Art class

For the first time since arriving in Argentina I was able to fully enjoy my art classes. I am scheduled for about 12 hours of class a week, but the way things work here it is more like 9 hours of class. Things tend not to start on time; there are coffee and mate (a local tea) breaks, and plenty of chit chat. I had been entirely too preoccupied to focus during art class. I was unable to conjure the patience to sit and enjoy the soothing motions of paint to brush and brush to paper. But recently I have found a calm. The brass band in my head has ceased crashing away at the symbols and started playing the soothing chill out bongo beats of the Caribbean, thus I spent every available minute of art doing just that, art.

I thought that I lacked sufficient interest to pursue art as a hobby. The issue in fact had been a cerebral traffic jam concerning my tangled thoughts. In fact, I thoroughly enjoy sitting and painting, drawing with pastels, or moving charcoal across blank paper. I learned a lot this week. I took my acrylic paints to Tuesday’s class which is held at a public space that hosts an artisan market on weekends. This is my favorite teacher; she is most attentive, amicable, and entertaining. She taught me how to mix paints and provided ideas on how to paint the landscape before me. Today, Wednesday, I went to my other class. This class is solely painting. It is at the public art school and the attendees are a group of thirty older woman. This same group of women attends Monday’s drawing class at the same university. I took with me my realist painting of a mountain landscape with the intent of finishing up. I struggled to make earth brown and asked for some assistance. The professor came over and the next thing I knew my painting had became impressionistic. My finely formed clouds and flowers were swept away by the professors brush strokes into a mix of swirling colors.

One of the ladies came over to me afterwards and said she hates how the professor does that. Just takes the brush and swipes it across your page. The ladies are a lot of fun and all very friendly. While I was a bit unnerved by how the teacher had wantonly changed my work, I did learn a handful of new ideas and tactics for painting.

part of a story

A boy sits at a computer. He stars blankly at the screen letting his eyes criss-cross in and out of focus. When the screen goes blurry he sees the electrons dancing before him. The boy clicks back into reality every few minutes after having chased down his lost thoughts.

He spits at the screen in disgust. A slimy yellowish-green goober the color of ripe avocadoes drizzles down the screen hanging languidly from the bottom of the monitor. The rain continues to crackle against the window and the neighbor’s dog howls at every lightning crash. His irritation manifested by the crease in his brow and the moistness accumulating under his arms. Unable to focus he closes his eyes, tilts his head back and takes a deep breath. His fingers once again begin to dance on the keyboard, his eyes darting back and forth across the screen. A thunderous explosion in the sky, and…pop…he sits in darkness.

The boy stands up slowly pushing the chair backward. The foot ends emit howls of torture as they slide across the tile floor. Seemingly unphased by his lost work, he sets out to find his raincoat and shoes. He opens the front door stepping into the black swirling winds of Zeus’s performance. His head is hung low and he digs deep into his pockets unearthing a battered pack of cigarettes. Matchless, he sucks the cool moist air through the unlit cigarette and ambles over to the tramp on the corner. The old man battered by experience offers a light in exchange for a smoke.

Quack!

Quack , quack, quack.. ¨Get over here!¨ ¨Quit running around you slippery little devils!¨ QUACK!!! quack, quack. ¨Back in line, one in front of the other, marching forward.¨ Quack, quack.

Those little guys were quite some trouble. Running every which way, in circles , under, over, on top of each other. But after corralling most of them and... click chonk BWAM... killing a few others I think I finally have all my ducks in a row. Well, at least, if not all most or a satisfactory amount.

The postings I have put up have been about happenings here in Cordoba. I have distinctly avoided the metal component of my trip which indeed has been the most personally relevant. I have experienced, similar to those in the Delta, a roller coaster of emotions and thoughts. Each pulling in various directions, combining to create new ideas and then splintering again into a thousand new pieces. With each revolution new ideas were born and solidified with others being discarded.

I, as always, am thinking about what I will do next. Never can I live solely without a care for what the future holds. Americanism has bonded inseparably to my DNA. Money and productivity play to big a role in my thought process to say FUCK IT and head of into the wilderness.

Living in Cordoba has been tremendous. I don´t go out very often and I spend a ton of time hanging out with Mer in the mornings and evenings, I participate in my activities, read more than I ever have, and spend an inordinate amount of time researching various life opportunities on the internet. Thank goodness for the internet. The world flattened. Instantly connected with everyone and anything no matter where in the world they might be. I have been able to assemble and rework and reassemble my plans for the upcoming years. I feel good about what the future holds.

My ducks are now marching diligently forward. While the line might not be perfect and the path not railroad straight it is moving forward. Some of my friends may say like a track always moving forward. This is much more comforting than treading water or scrambling in circles.

Salsa show

I went to a small restaurant performing space. The restaurant had a bizarre but cozy lay out with 18ft ceilings and lime green flowered walls. There were four distinct rooms all of equivalent size and a covered outdoor patio. You could pass between rooms through archways that reached to the ceiling. It was mildly maze-like. One of the rooms was being used as a performing space on this particular evening.

Eduardo, salsa instructor by night and barber by day, was having a show this evening alongside some live music. The singer´s sultry voice, and a smooth rhythmic base line filled the smokey air. Twisting and twirling with a Latino beauty perched upon six inch heels, the crowd squished and wriggled into the open spaces to watch the show.

After the performance the dance floor was cleared for the patrons to step out and strut there stuff. Edguardo and his partner took turns moving about the room dancing with all willing and unwilling bodies. I too made it to the dance floor swinging and swirling with those folks that cared to participate.

I took the hand of one woman aged approximately 50 years. She stood upon sharp black stilettos wearing an absurdly low cut dress with a heaving bosom. She was artificially tanned to the point of orange and creased with wrinkles from years of smoking. We danced and then spoke. She instantly realized I was not from around here and asked me from where. I told her New York and she immediately ohhhed and ahhhed and took me around to her friends. After a few moments of excited banter, presumably induced by mild intoxication she asked me if I was here to traffic cocaine, ecstasy, or some other narcotic. That kind of of came out of the blue. And then the conversation moved on and the people returned to the dance floor.

Late Night With the Old Guys

I came home late on Friday night. Not late from an evening out, but late as in my salsa class started late and thus ended late. We did not get started until 11pm when we normally begin at around 10pm. Edguardo, the teacher, did appear to be in the best of spirits. He spent some time ranting about the people and to put it lightly, he said that many were not of the highest quality. I think he had a rough day. Apparently a few times a month people will come in for a haircut and will leave with out paying. This happened twice on this particular day. Also the floor around the barber’s chair was strewn with cigarette butts. He said that he does not let people smoke while getting their haircut unless they are crack heads, in which case he makes an exception. Apparently it helps to maintain their composure. So after a day of people flaking on their payment and cutting the hair of crack heads we begin our lesson rather late in the evening.

I didn’t get back to the Alonso’s till about 12:30. Mer was in bed, but awake and there was quite a raucous coming from out back. Apparently Rene had a bunch of his buddies over from the pool. Both Mer and Rene go to the pool regularly for exercise. Mer told me there were empanadas in the kitchen. I scarfed down a few, showered and went to bed. I was trying to avoid having to hang out with Rene and his friends. Why? I don’t know sometimes it is just easier to sleep then to be social. I did a pretty poor job of going to sleep. I laid there reading, so the light was on and Rene knocked on the window. I told him I was sleeping. He said EL LUZ, then came around and walked in. He wanted to introduce me to his buddies. I acquiesced.

We went out back and I met the six guys he was hanging out with. They had devoured an enormous tray of appetizers, a few bottles of wine, a half handle of whiskey, and two bottles of fernet. The conversation was lively. It was around 1:30 when I joined them and I sat their listening and doing my best to participate in the discussion until 5AM. Topics ranged from the state of the Argentina, politics are always a priority, and American imperialism, females wiles, what’s up with gays, how to hang glide and of course back to politics. I had a grasp on most of the conversation. The point is that this insight into the people is not always accessible. Why, I refuse to participate sometimes is beyond me, but I am glad I was involved. The people are warm and welcoming and fun to be around. It makes the experience more enriching.