Clouds at a Distance: Sketches of Los Angeles

Clouds at a Distance

by Armando Ortiz

He sat on the slope of the hill, under a tree, watching the tears fall onto the ground. Every falling drop looked like dense soap bubbles, shimmering on the surface. It was an oily substance which the sun had been extracting from his body all afternoon. Disillusionment had betrayed him far too many times, but today it was replaced with a tremendous sadness that he hadn’t felt in years. Time, it seemed, was suspended within those tears, creating a whirlwind of tie-dyed colors. Sitting there, sobbing, watching every teardrop soak the ground unveiled a terrible beauty in that falling liquid which came from the core of his being. His heart, ever since he’d decided to take the journey north, had turned into a tiny factory of tears, and it seemed that blood no longer pumped through his veins, instead it was an emotional substance of which he had yet to know the name.

The recent heat wave brought back hidden memories, when as a kid his grandfather would threaten to put his hand on the comal, which he had the luck to feel twice, but the warnings and threats never really amounted to much. He covered his face by bending it a bit, and pulling his baseball cap over his forehead. Memories of his past youth rushed through his body like a cold river, giving him a slight shiver. He recalled playing street ball on the dirt roads, where his imagination was as wide as those rural streets, where most of the time those roads were trampled by cattle and sheep. In that old town, where he bought frozen topos from the old lady down the street, small plastic bags filled with sugar cane water mixed with vanilla. It tasted divine, and immediately cooled his body.

In a split second he was transported back to where he was, under a tree, on the side of the cement trail, inside Pan Pacific Park, on the westside of Los Angeles. He could hear the chatter of kids and the splashing of water that came from the public swimming pool that was above from where he sat. The sparrows sang their listless chirps. The croaking crows were especially oppressive, as if they were all opening up beer cans in unison, and gulping down a cold one just for their amusement. They gave off a devilish laughter that could only mean one thing, they knew who the culprit was, but they had no intention of snitching. Birds of all types perched on branches, crossing through his vision and circling around him, as if they were checking to see how he was doing. They were a silent collective witness to what had just happened. A hollow ting suddenly pierced the summer sounds. His eyes wandered for a bit to find its origin and then he spotted the kid, who had just hit the ball and was sliding into first base. The first base umpire’s body language made it clear that the kid was safe.

Los Angeles had been enjoying one of its lingering late summer heat waves, business was booming, and the area where Esquiviel was working was fairly safe. Yet today the cards were not on his side. He had taken the deal, and taken a slight risk. All there was left inside the popsicle cart was dry ice. Dry ice was all that there was inside the cart, and its vapors were quickly disappearing into the invisible air.  Not only had he sold all the popsicles by early afternoon, but he was getting ready to watch a soccer game, when suddenly out of nowhere, a fist hammered his temple, which then became a pair of hands that stole the money he had made that day, all 80 dollars. His wallet, his only treasure, which contained some photos of his wife and child, had been snatched from his pocket.

He laid on the ground for a few seconds. Then some ladies spotted him. A group of ladies taking their afternoon walk noticed him on the ground, unconscious. They ran over to see what was wrong with him. Maybe he needed some medical help. They found him in a complete daze. Seeing the old ladies that were helping him revived scenes of the women that regularly attended mass in his hometown. They wore headscarves, long sleeve shirts, and long dresses, but no, he was here, not over there, and their clothes weren’t as colorful as the ones worn back home. These ladies were simply helping him out.

As the landscape came into focus he saw three sparrows under the shade of a shrub, three small creatures that were dust bathing. He could make out an imaginary triangle that the birds made, while they wiggled and made tiny little dust bowls. He didn’t really understand what the voices were saying, because he didn’t know English well. As he was trying to decipher the strange language spoken to him, one of the ladies pulled out a handkerchief, and walked over to the water fountain to get it wet. She returned in less time than it took to get there and wiped some of the dirt that was on his face. He was dizzy, like when he got really drunk with his buddies. He felt hot, as if he was back in his hometown, under an oppressive humid heat. The sweat on his shirt gave him a tingling cold shiver, but the warm hands of the lady brought him back to the park. Her granite eyes made contact with his obsidian eyes and for a moment he felt like a kid again. The sparrows dared to get closer and see for themselves what was going on. He smiled, and said, “ees ohkay, no problem.” The same lady that had wiped his face sat him under a tree, while the youngest one, who was about twenty-four years old, brought the popsicle cart over to him. Their words sounded like early Sunday mass prayers, he thought. Once they saw that he’d just been knocked unconscious, and nothing serious was happening, they smiled, waved at him and resumed their walk. The sparrows took flight when the ladies left.

He sat under the shade of a tree thinking of what had just happened. Within 5 minutes he’d been knocked unconscious by a stranger, robbed of his money, helped to regain consciousness and cleaned by a group of kind ladies. Yet despite all this drama time hadn’t stopped, the chatter of kids could be heard, the sun above was still there, as hot as ever, and birds continued to fly here and there.

He gazed at the park, moving his head from left to right, and right to left, taking in the moment. Kids were playing baseball, the playground was full of toddlers running around playing tag. Other kids sat on swings that swayed left to right, and side to side. At a distance he saw two sun bathers, laying on the grass on a slight slope, reading some magazines. Not too far away from them he also saw some homeless people sleeping under the shade of a tree, above the cool grass, with their bikes next to them. The soccer match had already started, the one he’d intended to watch, America vs. Chivas.

A nice breeze blew through his face and the palm trees rustled. The pine trees moved, as if the pine needles were sweeping the invisible landscape of time. The wind, and the trees were cleaning the air, and moving the smog to another place. The warm air dried up the tears that had been running down his cheeks a moment ago. There and then his frown became a smile. The whole moment swept him into a realization that all that was before him was beautiful. The clouds at a distance moved unusually fast, and would soon disappear.

Contemporary Los Angeles Muralists: El Mac and Retna

Contemporary Los Angeles Muralists

by Armando Ortiz

I recall seeing murals when I was a little kid. Anyone born in Los Angeles, at one time or another has to ride inside a car that passes through the 101 and the 110 Freeway intersections. It was there where I saw images of Roman pillars floating in space, and satellites with robotic arms studying space rocks. It was on the walls of these intersections where I saw giant paintings of marathon runners, commemorating the 1984 Olympics, and images of toddlers picking up basketballs and attempting to kick soccer balls, celebrating childhood. It was in these areas where one of the more iconic Los Angeles artist painted his images, Kent Twitchell. As a little kid his murals appeared larger than life, they really were larger than life, and they contained an energy that other images I saw lacked. Under the freeway bridges of Echo Park on could see the enormous faces and hands that he’d painted years ago. Most, if not all the images described, have now disappeared, but there are always other artist picking up the slack creating murals on other walls of Los Angeles.

Growing up in Koreatown, the accessibility of murals was limited. The nearest mural was at the intersection of Olympic Blvd and Western Blvd. It was a gigantic image of a traditional Korean dancer painted by Dong-in Park. I would stare, and get lost in my imagination every time I saw this mural. I never imagined that one day I’d visit South Korea though, but that’s a whole different story. Most of the murals, while growing up in the 80’s were located beyond Alvarado Blvd to the east. I might be wrong, and if someone reads this that knows better can correct me, but it seems that most murals were closer to Downtown Los Angeles. I can recall walking down Broadway and seeing big murals on the sides of buildings. Unfortunately, one grows up and responsibilities along with work seem to overwhelm the senses and makes us forget what we saw as little kids.

Upon my return from living abroad, I began to discover murals that I’d never seen before. The images contained an energy that connected with me, reigniting similar feelings I got as a kid while staring at murals. The first mural I came across is found inside a car wash that’s on Western Blvd a block north of Melrose Ave. Its the image of a giant Buddha in the style that I often saw in South Korea. The painting was amazing. Every time I drove by the image I couldn’t help to think that it looked like an actual sculpture. “Its only a matter of time before people begin to worship the image,” I thought every time I drove past the image. Then to my amazement another mural appeared. On La Brea Ave, a block south of 3rd street a portrait of a woman that seemed to be lost in her dreams appeared. The style of the mural was similar to that of the Buddha image found inside the car-wash. For several months I kept seeing both images and kept trying to drive slow enough to get the artist’s name, but despite writing down the artists names, El Mac and Retna, I was too lazy to stop the car and take photos or simply forgot to look up the artists on the Internet.

One day, as I was about to make a left turn on Hollywood Blvd to get onto Western Blvd another discovery was made. This intrigued me and made me decide to one day go and take photos of their work before thugs vandalized the images. Sadly though, I never made the time to acquire personal images of the murals, but kept uncovering their work in different pockets of Los Angeles. While driving around the city I came discover murals created by these two talented artist on Pico Blvd, Wilton and Hollywood Blvd, La Cienega Blvd between Adams Blvd and Washington Blvd. Even while traveling and visiting other cities I continued to come across their work.

Outside of California, I was lucky to come across their work as well. In Denver, Colorado while driving down one of city’s main avenues I spotted their work on the top of a building. In Salt Lake City, Utah I got to see the magical portrayal of the Virgin Mary in person. In Downtown SLC, few blocks away from the Mormon Temple the image of Mary was beautifully rendered on the wall of a building. The last mural I discovered outside of California by them was while driving to my uncle’s home in Florida. I was leaving Miami Beach, and driving north, when suddenly to my right I saw a giant preternatural image of a man looking up to the heavens. I was impressed and in awe.

About two years ago I got the privilege of shaking hands with both El Mac and Retna. Though I knew that Retna was part Central American I didn’t really get to talk with him, however I did get to talk with El Mac, briefly, and he told me about Caravaggio. I got to tell him that the stuff they were doing was amazing, and that the appreciation murals had made a full circle in my life. I never imagined that the stuff I enjoyed watching as a child was actually being affecting me unconsciously in a such a powerful way. A few months later, I bought a book they put out and have continued to follow their work.

When one looks at the various muralist that have painted the sides of buildings across Los Angeles, one sees that every artist has managed to leave their energy behind. What El Mac and Retna do with their work is along those same lines, but there is something more that is included in their images. The sense of hope or what we call ‘esperanza’ in Spanish is what their collaborative murals contain. Images of people always looking up to the heavens as if in prayer, peering beyond the walls and into an imaginary image across our vision as if in defiance or staring down to the infinite space within the paint and an unknown mirage that’s created are powerful inference to a world beyond reality. It gives the viewer a glimpse into what drives humans to pursue their vocations. Either way, both these artist manage to conjure up emotions within the viewer, and if that can be accomplished then the message of hope can be understood even within the hieroglyphic like script of Retna, and the life like images of El Mac. These two artist have certainly managed to create magic with their art.