(Verano, 2021, Costa egea de Turquía, sobre mirando las ruinas de la antigua ciudad griega de Erythrae, Ἐρυθραί/Summer 2021, Aegean Coast of Turkey, overlooking the ancient Greek city Erythrae, Ἐρυθραί)
No me quejo, ni del confinamiento del 2020 ni de la nueva normalidad, reconozco la necesidad de ajustarse, protegerse, vacunarse y usar la mascarilla, asi que he seguido mi rumbo y mi manera de trabajar. Aquí os muestro algunas de las obras del 2021. Os invito a nuestro Instagram donde si las he publicado todas: @Francisco_Bravo_Cabrera y os doy un abrazo desde mi València…
I did not complain about the confinement we went through in 2020, nor the new normal of now. I recognise there is a danger and a need to adjust, protect oneself, get vaccinated and wear the mask. Here now I show you some of the art-work I have done throughout 2021. I also invite you to our Instagram: @Francisco_Bravo_Cabrera where I publish more of them. Big hug to all from my city, València…
(Art is a very human expression, therefore only humans can make art. Art is not intuitive, it is contrived, planned out, researched, in fact, art is the search…FBC)
(Photo property of FBC, Omnia Caelum Studios Valencia, C.2021, All Rights Reserved)
Chapter 2 “The University”
It was 0900 hours, Monday morning. I was sitting in a small courtyard in the back of the School of Law of the principal autonomous university of the Central American country we were “visiting” which I will not name, no need to.
It was a typical January day for that country, rather cold, windy, dry and the sky looked like someone had sprayed it with grey paint. I looked at my student ID card and smiled. The picture, hell, it wasn’t that bad. In my backpack there was a brand new notebook and a book on legal psychology. I had to choose something I kind of knew about, so psychology…of something…it was.
After my second cigarette my school-mate showed up. Cute, brunette, soft spoken and quite pleasant. She wore jeans, sneakers a rather strange looking greenish coat and a brown…very ugly…scarf. Her lovely hair was flying in the breeze and she looked like she would rather be indoors, perhaps in a warm coffee shop.
“When’s dance starting?”
“In ten minutes, you’re late,” I said looking at my watch and trying to avoid eye contact.
“Then I’m right on time.”
“Right.”
Silence surrounded us as we sat and looked at the murals painted on the walls of the classroom buildings. Communist propaganda for sure. A picture of Salvador Allende, the fallen Chilean socialist dictator-to-be and of course a portrait of “Che” Guevara, the “Heroic Guerrilla”, patron saint of wanna-be communists. I don’t think the real communists cared too much about him. They saw through him and knew he was a phoney.
Then we heard commotion from the other side of the buildings. The dance had commenced. There were male and female voices chanting some stupid refrains or something, then cheers and indiscernible shouts. I suppose this is what you would probably hear from a mob…of some sort…when they’re congregating. But this was also our cue to perform our duty, which meant we needed to take a closer look.
“Let’s move out corporal,” I said to her without even looking at her pale white face, rosacea setting in, probably by the caress of the cold breeze and definitely trying to avoid those dark brown eyes that seemed to penetrate my soul and search out for my most tender points and…
We grabbed out back-packs and walked briskly…no running…towards the other side of the buildings. On that side there was a square, a huge open area that communicated, not only with the street, but with other sections of the university, especially with the Faculty offices and the Athenaeum.
“That’s him, isn’t it?” Spotting Chino. No emotion in her voice, totally professional.
“Yup.” I said as I looked at the fools that Chino and his cohorts had managed to brainwash.
The group, albeit noisy, was small, just about twelve “students”, probably from the School of Law and the School of Philosophy. The leaders were young men and women, but a little older than what you would think of as the average student. These were the “professional” students whose job was to disrupt, to create problems and to disseminate communist propaganda among the student body. Their function was to promote anything that would be chaotic.
The leader was a guy they called “Chino”, not because he was Chinese, but because he looked like he could have been. I had been briefed thoroughly on him. He was thirty four years old. He had graduated from Law School from this very university, but about eight years ago and now he was back as a Philosophy student. But that was his cover. His job was to agitate, to promote anarchy and to spread the gospel of Fidel Castro and Mao among the young, mouldable minds that attended this great centre of learning.
“Stand here, don’t get too close.” I ordered.
“They’ll disperse?”
“As soon as the cops come.”
“Is everything in place?”
“There’s nothing to put in place,” I thought for a moment then added, “All we have to do is point him out.”
“Ok.”
Suddenly a squad of uniformed, armed police charged the small group. The “students” turned towards them, looked, thought about making a stand, then had a second thought and all ran like water, in spread out in every direction. The police chased them unenthusiastically, yelling curses and waving their batons.
Then I saw the black van approach and stop just about 20 metres from the entrance to the square area where all the action was taking place. A tall man wearing a black overcoat and a NY Yankees baseball cap got out and looked in our direction.
In one fluid motion, that no one would notice or suspect was a signal, I took out a cigarette and as I was taking it to my mouth, I pointed towards Chino. This sign was not perceived by anyone, but the tall man with the Yankees cap knew it well. He looked…I thought he smiled…and nodded. Turning, without a second look, he returned to the van and they quickly sped silently away.
“He saw you?”
“Yup, he knows.”
After a few rather strange minutes of silence, watching as the police re-grouped, empty handed and laughing, Corporal Sandra, turned and said to me, “Are we going to class?”
“It’s our job, of course we’re going to class”
As I walked beside her I thought back to the day in the swamp and the Colonel and the re-assignment. My job was no longer to train, or to try to train these would-be soldiers. My job now was to gather “intelligence”. I would live as a university student, a foreign student, interested in the country and the history and people of Central America. And because of that I enrolled in Law School? It didn’t make sense, but that decision had been made by officers and who was I to question my superiors…
(C.2021, Chapter 2, Fiction by Francisco Bravo Cabrera, 19 NOV 2021, Valencia, Spain)
Dawn never shone bright on these hills. Too much foliage, too much humidity, too many of those green canopies over our heads and way too cold for me. There was a constant mist in the air and fog until zero-ten hours, it was like trekking through clouds. This was January, it would warm up, after all, this is a tropical rain forest.
We were a mixed group, Army, Navy, Marines and “the boys” (We won’t mention who they work for). My three-man group formed what in our section was considered a “platoon”, which in no way resembled a real platoon like in the Infantry. Yet we pounded the dirt as much as they did, but alone, no artillery cover, no air support, no reinforcements and no uniforms.
In those years and for a few that followed, our mission was considered classified. Now it’s been declassified, probably because no one gives a rat’s ass. The nation’s attention has shifted from Central America to the Middle East. But in those years…the late 1970’s…the threat was from communists creating revolution all over the southern half of the Americas and we were there to make sure that did not happen. Especially in this small country…which I will not name…in Central America, one with many beautiful valleys and lakes and many, many hills. That made it perfect for the insurgent guerrillas because since the days when a similar bunch of these overthrew the Cuban government, they grew fond of hiding in the hills…
“Smokey” was my point-man. He got the name, not because of being a heavy smoker, hell, we all would have been “smokeys”, no, but because he hailed from the Smokey Mountains back home, far, far away. Zeno, our navigator and my All-American-Mexican-born-Arizona-resident, a soul truly as red, white and blue as they come, who started life in the Mexican side of the Sonora Desert, manoeuvred us expertly through the rain forests like a native. And then there’s yours truly, Dino. Presently an Army sergeant, born in another continent, far, far away across the pond, as they say, but transplanted to sunny Miami, Florida, and in charge of the mission.
We were sent to these hills because the “boys”, the ones who also did not wear a uniform and sure as hell were not Army, said that one of their recon flights over the area had spotted what they thought to be a campfire. My orders were to find it and neutralise the threat. This was my second mission during this tour of duty. The first one I really don’t even want to remember, but it…somehow…went like this:
I arrived in July and was assigned to a team that would conduct training drills, trying to form those who would be soldiers. But these were civilians, I guess, or resistance fighters, or something, but they were brave and had volunteered to fight the communist guerrillas that were threatening to tear apart their homeland. So we were there to turn them into infantry troops, and only that. And I was happy because these looked like inexperienced but enthusiastic young men and women. I will teach them how to fight, how to survive and how to win, after all I…I think…had the experience.
On the second week our small camp, which had been set up close to the beach on the western… Caribbean…coast, was attacked by a group of about twelve communist guerrillas. The trainees either went down or fled. So it was us against the bad guys and we fired back because when you put a platoon like ours in a situation like this, policy and treaties go down the shitter, and we fight. The commies ran. Perhaps we should not have, but sure as hell we did, and the three of us chased them as they retreated into the deep woods that surrounded our camp.
We had never been in there, so big mistake. We soon found ourselves in a dark, swampy area, waist-high in water probably infested with water moccasins and who knows what else, above us spiders as big as rhesus monkeys and all around us, mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds. It was a bitch…
Our training kicked in and we fell silent, down on one knee, hyper alert, all ears, all eyes and trying not to develop tunnel vision. Soon we were flowing with the water, drifting with the air, and at one with the surroundings. Then we heard them up ahead, deeper into this hell on Earth. They had surely spotted us too and fired. We went down under the water and listened again. Silence. I turned to Zeno who was the closest to me and motioned that we would rise together and fire. He understood and motioned to Smokey behind him.
Then we, smoothly and cleanly, came up, weapons pointed in the direction where their fire had come from, and opened up. We unloaded our magazines, rifles on full automatic, and tactically reloaded and opened up again, and again, until finally I yelled “Cease fire! And stay low”.
No movement from the woods, no sounds, no snakes, no spiders, no mosquitoes. It seemed like everything had been swallowed up by the atmosphere laden with gun powder, echoes of our M-16’s and the occasional tree branch, that broken by a bullet, fell into the bog. The silence after the storm embraced us.
“Let’s get the hell out of here” I ordered.
“Far out man!” came Zeno’s squeaky voice.
“Yeah, right on brothers!” Said Smokey with that southern accent that at times I could not understand.
We re-deployed back to our camp. More troops were arriving in choppers. I saw the Colonel walking my way. And just when I was about to start to explain what had happened, he said, “Come with me sergeant” and led me back to the chopper.
(Chapter One of FICTION BY BRAVO CABRERA. C.2021, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, 16 NOV 2021, Valencia, Spain)
El primero es de la serie JaZzArt en València, Fase II, etapa rosa, número uno,(La serie completa en Instagram: @Francisco_Bravo_Cabrera). Mide 25x35cm y la técnica, grafito (lapices) y tinta sobre una base abstracta de acuarela. La bailarina ocupa el centro de la composición y sus músicos ocupan el lateral izquierdo, mientras que la simbología ocupa el derecho, siendo esta un búho…
La danza es algo mágico-sensual, el arte que siempre nos ha fascinado. ¿Acaso Salomé no bailó con tal sensualidad que embrujó a Herodes con los movimientos de su cuerpo y esto terminó causándole la muerte a Juan el Bautista? ¿Hace falta decir más?
Okay…
The first one is from the series JaZzArt en València, Phase II, Rose Period, Number One. Measures 25x35cm and I painted it with graphite and ink over an abstract background done with watercolours. The dancer occupies the central part of the composition. She has to the right the musicians and to the left symbology in the form of an owl…
The dance is magic-sensuality and is the art form that has always fascinated mankind. Didn’t Salomédance so sensuously that she bewitched Herod with her movements and this ended up causing the death of John the Baptist? Need I say more?
(C.2021, All Rights Reserved)
El segundo…«Terminando la pirueta»…lo he pintado con pintura acrílica sobre tela cien por ciento algodón. Mide 30x60cm y va ser el primero de un triptico que aún está por pintar. El tema es, igual que el anterior, la danza, la sensualidad del movimiento rítmico, fluido, coreografiado o improvisado, pero destinado a ser placentero y bello. ¿Acaso no dicen que los bailarines son «sex-symbols»?
Bailar, con o sin pareja, es un acto social y también uno artístico. Bailamos en nuestras casas cuando nos sentimos felices y queremos celebrar, solo o acompañados. Lo hacemos también en las fechas importantes de nuestra vida, como el día en que nos casamos, en las fiestas de noche buena y por supuesto en la noche vieja ya que dicen que si comenzamos el año bailando bailaremos el año entero. ¡Venga!
The second one is titled «Terminando la pirueta» («Finishing the Pirouette»). It is acrylic on canvas and measures 30x60cm. This is the first of a triptych that I have yet to paint. It’s theme, again, is the dance, the sensuality of motion, of rhythm, fluid movements, choreographed or improvised, but destined to give pleasure and be beautiful. Or don’t they say dancers are «sex-symbols»?
To dance, with or without a partner is a social act and an artistic one. We dance at home when we are happy and we want to celebrate, with others or alone. We also dance at those important times in our lives, like the day of our wedding, on Christmas parties and of course on New Year’s Eve! They say that if one starts the year dancing one will be dancing the whole year! Smashing good!
(C.2021, All Rights Reserved)
El tercero…y último…es un cuadro que he titulado «Fiesta». La técnica, acrílico sobre tela y mide 50x60cm. Se imponen, sobre un fondo abstracto dominado por los colores rosas y amarillos, cinco siluetas, tres bailando, una haciendo unos movimientos gimnásticos y uno tocando un tambor. Se palpa el movimiento en la composición, se sienten los golpes en el cuero del tambor, se respira la alegría de los bailarines y de todos…
Concluyendo, digo que bailar es una reacción humana que surge cuando estamos felices, cachondos o cuando queremos alabar al Dios que nos creó. Los bailarines somos nosotros, la música nos motiva y nos hace movernos al ritmo de un tambor o de una pandereta, pero la música que mas nos ha de hacer bailar está dentro de nuestros oídos y nadie más la puede escuchar…
The third, and last one, is titled «Fiesta» («Party»). It is done with acrylics on canvas and measures 50x60cm. The composition is made with an abstract background, mostly in rose and yellows wherein five silhouettes abide. Three of them are dancing, while one is doing some gymnastic-type movement and one is playing a drum. One can feel the movement, one can hear the pounding on the drum and one can sense the joy of the dancers and all…
In conclusion I will say that dancing is a human reaction that surges within us when we are filled with happiness, when we feel sexy or when we want to praise the God of our creation. We are the dancers and music motivates us and makes us move either to the rhythm of a drum or a tambourine. But the music that really makes us dance is the one that only we can hear and no one else can…
(Imagenes, de los cuadros pintados por Francisco Bravo Cabrera, son propiedad de Francisco Bravo Cabrera y no pueden ser reproducidas sin permiso escrito. Derechos Reservados. C.2021, All Rights Reserved)
(Images of the paintings done by Francisco Bravo Cabrera are the property of Francisco Bravo Cabrera and cannot be reproduced without written permission. C.2021, All Rights Reserved)
Welcome to part 2 of this new Art History limited series. We started with Fra Angelico, and now we continue with another Quatrocentist painter whose work is very important in the development of Renaissance art, and that, of course, created the masters…classics…who still influence artists today.
JaZzArt en València 