I've had this story in one of my notebooks since last summer, when I went to Cartagena. I haven't shared any of those pictures here, but now seems as good a time as any since I posted some of the art I bought down there in my bedroom makeover.
I stumble upon the Getsemaní studio of Guillermo Vega. Someone out back waves me in and I enter; when I look up it's not the same man I initially saw coming forward, but an older man. I wish him a good afternoon and start to look around the room at the paintings. "This is you?" I ask, pointing to the signature on one painting: "Guillermo Vega." He says yes it is and goes on talking about his work. I catch almost none of it, but nod and try to repeat every other word I comprehend, thinking it seems appreciative. He says something about the world and starts listing off countries. "Yes, so many countries," I agree.
If Guillermo can tell I'm completely clueless he doesn't show it. He tells me he has been painting for a long time, fifty-five years. He shows me photos of himself when he was younger. He shows me his garden where he grows aloe vera, which can be used in your hair and as a mask, he says, as he mimes putting it all over his face. He has eggs on the ends of some tree branches and I ask him why; I think he tells me it's to keep away ants, but it might have something to do with flowers. A pair of pants is hung up on a clothesline, dusty. "It's maravilloso," I tell him, and he seems appreciative. There's a man behind him in the garden, I think Guillermo calls him Carlos. Carlos sits on the stoop and the two of them chat for awhile which gives me time to take pictures.
Guillermo holds up a golden piggy bank he's using as a planter and smiles. He pulls together the leaves of one plant; he seems to take pride in his garden and is happy to have it photographed. I'm happy to have something beautiful and personal to photograph. We go back inside his studio and he signs his name on the back of the portrait of Christ I've selected. "If I don't sell, I don't eat," he tells me. Or maybe he's saying, "I go hungry," but either way I think he is glad to make a sale, even though I can't offer him the full 50,000 pesos he's asked for the painting. He kindly accepts 46,000.
Carlos comes from the back to help wrap the painting in plastic, but first he writes the day's date and the name of the neighborhood on the back of the painting. Portraits of Christ, army generals, wild cats, and neighborhood life line the walls. It feels good to be an audience for someone who's invited me into his backyard as a guest, to step beyond the threshold and see something real as real can get for a clumsy monolingual American lugging around a camera, glued to his iPhone.
P.S. I'm telling myself I'll share other pictures from this trip next month, for sure. Look out.
I stumble upon the Getsemaní studio of Guillermo Vega. Someone out back waves me in and I enter; when I look up it's not the same man I initially saw coming forward, but an older man. I wish him a good afternoon and start to look around the room at the paintings. "This is you?" I ask, pointing to the signature on one painting: "Guillermo Vega." He says yes it is and goes on talking about his work. I catch almost none of it, but nod and try to repeat every other word I comprehend, thinking it seems appreciative. He says something about the world and starts listing off countries. "Yes, so many countries," I agree.
If Guillermo can tell I'm completely clueless he doesn't show it. He tells me he has been painting for a long time, fifty-five years. He shows me photos of himself when he was younger. He shows me his garden where he grows aloe vera, which can be used in your hair and as a mask, he says, as he mimes putting it all over his face. He has eggs on the ends of some tree branches and I ask him why; I think he tells me it's to keep away ants, but it might have something to do with flowers. A pair of pants is hung up on a clothesline, dusty. "It's maravilloso," I tell him, and he seems appreciative. There's a man behind him in the garden, I think Guillermo calls him Carlos. Carlos sits on the stoop and the two of them chat for awhile which gives me time to take pictures.
Guillermo holds up a golden piggy bank he's using as a planter and smiles. He pulls together the leaves of one plant; he seems to take pride in his garden and is happy to have it photographed. I'm happy to have something beautiful and personal to photograph. We go back inside his studio and he signs his name on the back of the portrait of Christ I've selected. "If I don't sell, I don't eat," he tells me. Or maybe he's saying, "I go hungry," but either way I think he is glad to make a sale, even though I can't offer him the full 50,000 pesos he's asked for the painting. He kindly accepts 46,000.
Carlos comes from the back to help wrap the painting in plastic, but first he writes the day's date and the name of the neighborhood on the back of the painting. Portraits of Christ, army generals, wild cats, and neighborhood life line the walls. It feels good to be an audience for someone who's invited me into his backyard as a guest, to step beyond the threshold and see something real as real can get for a clumsy monolingual American lugging around a camera, glued to his iPhone.
P.S. I'm telling myself I'll share other pictures from this trip next month, for sure. Look out.
