By Douglas Evan Weiss
Last night a friend invited me to a small art exhibit in Marbella. My friend, a shaggy local restaurant owner is a lovable hero. This man with his erratic opening schedule and fantastic barbecue is often a joy to be around. I’ve come to his impromptu punk rock shows and had long dinners at his restaurant with my mother and surfed fabulous waves in the glorious sunshine with this rogue. So I took the invitation seriously.
On a whim I forwarded the invite to a women who resides in the area and has been my genuine friend for over a decade. She quickly responded “why not.” Now, if all else went sideways, I could still roll around with N, who is always a dependably weird and fun time. She makes me look good no matter what room we walk into. Some people are gifted with charm and beauty. N carries both in her back pocket, along with courage and a no bullshit attitude that has served her well, surviving in this harsh jungle wasteland for almost two decades.
N is a very good driver, and this means a lot. I’ve been raised to think that all manner of a person’s character can be derived from their driving ability. If you are a good driver then so many of your other faults can be overlooked. Top of the food chain. You are invited aboard the arc and we will certainly find something for you to do. Your skills are obviously vast. Where as the opposite is also disastrously true. If you are a bad driver then I will just assume that most other activities you attempt are of low standards, hence you are not dependable both in this car and when the greater zombie take over occurs, and we gotta hunker down and figure shit out.
As we speed down these narrow jungle roads towards an unsure destination I am giddy and so relieved to be in the passenger seat. Our destination is just a red pin on a glowing screen in a dark car. Across the street from the high school, the only directions given. Upon arrival we slow down yet see no cars nor illuminated houses that might be hosting a party. We ascend a prolonged. driveway past the school, make a u turn in the middle of a dark hill (impressive), and navigate back towards the glowing location pin.
Let’s try here, N says.
We take a sharp right and drive back a ways along a muddy road till we round a corner and see lights strung along the front of a small house and three cars parked in the driveway.
This might be it, I tell her.
She parks directly in front of the entranceway.
Fast getaway, just in case, she says.
The host meets us at the front door with a wise smile and a beautiful low cut dress. Around her neck is a long, over sized chain link style necklace. This accessory screams bohemian artist in the jungle. She is special, and the obvious center of this immediate universe we have walked into.
A separate universe it is. When we enter the house it is apparent that all furniture and domestic necessities have been removed from the large room, which I assume in normal times is a living and dinning room. The furniture and personal affects have been replaced by a well curated gallery space. The open footprint allows us to move freely between the ten or so paintings that line the white walls. In the middle of the room is a small wooden table filled with finger food. Filling a quarter of the space is an eccentric collection of wires and orbs arranged into a configuration that resembles a mobile of the universe connecting stars and planets and potential pathways between them. Thin and simple and spacious. Vast and bold. A highlight.
The art is consistent and lovely. A show inspired by the ocean and water. Light blue and sunset orange hues, subtle lines and easy going gradients on canvas. Acrylic fish and waves and kelp and harmonious sunsets and landscapes. The show is about connection. Connection of all things. Connection between the many houses of nature. Connection between us misfit humans and the indifferent ocean. Connection between us town residents wandering between the silent paintings. A definitive vibe of empathetic oneness that these canvases employ, and ultimately demand. The whole collection is soft and subtle, yet courageous, as a hopeful voice on a dark stage, an optimistic love letter to a hardened spouse, a confident attempt at dialogue. But we are not talking. The space is not for talking. Surrounded by this wholly original art we just drift and wander. Quiet and meditative. Inside of the work. Inside of this intentional space. Transported. And this transcendence is the rare and priceless value of such an experience here in Marbella.
This portion of Costa Rica is historically known for its farmlands. Open pastures with clumps of jungle is the landscape. Cattle and horses dot the scenic sprawl of this area. Part of the season lush green, the other half burnt yellows and dry. The onset of tourism slowly transforms this simple place. The developments and the up tick in traffic and the slow introduction of small businesses are the inevitable harbinger of modern progress. The reviews are mostly mixed. So having a singularly creative experience in this small town is special. Very valuable. Appreciated. Like a thirsty mam sipping water. This landscape is rough and the inhabitants often indifferent and rugged, so this mirage of soft excellence in such a diabolically earthy story supplies a welcomed waft of sophistication and care. To produce such beautiful art one needs to care greatly. Deeply. Heroically. This place is many different things to many people, but art has the unique ability to bring people together. To heal and plod forward.
N and I lingered for quite a while. On a small couch just off the open kitchen a tight group of friends played vinyl records on an old turntable. Simon and Garfunkel. Miles Davis. Tears for Fears. N and i sat on a large terrace just off the lounge and chatted about fame and parasites. Our restaurateur friend came and we discussed rare vinyl records. Nirvana unplugged. The Ramones. Beautiful people converging around a singular event to share stories and ideas; to momentarily lose our concerns in the transcendent grace of the canvases displayed, and the warm hospitality of the artist who so finely curated this event.
These sorts of gatherings are rare in my little adopted town. It’s often more rodeo then Rodin. But this brave artist pulls us from our sweaty enclaves. We are embraced by her poetic generosity and exit with an intangible optimism that art inspires. I don’t think the artist knows exactly how much we need her. How we gasp for beautiful objectivity. How we inevitably lunge towards creativity.
N backs the car out of the driveway with such skill. The reverberations of grace can be found everywhere. We drive in silence for a short time, satiated by our evening. How wonderful to have an art exhibit here in Marbella, we comment to each other. How wonderful to spend an evening in the presence of original paintings and kind folks. When we dream of our daily lives we hope that such invitations find us. We are deep in the jungle yet still tethered to a warm civility that balances out the dirt and mud and cowboy boots. A simple space for friends and art and connection. Art transcending the confines of canvas and perhaps, maybe, lifting us all up, town and all.
