March 2008 Roz in La Paz

His studio is the city beach of La Paz. He is an artist whose creations are as changeable as life, itself.

Juan Guillermo Corvera Alemán’s work disintegrates in weeks, to reemerge in another form. And so December’s nativity scene breaks down, becomes February’s pod of whales. This is art that ebbs and flows like the neighbouring  OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAtide. The artist likes his creations short-lived. That’s why he makes sculptures in sand.“Because it is like life, itself,” he tells me. “It’s of the earth, natural. I do not need to point to something on the wall and say, ‘This is my work.’ ”

Juan’s path to La Paz has been a journey of unforeseen twists. Born in Mexico City, the 28-year-old earned a degree in law. He was halfway through a second degree, this time anthropology, when he decided life wasn’t going the way he wanted. That led to five years of travelling around Mexico.

He was walking down the Malecón in Puerto Vallarta when he saw the sand sculptures of José Gonzales. Juan had no background in art. But he persuaded the sculptor to take him on as a student. Puerto Vallarta is also where Juan met his partner Alma, 26. She’s trained as an architect.  Since then, the two have travelled together. Juan creates sand sculptures, Alma makes jewelry. They live on the contents of donation boxes for Juan’s sculptures and from the sale of Alma’s jewelry and handicrafts.

Is it enough to cover living expenses? “Some days yes, some days no,” Juan says. I pass by every few days to watch his progress and to talk. Our OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAconversation is in Spanish, which I’ve translated and summarized. Juan gives
me a tour. He is finishing a pyramid of figures wrapped around one another, arms stretched upwards, individual features obscured. It’s called Almas (Souls), the same as his partner’s name. Then there is La Cara (the face) with its gaping mouth. Is the expression fear? Amazement? Death?

Nearby is a humongous hand, index finger pointing up. Like many of the other pieces, this sculpture reaches skyward. Are most of your themes spiritual, I ask? Is the finger pointing toward God? Not exactly, he says. It’s pointing to “la grandeza” (grandness or magnificance). Yes, the themes are spiritual, but he shies away from the label of God.

Juan and Alma arrived in La Paz a few months ago. Donations are not as generous here as on the mainland, but Juan says it’s peaceful and people are good. They decided this would be the place for Alma to have their first baby, due near the end of February.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAA child will change life for you, I say. And you will need more money. The work of a lawyer or architect is more secure, more lucrative. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad? Juan clutches his throat. “Esclavos,” I think he says. Esclavo means “slave.”

So he’ll continue his work as a sculptor of sand? “Ojalá (god willing),” he says. The plan is to work their way up the Baja peninsula as soon as Alma and the baby can travel. Juan’s idea is to “sell” sand sculptures to businesses along the way. He will try to interest hotels in hiring him to create pieces on a particular theme to promote events and festivals – sand sculptures for a tour of bikers, for example.

Juan has created a sand version of La Pieta. He has given the Virgin Mary a Mexican face. In fact, she looks a lot like his partner Alma. The sculptor says he chose La Pieta because he admires Michelangelo’s work. And because he is hoping that the Catholic passersby will be moved to be a little more generous with their donations.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAThis week Juan finished his latest sculpture: It’s a moon, a baby, and a large sheltering hand. The creation honours his new baby daughter, born around the time of the February full moon. Her name is Luna.

(Originally posted March 2008)


February 2008 Roz in La Paz

The artist “Gabo” Gabriel Rodríguez calls his new exhibit of paintings Tierra Ajena –Someone Else’s Land. As I learn in an interview with Gabo, that expression carries a basketful of reflections: everyday life defined as alien territory, a loner’s sense of humor, two castles and the heroism of a grandfather. Let’s begin with the grandfather.


Don José Guadalupe Romo Romo, Gabo’s maternal grandfather, lived in a village in the state of Aguascalientes in western central Mexico. The name of the village: Tierra Ajena.  It was during the Cristero War of 1926-1929, the armed uprising against the anti-Catholic Mexican government. Don José was giving protection to the Cristeros, and he allowed his house to be used for religious services.

One day, Gabo says, a traitor alerted federal troops. Don José did what he could to enable the parishioners to escape, then waited for the troops to arrive. A speedy trial ended in a sentence of hanging.  But in that rocky village on the plains, it took a long time to find a tree for the execution. On the first attempt, the hangman’s knot unraveled, sending the condemned man crashing to the ground. He got up and shook off the dirt. “Don’t be idiots,” he is reported to have said, before tying the knot himself and surrendering to his fate.


The story of his grandfather is a source of pride for Gabo and part of his own identity. Don José had come from Europe to this foreign land — to a place actually named “someone else’s land.” Because of the war, Gabo’s mother was forced to move away; she, too, grew up in “someone else’s land.” Gabo feels that he, himself, lives in a place that is not his own.

More than that, Gabo believes all of us live in someone else’s land. We are children of people who come from somewhere else. We are guardians of a world belonging to future generations. And we dream, he says, about becoming better people in our adopted home. Maybe that’s why the exhibit bears the subtitle: Destino Común (common destiny).

Now Gabo tells me that – for all he has just said – there is, in fact, no direct relationship between tierra ajena and the exhibit. He means the title to be simply an invitation to reflect on the meaning of living in someone else’s land.


I ask Gabo what he would like people to know about this exhibit. “Absolutely nothing.” His art is not in the tradition of Diego Rivera, José Clemente Orozco and David Alfaro Siqueiros, Mexican muralists whose work carries social and political messages.

“No, a picture is a pleasure,” he says. “A picture is a digestive – a drink for after dinner. If there is no meal, you don’t want art. A picture is for people who have already eaten.” Gabo’s paintings have been compared to those of Marc Chagall. They’ve also been described as “garish and thought-provoking, bizarre images from a fertile mind.”

In this exhibit, you may be reminded of Baja California’s famous pinturas rupestres, the prehistoric cave murals of human figures, four-legged animals, birds and arrows. “Even the creators of the pinturas rupestres came from elsewhere,” Gabo notes.

The artist is an animated talker. He widens his eyes, waves his hands, bobs and weaves in his seat. In conversation, he paints pictures with his body language. He is enjoying himself. In person and in his art, Gabo has a sense of humour.

There are artists whose work is cerebral, Gabo says, whose paintings concern themselves with rot, carnivores, enormous tongues. Here Gabo’s eyes bulge, his voice drops an octave. The playfulness is edged with sarcasm.  He has a problem with that artistic personality. “You want to take a picture home, hang it on your wall. You want something happy, something amusing. You’re not going to pay to be depressed. You are going to pay for pleasure. You say, ‘Why bring more problems into my house? I already have lots of those.’”


Gabo is successful. Work in his gallery in Todos Santos commands a high price. He is not alone. In fact, he says, the art scene in Baja California Sur is exceptionally good, especially in Todos Santos, San José del Cabo and Loreto. He describes it as “a phenomenon” – thirty artists selling 1,500 paintings each year.

In the community of Todos Santos, home to many artists from the U.S., Gabo is a loner. The atmosphere is not all that convivial, he acknowledges. “It doesn’t surprise me because our countries have very different roots and cultures,” he says. “North Americans may not get along well with the Mexicans, we may not eat at the same table. But together, we are a phenomenon.” In any case, he says, creating art is a solitary act for him: The true artist must produce art in the same way one goes to the bathroom. You have to be alone.

He tells me art is a sacred niche for him, where he can develop spiritually. It’s a quest for truth. “It is a language of feeling with colours and with forms that are feelings. And the success depends on the honesty with which one paints.”

An artist is a creator of spaces. He says he feels almost like God when he succeeds in his creations.


There is a flamboyance to Gabo. He signs his work GABO. He doesn’t use his full name. That’s because he grew up with so many other Gabriels: his father, OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAhis sister Gabriela and three more Gabriels in the family next door. His mother called him Gabo; the name became his artistic signature.

We are in the artist’s new studio in La Paz, where he has lived for most of the last 30 years. “Many people think you live in Todos Santos,” I say. “In Todos Santos, they think I live in La Paz. In La Paz, they think I live in Todos Santos.”

I look up at the sky-high, convoluted ceiling. From the hills above La Paz, the turquoise peaks of this new studio are as easy to spot as the twin spires of the cathedral in the city’s main square. His gallery in Todos Santos has been compared to a castle and a Spanish mission. Some call it the “Church of Gabo.” What is it with Gabo and his castles?

“I paint stars, I paint moons, I paint enormous spaces.” The earth, itself, is on a journey, he says, as it travels in the Milky Way. “The possibilities are very large. And so I always, in my own construction, want to reach toward the sky.”

After an hour with Gabo, I feel as if I, too, have been on a journey of twists and turns. The artist says his work bears no message, but asks us to reflect on the meaning of life as alien territory. He says his pictures are meant to amuse, but describes the act of painting as a spiritual quest for truth. He even says he converses with stones – at least, with the stones that became part of his studio in Todos Santos.

“I talked with the stones,” Gabo tells me, “and I asked them, ‘What do you want?’ And they said, ‘One day, we would like to know the heights.’ Because the stones never knew what it was like to be high up.”

And so, Gabo raised up his stones to be a little closer to the sky.

(Originally posted February 2008)



January 2008 Roz in La Paz

The old man looks out into the bay of La Paz. He is an amalgam of childish and old – leathery skin, big ears, a Spencer Tracy face. But he’s dressed in the sailor suit of a young boy. His hat is a folded-paper boat. And around his waist, improbably, he wears a second, jumbo-sized, paper boat. But what really pulls OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAat me are the old man’s smile and the eyes. There is a story behind that face. El Viejo. . .y el Mar? (The old Man. . .and the Sea?), is one of the most photographed sculptures on the Malecón, La Paz’s seaside promenade. The work’s creator is Guillermo Gómez Macías, an award-winning artist who also sculpted Caracoles Músicos (Seashell Musicians), a recent addition to the small plaza across from the main tourist dock.

I reached Gómez in Guadalajara, where he lives, and asked him about the old man. Here is the story, which I have translated and summarized.

“The sculpture has its origin in the story of a real person – a fisherman from the town of Bucerias in Nayarit. Don José had a small boat, a true work of art made from the trunk of a large tree. On more than one occasion, I offered to buy the boat, but he never wanted to sell it. He was very proud of his possession.

“During one trip to Bucerias, I was surprised to see the boat missing from its usual spot. Don José told me that it had been stolen. I told him how sorry I was. But he said that whoever had stolen the boat must have really appreciated its value. He said his own relationship with the boat had come to an end, and that f oldman4he hoped whoever had it would treat it with the dignity it deserved.

“What surprised me was that he wasn’t saddened by his loss. Although he had been very fond of his boat and it had, in fact, become part of his identity, what really mattered were his work and his relationship with the sea. The significance of this story is that it makes me think that the means to achieving our goals, while important, are often perishable. Even though we enjoy them and use them while we can, we must not lose sight of the true purpose of our mission.”

I asked Gómez about the title of his sculpture: The Old Man . . .and the Sea?”: the apparent reference to Hemingway’s story of the fisherman Santiago and the sculptor’s use of a question mark.

“Certainly there’s a relationship with Hemingway’s work – the attributes of the characters and the nature of such a basic activity, but one that demands so much strength of character. The question mark is because, deep down, the piece is an allegory to hope.”

At the base of the sculpture there is a poem. It is written by Gómez:

I have a paper boat
It’s made from a page
On which I have written my dreams
It has neither anchors, nor mooring ropes
I want to sail in it
On the seven seas; in the eighth
Where I know I will run aground in the port of my desires
… Has someone ever seen the light shining from his lighthouse?

Guillermo Gómez Macías, 48, was born in Jalisco, the second of nine children in a traditional Mexican family. His art is on permanent display in Puerto Vallarta at Galleria Dante.

(Originally posted January 2008)