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Duelo a Garrotazos – Prado Museum, Madrid

 

Francisco Goya painted this image on a wall in his house around 1820, but it could have been painted yesterday, or today, or tomorrow. Two men beat each other senseless while sinking to their own doom in a bog of quicksand. You can choose your antagonists from a list that remains endless: British and French, Israelis and Palestinians, Protestants and Catholics, Conservatives and Liberals, Sunnis and Shiites, Democrats and Republicans, etcetera.

Marina Tsvetaeva wrote this poem in 1915, in the second year of the First World War, but it could have been written yesterday, today, or tomorrow about an endless list of anywheres: Syria, Korea, Yemen, Columbia, Iran, China, Afghanistan, Venezuela, the USA, etcetera — forever.

I know the truth.
Forget all other truths.
No need for people
anywhere on this earth
to struggle.
For what? Poets?
Lovers? Generals?

Look: it is evening,
Look: it is nearly night.
The wind is level now,
the air is wet with dew.
Soon all of us will sleep
Beneath the earth,
We, who never let each other
Sleep above it.

More images and reflections on my website: johnmichaelkeating.com

The Meeting – Oil on canvas – 28 x 32 inches.

Twilight falls over the city and soon night will arrive in a swarm of stars. A woman descends the stairs toward the river and the Boatman who awaits his passengers. She can’t hear the voices of the crowd of souls that surround her, nor can she see them. She feels alone, but she is not afraid.

Who is she? She could be anyone: an office worker in an insurance company. A soccer mom from the suburbs. An off-duty police officer. A tourist from anywhere in the world. On the other hand, she could be Everyone, even the artist who painted her.

To the Boatman, her identity is not important. He waits for her with the same indifferent patience as he waits for everyone else. Does she have enough coins in her purse to pay for the voyage? Sufficient coins or not, he will wait.

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More images on my website: johnmichaelkeating.com

Paco – Watercolor – 14 x 17 in.

Quartell is a coastal village north of Valencia. I was there visiting my friend Carmen. She thought Paco and I could be friends. We found him with two lovely women in a crowded outdoor café. Rosa and Gema were gracious and curious. Not Paco. He smoked a cigar, his green shirt, the color of lettuce, matched his green shoes, and he was not interested in me. To a passerby, it appeared that five friends were amiably sipping wine. Not so: Paco and I circled each other like a couple of wary dogs. Carmen had told me that villages too small for a doctor would employ an Ayudante Técnico Sanitario, who helped with childbirths, administered vaccines, inoculations, set broken bones, etc. Paco was the local ATS, as well-known as the mayor. Villagers stopped at our table to chat.

“What brought you to this non-touristy place?” the women asked. I told them in my rudimentary Spanish about several previous visits to Spain. Paco was unimpressed. I began to wonder why I wanted friendship with someone who didn’t. Then he leaned across the table with a challenge: “So if you have already been to all those places, why do you keep returning to Spain?”

I was on the spot, but suddenly remembered a pun invented by my brother, Tim. “Porque soy un Espinaco,” I blurted: “Because I’m a Spainiac.”

A chorus of laughter from the women and the crowd at the adjoining tables because “Espinaco” doesn’t exist in Spanish. I silently thanked Tim.

The ghost of a smile appeared, then another challenge: “So, eh, what do you do in California?” By this time, I was fed up with thrust and parry and, sadly, had given up on being his friend.

“I paint pictures of naked women,” I growled, and then demanded in return, “So, eh, what do you do here in Spain?”

“I stick needles in people’s asses.”

More laughter, more wine. That was more than 30 years ago. We’re still laughing.

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More stories and images at: johnmichaelkeating.com