Author: miguel

Several days ago, I posted two images that showed the beginning of the transformation of a portrait of a woman, the result of a challenge given to me by her nephew. They were the first of a series; here are the next two phases. Lapo Guzzini, my friend and colleague, calls the transformation of the portrait, “creative destruction.” But what does it mean to create destructively? Or to destroy creatively? Such paradoxes resist explanation. I hope the images themselves will give you some insights.

I have had only two clear objectives in this endeavor: to respect the woman and also the artist who painted her. There are other objectives, but they remain far from clear. For example, I’d love to paint what I’m not able to see. A thought like this may sound odd coming from a visual artist: we’re supposed to paint things people can see, aren’t we? Also, for many years I have been fascinated by change; I mean by everything changing, constantly and always. So how does one paint change on a flat surface? I don’t know, and I’m not being coy in saying so. It’s true: I don’t know. The best course I follow then, is to experiment. And to trust. Something will happen.

So I apologize for this mess I’ve made of the portrait. But it’s only temporary. Phases 4 and 5 will come along soon. Thank you, I appreciate your patience in following the trials of the metamorphosis of this poor woman. We’ll find our way out of the woods. Perhaps better said: we’ll find our way by going deeper into the woods, and getting lost.

During a career as a professional artist for the past 50 years, I have become accustomed to painting unexpected subjects. Especially, it seems, when I’m living in Valencia, Spain. For example, a lovely young friend here once asked me to paint her unclothed (her, not me) because “I’ll never again have the beautiful body I have now. I want to show my grandchildren what I used to look like.”

Then last week my friend Paco asked for a favor. He showed me an oil painting of a woman and wondered if I wouldn’t mind destroying it for him. It was a traditional portrait of his deceased aunt, painted by a well-known Valencian artist in 1974. By “destroying” it, he meant defacing it: Miguel, he said, you can do whatever you want with this woman, especially if you paint a big red X over her. Whatever you do, I’m going to keep her and hang her above my desk.

Evidently he and his aunt did not get along. Had she willed the painting to him out of spite because she knew that he would have had to pay a hefty inheritance tax on it? Was he going to save her defaced image in order to spite her, even in her grave? (He and I will have to talk.)

Meanwhile, yes, I said, but no red X’s! I’ll transform her, but into something beautiful we can both be proud of. So during these next few weeks, I’ll share with you the story of his aunt’s metamorphosis.

Here’s an image of her portrait and my first response: to cut a blindfold out of the fabric of an old umbrella so that her ghost won’t be able to see what I’m up to.

More images will follow in a few days. Thank you for staying in touch.

Painting dreams is a meditation that brings joy: I mean, brushing pasty, colored stuff on a piece of paper or fabric with your fingers and brushes and some water or oil — the act itself — creates joy. And gratitude. Why, I don’t know, so years ago I stopped trying to understand dreams, those invisible visitors, and just painted them as best I could, whenever they happened to tug at my sleeve. However, when you get down to the nub, it’s the same with painting anything else, whether it’s street corners, other human beings, clouds and space, dogs and cats, snowstorms, flowers: the subject doesn’t matter.

For me, everything I want to paint seems to flow out of a feeling of wonder, and paying attention to wonder: What’s going on here? Like those yellow things poking upwards and the red things falling under their own weight? We call them “flowers” and give them names, like “geraniums.’ They grow out of “dirt,” like the green things, called “trees,” that are reflected in what we call “windows.” Everything we see here (and everything we don‘t see) depends on an energy we call “sunlight.” It creates “shadows” on a “wall” that is “weathered.”

Before I die, I would like to paint the energy — the verb, I mean — that flows through these nouns. For the moment, paying homage to flowers on a window sill and stains on the wall of an old house that used to shelter farmworkers, in a summer morning’s sunlight, in the southern part of Switzerland, this brings immeasurable joy, and gratitude. Painting this is just another way of painting dreams.