By Adriana Mendez
“What music do you want to listen to today?”
«Mmm … something quiet.»
«English or Spanish?»
Yesterday I went to Maru’s house to take my third painting class, this time accompanied by ballads in Spanish and by a conversation that covered different stories. The canvas with my first exercise was already arranged on the easel, along with the little pots with acrylic paint in different shades of red. I opened a package of new brushes and arranged them next to the plastic cup of water.
While I was tying my paint-stained apron, I felt like a painter. I remembered that phrase «to be, you have to seem.» I felt safer than the previous times. Maru suggested an orange hue to highlight some of the abstract shapes that make up my painting. I liked the idea.
I gave the first brushstrokes with the newly released color. I continued with the deep red, the rose, and the wine. I flipped the frame as many times as necessary to give the strokes in one direction.
“Be careful with the little edges! Use a thinner brush than the one you’re using and hold the brush down firmly so the bristles spread out nicely,” Maru told me.
Fortunately, the warm weather in March allowed the paint to dry quickly. During the three hours of class, there was time for each color to be sufficiently saturated in the different figures. I walked away from the easel on several occasions. I wanted to see from afar the silhouettes that formed from the intersection of the curved lines that I traced with charcoal the first time.
The conversation we had, while the brushes between my fingers expanded on the canvas, was intimate and heartfelt. Our talk went naturally. The journey through different places was rich in content.
I witnessed her grief, caused by the recent loss of her brother. I was glad for the closeness that she is building with her nephews: a beautiful legacy. She proudly showed me her niece, through photos of her cell phone … She honored the solid friendship she has established with some people in San Miguel, who have been more than generous in company and apapachos (cuddles). There was a moment when I put the brushes aside to hug her.
The conversation changed the subject, but our hearts remained full. This time we were moved with joy by the recent reunion of a dear friend of hers with his partner who had just arrived from Egypt—a significant event due to the ordeal he had to go through to leave that country. The distance and the difficulties to be reunited were “leaving their hearts in the bones,” as Sabina would say.
“Do you know of any place where a kid with an intellectual disability can take painting classes?” I asked her.
I told her about Pato, the 23-year-old son of a dear friend, and the difficulties she has had finding a suitable routine for him in San Miguel. It turns out that there are no government programs for adults with this problem.
We also talked, once again, about how happy living in San Miguel makes us. This land has allowed us to display new versions of ourselves that we like and amaze us. It has given us space to flourish and reminds us that no matter how old you are chronologically, there are always opportunities to experience something for the first time such as, in my case, learning to paint.
The voice of María Medina, which I had not heard for many years, transported me to my youth. Her auditory memory never ceases to amaze me, as she immediately brings back sensations experienced in the past, no matter how far away it may be. I remembered my high school friends and smiled. I was glad to be a woman. I was grateful for that implicit permission we have to express our emotions, to make ourselves vulnerable, cry and hug each other: culture has given us the easy way to establish meaningful bonds with our fellow human beings.
I felt proud to belong to the female gender, to be part of a generation that does not hesitate to raise its voice to make gender violence visible along with the gap in unequal opportunities between men and women—to recognize that although we have come far, the glass ceiling still survives. I was happy to remember the number of girls, boys, and young women who participated in the recent march on March 8.
The subjectivity of time is extraordinary. The hours and minutes can seem short or long depending on what we are doing, or the attention we give them. On this occasion, the hours that passed took on a different dimension: the remains of yesterday’s minutes expanded, containing the emotions generated by a tête à tête conversation between two women, with an easel and a canvas as a backdrop. It may seem like a small thing, but without a doubt, it is not.
The hours of my painting class also passed in the blink of an eye. My time to learn a new painting technique ended faster than my perception registered.
I got into my car satisfied with the progress of my painting and with what happened in those hours. During the journey to Alborada, along the bypass that leads to the highway to Dolores, I could almost hear and feel Pato’s effusive greeting, which would happen a few minutes later as soon as I arrived. I am moved by the emotion he expresses when he sees me. It pains me to think of the difficulties caused by his intellectual disability. I keep asking myself:
What gift will San Miguel have prepared for Pato?
