My People: The Story behind the Paintings

Last March I moved from Honduras to Guatemala, a change that was as hard as it was exciting. It wasn’t easy to leave Copán, a town I had called home for the last seventeen years, a town that had become an inerasable part of my life. Although making a living as an artist hadn’t been easy for the last two years or so, life was still easy and comfortable in a town where I knew everybody and everybody knew me. A cash flow problem was never an issue because I had credit in the local pulpería, on the market, in the pharmacy, with my land lord, doctor and favourite restaurants. I never had to look for assignments, because people came looking for me. But moving to a new country of course meant to start all over and having to prove myself as an artist again.

 

What hurt me most when I left Copán was not to leave my best friends behind, we’ll be in touch, no doubt, but those dozens, maybe even hundreds of people I had some sort of relationship with, even without knowing each other well. Such as Don Mingo, the owner of a herd of cows I encountered on many an early morning hike. We always said hello, but that was it, day after day, year after year. The day before I left I stopped him in his car because I wanted to tell him that I was leaving for good and just to say goodbye. He gave me a big hug and had tears in his eyes. And so did I.

 

The old toothless lady who sold me bread every day, my dog’s best friend, was another constant in my life even though I didn’t know her name. Another one of the very few people I actually said goodbye to. Then there’s Doña Berta from the pulpería; the old man from the mountains who always tried to sell me crystals, not understanding that a person only needs that many pieces of rock. There were the town’s drunks, a bit of a ghastly sight maybe, but always polite. My favourite encounter with them was when I asked them to let me through one day while they were occupying the stairway leading to the park. Very politely they stood up and let me pass. “Have a good day, Tanya!” said one. Another drunk punched him in the shoulder. “That’s not Tanya, you idiot! That’s Cathy!!!”

 

So many people, so many familiar faces, so many “buenos días” and “qué tal”’s. Will they miss me as I miss them???

 

The move to Guatemala was unexpectedly smooth. I quickly settled into my new home in a small village just outside of Antigua, not that different from any barrio in Copán. I quickly became a regular in the pulpería and yes, just as in Copán, I stumble in there every morning I my pyjamas, wearing my inelegant rubber flip-flops (Suaves Chapinas), just as I did in Copán. A custom I didn’t think I would ever repeat in more sophisticated Antigua. Well, apparently you can get the girl out of Copán, but not Copán out of the girl…

 

What amazed me in my new neighbourhood was how many people I “recognized”. There was that same sympathetic shop girl, although here she sells bread and not tomatoes as the one in Copán. There’s the old lady going her way in the old ways; the neighbourhood kids who swarm around me as if I were a magnet and of course a whole assortment of local drunks. And dogs, plenty of dogs. Even chickens, roosters and an occasional horse. No wonder I feel so at home here.

 

As soon as I got settled, I set to work, mostly visiting shops, galleries and restaurants with my port folio. Not unsuccessfully, because soon I was hired to do some painting here and there and my paintings and products are for sale at several locations. Not a bad start, but not quite good enough yet for a steady income. And here, no money really means no money…

 

At the same time I started to work on a new series of paintings for a future exhibition. I had no idea where yet, but in order to find a gallery that would be interested, I of course first had to show some work. The World Cup was a perfect excuse to stay home, work on my new pieces while with half an eye following the games. My idea was to paint a series of portraits of the new people in my life, some known to me, others just passers-by, but mi gente, my people nonetheless.

 

The opportunity to exhibit came much sooner than I had expected. One day I went to a film presentation in a new gallery (I quickly learned to go to all openings and cultural events, great for contacts and often a free glass of wine) and I left my card with one of the owners.

To my surprise they called me two days later, asking if they could come by my studio. Sure, I said, and an hour later they were there, in my tiny and hopefully temporary “studio” that also doubles as office, living room and dining room. Not undone by my not-so-professional workplace, they did like my art. They literally took all my paintings off the wall to exhibit in their gallery and were enthused about the idea to have an opening with my new work. How much time would I need? Optimistically and quite unrealistically I answered: three weeks.

 

So the date was set and I started to work my butt off. The paintings were coming along fine, but what worried me was how to frame the works on an extremely tight budget. I decided to buy the cheapest board as possible, have glass cut and use little aluminium sort of hooks to fasten the glass, all by myself and a little help from my neighbour Paul. Well, my scheme didn’t work out. So I invented a new system with a sort of paperclips. That sort of worked out, at least for the smaller paintings. By then I had broken no less than seven out of nine glass plates and I was down to my very last quetzal. I was so desperate that I even sent a message to the gallery owners to cancel my show. “Don’t worry,” one of them wrote back, “I’ll be there in ten minutes and have a look.” He did and came up with a simple and creative solution that made the sun shine again.

 

To make a long story short, on Saturday August 9^th I had my opening in Mayan Creations Arts & Crafts Gallery. And it was great! There were plenty of people despite the heavy rain and I even sold some work. I wouldn’t have been able to do it all without the help the gallery owners Juan Pablo and Luis Pedro and of course my great new friends Ana María and Chrissy, who single-handedly managed the whole bar and wonderful snacks of spech kuche and home-smoked shark with cream cheese.

 

I’m indefinitely grateful to all the people who have given me opportunities here in my new world and those who have offered me their friendship and support. Today, exactly five months after moving here, I’m proud and happy to already have my first solo exhibition and one assignment after the other coming in. Antigua truly begins to heel as home.

Thank you, mi gente…

 

My art work is on exhibit till September 8, 2014 at Mayan Creations Arts & Crafts Gallery 4a Avenida Norte #22, Antigua Guatemala. If you missed the opening, no worries, because we’re planning a closing ceremony too. Why the heck not? Especially if there’s free wine… J

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why I still believe in Honduras

 My blog post Living in the Most Dangerous Country in theWorld has been reposted by several people and has gone pretty viral lately. I’m happy to see so many positive reactions and of course I still stand by my words: Come to Copán Ruinas, it’s a beautiful and quiet place!

But I must admit that lately I’ve seen another side of Honduras. I just spent twelve days in El Progreso, Yoro, where I painted murals at foster homes for children that have been removed from their families because of a variety of problems or picked off the street, run by two different organizations. The murals came along fine, the people I worked with were great, and even the places I painted the murals at were quiet and peaceful, the homes being located on the outskirts of town, not that different from the rural schools in the mountains surrounding Copán. That was a surprise for me, because somehow I had expected to have to paint on a crowded and noisy street in the middle of the city.

The one big difference with Copán was safety concerns. San Pedro Sula has the doubtful reputation of having the highest murder rate in the world (at least until recently, as far as I know), but I wonder if El Progreso isn’t worse. Maybe I’ve been too focused on this place, but reading the newspaper, El Progreso surely jumps out and stories from people that live there only confirm it. Of course it also had to do with the places I spent most of my time there. My hotel was right in the centre of town (traditionally not the safest of places in any city) and I was working in two suburbs both notorious for their delinquency. Travelling there was a logistic pain in the butt: Taking the bus to the one place and walking the last bit was out of the question without the escort of four of five guys. Getting to the other place was only permitted in certain taxis, others would surely get robbed, as I was told. Of course I wondered if all those horror stories weren’t a bit exaggerated, but then I would hear or read yet another one that would make me stick to the precautions I was asked to take.

The first mural project was done in collaboration with twelve kids, ten boys and two girls, that live at the foster home. They themselves were to pick the theme which was chosen through an exercise in which each participant wrote (anonymously) a list of things or situations that bothered them; the change they’d like to see; and what their own personal contribution could be to make that change happen. We wrote all answers on big sheets of paper and it was no surprise that the violent situation in their community came out as the big winner. We then brainstormed about a storyline and what the kids came up with was a plot about a kid getting robbed of his cell phone, only to meet his attacker a few days later being the victim of an mugging himself. The kid at first feels that justice has been done, but then realizes that by thinking like that, he’s not much better than the villain himself. So instead he decides to give him a helping hand and in the end they become best friends, dedicating their free time to coaching soccer in their neighbourhood.

I was pretty impressed with the positive message of this, but even more impressed by the behaviour of these kids. It took us almost six days to paint the mural and before that we had already spent a day and a half together in Copán, but during all this time not one incident happened. I’m not sure what I had expected, but definitely not this, considering that all of these kids carry some heavy-duty baggage. They all have histories of serious abuse, living on the streets, drugs and alcohol addictions and of course “common” delinquency and violence. So yes, I think I expected at least some foul language, a tantrum here or there, losing some supplies or being yelled at. But none of that happened.

Painting a mural is hard work, especially if you’re not used to it, but despite being exhausted by the end of the week and -to be honest- sick of paint, the kids kept on going without getting difficult or being obnoxious. Of course there was a bit of shoving and pushing here and there, boys will be boys, and yes, they were loud, but overall, I’ve never worked with kids so considerate and helpful, not only towards me, but towards each other too. They would wait their turns, help each other out or hold the ladder whenever someone was balancing on the top step. They did their regular chores without complaint and when it started to rain, one or two would run off to bring in the laundry. Not just their own, but everybody’s.

During one of our painting days, Juan Orlando Hernandez (one of the candidates for presidency in the upcoming elections) had a big rally nearby and even up on our remote mountain side we could not escape listening to his promises and chanting (“Blue! Blue! Blue!”). I’m not a big fan of politicians in general and couldn’t help being irritated about the unrealistic promises I heard on fixing the county in its entirety. Honduras is a country with such deeply rooted and widespread problems, they are not going to be fixed by just one politician and definitely not overnight.

But being with those kids for over a week made me see Honduras’ future in another light. Despite the threatening society they live in, their violent past and the fact that they live without their families, these kids are not resentful, asocial or criminal. They are fantastic young people that despite the throwbacks in life are making the very best of it. So if they can do it, why not everybody else too? Being with them certainly put my own life in perspective…

So, whoever is going to win the lections on the 24^th, I doubt that a lot is going to change. But if I look at those kids, soon to be adults, yes, then I definitely see hope for the future. 

Ronny Be Good

Ronny was standing out even when he was little. I remember him all too well as a first grader when I visited his school in the small community of la Laguna, about fourteen years ago.

I was reading a story as an ice breaker because the kids were, as usually in Maya Chortí villages, very shy. But not Ronny. He wasn’t even interested in the story, and asked if he could go to the bathroom.

On his way back to the classroom, he was singing on top of his lungs, completely oblivious to the fact that we could all hear him through the open screens. He was so loud that I interrupted the story to wait for Ronny to come back. It wasn’t until he walked into the classroom that he realized he was the centre of attention. He flashed a dazzling smile, shrugged his shoulders and sat down.

A year later I continued conducting art workshops in La Laguna and was disappointed to find out that Ronny hadn’t passed on to second grade. Well, his teacher said, he’s a bright kid. He just doesn’t do any schoolwork. Ever!

One year after that, Ronny was still in grade 1. And that was pretty much the end of his academic career.

Throughout the years I’d see Ronny in town every once in a while, or galloping by on his horse, always with this huge grin on his face. He reminded me of Pippi Longstocking, Peter Pan and other unconventional childhood heroes.

We met again when Ronny was around fifteen years old, at the re-opening ceremony of the Cabañas Fort in Copán. As usual, I was on time, and so was Ronny, plus a few other people from the surrounding villages. While we were waiting for the ceremony to start, one of the girls assisting at the event was handing out tickets for lunch to every single person she encountered. I very much doubted that she was meant to do that, since lunch was going to be an exclusive affair at a fancy hotel. So I asked her, but she said she was to invite everybody. Okay then… (Then her boss showed up and all hell broke loose.)

Anyway, while waiting for things to get started and things to get over with, it occurred to me that Ronny might be a good candidate for the assistant position we had open at the time. We needed a kid who could run errands and do some odd jobs here and there. No diplomas required, just an eagerness to learn, a good vibe and a sense of humour. Ronny would be perfect!

So I called him over, made the proposal and a spark in his eyes and big grin were the answer. I asked to talk to his mom, who was present too, and she was also happy for Ronny to have a real job.

“So I’ll see you tomorrow at our office at 8.00am!” I said.

“I’ll be there at 7.00!” Ronny excitedly replied.

“No,” I said, “8.00! We start at 8.00!”

But Ronny had already run off.

The ceremony dragged on. It was way passed lunchtime, according to my stomach, and the event was far from over. When finally the last words were spoken, we were out of the Fort and into a moto-taxi in no-time, on our way to the hotel for that fancy –although belated-lunch.

It had been a mistake to think that getting there early would mean that we would be able to eat soon, since it was not a buffet in the restaurant, but a gorgeous set-up at the lawn of the hotel where we would be catered to as soon as all guests had arrived. So we sat down at one of the tables, enviously eying the centrepiece decorated with grapes and apples.

Guests were arriving one by one and the place started to fill up slowly. All of a sudden I saw Ronny among them, lunch ticket in his hand, curiously looking around him. As self-confident as he was, he did look completely out of place among the other guests in his rubber boots and dirty jeans. I yelled out to him and he eagerly ran towards us.

Ronny sat down at our table and when I asked him how he had gotten to the hotel, a few miles out of town, he said he had taken one of the shuttle buses hired for the event, just like everybody else. We chitchatted on, trying to ignore the rumble in our stomachs that had become quite loud by now.

“My mom!” yelled Ronny suddenly, and indeed, the tiny Maya Chortí woman timidly crossed the lawn, followed by two more women and some kids. Ronny dragged them all to our table and with a borrowed chair and some moving around, we all fit.

“My cousins!” Ronny cried out, when he saw two young men, also dressed in work clothes and rubber boots, stepping on to the lawn. Alas, they didn’t fit at our table, so they sat at the table next to us that was already partially occupied by a couple that owns a couple of the biggest hotels in town.

Finally all guests had arrived and food was being served. Unfortunately we sat on the wrong side of the lawn and had to wait for our turn for what seemed to last forever. So I tried to entertain our company by taking apart the decorative centre piece and giving the apples and grapes to Ronny & Co. That was quite something, since none of them had ever tried those fruits before. 

Then we were finally being served. Lunch was eaten in silence. Ronny, his mom, his aunt and sister, would take little bites, chew carefully and then look at each other, communicating with their eyes in a way that made me feel left out but curious. The kids were also fed a fork of everything, but whatever was left over after that was carefully wrapped in a napkin and put away in their plastic baskets.

This went on course after course. When finally dessert was served (fried squash floating in honey) I saw Ronny’s mother thinking: how the hell wrapping that up?!?

“I’d just eat it here, if I were you,” I said, realizing too late I reacted to an unspoken question

“Yeah, you’re right,” she said, blushing slightly.
And then, as slowly as the whole event had started, as suddenly it was over, as usually in Honduras once dessert is served.

Ronny showed up the next morning at 7.00am, and kept showing up at 7.00am, despite the fact that we usually, if not always, opened our office at 8.00am. But how can you scold someone for punctuality in a country were tardiness is more common than sunshine?

Unfortunately, Ronny didn’t work long with us. Not that he wasn’t a good worker. He was fast. Incredibly fast! Sometimes I’d give him an assignment and he would literally be back in two minutes, already done. Usually it meant he had to do it over again, because following instructions wasn’t his strength, but his energy and willingness to learn made up for it. Regrettably, Ronny did not quite get the concept that having a job means that you have to show up every day, unless you ask permission. So the third day Ronny didn’t show up, because he had to bring back his horse that had wandered off to a neighbouring village. The fifth day, his mom had asked him to drop off a sack of rice at his grandma’s. On workday number 8, his horse had wandered off again, this time in the opposite direction.

Day number 10, 11 and 12 passed without any sighting of Ronny. On day number 13 I realised we should forget about him. A pity, but well, these things happen.

Two years ago I saw Ronny again. He had just started working at a car workshop I often pass when I go walking. When I first greeted him, he hid from me, I guess because he thought I’d me angry and resentful, but I’m not, so I asked him about his new job. He proudly told me how he was going to be a mechanic. I told him I was really happy for him, that he would make a great mechanic, just to stick to the job this time and show up every day.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” he mumbled, “That’s not a problem anymore, because I sold my horse. “

So far two years have passed, and Ronny is still working as a mechanic-assistant. I see him almost daily waiting in front of the workshop, at 7.00am when I walk my dog.

The workshop opens at 8.00am.

Some things never change.