Fabio Saavedra Where Are You?

From Story Book Bright Jewels
From Story Book Bright Jewels
From The Big Red Strory BookTales Of Men And Women
From The Big Red Strory BookTales Of Men And Women
This blog post is in Category Tarot Etc
This blog post is in Category Tarot Etc
This post relates to Painting
This post relates to Painting
This post is in category Youth
This post is in category Youth
This blog post is in Category Politics
This blog post is in Category Politics
This blog post in is in Category Spiritual Initiation
This blog post in is in Category Spiritual Initiation

John The Baptist and Night Birth

Fabio Saavedra Where Are You?

{- poem stone riley creative commons 2020 the creds are at bottom -}
{- a poetic memoir of art and human life -}

Fabio Saavedra, where are you? You were a friend. I have two of your paintings on my walls today, that third one being gone lamentably to California. I have a folder of your drawings.

Your apartment just across from mine, across the poor and lovely courtyard where the Five of Cups stood waiting to be seen and where the Wheel of Fortune hung before my startled gaze one morning in the opened air, your apartment, that cool dark den of conversations. Where are your brother and your father and your mother and your wife? Where is your little baby boy?

Houston, summer 1980. I will never forget your gener­osity that day, the invitation to your brother’s airy sunny house, where several of your pieces were arrayed along a wall and, much to my surprise, some honored person suddenly arrived, a famous critical writer visiting from South America your brother whispered to my whispered inquiry, there that day to view your paintings and advise.

I never will forget the manner. Utterly courteous and utterly confident of competence amid the nervousness that filled the house. Here was the Four of Wands indeed.

And when the honored critic, fragrant cigarette held delicately in fingertips to be a sort of ceremonial wand, duly progressing down your wall of paintings, nodding calming mur­mured affirmations of your explanations and your work itself, came to the little dining table where you’d stationed me, I duly arose with my little half completed deck of hand­made paper cards in hand, seeing smiles around me, and made bold to speak with gestures of utmost humble courtesy, apologetic for the English which he did not understand and for the excess inches of my physical height, holding out the deck tentatively and shrug­ging, asking if he’d care to see a work in progress.

I never will forget your generosity that day, to share a treasured resource.

He found the pictures interesting. He manifestly did. He found some of them actually arresting, pausing for a moment, murmuring assent, as they filed before his eyes from hand to hand within the fragrant smoke.

Perhaps the Eight of Coins was one of those, its political dimensions being so acute in 1980 South America, although it was the man’s Indian face I principally watched, in its intel­ligent pleasure in surprise.

Handing them back, smiling encouragement and nodding, repeating twice some word I did not know, he positively said the piece of work is good, smiling round to all, returning to the pleasant task for which he’d come.

So the project went on with confidence renewed. The damn things worked.

Fabio Saavedra, you are still a friend.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
{- End Of “Fabio Saavedra” -}
{-Creds.. This is from my book.. “Tales Of Men And Women”
.. .. Its overview page .. {-Here-} -}

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