I spent the afternoon surrounded by the dead. It began with a visit to the Ricoleta Cemetery in Buenos Aires. A must see in Buenos Aries. Whether or not it’s the number one attraction in this city of millions, I don’t know. I do know that if there’s a death attraction in any city we go to, my wife wants to visit it. We’ve been to the catacombs of Paris, the mummies of Guanajuato, High Gate Cemetery in London, Pere La Chaise in Paris, the catacombs of Porto, the cemetery in Havana, Cuba, and, and, and. Laura loves cemeteries and I must admit I’ve grown to appreciate walking among the dead, myself. Ricoleta is, indeed, something special, among the best, with its massive monuments echoing the emptiness of death. Each famile paternal storage facility trying to out macho the next guy. Quien es mas macho? Even when the battle ended years and even centuries before. And they’re still long gone.
Interestingly one of the most visited of such monuments is the one built by a man who was Argentina’s most notorious pimp. It is filled with gold chairs, coffins, and other golden artifacts that still remain. The other family plot that pilgrimage after pilgrimage is made to is Eva Peron, who is housed, unassumingly, with her other Duarte relatives.
There is an eerie stillness to these death shrines, these tombs of finality. I don’t know what I expected. They’re all dead.
There is an eerie stillness to these death shrines, these tombs of finality. I don’t know what I expected. They’re all dead.
After a brief respite, a welcome beer and a short recovery from the heat in our air conditioned room, it was onto MALBA, the Museo de Arte Latinamericano Buenos Aires. Here there are no massive tombs, only the artifacts of dead artists playing together on the walls, mostly not making a fuss. The artists who painted and sculpted these pieces are not quite as long gone as the Ricoleta crowd, but they are, for the most part, equally bereft of the life force that fueled their once creative life.
Having been bathed in this deadly aura, it begged the question I enjoy posing when I want to feel particularly full of myself – Laura will tell you that’s far more often than I admit – is what I am enjoying (or not) on the wall art or artifact? It’s one of those arguments that can fill an afternoon with amazing amount of sophomoric pedantry. Well, is it? It, of course, begs the question, what is art?
Oh, God, does that sound like a deadly discussion or what?
We went to bed that night, not pondering this confusion, but with a tummy filled with Argentine beef. Yes, it too was dead, but don’t let anyone tell you differently, it’s great, and best dead. As our waiter exclaimed on a variety of occasions while serving us, “Oh, my God!”
If our first day in Buenos Aires was, say, focused on death, our second was filled with life.
If our first day in Buenos Aires was, say, focused on death, our second was filled with life. It was Sunday and on Sunday we had been told there was a great street market in the San Telmo district of the city. Freshly coffeed and filled with medialunas, small croissants, stuffed with jamon y queso, we summoned Uber and within minutes were on our way across this city filled not with jamon y queso, but with buildings built when design mattered and architecture meant more than just steel and glass.
As we came to an intersection approaching our destination, filled with crowds of people, the Uber driver stopped rather arbitrarily in the middle of the road, and told Laura, since she was the Spanish translator, this was as far as he could take us. The market was a block south of our position. We exited the car in traffic, headed south and three doors down was the entrance to the San Telmo Market. It was thriving with shops and food. It was similar to the Puerto Market we had gone to in Montevideo, but much larger. Here was life.
The market was basically divided into two sections, two-thirds shops and one-third parradillas, restaurants grilling more delectable slabs of beef and sausages at once than I had ever seen. The unique smell filled the air with an aroma that transported me to football stadium parking lots jammed with tailgaters before the big game, but that still didn’t match the scale. There were people shopping and eating everywhere. But this wasn’t the main event.
When we pushed our way through the throngs, out onto the street on the other side of the market, we discovered why the Uber driver had dropped us where he had. The tops of colorful umbrellas stretched for blocks and blocks, all sheltering stalls catering to the thousands of folks out on this buying weekend, three weeks before Christmas.
We had barely gotten beyond the first stalls, when Laura proclaimed, “I love these purses.” In an instant, she had picked out the one she wanted, and then momentarily hesitated at the price. It didn’t take much to convince her she could afford it, and the proprietor immediately took the credit card and popped the purse into a bag.
While this transaction was taking place, I looked over at a table of beautifully hand-carved and painted walking canes. The elderly fellow sitting behind the table, picked one out and handed it to me. I was immediately transported into Harry Potterland, where Harry was handed the wand meant only for him. The cane was beautiful. I asked if this was his work and was told it was. I told him it was impressive, but I wasn’t quite ready for a cane. He smiled, knowing that wasn’t exactly true and replaced the cane from where he had lifted it.
We moved on down the rows of artisan stalls for what felt like miles. The thought of that cane, offered as it had been, was playing on my mind. Our weary legs eventually screamed enough was enough, perhaps the cane would have been a good idea. We turned around and headed back down the other side of the street, by the stalls we had yet to see. It was an amazing display of art and craft, but nothing we saw was anything we wanted to give to anyone for the upcoming holiday.
As we made our way back, the thought of a cold beer (see previous essay – A Beer in Miami) came to mind. We made our way to a restaurant suggested by our erstwhile Uruguayan com Argentine friend. Desnivel. It was still relatively early and we were seated immediately. I ordered my beer and by the time it arrived and our order taken the throngs began to show-up. Within minutes all the tables were filled with loud and joyous conversations, and when our food was delivered, we discovered why Pablo had recommended it. Laura’s steak was exactly as she had ordered, and my two chorizos, big plump sausages, were likewise scrumptious.
After lunch we caught an Uber back across the city to our hotel. But no sooner had we gotten into our room, we realized we had not completed our tasks at the San Telmo Market. We gathered our things and went down to the lobby once more, and promptly ordered another Uber to take us back.
When Laura and I travel, we have always operated under the notion that nothing is solid.
When Laura and I travel, we have always operated under the notion that nothing is solid. Within fifteen minutes, having retraced our route across the city, we were back at the market, picking up the items we now thought would be perfect gifts for the holidays. With those in hand, it was out on the street, again. I thought I should revisit the cane man, but Laura had a different idea.
Before our journey to South America, we had agreed, there would be no more art purchases. Well, I had gone along with the decision, but I was never really thrilled by it. But then, across from the cane man, taped to the walls of the building were a series of large brightly painted canvases, reminiscent of Basquiat and the greater or lesser school of graffiti muralists. Laura was captivated. I said to her, “I thought we agreed, no more art.” I smiled, recognizing an opening and I graciously said, “OK you can buy jewelry,” on which we had also placed a moratorium, “if you’re, now, willing to buy another piece of art.” The deal was struck.
Laura walked over to one of the large canvases, and immediately got the painter’s attention. We knew he was the painter because he was applying some touch-up paint to another canvas taped to the wall before him, the painting still a living piece of art. Our conversation ensued. He was properly scraggly, a mass of tousled brown hair, and a mustache Pancho Villa would have gladly welcomed onto the team, oops wrong country. Nonetheless, he was appropriately unshaven and his t-shirt and pants were splotched with paint. It was obvious brushes were wiped on pants not rags.
The name in big block letters on the canvases was Casarrubia.1 My first question was rather obvious. “Are you Casarrubia?” He nodded and repeated “Casarrubia.” Laura and I were instantly transported to Woody Allen’s “Midnight in Paris,” where a brilliant Adrian Brody would slap his chest and say boldly, “Dali,” identifying himself as Dali.
Between my our broken Spanish and Casarrubia’s broken English, the negotiations began. Of course, Laura speaks fluent Spanish, but I wasn’t about to sit on the sidelines of this engagement. In my always subtle manner I began with, “You know the work of Basquiat.” And he was “Si si.” His conversation with Laura was a bit more literate. He told her that most people on the street preferred his large portrait-style paintings of women, which were beautifully painted in his bright colored muralist style. I was suddenly one of the throng. Oh, no! No, that couldn’t be. The painting Laura had landed on was a wild melage of brightly painted large faces and eyes, with broad bared teeth. I got why Laura loved its raw character. There was something absolutely engaging about it.
Then the negotiation. “The paintings were normally $125 American, but we could have it for $100.” Laura was nothing if not charming. Within minutes, they had struck a deal. Laura always a Scorpio, pulled out her hidden $100 bill, which he quickly accepted. Laura made it clear to me that this was my gift. She, of course, had splurged on her purse. Equally a work of art.
After many exclamations of “Casarrubia,” and pounding of chests, he and I shook hands in front of painting to make it official. We both mugged appropriately and the deal was done. It was a photo my daughter titled, “the most awkward photo ever.” He pulled the painting down from the wall against which it had been taped, quickly rolled it up so it could be carried away, lest we changed our minds. He assured Laura we could easily fold the canvas and fit it into our suitcase without harming the painting.
This was not artifact. This was art, alive in the streets of San Telmo, Buenos Aries. And he wasn’t some amateur start-up throwing paint on a canvas and thinking he was Jackson Pollock. Casarrubia was the real thing. He was educated at the National University of Cordova in Argentina. He defined himself as a plastic artist, sculptor and muralist, and he had had exhibitions beyond the vacant walls of San Telmo. But this is where we found him, paint brush in hand on a Sunday afternoon in Buenos Aries, on a second trip to the market we had not planned on making.
Had art been so alive in the markets of San Telmo, Buenos Aries it called us back? To be honest, no. We decided we needed to pick-up some more presents we had neglected to buy. But like art that was truly alive, it was more than just happenstance that we found it and it found us.
But we had sworn, no more art purchases! Not so fast. That was before we’d met Casarrubia, and he us. We played every second of the game, and the outcome was never certain until time expired.
So Damian Casarrubia entered our life, well at least his work did. The customs agents on our way back into Uruguay weren’t so sure this rolled up piece of canvas was safe to be allowed into the country. Laura assured them in her perfect Spanish, her blond hair shining, it was just art. They shrugged their shoulders and let it through.
Tomorrow it begins the journey to America, where an uncertain fate awaits it at the border. Will TSA be freaked out by the imagery? Will the secret sensors/censors detect something other than good clean American Art? The truth is, if truth there be, it will simply be part of the continuing aventura.
1. Damián Casarrubia Hurón is a contemporary Argentine painter and illustrator based in Buenos Aires. He is best known for his dynamic, expressive works often created during live painting performances for public audiences. Visit his Instagram