My favorite hour in my studio. No phone. No bugging. No voices pulling me from my task.
Just me and the dancing lies in my head. It is easier to slaughter the lie in the morning before it has time to camouflage itself during the day.
The shortcomings in your art shows up in the morning light. Rosacea over canvas. No excuses, fix it.
The idea that art is simply a way to exhibit and to be seen leaves my chest empty.
The idea that art creates a safe haven to connect with something in you that is greater than yourself makes me hopeful.
To create something that aspire silences rather than buzz. To hold the ideas of the ancient in my right hand and ideas of the contemporary in my left.
Evergreen art is few and far apart. The charming, loud and trendy have long winters ahead of them.
There is so much to learn and respect. Not enough time.
So be in your studio more than you are at the bar, attend to your studio practice more than you do your tv, work in your studio more than your job.
Only then will the waters become clear and the fish will appear.
Sitting on the floor of my art studio, I am packing and wrapping small objects in a newspaper. Placing them in cardboard boxes. Small fragile objects from past installation projects, experimental playful tests, and mementos. In my hands, I hold a frame with the photograph of the Cuban artist Enrique Martinez Celaya painting in his Miami studio. As I wrap it up it makes me think of the last four years I had in my studio here in Wynwood. I remember my first year when I was working during the night. I will take breaks to peek out of the window at the street below to see if I am safe, it was so dark and quiet. Some nights I will spot a cloaked figure, an incognito artist painting on a building wall, nervously glancing over their shoulder. Not because of legalities – the law turned a blind eye to the colors appearing overnight all over the buildings – but because the street was so dark and quiet.
There was Thomas, with his silver dreadlocks bicycling every day from Overtown to come wash cars for $10. He liked to share a story or two about old “Windwood”. Mr. López from Puerto Rico sat on his stoop like he did the last 20 years watching, in pure amazement, as hipsters scurry past, towards a coffee shop, some actually carried their typewriters around for writing poetry. I could not believe my luck when I discovered that Celaya had his art studio a couple of blocks from me. I had the opportunity to volunteer and see the inner workings of how a complex artist functions. He taught me as artists we need to take faithful actions. That there is an inherent uncertainty in the choices we make and that one should navigate this uncertainty to benefit the artwork.
Eventually, I stopped peeking out of my studio windows. The streets were getting less dark as more artists and businesses braved this neighborhood. Clubs and bars sprouted and I started pulling the curtains shut in hope to block the beating bass, pulsating from clubs and vibrating against my windows. I once was carrying some of my artwork down my steps when a lady jumped out of her Mercedes. Excited and hyperventilating, her heart was fluttering like pre-burst hemorrhoids in her neck. Pointing and asking me if my building was for sale. She looked delicate and pale amongst abrasive bright walls.
And so it goes. Celaya asked me last year for one last project at his studio, to help his team pack ship his studio across the country to Los Angeles. This was an omen for what was to come. Mr. López just got his notice in the mail. The house he lived in will soon be demolished for storage of building materials for a construction site nearby. Thomas just shakes his head and now charges $20 to wash your car. The building my studio was in got sold to a developing company from New York city. Sooner or later they will break ground as well. The bright painted walls are now full of cavities. They will be filled with large shiny windows for fashion boutiques, more coffee shops, and breweries. The once large concrete canvasses are giving away to a new chapter.
I am moving into my new studio. As I carry the boxes into the empty space I can see through the window in the far distance the skyline of Wynwood. From here I cannot see the colors, the bustle, and hustle. It looks just like another metropolitan outline. One can feel negative about gentrification when caught in the middle of it, but there is one more way to look at it. I try to see it as another service artists give to the community. Art can uplift not only the heart but also that of decayed neighborhoods. Artists are compost that can soften and fertilize the hardest of soil. Artists can take uncertainty and turn it into something concrete. Hopefully, artists will grow to become the leaders that spearhead the process of uplifting neighborhoods instead of just being a tool towards it. Tonight will be my first night working in my new space. I know that I will take a break now and then to peek through the windows to see if the dark and quiet street below is safe.
I looked down at my hands a landscape of boulders, rivers and trees.
I flew to the Pacific Ocean and scrubbed it with kelp.
I swam in the sea of Japan letting the salt penetrate but it was in the cold Baltic Sea that
the rocks dislodged, the roots shriveled and the rivers dissolved.
For my soul was drifting on the Benguela stream all along. As it floated past the Namib it called out my name.
Swans fly through my head,
the lake lies quietly inside my chest.
Listen, for you can hear
old songs drifting slowly over the plains,
hymn and chants, nurturing milk for souls.
