2001, September 09. Faculty of Philosophy. Memphis, USA.
Wals’s troubles began when he decided to become figurative. At that time, Walsh was a dilettante painter, dean of the Faculty of Philosophy at the University of Memphis and an expert on Hume. Strangely enough, Hume had convinced him that God exists. Because there is a Natural Law in Hume he would say. Though he would not say where. Or why. He was married to a traditionalist Catholic woman and had had five children. The eldest had decided to become a soldier and was deployed during Operation Enduring Freedom to some unspecified place in Afghanistan. Iván Walsh began painting for the freedom of gesture and the blot, perhaps to convince himself of the importance of qualia (another philosophical problem he had thought about almost as much as Natural Law in Hume) but one day he wanted to paint a portrait. And it disgusted him so much that he decided to join the studio of a teacher who promised to teach children and adults. He was in the adult section, of course. The teacher remarked that he preferred his students to paint standing before the canvas that often covered the model’s nakedness.
—Since you are already an older man —said the teacher— you may sit down.
His state of being in the world changed. Just like the day when, in Mexico City, during a vacation with his parents the waiter asked him:
—What would you like to drink mister?
With this second sentence he became an adult with the teacher’s in Memphis, an older adult.
After that first class he decided to become self-taught. He looked at himself in a mirror and began mixing paint as he used to do when he was only painted blots and scribbles, but this time trying to resemble himself. What have you become? He asked himself that week when he interrupted himself only to teach classes (he did not even stop to prepare them) and to play music with his younger children in the idyllic Southern living room in a Memphis suburb.
Then the news arrived. His soldier son was wounded in combat. Things happened quickly, the wound was not serious and the young man recovered easily. But they gave him veteran status. During a party, Jim (the son) threw a party with his friends and got drunk. The upstairs neighbor came down to ask him rather rudely to turn down the volume and the decorated soldier showed off his veteran’s badge to him.
—So a veteran of Afghanistan huh? —Asked the neighbor with a malicious smile.
Jim was put on trial for conduct unbecoming a veteran and for having challenged (so the records said) a Vietnam veteran. Because Walsh’s son could not have known that the neighbor was a veteran too. Of an older and more fondly remembered war. Walsh’s wife became terribly upset, the musical gatherings and the peace of Sundays came to an end. She cried very often and even more when she learned she would have to defend Jim to keep him from being dishonorably expelled from the army. During a meal in which Iván ate only potatoes (because he was a strict vegetarian) his wife remarked very anxiously (and eating a steak that disgusted Iván, that the military lawyer who was helping them had said it would be impossible. The way Jim had behaved toward the Vietnam veteran, the way he had shown off his badges was dishonorable and there was, in short, no possibility of their kicking him out of the army with his honor intact. Jim would have to face a circus, according to Walsh’s wife, in which they would remove the buttons of his dress uniform one by one with a saber. Finally they would tear off his medal that way.
Walsh had learned about Natural Law, about Hume and about painting. With his wife and his eventual conversion to Catholicism he also learned the Bible. Perhaps that was why he remarked, as he cut his potato very calmly:
—Even Jesus, being the Son of God had to learn the answer.
His wife exploded. She hurled the steak against the wall and made a blot like those Iván used to paint when he was not figurative.
The musical gatherings ended, the peace ended and, for all her extreme Catholicism, her lawyers informed Walsh the next day, while he was working in his university office that she wanted a divorce.
—Bring me everything I need to sign —he said and went on writing a report of his semester’s activities which, in the end, he decided to leave unfinished. He walked home (a very long journey, more than an hour) and set up the mirror. It was the first time he had really liked a figurative painting of his own. But he left it. He remembered Mexico not as Steinbeck’s lustful paradise. It was the place where he had first been called mister. And that was where he headed after first making sure that the credit card was still in his card. He walked to the bus station. And ended up in Cuetzalan. He never missed the decorated soldier or his wife who ate her meat almost raw or those other children of his with whom he had spent so many afternoons playing Shubert.
2001, September 09. Faculty of Philosophy. Memphis, USA.
Wals’s troubles began when he decided to become figurative. At that time, Walsh was a dilettante painter, dean of the Faculty of Philosophy at the University of Memphis and an expert on Hume. Strangely enough, Hume had convinced him that God exists. Because there is a Natural Law in Hume he would say. Though he would not say where. Or why. He was married to a traditionalist Catholic woman and had had five children. The eldest had decided to become a soldier and was deployed during Operation Enduring Freedom to some unspecified place in Afghanistan. Iván Walsh began painting for the freedom of gesture and the blot, perhaps to convince himself of the importance of qualia (another philosophical problem he had thought about almost as much as Natural Law in Hume) but one day he wanted to paint a portrait. And it disgusted him so much that he decided to join the studio of a teacher who promised to teach children and adults. He was in the adult section, of course. The teacher remarked that he preferred his students to paint standing before the canvas that often covered the model’s nakedness.
—Since you are already an older man —said the teacher— you may sit down.
His state of being in the world changed. Just like the day when, in Mexico City, during a vacation with his parents the waiter asked him:
—What would you like to drink mister?
With this second sentence he became an adult with the teacher’s in Memphis, an older adult.
After that first class he decided to become self-taught. He looked at himself in a mirror and began mixing paint as he used to do when he was only painted blots and scribbles, but this time trying to resemble himself. What have you become? He asked himself that week when he interrupted himself only to teach classes (he did not even stop to prepare them) and to play music with his younger children in the idyllic Southern living room in a Memphis suburb.
Then the news arrived. His soldier son was wounded in combat. Things happened quickly, the wound was not serious and the young man recovered easily. But they gave him veteran status. During a party, Jim (the son) threw a party with his friends and got drunk. The upstairs neighbor came down to ask him rather rudely to turn down the volume and the decorated soldier showed off his veteran’s badge to him.
—So a veteran of Afghanistan huh? —Asked the neighbor with a malicious smile.
Jim was put on trial for conduct unbecoming a veteran and for having challenged (so the records said) a Vietnam veteran. Because Walsh’s son could not have known that the neighbor was a veteran too. Of an older and more fondly remembered war. Walsh’s wife became terribly upset, the musical gatherings and the peace of Sundays came to an end. She cried very often and even more when she learned she would have to defend Jim to keep him from being dishonorably expelled from the army. During a meal in which Iván ate only potatoes (because he was a strict vegetarian) his wife remarked very anxiously (and eating a steak that disgusted Iván, that the military lawyer who was helping them had said it would be impossible. The way Jim had behaved toward the Vietnam veteran, the way he had shown off his badges was dishonorable and there was, in short, no possibility of their kicking him out of the army with his honor intact. Jim would have to face a circus, according to Walsh’s wife, in which they would remove the buttons of his dress uniform one by one with a saber. Finally they would tear off his medal that way.
Walsh had learned about Natural Law, about Hume and about painting. With his wife and his eventual conversion to Catholicism he also learned the Bible. Perhaps that was why he remarked, as he cut his potato very calmly:
—Even Jesus, being the Son of God had to learn the answer.
His wife exploded. She hurled the steak against the wall and made a blot like those Iván used to paint when he was not figurative.
The musical gatherings ended, the peace ended and, for all her extreme Catholicism, her lawyers informed Walsh the next day, while he was working in his university office that she wanted a divorce.
—Bring me everything I need to sign —he said and went on writing a report of his semester’s activities which, in the end, he decided to leave unfinished. He walked home (a very long journey, more than an hour) and set up the mirror. It was the first time he had really liked a figurative painting of his own. But he left it. He remembered Mexico not as Steinbeck’s lustful paradise. It was the place where he had first been called mister. And that was where he headed after first making sure that the credit card was still in his card. He walked to the bus station. And ended up in Cuetzalan. He never missed the decorated soldier or his wife who ate her meat almost raw or those other children of his with whom he had spent so many afternoons playing Shubert.
2001, septiembre 09. Facultad de filosofía. Memphis, EEUU.
Los problemas de Wals comenzaron cuando decidió volverse figurativo. En aquel tiempo, Walsh era pintor dilettante, dean de la Facultad de Filosofía en la Universidad de Memphis y experto en Hume. Cosa rara, Hume lo había convencido de que Dios existe. Porque hay un Ley Natural en Hume decía. Aunque no decía ni en dónde. Ni por qué. Estaba casado con una mujer católica tradicionalista y había tenido cinco hijos. El mayor había decidido volverse militar y fue desplazado durante la Operación Libertad Duradera a cierto lugar indeterminado en Afganistán. Iván Walsh comenzó a pintar por la libertad del gesto y la mancha, para convencerse, tal vez de la importancia de la qualia (otro problema filosófico en el que había pensado casi tanto como la Ley Natural en Hume) pero un día quiso hacer un retrato. Y le produjo tanta repugnancia que decidió entrar al taller de un profesor que prometía enseñar a niños y adultos. Él estaba en la sección de adultos, claro. El profesor comentó que prefería que sus alumnos pintaran de pie frente al lienzo que a menudo cubría la desnudez de la modelo.
—Como ya eres un hombre mayor —dijo el profesor— tú puedes sentarte.
Su estado de estar en el mundo cambió. Igual que el día que en la Ciudad de México, durante unas vacaciones con sus padres le preguntó el mesero:
—What would you like to drink mister?
Con esta segunda frase se volvió adulto con la del profesor en Memphis, adulto mayor.
Después de aquella primera clase decidió volverse autodidacta. Se miraba en un espejo y comenzó a mezclar pintura como solía hacer cuando era sólo pintaba manchas y rayones, pero esta vez tratando de asemejarse a sí mismo. ¿En qué te has convertido? Se preguntó aquella semana en que sólo se interrumpió para dar clases (no se detuvo ni siquiera para prepararlas) y para tocar con sus hijos menores en la idílica sala sureña en un suburbio de Memphis.
Entonces llegó la noticia. El hijo militar fue herido en combate. Las cosas fueron rápidas, la herida no fue grave y el muchacho se recompuso con facilidad. Pero le dieron el grado de veterano. Durante una fiesta, Jim (el hijo) hizo una fiesta con sus amigos y se puso borracho. El vecino del piso superior bajó a pedirle de modo poco amable que bajaran el volumen y el condecorado militar le presumió su insignia de veterano.
—¿Conque veterano de Afganistan uh? —Preguntó el vecino con una sonrisa maliciosa.
Jim fue puesto a juicio por conductas indignas de un veterano y por haber retado (eso decían las actas) a un veterano de Vietnam. Porque el hijo de Walsh no podía saber que el vecino también era veterano. De una guerra más vieja y más añorada. La esposa de Walsh se alteró muchísimo, se acabaron las tertulias musicales y la paz de los domingos. Lloraba con muchísima frecuencia y más cuando supo que tendría que defender a Jim para que no fuera expulsado del ejército con deshonor. Durante una comida en que Iván sólo comía patatas (porque era un estricto vegetariano) la esposa comentó muy ansiosa (y comiendo un bife que a Iván le repugnaba, que el abogado militar que los estaba ayudando había dicho que sería imposible. El modo en que actuó Jim frente al veterano de Vietnam, la forma en que había presumido sus insignias era deshonrroso y no existía, en fin, posibilidad de que lo corrieran del ejército conservando el honor. Jim tendría que enfrentar un circo, según dijo la esposa de Walsh, en el que le irían quitando uno a uno los botones del uniforme de gala con un sable. Finalmente le arrancarían así la medalla.
Walsh había aprendido de Ley Natural, de Hume y de pintura. Con su esposa y su eventual conversión al catolicismo aprendió también la Biblia. Tal vez por eso comentó, mientras partía su papa con mucha calma:
—Aún Jesus, siendo Hijo de Dios tuvo que aprender la respuesta.
La esposa estalló. Lanzó el bife contra la pared y formó una mancha como las que pintaba Iván cuando no era figurativo.
Se acabaron las tertulias musicales, se acabó la paz y, con todo y su catolicismo extremo, los abogados de ella le anunciaron a Walsh al día siguiente, mientras trabajaba en su despacho de la universidad que ella quería divorciarse.
—Tráiganme todo lo que yo necesite firmar —dijo y siguió escribiendo un reporte de sus actividades semestrales que, finalmente, decidió dejar incompleto. Caminó hasta su casa (un trayecto muy largo, de más de una hora) y colocó el espejo. Fue la primera vez que un cuadro figurativo suyo le gustó realmente. Pero lo dejó. Recordaba México no como el paraíso lúbrico de Steinbeck. Era el lugar en que lo habían llamado señor por primera vez. Y hacia allá se dirigió no sin antes asegurarse de que en su tarjeta aún estaba la tarjeta de crédito. Se fue caminando a la estación de camiones. Y terminó en Cuetzalan. Nunca extrañó ni al militar condecorado ni a su mujer que comía carne casi cruda ni a los otros hijos suyos con los que tantas tardes interpretó a Shubert.