David
Walford introduces
Jose
Fernando Pinzon
special
notice:
dramatic update on Fernando!
I hadn’t noticed it before. God knows one doesn’t notice everything. But something caught me. We had just turned into the alleyway…from the courtyard of our small and lovely hostel. Yeah, off an alleyway. Away from the chaos of tourist central Panajachel. We were headed up (it’s gotta be either up or down in these amazing highlands). Up to the street. Just around the corner from the hostel gate was a tiny triangular shaped piece of land behind a dilapidated chain link fence. I turned my head in response to the sounds coming from it.
Tap tap…..tap tap tap……tap..... tap tap. It was coming from my right. Mingled with the sound of Radiohead out of an old ghetto-blaster. There's this skinny triangle of land... against a cement brick wall. Behind a mangled chain link fence a young man, a shock of black hair. T-shirted back. Seated. Leaning over an old rickety table. Tap tap tap ….Under the trunk of this tree, pruned to within an inch of its life. This table under it. Stuff scattered everywhere. Mostly pieces of board. The smell of laquer hovering in the still air. Single bare light bulb hanging from the tree. And one young shock of black hair and this T-shirted back. Tap tap tap ….Radiohead coming through it all. He obviously working on something. But this is not carpentry. On the table, glimpses of colour: leather, paper, wood, brushes and glue.
Psst. Hey Shola. I touch her arm. Look. I half point as if too forward a gesture would make the scene disappear. We turn and step quietly toward the little compound. I am electric and still; poised. Somehow there is the sense that at that moment we could cross worlds. That this is what I have traveled for. The air shimmers.
The back turns and framed by that hair, a face with a smile that would melt glaciers. Que Pasa? How goes it? Que haces? What are you doing? "I am making journals. To sell."
And more. Ahhhh yes so much more. I do not know where we were intending to go that day, but it matters not a bit. We spent hours, hanging out in his little place. This crazy smiling sunshiney soul working in a tiny triangle of land with one room beside it.. Way beyond craft. Old pieces of plywood, leather, tacks, motor parts, CDs, wire. Mixing iconic images from Mayan pasts, Guatemalan presents, and global futures. Images of meeting and connection: powerful in their depiction of perceived and hoped for realities in the midst of a fractured present......of male and female: of galaxies and meditating figures of doors, worlds, and a dream of belonging. And everywhere the hu naab ku, interlocking Mayan symbol of connectedness, of friendship and deep bonds. And colours of course colours: rich and wild.
The next twenty-four hours were indeed memorable. It actually involved a journey to another world. The delicious irony is that through meeting an almost homeless artist we visit the elite world of the super rich at the Hotel Atitlan. The five star hotel with its high rise block and acres of manicured gardens sprawls in its own cove completely outside of town. It presents an imposing sight as seen from the road, on the treacherous way down to the lake. So close yet so far removed from the chaotic turmoil of a town designed around the business of the rest of us. It turns out some of Fernando's friends, musicians amongst other things, are to play and perform for the guests that evening. The equipment involves a marimba, traditional Mayan instrument, and an odd contraption meant to be worn by a performer. It simulates a bull, and, covered in fireworks, is to be set off in an series of explosions to depict the power and energy of a mythic creature as it is taken on by the hero in a traditional Mayan story. The dance of the bull is the centre-piece of the performance.
A tiny old
Or sitting on the curb in the centre of Pana at night, eating tortillas and watching the people, and the traffic, eating tortillas and tasting the life of a swirling crazy town. The women still out trying to sell the brilliantly coloured cloth that they carried on their heads and over their shoulders. What I noticed of course was not only how many people knew him. But the effect he had on them. Here was this smiling, erratic outrageous guy who walked real funny because his legs are all bent oddly from childhood polio. And people are drawn to greet him like moths to a light. He talks and smiles. Wild black curly hair bouncing. And they come to him.
And I remember. What is it he calls his art? It is his guard against depression. For too often the dark places of the universe visit.
We stayed with him in the one room he lives in that second night. We had intended to move on. But we hung out so long we missed the last bus. And all the rooms in the cheap places were rented. So he says “Yo tengo uno idea” -I have an idea. “Ahhhh but no.” He looks embarrassed. “What is it?” I say. “Well…. is not much. You could stay. So we moved the stuff around and stayed with him that night in his one room.
When we left
the next day we carried with us over a dozen works. You see them here. Some
of them are for sale. The proceeds will go to Fernando to help pay for the
replacement of his tools and materials. I will be taking Fernando with me
to the next World Social Forum. Held for the
And so he fights the free trade and corporate interests that pose nothing but threat to the way of life in the mountains. To make the poor only poorer. And he makes his journals. And keeps away the dark places of the universe.
He is our friend.
See David Walford's
"Missives from Guatemala"
.
click on an image to see an electrifying enlargement!
click on an image to see an electrifying enlargement!
