The Return of the Q;
The piece was “BallCourt”. Inspired by the ancient Aztec ballcourt game and the modern Chicano handball courts of today, which are located in East LA. This mixing of the past and the present is a clear reminder that our antique customs and traditions are still very much alive in the things we do today. Rarely in the past would the Aztec or Mayan ballplayers want to lose a game, as it was an honor to win and be sacrificed for the continuation of the world and still today the winners sacrifice blood and sweat and the losers sacrifice only their pride. The shape of the courts have changes, the rubber balls have shrunken in size, however the spirit remains. Do these Chicanos, these Vatos Locos de la Calle know that they carry this tradition in their sangre, blood? Do they hear the sounds the caracole announcing the game or the black obsidian blades being sharpened? Or is it the sounds of gunshots and police sirens that have replaced those sensations?
The event was launching the Internet version of the Los Angeles Journal, a local publication that focuses on the arts, media, sports, and breaking news. Freedom of speech and the press run high in the blood of everyone who works for this Zine. Sleek, talented with sexy sophistication on the faces of those I spoke with as I watched each person look at Ballcourt. As they were looking and wanting to touch the texture and color on the small yet very powerful 16x20 inch piece, I could not help but feel alive in ways I had not felt in almost two years. Comments either negative or positive were welcome although it was all positive and the only thing that ever offends is “It is very interesting” in which case I always respond, “What is interesting about it?” The idea is to make you thing outside your suburban mindset. Scratching my ass at four am is interesting, looking at art should invoke hatred, love, or every other emotion in-between or just simple honesty, such as “I don’t like it, I don’t care for it, or I just don’t fucking get it!!!”
My rant has to end, three years of wicked sin, and a year and a half of being emotionally whipped, which we don’t talk about, but I am feeling much better. The last six months were nothing but a blur as I traveled from East LA to London and back while making stops along the way to secure the future of my loin, My Arte.
I stood there in the gallery and wondered some. Looking at each individual, as they sat, walked, chatted and mingled. The highlight was listening to the violinist play as I had my back towards him starring at my piece, my one 16x20 return to the scene. Chekhov I believe he was playing, and the sound of that sweet stringed woman tickled my ears and the art in front of me, my eyes. Only an hour later would I be looking at the same piece hearing a live punk band, Lokomotive, play and again my ears and eyes were elated.
Feeling the need for fresh air I walk outside to the sidewalk where I felt the need to talk with the man who inspired my return to writing. A sidekick and a partner in crime, thank god he is not Portuguese and even if he were I would still call him my brother. It had been sometime and I needed to share this day with friends. Which later was shared with Mommy and Daddy, the two people who take care of me on these adventures but more than often its Mommy that ends up taking care of Azulito and Little Ricky on our drunken tours of Vegas or Hollywood, goddamn the tangents.
Standing on Santa Monica Blvd. in front of the gallery talking to family was bliss as I knew my artwork was hanging for the first time in the City of Hollywood only to be shocked, yes I shocked as when having a dirty old man, and I mean dirty dirty old man, pull up in his Range Rover in front of me and offer me two crisp Ben Franklins to jerk off. I felt dirty even looking at the poor bastard as this was something not even my perverse mind would have thought of happening. It could have been my middle finger or the fresh bottled water I threw at him, hitting his left temple that made him drive away at speeds the autobahn has not seen, I am sure the poor soul got ticketed just blocks away, however by the end of the day I would not have changed a thing. Especially the red head with the hour glass figure, or the .. umm, well the French Market, but this is all to sudden to write about. What time was it?
It was the time I realized the event was sound, the people polite and concerned, and the artwork diverse and powerful. The return was, well…
The day was the return to my root, my hands reaching into the dirt, into the earth, into that mother of ours. It was my fingers grabbing hold of my being and massaging it back to life, and giving it light and love. The day was the return to god, to source, to that energy I call my own, it was the return to the Blue Q.