A CORAL MADE OF OVERGROWN DEFORMED fingers rises up to conceal an exhausted face carrying a world of pain. The defensive gesture is either a cry for help or an attempt to hide missing teeth or stop further injuries. “Las manos de la esperanza (The hands of hope)” captures the distress born out of man-induced conflict against a striking blue background. Ecuadorian painter Oswaldo Guayasamín created it in 1970 during his age of anger period, which kept him busy illustrating the ramifications of war, violence, genocides and dictatorships.
Guayasamín’s emotive oil painting is one of 40 artworks comprising “The Body Says, I Am a Fiesta: The Figure in Latin American Art.” Split between the first and second floors of Norton Museum of Art, the exhibition features 28 artists active in the United States and Latin America between the 1930s and 2010s. There is Diego Rivera, but no sign of Frida Kahlo — we’ll take what we can get. Those included do offer distinctive takes on the human body and the external agents shaping it. These figural interpretations are as diverse as Uruguayan writer Eduardo Galeano — whose words inspired the show’s title — implied they would be:
“The church says: The body is a sin.
Science says: The body is a machine.
Advertising says: The body is a business.
The body says: I am a fiesta.”
Tying the artistic singularities squeezed into the umbrella of ‘Latin American Art’ are the unifying themes of self-identity, loss and love and the common experiences of slavery, oppression and inequality.
The preservation of identity and indigenous tradition is embodied by Javier Silva-Meinel’s gelatin print titled “Hombre Araña” (Spider Man). The portrait showcases one of thousands of pilgrims taking part in the annual syncretic religious festival held in the Peruvian Andes. Silva-Meinel’s subject looks straight at the camera and seems unbothered by the gigantic spider settled on his forehead. The Peruvian photographer is said to have used a portable studio to snap participants of the Qoyllur R’iti, which translates from the Quechua language as “Snow Star” and combines Incan and Catholic beliefs.
A range of emotions on the “disenchantment” end of the spectrum is conveyed by Mexican muralist and caricaturist José Clemente Orozco in a 1932 lithograph housed on the first floor. Before we get to read its straightforward title, it’s obvious some terrible news have just been handed to four obreros (laborers). “Unemployed” freezes the moment after they have learned their livelihood is at stake. We can almost hear the voice say: There is no more work. The hours have been cut. Return home. Some of the men manage to keep it together while a colleague covers his face in shame. Orozco understood these reactions well. At the time of this print, the artist was living in the United States. He had a difficult time earning a living back home after the Mexican Revolution; memories that the Great Depression refreshed.
Accompanying the somber work is a much colorful rendition by Amelia Peláez del Casal done in her recognizable stained-glass style. Peláez’s signature technique is said to have been the result of her exposure to European avantgarde artists and methods while studying abroad. The bold composition and heavily trafficked areas of “Mujer (Woman)” require patience before the details come into view. The figure of a woman framed by thick black lines gradually emerges against a multicolored background broken up into geometric shapes. The Cuban modernist painter favored flora and fauna as subjects. It follows that the sitter, positioned at a colonial-style balcony typical of Old Havana, holds a flower and a bird. The longer we stare at this abstraction, the more our eyes exhume. If you want to make it fun, give yourself a goal and don’t move on until you have unearthed the necklace.
By all accounts, the show running through March 1 should be a hit with visitors from all walks of life, mostly because Latin American art is like any other art. It can be organic and methodical, wild and restrained, a quinceañera party and a ball, a chess match and a domino game. In that respect, it is everyone’s art. It doesn’t threaten or invade, so there is no cause for alarm. In any case, European and North American art will be right back after this commercial. Don’t fast-forward or hit pause. ¦
A different type of loss is the theme driving a playful installation at the entrance of the second-floor gallery. The untitled work by Félix González-Torres extends a sweet bite from an “endless” green cellophane grass. While the “candy pills” have been left at our disposal, a friendly warning reminds us to pluck only one. In doing so, we contribute to the weakening of the pile, a process González- Torres equates to the body’s inevitable deterioration. The Cuban artist knows a thing or two about grief and the healing power of the human spirit. He lost his longtime partner to complications from AIDS in 1991. That same year, his first candy pill installations emerged as a way to cope.
Mostly compiled from the Norton’s permanent collection, “The Body Says, I Am a Fiesta” calls a mandatory meeting on the 10 countries represented to discuss universal notions of the human figure and, most importantly, the underlying mission of inclusivity. The institution is skipping the disparity-study step and moving on to curing the under-representation we all know exists in gallery halls. It is a tall, but necessary, order if genuine courtship of the growing Latino population and balanced art offerings is the objective here.
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