An upright piano stood in the front room of our house our whole growing up years. All five kids plunked away on the ivories every once in a while.

One afternoon my littlest sister called us all in to listen to a song she claimed to have invented. At the end of her tune my mother lavished her with applause. Possessed with a sense of duty I informed my sister of the truth she needed to embrace.

“All the songs that have ever been written are all the songs that will ever be written. There are no new songs. That what you just played has probably already been invented by someone else before.”

She began to cry. My mother began to scold.

“That is not true, Angie! New songs are written all the time.”

Knowing the pattern in our home I was most likely made to apologize. If it be necessary, I will apologize again. What a simply stupid thing to say!

Since that display of mean spirited inferiority I have thought about those words.

Depending on the emphasis this phrase can mean very different things.

Every song has been written.

First, on hearing this you could think, “There are no new songs to be written.”

If you hear it differently you could derive from that statement, “All songs have been written in some form: be it on paper, on a vinyl record, on a tape, or simply on the heart.”

When I think that there are millions of books in existence I could defer to the inferiority of yesteryear and talk myself out of writing all together. On the flip side I could embrace the truth that since millions of books have been written and millions of books are yet to be written then I can be a part of those. Why can’t my writings be published alongside the piles of papers yet to be printed?

That is my motivation for writing.

Thank you, Shawn, for inventing your sweet little song and singing in spite of your bullying big sister. You are beautiful!

“Fernando, you said we would get to see the Pegasus today,” I said.

“Ah, yes. You still want to see it?” was his coy response.

“Yes. Tell me how to get there”

“I will show you.”

Once we were back in town the drive to the park where his art is on display took all of a few minutes, not far from my house. I had never been there before. For those familiar with the area we came up Simon Lopez from the Plazuela de Calal Cala and entered to the North after passing Beijin, the park is next to a canal on Awki Tupaji (I am pretty sure) about five blocks up from Simon Lopez. To think that it was so close, yet unknown to me, was like a juicy secret had been kept for just this special moment now whispered in my ear.

The story goes that the piece was done in dedication to a dear friend of Fernando Crespo named Ulises Hermosa when he passed away after a battle with cancer. He was a member of a famous Bolivian folkloric group called Los Kjarkas (clicking that link allows you to hear their music and read some about them). Actually, the whole park where the sculpture stands is dedicated to the memory of this man.

Pegasus being riden by Ulises Hermosa, sculpture of metal by Fernando Crespo 2009, Cochabamba, Bolivia

A view of part of the park that covers about three square blocks of land

The artist Fernando Crespo, Clara and Timothy standing in front of the piece

a view from the front

a view from the back

The signature in the top: "F.C.", as well as the name he is known by: "Tiburon" which means Shark

Plaque with the name of the park: Parque Ulises Hermosa

The inscription on the base of the sculpture are lyrics by Ulises Hermosa (translation follows)

Lyrics by Ulysis Hermosa (hermosa means beautiful)
on Pegasus piece by Fernando Crespo

(Ayer planté un arbolito)

Yesterday I planted a little tree

(Al borde de mi destino)

On the edge of my destiny

(Con el tiempo luminoso)

With the passage of the season of brilliance

(Era feliz y crecía…)

I [or it] was happy and grew…

(…ese arbolito querido)

…this dear little tree

(el que guardaba mis sueños)

That held my dreams

(Ahora refleja mi vida)

Now reflects my life

(Son extraños los misterios)

Strange are the mysteries

————————————

Yes, mysteries are strange. They are also awe inspiring, wonderful and call for reflection.

The End.

Here are the links to the whole story:

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to get Pizza Cones

A Familiar Perfect Stranger

Meandering Adventures

Huayculi or Bust

A Study in Livelihoods

And finally this post: Fernando Crespo’s Pegasus at Parque Ulises Hermosa

The dirt we came from drew us together.

Potting in a pueblo in Bolivia is slightly different than potting in a studio in the States. My mother and father run a successful clay studio called Wichita Pottery from the downstairs of their home. Álvaro, our clay man, alongside his family runs a potting business out of the dirt in the yard of his home.

Almost all Bolivian homes of any economic standing are surrounded by walls. Most of the more humble dwellings are built progressively. A plot of land may start with nothing more than the wall and a room. The family lives in the room and builds as they can adding rooms that all have their own door to what may be called the courtyard. All these rooms with doors to the outside are lined up on the perimeter of the plot. Essentially the growth of the family necessitates the adding of new rooms, each room occupied by a unit within the whole. The grown brother and his wife have a room. The sister, her husband and their small child have another. The grandparents are in one room. The main owning couple in another, and so on and so forth. They most likely share a bathroom. The washing area is in a corner of the property. The kitchen may be in a room, or as is the case with Álvaro’s family, a corner of the courtyard with an open fire.

We were invited over to a covered pit. Álvaro began right away to explain how they treated the dirt in this section of the dusty yard to prepare clay. With a few fell swoops of his pick ax he broke off a chunk of the moist earth and threw it over to the side on a large, plastic, burlap-type bag. Stepping out of the shallow pit he began to stomp the clay. The technical term escapes me. I translated back and forth. My mother explained that in her shop they have an electric machine that does this step of the preparation. After many stomps and turns and flips of the clay Álvaro then moved the large lump to a stone where he began to massage and kneed the clay with his arms. Under the heat of the full morning sun the perspiration and shortness of breath were understood as he tried to speak while working. Now the clay was carried to the wheel. He asked if the wheels my mother uses are electric as well. She told him they are.

He leaned the back of his body against the adobe wall and situated his legs, one braced on a metal bar cemented in place and the other positioned to create torque for the spinning of the wheel by way of rhythmic kicking. The wheel seemed to spin effortlessly as he wet his hands and subsequently the clay from the bucket of muddy silt in front of him. The awning held up by rough poles gave him shade and kept the lump of clay from drying too quickly. Applying the full force of his body the clay began to yield to his movements. Magically concave shapes began to emerge. In minutes he had thrown, spun and cut from the lump with a wire four of his most common pieces. It was simply fascinating. He was delighted at our amusement and gladly offered answers to our many questions.

Then he asked if my mother would like to give it a try. Oh, she was so excited! This is one of the things she wanted to do most in Bolivia. She climbed up and situated herself. She got the wheel going enough to throw a pot. The juxtaposition was intriguing. She invited her grandkids to give it a try. She kicked and they moved their hands over the clay. I even got to give the kicking a go to relieve my mom. It was truly an amazing experience.

We paid him thanks and the fee he asked for. My mom also gave him a clay piece she had made in the States. They brought out little pots to sell, as well. We were all very satisfied with the demonstration and the opportunity to try throwing a pot manually.

On our way out of town the guide suggested we stop at Huayculi’s town square for a snack. He had brought a pork meat called enrollado, hot peppers called locoto and some bread to share with everyone. Then we were on the road again. A bit sad to be leaving the adventure a thought occurred to me.

“Fernando, you said we would get to see the Pegasus today,” I said.

“Ah, yes. You still want to see it?” was his coy response.

“Yes. Tell me how to get there”

“I will show you.”

To be continued…

Click thumbnails to enlarge.

…to ready ourselves for Tuesday.

Truck gassed up. Friend to watch the littles. Big kids prepped with pep talks about what to expect and what I expect from them. Camera with extra batteries packed. We’re all set to get this adventure going.

The morning called for hoodies to nip the chill, unless you were a Bolivian, in which case you would be dressed in three woolly layers, a scarf wrapped half a dozen times around your neck and a hat and gloves to ward off the cold and the colds. Our guide showed up on time in his own car. He also had a girl of 11 with him. We made room for Fernando and Clara in the truck and we drove.

Cochabamba’s hustle and smog were left quickly behind. The pavement eventually took a leave of absence as well. Hillside farms with adobe dwellings dotted the dusty landscape. Shepherdesses with knitted legwarmers under their knee-length, layered and pleated velvet skirts tended the flocks of goats and sheep. Alongside the roads stood college students talking on their cells waiting for a ride into the big city. We rounded the lake called La Angostura and I knew we were close to Tarata on our way to Huyaculi.

A narrow cobblestone street with ancient buildings growing old and tall from the curbs led us to the historical plaza. We pulled up to a little store so that I could buy a phone card and the guide could ask directions for finding the town of Huayculi. Another time we can take the time to tour this little city of good tales.

Back on the trail we rumbled the couple blocks out of town and the across the dry river bed to the twisty dirt paths leading us to the clay workers. A man was walking so we stopped to ask him if we were headed in the right direction in this place unburdened by silly street signs. Yes, we were, keep going passed the pine trees, three more kilometers. Our guide and I were satisfied by the indications. We continued.

A building had the name Huayculi painted on the side. We were close. Working with picks and digging what seemed to be a ditch alongside the road were men, women, youth and children all lined and bent over their task. Fernando suggested we pull over to talk to them. Not two minutes later he returned and let one of the workers get into the already packed full truck. No matter that he had the scent of sun and musk and only one of my windows could open. He was our man. We rolled down the hill about a block and he told me to stop at the open door. This is where we all got out, finally.

It was nice to stretch our legs after the bumpy hour finding our place. The fresh village air had traces of lunch being cooked over an open fire and the evident presence of animals living about the simple human homes. We unloaded ourselves by the pile of abode bricks.

“Pase,” [pah say] said the man to let us know we could come into his place.

“Permiso,” [pear mee soh] we said as we stepped across the threshold.

Chance, divinity, coincidence… name it what you will; the clay worker had been found. Paths converged, crossing hemispheres, mixing languages, blending cultures, putting us all in the same tiny little plot of land. The dirt we came from drew us together.

To be continued…

Click to enlarge. Photos taken by my dad: Ronn Houtz

The earthy simplicity of a familiar perfect stranger told me I would soon find myself having a similar talk with this kind, round man.

Who knew a blacksmith shop would hold such wonders? Therein we found art, amiability and promised adventure. Stepping out the door was like the tumble out of the wardrobe. Unless otherwise opposed I knew we would be back.

Lunch was got. A return visit was planned. Amongst all the other goings on we wanted to accomplish it seemed that Tuesday morning would be the best day to go find the clay people. Saturday morning, before market shopping, found us walking the few blocks uphill from our house to speak with the artist.

World cup fever had a few dozen guys glued to the tiny T.V. set on the porch next to the dusty yard when we again poked our heads through the open gate door. This time accompanied by my oldest daughter we looked even more conspicuous. A grinning man came out from the group and greeted. It was Fernando, genuinely happy to see us again. Arrangements were made. Tuesday was fine. Eight AM we would come and get him. We would go and find the clay workers. According to Fernando we needed to make it out there early when they were still occupied in trade before lunch commenced followed by a few drinks and the siesta. I agreed.

Then he asked if we wanted to see his other sculptures. This proposition was met with ready intrigue. He asked permission to go get the photos. Scurrying happily away to the burrow of a workshop he rummaged around a bit then produced the prized albums. Blowing and brushing the soot and dust away he handed us the yellowed pages.

Franziskus by Fernando Crespo

Image after image showed us a lifetime of metal work all over the world. More than once he had been to Europe, commissioned to do pieces. From small creations to immense structures, from women on motorbikes to saints with boars, we saw the log of his work. He proudly told the stories of where the pieces were and how they came about.

Then I saw it. The Pegasus! Where is this one? I asked imagining far away places. About 5 minutes from here. Really?! I can take you to see it on Tuesday. Really?! He laughed a bit as I had a hard time concealing my excitement.

Thus far Fernando Crespo seemed to be a trustworthy man. We left his shop once again with heightened expectation of what was to come: clay work for my mom and a Pegasus for me. I just hoped he would follow through and not let us down next week in the breaking of the day the Tuesday next.

The walk down the hill was met with other fun things: a garage sale (rare in these parts), interesting graffiti, and birds to buy. All through the market shopping I thought of what needed to be done to ready ourselves for Tuesday.

To be continued…

The next week the sculpture was gone; never to be seen again. Or so I thought.

The rumbling tummy told me we needed to cross back over and get food for lunch. Destiny had another idea. Brushing by us a man of the working class with heavy rumpled winter clothes and hands stained from his trade gave a sidelong smirk and a less than sincere greeting. Then he invited us to come in.

Surprised by the gentile gesture I motioned that we should step inside. One of us had the idea to ask if the man who made this large form happened to be around. Almost laughing, the butler in the rough told us he would call him. Now I was getting excited. I had admired the work of this artist for over a year. He is here? This is much more than a coincidence.

Tucked and strewn behind the massive structure lay a blacksmith shop. Furnace and metal hid a simple man who now emerged. Wiping the grease he extended his hand to say hello. Unassuming he listened as I explained our intrusion. His smiles under the bushy brows encouraged me to continue with praise of his work and inquiries thereof. His answers were simple with a hint of wit. Familiarity made me think I had known him for longer than just a few moments.

My manners not lost in the whim I introduced my parents as well. Translating a conversation is a test in tongue twisters and presence of mind. Who said what? Am I conveying the attitude as well as the thought? Did I use the right language with the right person? Surprisingly it seemed that there was a general understanding.

Knowing he is an artist gave my mom an idea. She is a potter. She works with clay. When in France last year she was able to throw a pot on a wheel. She wanted to do the same in Bolivia. She thought this man might know something about the elusive potting community in Cochabamba. We had been hunting and asking around to no avail. So I asked. Then he asked if we had been to Huayculi. No, what’s that? It is a pueblo where the people make pots of clay.

What happened next shouldn’t have surprised me because it is just the way Bolivians are; nevertheless I was pleasantly surprised.

“How long are your parents in town? I can take you next week if you like,” he said as though he was speaking to an old friend. I translated his offer to my parents. I gave them the look to feel them out if this was something they would like to do. We ended the conversation finding out how we could reach the artist to make plans if it would work out to go.

“I am here every morning. Just stop by anytime,” he said. Of course, why didn’t I think of that. The earthy simplicity of a familiar perfect stranger told me I would soon find myself having a similar talk with this kind, round man.

Fernando Crespo and the Condor - July 2010

To be continued…

There is this food here in Bolivia called the Pizza Cone. Thinking this is an imported concept I was surprised to find that my parents hadn’t heard of them and found them to be a novel as well as delicious food. On the busy day that we went to grab this fast food (which ended up not being that speedy) we found ourselves, unknowingly, on a serendipitous path. Thus it began.

A funny thing happened on the way to get pizza cones. As we stepped out of the truck I pointed over the zooming cars to a bit of bronze peeking out over one of the many walls guarding the row of many little houses.

“See that bit? That is a sculpture,” I said in passing hoping to rush by the blurb and have a story to tell as we waited for our food. Alas, interest was peaked, there was no rushing this moment. The artist ears pulled my mom closer to said zooming cars in hopes for a better look.

“This will never do,” I said to myself as I watched the wandering soul crane to see more. We decided to cross for a better look. Peeking in through the door I wove my treasured background story to the tune of the oohs and aahs of my dear old mom and dad.

“You might remember some time back I posted a picture of a similar bronze sculpture. That picture was taken through this very door where we are standing. Do you remember the Pegasus?” Apologetically they told me that they did not. I explained that I had seen the wing tips over the edge of the wall and my curiosity got the better of me. Much like they were drawn to the art that was now in the workshop; I too, couldn’t help myself. I stole a few shots of the wonderful piece and posted it up on my blog.

The next week the sculpture was gone; never to be seen again. Or so I thought.

To be continued…

In the next few days there will be many winners crossing the finish line as they log in their word counts. The idea was 50,000 words in 30 days. I am happy to report that I did it!

Wow-ee.

I feel it is necessary to add that the novel now needs a ton of work. Editing galore, scenes needing tweaking, and much weighing of words await me in the coming months. I look forward to going back and adding the shading, darkening the color here and there and defining the lines to make them jump out and grab you as you read.

It was especially surprising that the characters took the story for unexpected twists and turns. I had to trust them. There were a few spots where I wasn’t too sure they knew where they were going, but they got back on track soon enough. It really seemed to take on a life of its own. That was very surprising to me.

I am considering posting a couple more excerpts in the coming week. For now I am just content for you to know that I finished. Yes!

One day the Sun and the Wind were quarreling about who was stronger. The Sun saw a traveler approaching.

“Let us see who can make this man’s jacket come off of him. Surely that one is the strongest,” said the Sun thus challenging the Wind to a duel.

The Wind went first. He blew hard. The clouds billowed about. He blew harder and the leaves swirled in angry response about the man’s legs. The Wind continued to blow, but the man clenched his jacket ever closer to his body even grabbing at the hood to hold it securely in place. The Wind could do no else but admit defeat.

“It is an impossible duel, Sun. How could you possibly make this man’s jacket come off of him?” said the Wind in a hollow defeated voice.

“We shall see,” said the Sun with a gleam in his eyes and a knowing grin on his face.

With the Wind out of the way it was the Sun’s turn. First the sun began to gently warm the land with his soft rays. The man let his hood slip off and pulled the zipper loose. The Sun beat down on the earth ever increasing the heat. Soon the man had peeled the jacket from his perspiring limbs and was dragging it along beside him as he wiped the beads of sweat from his brow.

The moral of the story is gentle persuasion in kindness is often much more effective than brute force in anger.

This ancient story gives us pause to consider the ways in which we seek to accomplish a goal. It makes us think about what methods we choose to employ whereby influencing, motivating or even inspiring other people to action. We could also have a lively discussion as to the purposes and motives which spurred such a contest between the Sun and the Wind.

Do with it what you will.

A little chat at lunch brought up an interesting postulation and reminded me of this story. The wind has been so strong today. So the conversation explored the livelihood of the wind. Is the wind alive? My children wanted ‘the truth’. I told them that this was not a time for conclusions, rather an opportunity to exchange ideas.

What do you think? Here are some links to lengthy definitions from Websters in case you need a starting point: alive and life.

Wind can grow from a light breeze to blustery. Think about the meaning of the term ‘full blown’. Growth is evidence of life.

Wind can die. ‘Oh, we can’t fly the kites any more because the wind has died down.’ There are times when there is only stillness before the wind is born. Wind seems to have a life span.

Wind can will it’s way. The debilitating dust storms of the desert attest to this. The blinding torrents whipped about by the force of the wind creating devastation in it’s wake might lend us to believe this is true. Look at the movement of a tornado and you might think that it is alive.

Wind speaks. It is howling at my window right now. The song it sings through the hollow reeds by a lake mellows hearers. Whispering at frozen ears in the heights of mountain tops one is inclined to listen.

If something grows, speaks, wills it’s way and eventually dies it sounds to me as though it possesses life. Just some thoughts this afternoon as the trees bow to magnificence and the dust dances in homage.