SOME PERSONAL REFLECTIONS

At the age of thirty I arrived in Guatemala, where I was to spend the next eight years and develop permanent ties. Here I found an exciting, exotic culture of enormous vitality, far exceeding my expectations.  

To this day, the descendants of the Mayas, the land’s dominant population group, largely live within the framework of their own culture. To see their features set off by the dazzling colors and intricate weaving of their native costumes, and to hear their voices speak ancient dialects, is deeply impressive. Their personal substance, beyond the dash and color, inspires no less profound  respect. Living an existence of grueling physical work amid poverty, they are men and women of resilience and deep inner reserves of strength and courage.  

For me the outgrowth was a portrait collection depicting the Guatemalan nation. If the Maya faces were extraordinary material for me as an artist, moreover, equally important from the start was the human dimension. This was a people I wished to introduce to Americans and others with all their drama, dignity and humanity, using for that purpose  my natural  language of art.

The subject was a natural fit for me. On the occasion of being asked to write the philosophy behind my art a few years ago, I found myself articulating, for the first time, what I realized had guided me from the beginning. My lifelong pursuit has been to depict the human condition, with all its ups and downs and bittersweet elements. Other than for the fact that paints are my instrument, my goals, indeed, are not so different from those of a writer.

It was from this vantage point, thus, that I approached creating a vast portrait of  the people of Guatemala at the level of average people. I wished to capture not the textiles, following the well-trod path of painters drawn to their colorful garments,  but rather the fascinating essence of the people’s character.  I was drawn to the gazelle-like softness of the young girls, to the wisdom of the elderly;  to expressions of dignified resignation or  jolly laughter, and above all to the strength of the human spirit they all exemplified.  

The memories associated with finding my subjects are many and fond ones. Roaming the open-air market or park of small towns, I would study the people walking past me. Amid many unremarkable faces, my attention would be caught by one whose features, expression or deep wrinkles fascinated me, and I would engage the individual in conversation.

Frequently elderly women would frown and shake their heads when asked permission to be photographed. The more militant covered themselves with a fold of fabric from their clothes to render the project impossible. Some subjects proved to be shrewd business types whose "Cuanto...?" would open a round of financial negotiations (which I never made a particular effort to win). A far larger number of individuals, infinitely flattered, would break into a gale of giggles of embarrassment mixed with delight. Their "no's," which did not carry much conviction, were easy to change to a "yes."

The collection of pencil portraits created from those photographs was executed over a period of eighteen years, begun in 1982 and completed only in the year 2000. It is hard to believe that twenty-three years--a whole epoch in an individual’s lifetime--have passed since I first put pencil to paper. When I began the collection, I recall, I had to be careful where I put the finished works, lest my infant daughter add her own flourishes to the composition. Nowadays she is an aerospace engineer working for the FAA, and artwork is safe around her.  I also remember the occasion of  one visit to a town market, when a vendor graciously offered one of my young sons a piece of candy. In his politest tone, my son asked, “Does it have cholera?” My two now-grown sons, college upperclassmen both,  assure me they’ve made great inroads in improving their manners.

The passage of time is most extraordinary, however, as it applies to the artwork itself.  My young men and women are now older and wiser, and their faces surely show it.  The little children have left their early youth behind; indeed, in a country where Indian girls are frequently mothers by the age of fifteen,  those little girls and babies I portrayed  have, without question, young children of their own now.

Inevitably, we must also presume that many of the elderly men and women whom my camera and pencils captured have passed away. Surely  they are at rest after a life of grueling work and much sacrifice. Quite possibly the opportunity I seized to capture the wisdom, dignity and humanity that their faces so remarkably reflected was a priceless one, and virtually the only extant record of their existence.

The appearance and the social role of the people I depicted are now occupied by others. It is the cycle of life at work,  constantly undoing its own handiwork, but replenishing even as it destroys. Still, the substitution  is generic rather than specific. Like the rest of us, the people I portrayed, even if part of recognizable social categories, were distinct individuals given only one life on earth.  The specific reality I captured, and the thoughts and emotions of the subjects, was profoundly ephemeral;  now, quite simply, it is gone.

At the same time, a portrait, while powerless to stop time itself,  can freeze isolated moments and emotions forever. “Nuestro Pueblo,” I hope, accomplishes that mission.