On the plaza where the artists show fresh pieces and work while you select your favorite recollection of your travels, you find: a gallery’s worth of lovers positioned on park benches entirely unaware of the surreal gigantic ladies floating in space close by and as naked as stars.
The canvases are wild with color as if these ladies sail on Zapotec rugs; traditional landscapes feature this valley in the rainy season: Mexican green grasses and hills and nothing grazing, not a single dusty goat.
These plains are plain.
Three Oaxacan sky blue sheets of plywood overflow with insects as terrifying as a nightmare you had as a child: wasps swarming darkness and your pillow.
No one smiles in portraits. Not even the lovers. It is as if no artist has mastered the fine art of teeth.
A still life seems to spill from an upset bowl, pomegranates defy gravity, a flute of champagne has mostly vanished. In another composition, voluptuous pears and golden peaches march as soldiers, led by one green grape. Or, they are a symphony with a grape conductor. Either way they are loud and in motion.
Of course, you are neither surprised by the entwined lovers nor the magic.
Even the charcoal wooly mammoth in a parade with a band along the Alcala pedestrian avenue makes sense. You have seen her yourself.
- “Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits…and echo asking a shadow to dance.” –Carl Sandburg
What kinds of strange combinations can you imagine? Offer us the most surreal synthesis to make magic.
shewhodaresnothing 