to earn money and for now this is all I can offer.” I accepted. It was my best and only alternative at the time.  Besides, Doug made me feel real good when he commented, as we walked through the underground parking, back to his car “Not many foreigners, Federico, arrive into a city and pocket three grand in less than 24 hours…only in New York.”

And so it was that Luli and I became familiar with Manhattan and its museums, with enough coupons to pay for any of the restaurants in the long list of establishments Ed Eglowsky traded with. Some were truly good and we enjoyed much. Our only dilemma was tips we were not included in the coupons… and we were not about to part with the little cash we had, so we avoided going back to the same place to  eat again to avoid ugly looks from the waiters. However, we sure slept well every night in very comfortable rooms.

more on new york, please

Mural “Patina -Café” Acrílico sobre tablaroca, 4 x 6 metros.

I could write most of this book about my adventures as a painter artist just about New York. You would think other cities offer great opportunities to artists, and they probably do, but it took me more than a month to sell my first painting in Dallas while 24 hours after  arriving in New York I had sold four. You would think an artist could get lucky in Chicago, Miami or San Diego, or any large city. However, people in Chicago who are serious about buying art take pride in saying they bought an art piece in New York and not the other way around. This also happens with Guadalajara in relation to Mexico City; Guadalajara has many wonderful artists, but they usually are not valued by their own city until they have been accepted in Mexico City. I think there are few cities with a patron spirit for the arts and at least for me, New York is número uno.

While my wife and I were staying at the Goat Island Hilton in Newport RI, spending the coupons I had bartered for, the phone rang. Ed Eglowsky from Genesis Galleries had come up with an imaginative proposal. He had seen in my portfolio a painting of a car, so I was to paint 20 antique Mercedes Benz which he would then show at the inauguration of a car dealership in New York. He suggested I look for a studio to rent; so Luli and I went looking in the Mystic area. A very generous woman of Stonington, M Thomas, who’s work was a combination of real estate agent and art gallery owner helped us. We explained our situation and, with that helpful spirit of art lovers, she took us to see what was available. We drove by  6 Grandview Park: a little  Victorian house (built in 1898 by the Weimpfiemer Velvet Mill for one of their executives), with a good size garden surrounding it, a large tree in front and a sailboat on the dry in the next lot. The upper floor was rented to a couple with a little girl; they were both art teachers. The bottom floor was for rent. We jotted the phone number and from M’s office we made a lucky call. The owner of the house, Mr. Perrone, was willing to rent the lower part of the house for a month, for a price which was not cheap but we could afford. This would permit me do the  car painting collection to make more money. We were to meet him at his house in Greenwich, CT to make the payment. We drove there, he came out, we introduced ourselves and showed pictures of my occupation, and when I tried to produce the money to pay as we had agreed, my wallet was gone! In panic, my wife and I searched everywhere. in every pocket, in our luggage, everywhere  in the car, but the wallet was nowhere to be found. I am sure meeting this landlord was God- meant, because after some twenty minutes of helping us with our money search, he accepted my last painting for payment and entrusted us with his house. This was the beginning of a friendship that has endured through the years.

Back in Mystic we began to install our living quarters and art studio in the little house, and sure enough: as we pulled out  my easel, from a nook underneath the driver’s seat slid out my wallet! blessed with still having our money intact and not diminished by the rent payment, we celebrated with wine and steak, cooked in the beautiful New England early Fall night.

I painted furiously for the next few weeks. I would wake up early and paint until late afternoon. Our outings were walks to Stonington and its beautiful waterside. The house had very little furniture, which made it perfect to place the 20 canvas I was simultaneously working on. We had taken the train to Manhattan to buy art supplies from Pearl on Canal St. and spent our  last coupons in a  luxurious meal. Luli cooked, washed, went for errands, helped with my work and was very cooperative  and patient in every way ( when men are pressed for money we get edgy, and when I paint intensely I also get  extremely affectionate). M. Thomas would come and visit often, we made good friends with the couple on the top floor and other neighbors, we visited every little shop from Groton  to Westerly and saw the leaves turn colors. One night we went to a concert in the New London Navy Base. Finally, the 20 Mercedes Benz were finished and I got paid well enough. As in any collection, an artist can soon spot the best paintings, the ones that will sell first. There was this red 1939 540k convertible I wish I would have kept, or at least taken a photograph of.  Now I only have a few sketches.

One client lead to another and our visits to New York and Mystic became frequent. Tony Perrone and his family have continued to barter with us for stay at their place, as our friendship has continued. On one occasion the wife of a distinguished lawyer asked me to do a mural in their home in Bedford CT. They had what they called an “English Folly”: a small guest house,  with  lavish architecture which created an illusion of  imperial times when seen across the garden, from the main house. They had us  stay with them for a few weeks while I painted. Richard and Elizabeth Carlton were very kind patrons and hosts and soon we became friends. They graciously invited us to other fine homes and restaurants in the area. Often we rode on Richard’s old Jaguar, which was delightful.  These acquaintances led to others and to more commissions, and so it went, our economic situation improved and life slowly became wonderful, all because I was a persevering artist in the Big Apple. Meanwhile in Mexico, the economy started a painful recovery and patrons emerged with renewed interest for my artwork. I keep some of my best friends and memories of my first visits to New York. Richard’s XJ Jaguar, which Elizabeth sold to me at a bargain price after he passed away, is now my cherished antique toy, the Perrone family visits us in Puerto Vallarta. In my old sketchbook there is evidence of how my time and work keeps passing. I regret a 12 x 16ft mural I did for a restaurant in Greenwich  (the Patina Café across the Terra restaurant on Greenwich Ave.) disappeared when the owners sold the place to a fashion store. I made a mistake in painting directly on the wall -I now paint on canvas which I then glue to walls. All I have  now to show is a postcard which I here reproduce… and some sketches. About my sketches, I think that although they are not as precise as photographs, the let me relive the feelings I went through while I caressed  shapes of things with my pencil

the calling

Some people  cross our paths with blessings that have a lifetime effect, in ways we will never forget. This was the case of my friend Raul Mercado,  who came by my office one day and proposed that I do a show of my paintings. Until then I had painting for a hobby. My job was to  act as manager of  my father’s insurance brokerage agency, which was a much better business than practicing as the Industrial Designer I had studied to be. I would spend my days dressed up in pin-stripe suits and silk ties, talking on the telephone, eating in upscale restaurants with clients and insurance company executives. I would paint only  in my free time, and as I was the young father  of three handsome and very active boys, there wasn’t much of this commodity to go by. Artwork resulting from my passtime I would give away to people who appreciated it, or used  for presents in weddings and special occasions. Raúl, who since our days in the University proved to be an excellent designer and always showed impeccable taste, honored me by asking me to show professionally. The place for my first show  was a penthouse he had for an office in San Angel, an elegant historical  town south of  Mexico City. The year was 1984.

Raúl took care of everything, cocktails, waiters, even guest list and invitations. I only painted a few extra pieces to make a total of 26. They were all sold on the night of the opening! The prices were of course low, and those attending were mostly friends -my father bought the last two. Nevertheless, little by little it all added to an attractive amount. This made me think I could save my paintings for an annual show, instead of giving them away.

A few weeks after this first show I got a call from  the wife of a friend, who asked about a painting she had seen at the show, but had not made up her mind yet to buy till now. It had already been sold to someone else, so offering to paint a similar one seemed the kind thing to do;  I then landed into my first commission. Little did I imagine the day would come when I would have a list of commissioned paintings  waiting to be done while I listened to Jazz at home

Clouds appear to be a simplistic subject. Yet, there are clouds and there are clouds. A well executed skyscape can be very original and beautiful. To completely understand their dynamics and beauty one must study them carefully, under different lights. Oceans are similar: the spray and foam have the same  tonal variety in whites reflecting surrounding lights and colors. So it seemed only natural to go into seascapes after having painted so many skyscapes.  I mention this because when I lived in Guadalupe Inn (a quaint village now engulfed by Mexico City’s urban growth) I had famous painter Carlos Mérida for a neighbor. He was already quite old, yet still active and with a sharp mind. On one occasion I decided to visit him and ask his critique on a painting I had just completed. Don Carlos, had been Picasso’s friend and schoolmate in Paris, and had a cubistic style of his own. He was kind to me,  but at first  he refused to tell me what he thought of my work. “I am not an art critic” he said at last, “but since you are my neighbor and you insist, I will tell you what I see, hoping you will not be offended. Be assured that you can paint, evidently you have some have talent, yet this is not a sincere painting. When you began this piece you were captivated  by the clouds; you painted them because you felt them with  your heart. Then, when you were about finished, you began to think with your cold  brain and came to the conclusion nobody could possibly like such a simple subject as just clouds; therefore, you started adding some mountains. As you saw the results were believable, you kept going and  got carried away into doing these stupid little pine trees….well rendered by the way.  Yet, once done, your heart protested because you had not been faithful to your first motivation -to paint only clouds- and so you realized your mistake and proceeded to erase them a bit, so as to diminish their importance. This is what I can see in your work: it is not a sincere painting.  If you wish to paint clouds, go ahead and paint them without minding what people will think of you.”  I then learned that painting must come from a pure place in the heart; feelings will show in brushstrokes the way nervousness  or lies may be detected in handwriting. I here present the painting  I entitled “Stupid little Trees”, which I used in the cover of my first show. Many other shows followed, in many galleries and clubs. Through success and failure I never could stop painting. It wasn’t that I thought I had any special talent, I just knew that was my nature: I simply liked painting. Today, looking back, it all seems logical and sensible: to have finally decided to live  as an artist, to draw my sustenance from the sale of my artwork; but there were times when I felt torn in two, when the prudent thing to do seemed to continue as a successful, well-to-do businessman who supported his family properly. It took me many years, but I finally completed the transition.  I am pleased to understand that it was not through my own decision or merit. The painting profession came to knock at my door through my friend Raul and it slowly but relentlessly claimed my  full time devotion.

My friend Raul, whom I dedicate this chapter to, has  passed away. Also Don Carlos Mérida. Alive in my heart remains  the  firm conviction that in life one must be sincere and do as one thinks. It makes little sense to work just for money, doing something you just can’t enjoy; else there is the risk of becoming  so terribly poor that money will be our only posession.  The job defines the man: people refer to a man as “Joseph, the carpenter” or “Bill, the Banquer” and now, as I am older and hopefully wiser, I enjoy being referred to as “the painter”. Thank-you Raul

True riches (third part)

Little by little I begun to be known as a respectable painter in my new city. In addition to the clients from Mexico City who continued to order commissions every so often, Vallarta turned out to be a wonderful contact for my market in the US. My economic situation improved and we continued the construction of the “Estudio-Café” in Nuevo Vallarta. By November 2001 we were able to take a decisive step, so important to our plans, and open the restaurant that would bring clients to see my paintings in a relaxed environment. We only had a wall in front of the marina, a few tables and chairs donated by beer manufacturer Cervecería Moctezuma and awnings provided by Coca-cola. Behind the wall there was on-going construction, mortar and gravel.

Nevertheless we had what it took to make headway toward success: an enormous desire to offer quality at a good price no matter the effort it took. Tourists arrived, mostly from Canada and the US, some from Mexico City and Guadalajara. Lupita my sister in law cooked while the rest of the family waited on tables. I would paint under the worst lighting conditions, at times under a blue tarp or directly under the scorching Vallarta sunshine. We started earning money not only from painting but also from the restaurant, one would complement the other. We earned a reputation for tasty, healthy food and we always kept the place spotlessly clean. People came for the food and the ambiance, to enjoy art as well. Everyday we ended exhausted, but we would rise excited and happy each morning, full of enthusiasm because we could now see the light at the end of the tunnel. We didn’t resort to much publicity, mostly it was word of mouth that made us know. It wasn’t just any client we were after, but those who had good taste and were truly interested in art. In spite of our limitations and that we were still building, we always managed a modest touch of distinction and aesthetics: natural flowers, good napkins, uniforms candles, original recipes. We steered clear of anything we knew to be common, yet we served some impressively delicious bean dish which satisfied the most demanding palate. We concentrated on Spanish and Mexican food, as fine as our limited utensils permitted.

One day hotelier Martin Good called me to his office. He was about to inaugurate Metamorphosis, a sort of bar and gallery. We came to an agreement and I painted 20 pieces, the “Intimate Fruit” collection. Martin is known for his good taste and generosity and he displayed it with me. The theme of the fruits became popular and I continued to be accredited. Our economic problem was then reduced to the Summers. Those terrible months of September, hot and muggy when there is no tourists, when savings come to end and the new season seems far away still.  Any Vallartan merchant will understand… I am sure.

By the end of our second season we decided to go ahead and invest our savings for in continuing construction, although we knew we would not be having any income for a few months. Since both my wife and I were legally able to work in the US we went to California to get some temporary jobs, anything to get by until it was time to open our business again. However, days and weeks went by and we could get anything; the 9-11 attack on the twin towers and the collapse of the stock market had  a  terrible effect on the economy, so getting a job was a slow and difficult process. We finally exhausted the money we had and my brother Gerardo sent us return tickets and an invitation to wait the season  at his home in Mexico City (I have a younger brother with a big heart).

Saddened by the way our venture turned out I reckoned, for the umpteenth time, that it was again a mistake to dedicate myself to something different than what I really wanted to do. I took out my easel and opportunity came knocking once again, from Vallarta itself and in my own field: Martin Good was building a large restaurant on the Cuale river, the “Bianco” and wanted me to do a mural painting for it. I dedicated myself  to this project which  was amply publicized and gave me a  much needed boost, making my artwork known all over the bay and much further. The restaurant was decorated with Martin’s impeccable taste all in white except for my painting which depicted giant tangerines in exuberant oranges, red and yellows, with organic, voluptuous shapes, so it became an excellent showcase. I received endless compliments. Women would arrive at the restaurant and ask to be seated next to it, where stares concentrated. People would call from the US wanting to know about my work and I landed some new projects. I hereby thank Martin again for this opportunity. Although Bianco is no longer there and the tangerines mural has been retrieved -I painted it on canvas which was then glued to the wall so it could be removed if necessary- many people still remember and its effect remains, as I have more requests for fruits than any other subject. I here present a photo of the tangerines mural.

Writing about true riches took me much longer than I thought. To come to the point where I could properly express how I now feel abundantly rich I had to describe my previous circumstances and thoughts, and the process by which I arrived at the present. Our life in the big city, full of stress and haste, has been exchanged for another life, with meaningful work and time to share with loved ones, and which I value so much thanks to the great effort it took us to get to where we now are. I live from doing what I am, work defines the man: I am a painter artist.

If by chance the reader is longing for a drastic chance in her or his life, I suggest  two readings for inspiration: from the Bible, John 10:10 …about abundant life and Henry David Thoreau’s  “Walden Pond”. True Riches are well hidden from merely economic spirits

true riches (second part)

Each day I would wake up to anxiously follow the stock market journey. I consulted with an expert. After analyzing my portfolio he advised to sell everything immediately. How can I sell at 5 dollars stock I bought for 25? -I protested. “In a week they wont be worth 50 cents” -he answered. Once all hope of recovery was lost, I promptly sold all the stock that I had. The money left was only enough to survive a few months.

I remember in those days I saw a Newsweek magazine where two cartoons expressed the ordeal retired investors were going through.  In one of them an old lady was shown delivering hamburgers on roller skates. In the other, an old timer was illustrated at the beach, sitting on the life saver’s chair ordering everyone: Back to work! vacations were over! – I admire this virtue Americans have for humor in self-criticism. In that very moment I decided I was not going to be depressed but laugh instead and start over. I had no alternative: I could not fail my family, my sons, mi little two-year old daughter, nor myself. Luli and I immediately reduced our expenses and concentrated our efforts to produce income. Lupita, my sister in law, had come to Puerto Vallarta to help us move from Chapala and decided to interrupt her university studies and stay longer to continue helping in spite of circumstances.  Her and my wife managed the operation of a dump truck for a few months. We had purchased the truck to save on construction materials when we were to invest in building some spec houses. Now that we didn’t even have enough to buy our own house and  the truck became our first business. It certainly wasn’t what any of us had envisioned as an ideal job, but there was a lot of construction going on in Vallarta and delivering gravel, sand and stones did pay our bills.

Nobody knew me as a painter artist in Vallarta. Everyday I would show my art portfolio to every architect and designer I could find in all of Banderas Bay. John Youden, the Editor Vallarta Lyfestyles, was a helpful friend and gave me some free advertisement to get started. My studio was practically non-existent, so all my information consisted on a photo of the “Intimate Pair” and two telephone numbers for art buyers to locate me. Juan Collignon also helped by introducing me to some interesting people.  Adriana Gangoitti was first to commission me to do a painting.

Lupe Wulff and her family were helpful as they always are. Lupe came to me with an offer I couldn’t refuse: she needed 100 paintings to decorate the “El Anclote” apartments her father, Guillermo Wulff was about to finish. The problem was she only had $10,000 US that is $100 per painting. Even in my early beginnings my prices had not been so low, but Lupe has always been a good negotiator and she had brought 50% in cash. This was precisely the amount we needed to complete the price of the lot we wanted to buy, where our Estudio-Café is now located. So on the condition that I would not sign those paintings Lupe and I shook hands on the deal. I then rented a warehouse where I would lay the canvas 10 at a time and work on my knees. They measured 75x100cm each so they took a lot of ground. I did the sizing myself, then coated them with acrylic and began laying different marine subjects on them: fish and sealife, boats and seascapes. At the start I thought I would work in series, like a machine, without worrying much…but this became impossible for me. Each piece captured my attention, and even against and the haste to get it over with, it demanded that I give all I could in those circumstances. This is when I realized that painting was really my thing. I finished the paintings. Lupe promptly paid, we sold the dump truck. Nevertheless, repairs and unexpected expenses reduced our savings considerably, so my brother Gerardo, who has always been a good brother, lent us the balance and with great enthusiasm we finally bought our lot.

Two years later,  while visiting John Youden and his beautiful wife Florence, I saw a painting that seemed to me well composed and original in spite of the materials it was made with. I praised their painting -I think it is yours- John said…and yes, I remembered then this as one of the Anclote paintings. John had had one of those apartments and later sold it, but kept the painting. In another occasion, an American lady came to my studio and asked that I sign one of these paintings in exchange for some money. Since the painting was not at all bad I did sign, but refused the money. The flattery I received was payment enough.

We now had a good piece of earth to build on and a clear idea of what I wanted to do with it, but no money to build. While conversing with a newly made friend about this problem I received some unexpected advice which dawned on me as something I had never seen “… my grand parents, and perhaps yours as well, came to Mexico by boat, with very little money. As soon as they could they bought some land and from the very first night they slept and lived there. Your city boy mentality is stopping you from doing what you need do”. I then learned from many reputable friends who had gone through lack of comfort in order to build their Vallarta dreams. Mari Pepa Gonzalez’ mother, such a good looking refined lady as she is, was one of them. This gave me courage and so we began building with no more than enough to pay materials and labor of the first month; the rest would have to be produced as we went, and so we started.

I resorted to all the strategies that came to my mind to promote sales of my art work. On one occasion  I  organized an “Invisible Auction” that is, I sent an invitation to all who knew the value of my work to buy one of my large paintings at 50%  value in exchange for an immediate cash payment and their patience for the painting to become visible (the paintings were of course still to be executed).

Surprised by the good results, I raised enough money to keep construction going for a good while. I must say that people from Vallarta, both Mexicans and North Americans were very generous. My biggest problem was producing the paintings, which took me more than a year to complete.  We ran out of money many times, but there was always a strike of luck or another clever idea.

true riches

I am writing this chapter on Father’s day 2006 and so I dedicate it to my sons Federico Santiago and Alvaro. They are now grown and independent men, since I had them when I was very young and they lived through my transition from businessman to painter artist with all of its consequences. It is my hope that they strive for doing what they  enjoy and take pride in it and live with quality, not blinded by appearance of richness. There are those who having their bank accounts full lead empty lives. I question if you can call  a businessman successful if in his ascent to the top of the corporation  he looses all else, a millionaire who sacrifices his honor and friends in order to live worried with a fortune he cannot peacefully enjoy.  I am not pretending to say that all artists are happy, nor do I recommend painting as a way of life.  I only suggest that in our heart of hearts we all hold dreams which can be fulfilled in exchange for some patience and sacrifice; sometimes it takes long to find the right road to follow and then, out of inertia of fear, we never make up our minds to take it.

My eldest son, Federico, experienced some of the difficulties I had to go through to pay for his last tuitions at the Jesuit University where he studied law and witnessed how I bartered with a painting that now hangs in the rectory. I also completed the payment for his first automobile with a painting.  We went from being affluent to being not poor, but definitively limited. I say limited because bartering has many limitations cash does not: if you have bills in your wallet you simply hand them over, no need for talking or making value estimates; not so when you are exchanging a painting. You have to first find the proper individual, since not all persons value art or are allowed to decide its acquisition.  You certainly cannot walk into a store and ask the sales lady to exchange your artwork for an article; you will have to talk to the owner of the establishment and wait to see if the painting you propose is of his or her liking, if its value is recognized. In the case of a tuition you will have to talk to the rector. It isn’t a matter of money; its more a matter of upbringing, of sensibility to art and higher values. In a world where drug lords and embezzlers are the riches, money has little to do with culture and good taste, nevertheless there are people for whom money or not, art is a delicious need and bartering is an opportunity.

Lucky for us, the borough we lived in Mexico City, Guadalupe Inn, had a good percentage of educated people, though not necessarily rich. I had a chance to test this one Holy Week Sunday. when we desperately wanted to go on vacation. To put enough money together I sent two of my sons (then 7 and 10) to the Catholic Church nearby with one of my paintings. It was a marine theme where waves ran towards the beach, seen as a bird flies toward land (I had made a sketch while landing in a flight to Ixtapa, which I later turned into an oil painting that I liked a lot). I instructed my kids to wait outside after 10 o’clock Mass with the painting placed on my easel so people leaving could see it. It was quite an act of faith and a desperate will to go on vacation. Now that I think of it the chances where very slim, because the price we were asking was not low, but it sold! An elderly couple bought the painting… and we went on vacation. In each chapter I am writing in this monthly magazine PVMirror I have accompanied a photograph of the painting I refer to. This time that will not be possible since I was in such a hurry to leave for vacations I did not have the time to take a photograph, so I am offering the reader another marine painting, more recent and which is still for sale.

I remember there was a time when I was afraid of recognizing my painter vocation. Images of hunger and sad ateliers in attics spun in my head like ghosts. When talking to each possible buyer of my artwork, I would make it a point to explain that painting was not my only training or profession. I felt it necessary for them to know about my graduate studies, or about my having my own business with a respectable income, painting being only a fortunate hobby. I felt a need to demonstrate I was not a poor painter artist.  I also felt guilt for not finding more motivation to further promote my father’s insurance business and I feared what might become of my children, with a painter artist for a father. It would often happen at business meals I attended, that I would become weary of poses that had to be held (I suspect even my father became finally tired of this too). One had to pretend that all of the guests seating at the table were pleasant -and many were: honest, hard-working people filling their duties to entertain clients and agents, striving to provide an atmosphere conducive to good negotiations of insurance premium, or so that the payment of casualties would go smoothly.  The real problem was that there was always some jerk insurance manager trying to favor a mock agent just because he was a relative, or a sales director trying to establish a direct relationship with our client to skip our commission, or a crooked client pretending for the company to pay the unpayable, or the alcoholic who went on and on long after we had all finished dessert, cigars and all possible negotiation.  There were too many long meals like these, while a tie choked my collar, while we all smiled. Perhaps the most disagreeable part of my job was the insurance premium collection.  Since Insurance is an intangible service which shows no benefit until something goes wrong (accident,  fire, death) it is hard to collect. I was good at it, but I did not like it. I had to smile, smooth talk and insist. On occasions our messenger boy had to make several rounds before the check was ready.  Painting is quite different: it either pleases or not; only looking is necessary, not much talking. If the painting is good it speaks for itself, the client takes it home happily to show it to friends. Through the years prestige builds up for the artist and surrounds him with a mystique which I never knew as an insurance broker. I am very grateful for the economic advantages, for some good friends, for the fun conventions, for clients such as General Motors, which let me know riches that in spite of stress and enslaving sacrifice, paid many  bills.  Today I know a different, better kind of riches which I here try to describe.

We all speak about true riches not necessarily consisting of money,  but few come to put these words into practice…because it is not easy. It’s not easy to quit a job that pays bills, even if we spend the time abhorring it. It’s not easy to leave behind the urban blight, because in spite of the violence and enervating traffic there is hope that money will compensate or at least permit us to live within some protective isolation within gated communities with  closed circuit TV that defend our little gardens, which we seldom enjoy since we are chained to an office desk. As they contemplate some advertising, people experience brief moments of illusory fulfillment. They picture themselves living in a peaceful place, or working in something they would really feel proud about doing. Billy Joel’s song Piano Man words speak about this longing: “…but there’s somewhere that I’d rather be”. If you decide to be brave and leave your present job, or the big city or whatever seems to be binding you, there is always the risk things might not work out the way you thought they would, your plans may fail.

Many times, while seating at the table with my kids, I would fantasize saying “behind that wall is the beach” and we would laugh. In reality, behing that wall was Juventino Rosas street, ever so congested with cars. “Someday we will live by the ocean” we would comment day-dreaming. My dream to change that urban reality took us through many uncertain roads. There were several attempts, a Ranch in Chiapas among others, which will require its own chapter some time in the future. One day, after many years of saying I would, I sold my house and belongings and left my dear Mexico City toward some place by the sea. My three boys were adults already, so I could only invite them to come, I could no loner command them, they were old enough to make their decisions. We started by living in San Diego. There they went and visited; Santiago even held a Job and lived with us for a while, but there was no strong conviction to stay, not even in my wife and myself. California felt foreign and aloof; additionally the pollution, traffic and tension were similar to what we had left behind. So from San Diego we traveled down the coast to Rocky Point, to Guaymas, to San Carlos, until we got to Chapala, next to the lake and so near to beautiful Guadalajara. My sons visited us there too and considered staying. In Chapala we heard a lot about Puerto Vallarta, so we decided to try there also. Something I have not mentioned is that the year we spent traveling and trying out places I continued to paint, yet our income did not come strictly from painting but also from the interest produced by the money from the sale of my house and other properties. Had this money remained well invested I could have continued to live modestly without being pressed to sell any of my paintings for low prices. The problem however, is that painters are usually not good investors. One day I learned how to invest in the stock market through internet. In the beginning I only put in 10% of my capital. After a period of good results I increased it to 15% and this multiplied my earnings by 70% in only a few months!  This brought on a seductive confusion and a deviation from my true calling: I stopped being a painter artist to become an online investor. For over a year I woke up to see the market open and monitored its moves through the day. I read all sort of books on strategies to anticipate the market moves, moving averages, trends, and all. I took expensive courses, bought the latest equipment and programs. My life depended on the Nasdaq.  At the end I lost everything.  So at age 49 I had no choice but to stay in Puerto Vallarta and make due.

For the first time in my life I became really poor.  I experienced anguish and wants I had not known before. I then was glad my older children had not followed me. I regretted having a baby daughter only two years old and a young wife who trusted me to provide their sustenance, because I felt totally defeated, old and tired.  As I write these lines I decided not to shorten my account of this critical stage in my artistic life; I would like to present it in full detail. So with the approval of my editor I shall continue in the next issue.

about an old love

When I was 20 years old  I was a sophomore at a Jesuit University in Mexico City, I drove  an electric blue jalopy that pretended to be a sports car  and I cruised down the wide avenues of  old beloved city. The colonial areas od San Angel, Coyoacán and Guadalupe inn were my territory. Through my sunroof I could see the giant trees in Francisco Sosa and many other wooded streets. These were still years when Mexican writer Carlos Fuentes could call that “The Most Transparent Region” and smog didn’t seem to be a problem.

Among the new co-eds I met a blond girl with an angelic face, who quickly caught my attention.  Cristina was her name. With urgency typical of my age, I asked her for a date and she accepted. Armed with my blue car, my best jeans, English Leather lotion and my total student budget, one evening I knocked at her door of her home on Avenida de las Águilas. A maid in uniform answered to the door; smiling she invited me in. “Señorita Cristina is waiting for you in the library she said, please follow me” she said, and down we went through a long corridor that took me into a magical world. It was not unusual for houses in the boroughs of San Angel and Coyoacán to have nice libraries. After all, even today much of Mexico’s cultural heritage concentrates in the area, however, this was quite a special one. The corridor was dimly lit and went through a great house. Through the dusky environment, at the sides, I could appreciate some of its modern elegance. On my right I remember passing a large living room and then on my left, a chapel. Finally, the hallway came to a garden full with tall trees among which a path meandered. Well! From the thick vegetation came out sculptures: Henry Moore’s bronces!… several of them, perhaps many. With my mouth opened wide i became worried that my complete student budget would not be sufficient for this date (but I was wrong, since  to entertain Cristina you didn’t need money, but only deep thinking).The library then appeared: a cristal cube with three levels. In the middle one was Cristina working on a sculpture of her own. Marble pieces all around her and a male torso which was turning out surprisingly well. Through our conversation I learned she had spent some time in Italy and taken courses. She was not a girl to be impressed with light and careless conversation from a young suitor. One had to speak with truth and substance.

Dinner came in the way of quesadillas, ham and wine on a silver tray with lacy napkins., brought by the maid. Everything was quite enjoyable that evening, although different from what I had envisioned.  On the way out, she showed me the family’s chapel. On a gold plated baroque altar, the figures of various saints had been sculptured to portray the faces of family members!  Then in the garage, pulling off the tarp that protected it, she showed me an authentic vintage sports car. Her uncle’s toy.  A British Leyland MG from the mid 50′s in show room condition. British racing green body and tan leather interiors. Once at door, a kiss on her cheek… good-bye.

I went out with Cristina for a few months. Our relationship became a sincere friendship. Somebody or something occupied her tender heart. We did have a good time and went together to many cultural events and art shows. I lost track of her when I finished college.

Years went by and I left Mexico City. Nevertheless I would often visit relatives or take care of business there. On one of these visits I drove by Avenida de las Aguilas and was hit by deja vu.   I stopped and put reverse, parked in front of a garage door that seemed familiar. No… it couldn’t… or could it be? The door seemed the same, but the walls at the sides had disappeared I went back to the car and stood looking for a few minutes. Maybe? I dared knock at the door no answer. I insisted. Shyly, little by little a crack appeared in the door and then the face of a woman. She was dressed in rags and her hair was messy, she looked tense. I asked for Cristina, she then became relaxed and opened the door. The lot of land had shrinked and there was a lot of trash. From a card board house came  two kids with runny noses and a pig. At the far back, a pile of tall sculptures. The woman said the property had been sold in parts, first one lot then another, coming finally to this…Cristina now lived nearby, with her grandmother, and she gave me the address.

I soon was knocking at the new house, which was in fact yet unfinished. Small, but in a good area. I greeted the grandmother, a distinguished lady whom I had met many years ago. Now she was confined to her bed and Cristina personally cared for her. There in the room they shared, Cristina filled in on the years we had beed apart. One of Mexico’s past presidents, who had socialistic ideas, had visited her family’s ranch and forestry operation in the state of Tabasco in southeastern Mexico and had become keenly interested in it. He had made a low offer to buy, and when refused had become intent in acquiring it by any means. One thing had lead to another and clash of powers finally resulted in the her uncle´s ill health and death. Things had drastically changed for Cristina. I told her my part; now I was married and lived far away. At the door, a kiss on the cheek… good-by.

I returned to that part of the city many years later, when a second level was being constructed on a close by highway (the Periférico). I found San Angel painted with graffiti, elegant houses for sale, darkened by the enormous mass that went on above them. Thefamous San Angel inn restaurant, formerly the manor of a hacienda, looked less elegant. Down Avenidade la Paz many other restaurants and fancy shops had dissapeared. On Insurgentes Sur, where I used to have my shoes polished while reading the newspaper and looking at girls go by, they had cut the tall trees to construct bus stations fort the metro transit, right in the middle, making this majestic avenue look narrow and somber. I then made my decision not to return to México City if I could help it. I have not heard fron Cristina again.

I wonder if what happened in Mexico City could happen in Vallarta?

not so peaceful outing

My wife and I enjoy visiting little towns. For a brief period we lived in Malinalco. This beautiful colonial town, one hour away from Mexico City, was in its time an important military observation point for the Aztec empire. In addition to its quaint architecture, its traditions and customs, its temperate climate and its people, we were attracted to the Augustine convent with remarkable murals not only in the main church, but in all of the vaulted ceilings along the many rooms and corridors. These murals were finished around 1570 as part of the Spanish catechization effort. They were done in magnificent frescoes. From a tiny apartment in front of this convent we planned our outings to the surroundings and many times I painted. One of such outings i did by myself to the church of Saint Nicholas, some three kilometers away from Malinalco. I here present a photo of the finished painting, which I did totally outdoors. I also have an interesting story about that day.

Every time we would drive into Malinalco I would see this church on the right side of the road and I would receive an impression of enormous peace. So much so, that one radiant morning I made elaborate preparations, carrying my easel, brushes, paint, canvas, folding chair, lunch, umbrella, portable radio and hat into the car and off I drove to the site. Once there, I took a deep breath of fresh air  with total tranquility, and began to set my painting station in the shade of a tree.  I placed a basket with my lunch on one side and a bag for dirty rags on the other. Although with some static noise, I could still tune into a classical music station. What pleasure to paint outdoors in such peace! an exquisite breeze went by my canvas and then me. I looked at my object carefully, took another breath and began.

First I stained my surface with an orangy-earth wash. Then I used some thicker, dark brown paint to draw with a filbert brush the shape of the building, its tower, then the mountains behind. I placed the stained glass windows and other baroque details. The sun hit the church from the left side in such a way all its lines clearly marked its colonial style. All was quiet when suddenly a loud alarm sounded! it made me jump and turn around: hidden by the bush trees behind me was a grade school! The first noise was followed by the happy screaming of a young multitude. An artist! he is painting! y my peace was gone. I was quickly surrounded. The little ones were jumping one on top of another, yet keeping a respectful distance, forming a circle with me in the center. They started to shoot endless questions at me; I answered a few, then proceeded to explain they had to remain quiet if they wished to see me paint, else I would leave. Prompt silence fell on the midget crowd like magic. Motivated by this sudden act of respect, I put my brush to the canvas and quickly continued working. Little by little, brushstroke by brushstroke I went on, while listening to their breathing behind me. As I finished I had earned their respect and admiration. Art quickly penetrates the spirit of gentle people.

flowers in my home

There are always fresh flowers in my home. My wife buys roses, gladiolas and lilis, mostly in red and white colors. “Red is for sales” -she says. Although I am not sure it is that which brings customers for my paintings, this season there have been plenty –thank God!  It’s a good thing to have a wife who is an optimist anyway. Fresh flowers have become for me a symbol of a feminine presence, plus they turn places alive.  Until now, I had painted very few flowers. I avoided the subject thinking it too common, while I am constantly striving to be original.

Nevertheless, I have lately been thinking that my favorite subjects are pretty common: women, landscapes, fruits, chairs, peppers and ocean waves are.  I am now realizing how fortunate I am to be surrounded by these subjects and to have them such at hand.

A few days ago  a bunch of white roses captivated my interest at the entrance of my Estudio-Café in Nuevo Vallarta. They were the kinds that have a bit of a greenish shine to them –I wish I knew the name of the variety. The sun was hitting them from the side and back, which made some of them translucent against a dark background. I decided to paint them. They turned out to be very challenging because of their capricious shapes. I used a 20 x 30 inch canvas, horizontal. I painted a dozen roses. Five hours later I stopped. They looked alright, but this was not what I wanted, so I quit and started over, this time on a 3 x 4 feet canvas. I couldn’t finish that day, I was too tired.  The next morning the roses had opened fully, so I was under pressure to capture them before they wilted. I again painted a dozen roses.  A few hours later I stopped too, understanding then this was not what I was inspired to do. I had now two unfinished paintings. So I decided to start yet another painting, but couldn’t, until Luli would bring some new roses, which she did that same afternoon.

Fully open roses gave the impression of being tired, sofocated; the new ones were young and erect, looking up. Now I began on a 5 x 6 feet canvas, but instead of painting the whole dozen I painted only six, very fresh and young. It was then when I finally understood my own motivation: when you come close to roses to smell their sweet perfume, their image cover your whole panorama, they kiss your face with dew and almost touch your eyes. So then, although these young roses measure only a couple of inches in reality, I painted them to be over one foot large on my canvas. I couldn’t stop working on this third trial. Everything worked to perfection. My creative passion arose. I painted over six hours non-stop. Then I quit only for lack of adequate light –I have stopped painting at night as I used to do when I was young. Next morning I went on for several hours, without noticing any physical need such as hunger or other. As results developed I became more and more excited.  On the third day of this canvas I also painted the whole day, concentrating in details and final touches for the last couple of hours. These final touches always improve my work significantly.  I then let the work mature in my mind and return to it in a few days, reviewing every stroke.

Once signed, I took the white roses on a dark canvas with red splotches to the Thierry Blouet Collection Gallery, downtown Vallarta. Once hung, it looked just splendid! Three days later it sold to a couple from New York city.

Its interesting to see, that once things start to go right due to our relentless perseverance, everything gets better and better.  The process made me appreciate how good it is to mature ideas, insisting on discovering their initial motivation, without compromising, without conforming to anything less than what we really wanted.  While these roses were still hanging in the gallery, another customer came by, wishing to have them. So I sold a commissioned painting, same subject and spirit, slightly different dimensions and composition.