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08/06/2007: "MUSICA, MONTNAS Y MUERTE" by Walter King
I received several invitations to dinner each week from Crist and his wife Maria Theresa-- Titi as Crist sometimes calls her affectionately. I suppose I’ll never understand how such a rogue captured such a beautiful woman. The meal and wine was always far more than I could have asked for. But it was the conversation that was the most important. At Crist’s casa I learned more Spanish than almost anywhere else. Between us we would go back and forth in both Spanish and English with the occasional time out to check my dictionary or their high tech hand held language interpreter. My first night at their apartments, Crist has two…one is Crist’s studio and the other their living quarters, was a reunion. We hadn’t seen each other in 3 years. I brought Crist 11 of his favorite drawing pens from the States and a sketchbook I had promised the year before. Crist gave me two cubanos and made a drawing of me with one of his new pens that he called it “el Gaucho.” The apartment was rather chilly that evening because a window in the house was under repair and had only plastic wrap to keep out the cold night air. The next morning it snowed for the first time in 20 years as I mentioned in my last blog. Later in the evening I interviewed him with my camcorder for my archive. It was a good long interview from which I hoped to edit down to something for the web. Crist is one of the more popular contemporary cartoonists in Argentina as I’ve said before but little known outside of South America except in Spanish speaking countries. Argentines tend to know who the important North American artists are, but we tend to ignore those South of the border. I’ve mentioned before that I know Hermenegildo Sabat and I’ve met Quinno via Sabat. Both of these men managed to continue their work of satirizing and poking fun at the Government all through the Military Dictatorships from the mid 70’s (I began my art school training in ‘76 the year Argentina’s military coup occurred) into the early 80’s. Both survived and are held in high esteem by the people of Argentina for their efforts to keep the country laughing during what was a horrendous period. Sabat also introduced me to Crist upon my first solo exhibition in Cordoba in 2004.
One evening Crist called Sabat and we had a fairly long conversation about my show, my intentions in Cordoba and his work and his lovely wife Blanca. I was sorry when I had to tell Sabat that I couldn’t come to Buenos Aires on this trip to visit him. My travel agent had arranged my flight through Santiago Chile because the radar in Buenos Aires has not worked for some time. He reminded me that I always had a place to stay when I finally came back to visit him. I do like conversations over breakfast with Sabat while he works his crossword puzzle, as he says, to get his brain started for the day.
There are a few other cartoonists from the old school that I’ve wanted to meet but have, as yet, not had the chance. Fonatanarrosa is perhaps the most important cartoonist on the list but I’ve simply never had the chance to meet him. He lives further west than I’ve been so far and in my visits to Cordoba and Buenos Aires the connections were never there.
Why do I care about cartoonists in Argentina? Because,--and especially this older generation of cartoonists-- they have weathered a political storm and paid their dues unlike most in the States over the last 40 years. Since the Smothers Brothers lost their TV show in the 60’s and Brad Holland was fired from the New ork Times Op Ed page for drawing Nixon pooping out Agnew there hasn’t been much to really test an artist’s integrity until post 9-11. Bill Mahr lost his show over a comment, and several others have had repercussions because of comments made on air…but few graphic humorists in the States have really been under the gun like these intellectual free spirits in Argentina.
During the Dictatorships they were often investigated for comments derogatory to the Government. I was told at his retrospective in Buenos Aires in 2004 that Quinno’s studio was regularly visited by the Secret Police looking for incriminating evidence . Sabat once received a phone call because of an illustration that he did as a doodle in an editorial meeting of the various military dictators in traditional widows garb walking out the door was published without his knowledge. The voice on the other end of the line simply reminded Sabat that at any time a Ford Falcon (the favorite ride of the Secret Police) might arrive at his door to take him to an helicopter that would take him out over the ocean to be kicked out of the door--only one method of disappearing someone. In their situation it was their lives that were at stake not their livelihood. They continued their work-- though very carefully.
Sabat was awarded the highest state honor an artist can receive. And later nominated for a Guggenheim. Several days after the piece was published the military dictatorship fell. As he told me the story in a café he doodled a variation of the illustration on a place mat. He left it behind as we got up to leave and I ran back and grabbed it. It is in my flat files out in the studio. Eventually I’ll get it framed alongside of a sketch of Louis Armstrong he gave me the last time I was in Buenos Aires. Sabat loves jazz, has met most of the greats and they often are the subject of his musings.
Musica
Tango y folklorico
Crist sent me an email saying…”Esta noche la cena es empanadas de Arabe, guitaros y vino! Eight o’clock.” Shortly after my arrival at Crist’s and Titi’s apartments Hugo and his lovely wife Clarina arrived, guitar in hand. Hugo was a tall, gaunt dark haired Argentine who looked like a tango singer or a gangster. But he was very gentle and passionate and quite humorous. Crist opened a bottle of wine and we sat for a while waiting for the other guest eating the triangular empanada‘s which were handed down from the Moors in Spain. After a while Hugo decided to play something for us. He picked up his guitar from the case and wiped it down with a soft cloth. He plucked the strings rythmicly, slowly…It was a slow, folksy/bluesy tango ballad…I never realized just how much tango and blues had in common. They are both the voice of a neglected people. Blues from the blacks in the States and Tango from Portenos, the Italian immigrants en la muy colorico la Bocha quarter (the mouth) of the port city of Buenos Aires…and his voice had the slight rasp of a flamenco singer.
(Hugo, Crist on drum, Hugo y Ica)
After a couple songs, more talk and more vino Ica Novo arrived. Ica is a folklorist and composer as well as a wonderful guitar player. Ica apologized for being late, grabbed something to eat and after he was satisfied he and Hugo played a song together. This was not a Tango but something else. Much more like the folk music of the Andes…it seems like I remember him saying it was from Paraguay or Bolivia. I kept thinking to myself “I wish Tami were here for this…this she would love.“ I had my camcorder on the whole time and got some wonderful sequences between Hugo and Ica. That night I didn’t hail a cab in front of Crist’s on my way home but walked the mile and a half or so to the hotel. The night was warmer than they had been and I was in that oceanic space where you just seem to float on air. Later I looked both up on the net. I couldn’t find anything about Hugo but Ica is all over the net playing concerts all over Argentina and other parts of South America. Before the evening broke up Ica gave me not only historical lessons in South American Folk music but a CD of his work as well.
The next day I was haunting Cordoba as per my usual practice looking for someplace to paint. I was also looking for a café to get something to eat and possibly a beer as it was hotter than it had been since I’d arrived. La Canada (the canyon) had a number of cafes at various points along its path through the western side of the city so I took a walk along the Acacia covered stone lined stream towards Guemes where all the antique shops are and the Museum of Iberian Cultural Arts has its collection.
(Anonymous graffitti in Cordoba)
I had seen some interesting stenciled graffitti earlier and I wanted to get some photos. While I was busy taking shots of the graffitti here and there along the buildings lining the river I noticed a flash of silver blue up ahead and a crowd of people peering over the stone containment wall along the river and got my camcorder out. As I got closer I saw what looked like fish swimming in the air. In fact it was an art installation constructed of a grid work of wire mesh along the river bottom with long strings attached each to a helium filled blue and silver milar balloons in the shape of a dolphin. The river was full of them floating and weaving in the mid afternoon breeze. The moved smoothly in schools swaying this way and that as if they were riding slight tidal pushes and pulls. Once in a while one would breach the imaginary surface only to dive back and sound deeper into the depth of the stone ravine. It was a dance of the dolphins. I looked around for something to tell me what I was looking at when I found an A-frame sign that said simply:
1882
DELF
INES
I looked around for one of the guys who were involved in installing the dolphins to ask what 1882 DELF INES meant when it dawned on me that it was 1882 Dolphins (Delfines not DELF INES.) . The young man I spoke with couldn’t answer my questions. When I asked “como uno ocho ocho dos delfines?“ he shrugged his shoulders and said “no se”. He was only an installation assistant. The only thing he could tell me was that the artist was from Buenos Aires. I took as many photos and videos as I could before I realized how hungry I was. Then I sat down at a small café across from the river and ordered a Quilmes and a bife de lomo. I made some notes in my sketchbook about the installation and decided I would email a number of people who might know what it was all about. Ana Louisa Bondone, director of the Figueroa School of Fine Arts wrote back saying that it was an installation done for an advertising campaigne for a new alchoholic beverage being released by a Cordobese distillery. The company began in 1882. Hence the name of the new drink and the 1,882 Delfines. Guillermo Tragant is the artist who conceptualized the project.
1882 Delfines
Here are some links to videos of the installation.
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=7296575985609318122
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=2895303633391305659
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-3690298451001053960
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=4780407893748162028
A couple days later I checked out of the King David Hotel, caught a cab to the gallery so I could leave my big suitcase with Mathias. I only needed enough clothes for 6 nights along with my watercolors and papers. I managed to get it down to my little day pack and a medium sized duffle I could sling over my shoulder. Then Mathias sat down to coffee and he began telling me about the part of Argentina I would soon be visiting. Mathias is a med student who helps Maria Elena during exhibitions and, in this case, when she is out of town he watches the gallery as does another young woman named Guadalupe. Mathias is a scholar it seems when it comes to Argentine history and geography . Mathias has better command of the English language than I do of the Spanish but it was also limited so we played charades, asked each other for hints, searched for words in the dictionary and for the most part communicated rather well. He told me about the Quabrada des Cafeyette, a canyon between Salta and Cafeyette with strange and beautiful rock formations, about the salt flats near JuJuy, about the huge state park at the very top of Argentina and bottom of Bolivia…all the places I wouldn’t get to see although I didn’t know that yet. I looked at my watch and realized I only had about 45 minutes before my bus was to arrive. It was a brisk 20 minute walk to the station and I said I had to go. Mathias offered to walk with me to the station and I gladly accepted. He was good company and though I wasn’t forced to speak Spanish completely in his company I did learn new words talking with him. He showed me how the terminal and the platforms worked then we walked across the street to find a café where we could get a beer. After a little while he said he had to go and suggested I try not to talk with anyone around the bus station. “That way they will not know you are a gringo!”
la Montanas
(The Southern Cross)
Salta Province
It seems strange to me as I write this that only a few nights ago the only constellation I recognized in the night sky was the Cruz de la Sud-- the Southern Cross! 4 stars that suggest the points of a cross in a slight perspectival space. I was told the Cross always faces south.
The bus to Salta from Cordoba takes 12 hours. As the Southern Cross rose from the eastern horizon it was huge...every bit as large as the big dipper in the northern hemisphere. I could see it for some time as we left the city lights of Cordoba on the northbound route to Salta Provence and the city of Salta. But once it gained the zenith it was reduced to one sixth the size of its beginnings. So small I almost didn't recognize it.
Upon reaching Salta the next day I was told that I must catch
the #5 bus to Coronel Mouldes approximately 40+ kilometers south of Salta—nearly an hours drive. The bus stop was only a block from the Bus station. Coronel Mouldes is a small pueblo about 13 Kilometers from the Hotel Del Dique en lago Cabra Corral…the goat corral. It is a beautiful deep water lake in the lower range of the North Eastern Andes which lie in the Northwest of Argentina almost to the Bolivian border. What I hadn’t understood was that my bus didn’t quite get me to the hotel. In fact it passed about four kilometers beyond Coronel Mouldes but
about 8 kilometers short of the hotel. I realized the bus had stopped at its
final turn around at a public camp ground near the lower part of the lake.
The driver pointed me in the direction of the Hotel and said “Ocho kilometers.” He smiled,
got in the bus and turned it around to begin the hour plus drive back to la
ciudad de Salta.
I shifted my backpack so I had both arms through the straps, slung my duffle
bag over my right shoulder and began walking up the increasing incline
towards the hotel. It was about 10 degrees warmer than in Cordoba. Maybe around 70. After about a couple kilometers I was soaked with sweat,
breathing heavy and both hungry and thirsty. I sat down on a stone wall that
would hardly protect anyone from going off the road around the steep curves
of the switchbacks and pulled a sandwich and a bottle of water from my pack.
While I ate a watched a young man with a fishing rod and tackle box pass. A
flock of green parrots squawked as the flew by beneath me at the edge of the
trees. Then a young woman who was obviously a serious hiker with a huge
backpack (probably 50+lbs) breezed by me.
When I was done eating I folded up the wrapping and stuffed it in my pack
and slung my duffle back over my shoulder and began huffing my way up the
mountain once again. After a few minutes I heard the unmistakable sound of
gears down shifting and grinding from the road behind me. When I turned
around I saw two middle aged men, most likely Calchqui natives, stuffed into
a small Renaux pickup truck. I hesitated for only a second before I shot my
arm out with my though up. They were already slowling as they came around
the last switchback having seen me from the one just below. They stopped
slightly ahead of me so I had to run a few steps to get to the window being
rolled down. I smiled, and they smiled back. “a Donde esta Hotel Del Dique?”
I asked. “Siete Kilometers” they responded. “Con tigo por favor?” I asked.
“Si, si, si” said the smiling guy in the passenger seat as he pointed over
his shoulder to the bed of the little pickup. I climbed up on the bumper,
threw my duffle into the back of the truck and crawled over the tailgate and
sat down. I propped my head up on my duffle and slouched down so my center
of gravity was lower. In just few moments we were passing and waving to the
woman with the big pack, then the guy with the fishing tackle. I was
watching a huge dark colored bird floating on the up drafts and realized
it’s light colored collar identified it as a condor. I felt like I was 17
hitching in Oklahoma. I felt great! We got to the Puente crossing the narrow
part of the lake. They had to slow down weaving in and around all the
fishermen on the bridge. Then it was only two kliks to the hotel around the
peninsula, passed the local stationemienta de policia. I could see the
billboard signage saying Hotel Del Dique (The dique is the dam.) They slowed
down, pulled into the hotel parking lot and stopped. I jumped out, ran up to
the cab and thanked them for the ride. They grinned at the dusty gringo and
slapped into first gear and jerked out of the lot and down the road to
wherever they were going. I didn’t see them again for the four days I was at
the lake.
The Hotel Del Dique is a four star family resort hotel. It was the cheaper
of the two choices the travel agent gave me since I was trying to book
something in the area at the last moment. The front entrance is on the road
side and looks a bit like a really high class hamburger drive in. I opened
the door and stepped inside all dusty and sweaty with my turned up Bruce
Willis hat, my fly away hair sticking out from under the brim in all
directions. I dropped my duffle bag making a cloud of dust that eventually
settled on the smooth terrazzo flooring. It turned out that even though it
was only a third of the price of the Sheraton Hotel in Salta it was in fact
a 4 star hotel the better part of which couldn’t be seen from the road as it
kinda a stair stepped down the side of the mountain to the lake...
I felt really out of place dressed the way I was when I noticed a rather handsome family of Argentines standing in the lobby. The father had on a polo shirt and slacks with a cardigan sweater tied neatly around his neck by the sleeves. They gave me that look...you know, not our class...what is he doing here. I smiled deciding I didn't give a rats ass what they thought as I had prepaid my hotel bill and was intent on making as many watercolors as I could while I was there. I was in the Andes even if they were not the high snow peaked Andes.
(Parrot, Cabra Corral and me in the Andes)
It took no time at all before the bell hop was given my key card and began to take me on a brief tour of the hotel-- mostly in Spanish...I caught that the Confiteria (bar and cafe) was on the top floor with its wide doors opening out onto the patio and a wonderful view of the lake and mountains. We stepped down one flight to the restaurant in which I would have some of the best meals of my life. Then down another flight to the game room, the sauna and masage rooms, then out a door to a series of modular rooms...the first of which was mine. Room # 106. The bellhop opened the door for me and let me in showing me the TV, the bath, and opened the patio doors to my own little outside patio with table and two chairs overlooking the lake. I reached into my pocket for some coins and remembered that I didn't have any when I went to tip the baggage handler at the bus station either. I looked at the Bell Hop and said "lo Siento". I felt like a real scuz bag.
Over the next four days I made at least a watercolor or two a day...in a couple of cases I also made a few drawings. I hiked the 13 miles back into Coronal Mouldes on my second day doing several watercolor studies on the way. Stopped at Dona Lado's for empanadas and a large Quilmes--kind of the Budweiser of Argentina. There is a Salta brand beer but it isn't really very good. Quilmes isn't either but its a godsend when you're hot and sweaty. My friend Mathias told me that when you eat empanadas in Salta to hold your knees apart...because of the juice. And yes...they were the juiciest empanadas I've ever had. The stuff was running down my hands, past my wrists all the way to my elbows before dripping onto the floor or the table.
I bought a couple packs of cigarettes in Col. Mouldes. But about halfway to the hotel I realized that I might not be able to make the trek all the way back in two days for more. When I reached the bridge with all the fishermen it was already dark. I knew I had only two kliks to go and noticed a small trailer with the lights on. It was a small Chorizo stand that also sold drinks and cigarettes. But the guy was obviously closing. I asked if he was “abierto” and he said no. Then I asked if he could sell me "Tu vende me cigarillos por favor?" He looked around and said "Cuando?". "Dos packetas Phillip Morris por favor ." I don't smoke Phillip Morris usually but they seemed very popular in Argentina so I guessed he would have them. Sometimes the little kioskos will buy what is on sale at the big distribution shops in town and so their selections are sometimes quite inconsistent from day to day. My friend Juan in Cordoba who runs a kiosko near my hotel would ask if I would like "Un Sr. Morris?" one day and “Marlboro?” the next. Sometimes he only had the smaller 10 pack instead of the 20’s. I paid for my smokes and made it to the hotel in time for a scotch and then dinner. It was dark by the time I got back to the hotel. And I was knocking the dust off my feet in the main lobby again. Felt like a real scuzbag.
Muerte!
On my second night in la Hotel Del Dique on Cabra Corral I was watching tv in my room late. I was channel surfing having tired of the same loop on CNN playing over and over and…then I stumbled across a documentary on Roberto “Negro” Fontanorrosa. I knew who Fontanarossa was but hadn’t really seen much of his work so I thought this would be interesting. Fontanorossa began as a comic book artist but eventually found his way into the hearts and minds of Argentines and later wrote scripts for animated and live action film as well as other artistic outlets. After being introduced to his early life via his teachers, his mother and friends from his youth I was surprised to see both Crist and Sabat interviewed about Fontanarosa and his work and importance to humor and social commentary in Argentina. There were more than enough clips and stills of his work to get a quick education on his humor. And certainly all the humorists of Argentina who are worth their salt were interviewed and had something to say…usually some kind of hero worship. Eventually the documentary came to a close and I fell asleep. I rested assured that Fontanarrosa was everything I’d been told he was.
The next morning I got up early intending to get out and paint as soon as I could. But I got caught up organizing and showering and didn’t make up to breakfast until around 10 a.m.. I got my usual café doble, some medialunas and lunch meet ham and cheese. And for once I decided I’d try to read the paper. It’s a good exercise cause you realize you know more than you thought you did. Words pop out at you and you begin to string them together and before you know it you are reading. Took me only about 4 seconds to find the headline at the bottom of the front page that said “Fontanorrosa es Muerta!” He had died a couple days before. The documentary I watched was in fact done a few years ago, maybe a little before or after I was in Cordoba in 2004. I could tell cause Crist’s hair was a little longer then as it was in the film.
Crist was devastated by the news. He and Fontanarrosa were close friends. Ou could tell by his dimeanor in the documentary that he was not only fond of the cartoonist, graphic novelist, playwrite and animator but respected his work immensely. I could tell he was upset cause his English deteriorated in an email he sent responding to a query I made about the 1882 Delfines:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
----- Original Message -----
From: walter king
To: crist
Sent: Thursday, July 19, 2007 4:44 PM
Subject: RE: 1,882 Delfines en la Canada
Crist,
1,882 Delfinas! Es en la Cañada a la esquina Bld. San Juan. 1,882 azul y metalico helium bolones como delfinas.
Yo curioso porque yo quiero a escribe una blog a la absolutearts.com en Augusto. Tambien… cuatro preguntas… ¿Es la instalacion en colaboracion con la Universidad o la Cultural Ministerio ? ¿Conoce El artiste? ?Conoce la razon por la quenta? ¿Conoce la fechas por la instalacion?
From : cristobal reinoso
Sent : Saturday, July 21, 2007 8:17 AM
To : "walter king"
Subject : RE: 1,882 Delfines en la Canada
Sorry Walter
My friend FONTANARROSA is death
i dont knok nathing of this DOLPHINS
excuse me…
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
I’ve never experienced anything but the chum around, joke cracking, up and friendly Crist. I really felt badly for him in his moment of loss. But I was more than 12 hours away and could really do little except to write and email telling him I’d found out about Fontanarrosa’s death only after I’d written asking about the dolphins.
I wanted to patch in a bio and resume for Fontanarrosa but this has gotten quite long. Anyone interested in his work can find him all over the net especially now. A quick google image or video search will get you lots of sites with info on Fontanarrosa and his work. Here is his official web page.
http://www.negrofontanarrosa.com/
http://www.negrofontanarrosa.com/biografia/fb.asp
