Angela Alés

A MULTICULTURAL SURREALIST

I was born in Barranquilla, Colombia in 1971, of an Andalusian father and mother of Lebanese decent. My parents divorced while I was very young. I believe I might have been 4 or 5 years old at the time, but it is still unclear to me. Back then, I lived with my mom and both of my maternal grandparents who shared the house with us. The arrangement was something very typical of a Latin-American household, except our family dynamic was anything but typical. As I look back on that period of my life what springs to mind is "if the walls of that house could talk", they would waver back and forth between hand-wringing and a sob fest while perhaps manifesting a severe anxiety attack, or even a profound depression.

As memories of those childhood years flood my mind, what resonates most is the hypnotic rhythms of flamenco castanets and “taconeo” (stamping of the feet) and the plaintive wail of the Spanish guitar and flamenco music. It was the fiery soundtrack of my youth and a source of cultural grounding I still feel passionate about to this day. People of all ages walked in and out of my home all day long. My mom had a dance studio in the back part of the house.

I recollect how stressful it became at times. My grandmother, Pity, would complain incessantly about how dirty the floor would get due to the students traipsing through the halls. At other times my grandmother would grumble about how she didn’t want the students to wait outside for their rides because they would damage the lawn.

Flamenco was her forté. I remember her students would have to come in and out of mom’s studio through our home. I recollect how stressful it became at times. My grandmother, Pity, would complain incessantly about how dirty the floor would get due to the students traipsing through the halls. At other times, my grandmother would grumble about how she didn’t want the students to wait outside for their rides because they would damage the lawn.

It was a struggle for my mother, a constant fight between the two since this was the main source of income. My mother would worry that the students would not return to her class. So, even though I was the only child of an only child, the house was rarely quiet. If the dance studio was not in function, then the arguments between the grown-ups could be heard echoing throughout. On occasion there was silence, or maybe it was just the internal monologues each one of us engaged in during peaceful respites. I remember being in elementary school, maybe 7 or 8 years old and walking into the chapel during my recess, alone. It was an all-girl bilingual, catholic school, “where the girls with money” would attend. Since mom worked there, we got a break with tuition. I would often sit on the front pew, looking towards the altar and the different religious statues.

Some days I would cry and ponder why my family had to be the way it was. On other days I would feel grateful for being surrounded by such authentic, unique individuals who invariably nurtured and enriched me. I distinctly remember watching them as if I was the audience observing a theater performance and wondering what the next act would bring. My grandfather, Cico, was my first art teacher. He was an alcoholic, a lawyer and my favorite person in this entire universe till this day. He had a small studio in the rear of the patio. It consisted of a modest room filled with books and a table with his oil paints and brushes, some of which which I still use today.

He is still my favorite person in this entire universe. In his studio, there was an easel, a hammock that smelled like alcohol and cigarettes, and a single lightbulb hanging from a string in the middle of a bare ceiling. I used to love that space, especially if he was in there at work. I could watch him paint for hours. He would teach me how to mix colors and I especially remember the day he showed me how he painted water.

It seemed magical to me how he explained that water reflects the objects around it and the shimmering way he seemed to capture the light with his paints. I remember that moment as if it was yesterday. I must have been around 6 years old then. My grandmother, Pity, I have to take a pause while millions of thoughts invade my mind as I try to put her down on paper. In contrast to Cico, she was a tormented soul. Later on, during my early twenties, I learned of something that made it clear why she was the way she was. But growing up, I never understood.

Who knows, now-a-days she might have been diagnosed as bipolar. I’ve come to realize that her emotions, triggered by her thoughts, got the best of her most of the time. Later on in life I also learned that she was the one that had taught my grandfather how to paint. It seems that at some point, she had operated a small art school in her garage.

She was a seamstress and a very good one with a razor-sharp eye for details. My mother would design the costumes for her dance performances and my grandmother would execute them beautifully. Grandma was my first Guru. For what seemed like endless nights when my mother was not home, my grandmother would teach me about God, the spirit world, and regale me with anecdotes of her home town, Mompox.

She was an amazing story teller, fantastic at painting pictures with words and gestures. It was a nurturing experience when she was doing fine, but then there were the other times when her reveries would turn bleak. She seemed a revolving door of contradictions to me. 

I remember her taking me to my room once, locking the door and turning off the lights. She then proceeded to mortify me by telling me that the devil would come and eat me if I did not tell her where my mother was. She insisted that I was crucifying Jesus over and over again every time I told a lie. I must have been five or six at the time and the devil never. My mother was a very strong, talented woman and the way I see it, her roles shifted between mother and sister, teacher and friend.

She was my mother because she reprehended me, took care of me and loved me. She was like a sister because somehow, I protected her from my grandmother. She was my friend, because she confided things to me that might not have been the norm. She was my teacher, because mothers often are to their children, and because she taught me how to dance and draw. She was my second art teacher and remains my best friend.

I do not recall if I asked for this or if my mother wanted me to, but after my parent’s divorced, I used to sleep in the same bed as my mom, even though I had my own room.

For a large percentage of my childhood, my mother dated Carlos, the man that later became my stepfather.

“Seven years of Calvary”, she liked to describe it. It was not the typical relationship since she was the only one committed to it. I can’t begin to count the times she would get up in the middle of the night to paint, trying to exorcise the turmoil within her due to him. I would accompany her down stairs and quietly observe her paint her sorrows, until the sun came up or until I could no longer stay awake. Her brush stroke was dynamic, expressive, strong and very organic. I must have been 8 or 9.

And what about my father? He worked on a boat I’d been told. He was the mechanical engineer of the vessel, so while they were married, I did not see him that much, or I simply don’t remember. After the divorce I probably saw him for a few days maybe every other year or so. He would call for my birthdays and Christmas and besides that, not much communication with him or that side of my family. There was a period there where I did not know of him for about eight years.

My identity, my existence was based on these amazing, complex characters that shared my everyday life, and the absence of a father. I was told and could see, conflicting reasons of why he was not there. I was an anxious, lonely, angry child, or at least that is how I remember feeling. I had a few close friends but felt most comfortable in my bedroom drawing or dancing (about 4 hours a day), especially performing.

Art became my escape. I could submerge so much in it, that nothing mattered except that moment, the now. At some point around the time that I was 11, Carlos, my mom’s “Calvary”, proposed matrimony to her. Of course, she said YES! and since he was living in the United States, we packed our bags and left everything we knew and loved behind.

So far, my life had felt like a roller coaster combined with scenes from a dark comedy. I had no idea what was up ahead. I had known Carlos for most of my life. As a matter of fact, he was related to my mother in a very interesting way, which I’ll explain at another time. No, they were not brother and sister. Him and I cared a lot about each other, but it was hard for me at first. Actually, it was probably difficult for him as well. He now found himself with an instant family, child included. 

Carlos was a very charismatic, intelligent and funny individual. Oh boy and could he dance! After about six months into their marriage, my mom had to go back to Colombia to get our residence visas. Her return was delayed due to some bureaucratic issues and Carlos and I were left alone for about four months. By this point I was attending an art magnet school program thanks to a teacher who had seen me draw and dance. I had applied for both disciplines but chose fine arts thinking that my mother could always teach me how to dance. I had to be up and ready by 5:30 a.m. for the school bus to pick me up, and, Carlos, being the non-morning person that he was, would always be there by my side. I still smile with love and gratitude every time I think of that. 

I was finally going to have the opportunity to experience a father daughter relationship. I remember, with great joy, that one late afternoon we went out to pick green mangos from trees in this abandoned lot. We could not reach the fruit, so he let me climb atop the roof of his car while he slowly and carefully navigated under the tree’s branches, placing me closer to each mango. We had green mangos with lemon and salt for weeks and lots of laughs.

That summer Carlos and I went on a trip to meet some of his friends. It was going to be my first trip to Orlando and maybe my first opportunity to see Disney World, so I was super excited. It was not the magical experience I expected. There was a terrible car accident. I was not in the car, but Carlos was, and with tragic results. From the freak three-car accident, only Carlos was injured. He was left paralyzed from the neck down.

From that moment on, my life became divided in two. I would now relate to things as before or after the accident. I was about to turn thirteen and the future seemed more uncertain than ever. The time we spent at the hospital, at the ICU, was difficult for everyone. My mother was able to travel the day after the accident. Her “Calvary” had returned darker and more painful than ever, and, yet. I felt nothing. I guess it was my defense mechanism, or the fact that I felt I had to be strong for her. I just remember not crying.

I do recall having taken my sketchbook with me on the trip. I never left home without it. This book became my oasis, and where my artistic language was born. Realistic looking hearts with bleeding aortas, open wounds, spinal cords, things of that nature started to appear in my art journal. Visions of heaven and hell, light and dark, were there as well. I became obsessed with the flesh and the spirit. 

I must have gotten angry at God, but I know I was growing closer to Him. My Catholic faith was coming through but there were also signs of another kind of spiritual awareness. Black and white labyrinths and twisted floors were one of my favorite things to draw. I now understand them as part of my visual language. They represent our duality. By twelve my style was defined. I was a surrealist.

At this time we had to return to Colombia. Carlos was out of the hospital and his condition required 24/7 assistance, and money. The only way for my mom to make enough was for us to return and for her to reopen her dance studio. 

I was sent ahead of them and given the responsibility to install ramps in the house, prepare Carlos’ room, posting ads promoting the dance studio, and taking calls for registration. I believe I was thirteen.

Have I mentioned that my mother is my heroine? She worked at the dance studio for eleven hours a day and at night she took care of Carlos. That meant catherization, shifting his weight in bed and everything else that comes with taking care of a quadriplegic. Life was not easy, but the show must go on. My life became “normal”. We all got into our routines. My old school, Marymount, found out about our hardship and gave me a full scholarship so I could attend. 

Sister Johanna, the director, even took the time to come to my house to ask me back to school. She not only gifted me with tuition, but with the uniforms, books, and even a crucifix pendant to wear with a necklace. I went back to dancing and continued exploring my visual world.I don’t recall how it came to me, but by fifteen I read, what I considered, the first book that got me started upon this new spiritual search.

I say “new” because I had always been searching for a relationship with God, even since I was a little girl. This time something was different. I was older so now I was questioning everything. The book was “Love” by Leo Buscaglia. I am terrible at remembering names, but I have never forgotten this author’s name or how I felt reading his book. It came at the right time. It did not take away all of my anger, but it gave me hope. 

By sixteen we were able to come back to the States. We knew Carlos was better off in Miami where he had accessibility to spinal cord advances in medicine. I was accepted to a Visual Arts high school, New World School of the Arts. I was exposed, for the first time, to print making, ceramics and photography, as well as painting and drawing. It was a wonderful experience because it seemed as if all of us, weird, creative adolescents, had found our niche.

By this point art had become more than just painting pictures. It was a fantastic psychiatrist and a cheap one too.

Written by Angela Alés. Posted by Payal Kripalani Thiffault