The painter
I see him painting every afternoon.
Every day, I take a walk and, when I am in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, my walk usually takes me through an old fabric mill that has been converted into gallery space. Most of the galleries sell the work of artists from Mexico City and beyond. But some of the galleries are spaces where artists are both working and selling their work, and the floor is spattered with paint, and easels hold paintings in various stages of completion.
Usually, I don’t see the artists. They seem to be somewhat elusive. Perhaps they don’t like being pestered by looky-loos coming by to see what they are doing and how they create their magic on canvas.
But one artist is always working. For a long time, I would wave as I walked by.
Then one day, I stopped to tell him how inspiring it was to see him working every day. I told him I was a writer and that sometimes it felt as if there was no one else writing.
“But I see you painting here, every day, and I feel less alone,” I told him.
He said he was honored. He spoke English with an accent, but it was not a Spanish accent. He is Italian, as it turns out. His girlfriend is Mexican, from San Miguel.
His work is imposing. He does portrait art, and within the realistic paintings of his subjects, he has abstract art bursting out from inside them, as if their thoughts and emotions had turned into vivid colors and shapes.
“Do you have days when it is easier?” I asked. “Are there days when the painting flows more freely than others?”
I felt a little bad because, in order to answer the question, he paused his painting. He was working on the background of a male figure. The background was flesh-toned, so the person almost melted into it. He was mixing colors of brown and white, painting, covering, mixing again. It was mesmerizing.
“No,” he said. “I think the work flows on every day I am painting. If it is not flowing at all, I go home.”
But I know he is always there — because I see him.
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