Looking at a painting
is not a passive act.
The aesthetic experience arises
from a dialogue
between the spectator
and the work.
In modern art, from Cézanne to Picasso
and the different forms of abstract art,
this dialogue instated itself as the confrontation
of two freedoms:
that of the creator of a unique work
and that of the observer who approaches to explore
and interpret it.
And while it can be said that the artist
plants the seeds of how the painting
is to be understood by the spectator,
it can also be said that it is in the act of looking at it
that the work truly manifests itself.
The spectator complements the artist.
The willingness to interact
that marks the coming together of both,
of the work and the spectator in the terrain of vision,
has a lot to tell us about the role of art
as an exercise in freedom,
a field reclaimed by painters throughout the 20th century
and on the threshold of the 21st
at a time of vicious war and social conflict.
In the works of Lucinda Urrusti,
freedom is exercised from the inside out.
It resides in the very particular handling of her materials,
in the complexiity that invades
and spills over the canvas.
For her, freedom is not a message,
but a working condition.
How are you?
I' m good. You?
Fine, fine!
As far as possible.
What are you painting?
Smearing at least.
You never know...
how to paint,
even when you've been at it for 100 years. - What is it?
It's not anything yet.
The works of Lucinda Urrusti
are brimming with plasticity.
Her paintings have a distinct tactile quality.
Sometimes it’s the thick impastos...
whose rhythms are marked out by the arm and wrist...
striating or smoothing down the canvas.
Other times it’s mixed techniques
that expose the dull glow of marble powder.
Yet others, the erased or suppressed figures
in the background:
a pitcher, a flower vase or maybe a nude...
but that reemerge to lend substance to a work...
that would otherwise appear to be suspended in space.
To celebrate the publishing of Lucinda Urrusti...
by Carlos Fuentes, Salvador Elizondo and others...
I would briefly like to discuss a feature characteristic
of the plasticity of her paintings...
that I will call "the warp and the weave",
as illustrated by the cover of the book
which shows a canvas
and a piece of tangled up string.
LUCINDA URRUSTI. PAINTER.
Lucinda, good morning!
Good morning, Jaime.
It’s wonderful to meet face to face!
I wanted to ask you, Lucinda… Where were you born?
And what brought you to Mexico?
I was born...
in Spanish Morocco, Melilla.
My father was a military man...
and he was sent to Morocco because of the uprisings...
...that would periodically break out.
After that we moved to Cádiz, Andalucía, in the south of Spain.
That’s where my brother was born.
We hadn’t been there long
when my father was transferred to Madrid and...
life finally became more stable.
My brother and I started going to school...
First a private school run by nuns
but my parents weren’t thrilled with it
and neither were we.
We didn’t know the prayers properly… the words and...
we were always being punished and all that.
So we changed to a different school.
I think they call them "public" schools here (maybe there as well)...
but not long after that
Franco' s uprising took place.
By that time
we were living in Madrid.
Sometimes we’d be bombarded by
German planes... Messerschmitt I think they were.
My mother and some other women
—there were three or four of them I think—
would visit the neighboring villages to see if
they could find some food and from what I remember, they’d usually come back
with chard and stuff like that...
And we’d say to ourselves "They went all that way for this?"
But we liked it because
when we lived in the camps
at the beginning of the war
we had... a vegetable patch and a few farm animals...
but when we were pushed back into the center of Madrid
my mother killed the chickens
and put them in a barrel of oil or something
so they’d keep.
Me and my brother watched them die...
and it was years before we ate chicken again! Years!
Much to my mother’s distress...
"Oh, my God, those children of mine are going to starve to death!" she’d say,
and things along those lines.
Even when we first got here we’d say "No, not chicken, no...!"
because we’d seen her wring their necks and... it was awful.
After that we went to Valencia.
I don’t think we stayed long in Valencia.
Then we made our way to Catalonia.
It was an exodus of sorts because by then it was obvious we were never going to win the war.
although they held out for three years.
Of course it wasn’t just Franco. He had the support of
Hitler and Mussolini and all....
and the Moors and...
Anyway…
the time came when we had to leave for France
because we had to start retreating.
What I do remember
is walking down that road with a group of other people,
other families that were with us...
and Franco and the Germans firing at us from their planes.
We had to dive into a ditch beside the road...
and take cover there...
and we had to be quick about it.
We had to get away...
We left Figueras by that road and came to the border…
and from there we were sent to the north of France...
to the city of Arras.
They took us in there...
600 old people, women and children.
Naturally we were locked up.
We still didn’t know
if Spain had fallen completely…
or what had happened to my father.
If he’d stayed behind...
and hadn’t been able to leave or if he’d gotten out...
or where he was.
So we started writing...
to the concentration camps we knew of,
asking if anyone had seen him.
In the end we were able to…
contact him.
It turned out he was in Argelès!
My father told us "the president of Mexico...
had extended us an invitation”,
that he was opening the doors of Mexico to us, so we could come here...
but that we had to be at the port of Sète on such and such a day...
because otherwise the ship would sail without us.
We had to get there somehow but we didn’t have a penny to our name.
But sometimes it’s under the worst of circumstances
that humans show solidarity...
because the very same people...
who were at the refuge with us…
some of them had managed to hold onto franc or two…
and...they made a collection
and raised the money for us.
So when we got to Paris...
we were able to buy…
a train ticket to Sète.
And... once we got there I think
we embarked almost immediately.
I remember the ship... the "Sinaia". Yes.
I remember the stairway up.
The Madrid orchestra was on board…
and in the afternoon after lunch…
they’d give concerts and all that.
Or Susana Gamboa would give conferences
to inform us what Mexico was like and what to expect when we got there.
Naturally she had nothing but praise…
for the government of (Lázaro) Cárdenas that had…
Because it has to be said, it was the only country apart from Russia…
that opened its doors to us.
No one else wanted us.
Those left in France had no choice but to...
go to Africa and build roads, in the case of the menfolk.
Or go to Russia. A lot of them went afterwards.
Everyone was wonderful and friendly and kind and...
They’d hug us and say "Fellow Spaniards!"... and
welcome us into their homes and say:
"I want you to come to my house tonight for dinner!" and...well!
We were showered with love…
and gifts of fruit and flowers and....
It was an unforgettable, totally amazing reception.
I sensed there’d be no more being locked up or concentration camps...
or constantly moving from one place to another, running away... and....
and...gendarmes and all that,
but that we’d come to a place to stay, to take up residence.
We were welcomed with open arms...
and...the air, the sky, the ocean… It all gave me…
a sense of freedom and...
safety.
We’d come somewhere and we were here
to stay!
And no more Spain and Catalonia and Argelès...
and Arras and the ship and...
Do you think that, as an artist, you’ve exercised that spirit of freedom?
Yes, I think so. Although maybe not...
in a very conscious or intentional way.
But I felt that.
Since I was a teenager I think.
Breathing and…
Yes, I started to see it in my work,
which isn’t the kind of work that pigeonholes you,
but that allows you to create, deconstruct, explore....
and search and...
We were anchored there for who knows how long...
three days...my memory is hazy.
But I do remember that under the ship…
under the stairway,
we were registered.
"So what do you do?" "I had some fishmongers."
"Oh, okay." So they’d send him to... or he’d stay in Veracruz.
"And you?" "I’m an engineer."
"And what about you?" Others were sent to Chihuahua…
and cold places.
My father was a military man…
so we got sent to Mexico City.
By the time...we got here...
the JARE and SERE (Refugees' Relief Committees) had already been set up…
to help...Spanish Republicans, emigrants.
The Spanish government sent some money.
and part of it was used to organize
to pay for the places where we were put up.
They set up a canteen where we’d go to eat...
and then they started organizing how to give us work…
how to employ the older people among us.
For example, my mother sewed.
They gave her a sewing machine.
And gradually, one by one...
Obviously my father couldn’t join the Mexican army…
because he wasn’t Mexican.
That was an odyssey, especially for him…
because he had neither the ways nor means to support his family.
My mother was the one who worked sewing.
They gave her a job at a toy factory
and they took me on as well.
I told them I was 14...
but I wasn’t.
I was afraid I’d get caught out.
I felt like I was committing a crime.
I remember my job was stuffing the arms and legs…
of teddy bears with straw using a special tool.
Strands of straw.
And if you weren’t careful the tool would tear...
a hole in the felt.
Anyway!
That was before
they opened the schools…
to educate the children…
and give the teachers and…
professors work.
The Vives (Institute) was founded and the Madrid (College)...
the Hispano Mexicana and other academies.
I think the first was (Luis) Vives...
or at least that’s where my brother and I went.
And...
the education was first-rate.
The teachers, their humanism, their...
well, for example, I remember, going on…
excursions with Emilio Prados.
We’d listen to him in the courtyard.
We’d listen to Emilio Prados and learn about…
the natural world.
And I say
He opened the door to a whole new universe…
opened our eyes to art and...
We took elementary school there.
Some of the courses we’d taken…
as children… were validated…
and...
whenever someone had to go up to the blackboard
it’d always be me.
Whenever we had to write on the blackboard...
about what we’d done on our school trip:
"Let Lucinda go up."
I was very shy. I didn’t like it at all…
but…
I always got picked.
I remember Rubén Landa.
He was the headmaster of Vives back then.
He was an incredible man.
He sent for me through some other teacher.
He said, "Listen, we wanted to talk to you because...
I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not…
but you have a natural talent…
for art, for drawing and painting."
I was astounded to hear that.
I wasn’t aware of it at all.
And well…
I finished secondary school…
and part of high school.
I don’t think I finished high school.
After high school...
my intention was to go on and…
study Architecture…
but at the time…
the drawing teacher there...
was a Spanish painter from Aragon.
Luis Marín Bosqued. He’s dead now.
But he said, "You know what? I can give you classes in the afternoon at my house."
"My wife María Teresa is about to arrive from France."
She’s "a beauty."
full of warmth and enthusiasm…
and head-over-heels in love with his wife.
So I ended up going to their house in the afternoons…
and my mother sewed for María Teresa.
That’s how we paid for my classes.
And Marín Bosqued would sit in on the…
dress fittings.
"Oh, yes, yes, María Teresa. Excellent!"
"No, the skirt needs to be shorter, shorter."
"No, the neckline lower!"
And my mother would say: "It’s going to end up a belt!"
In the beginning I wasn’t very aware…
of my vocation or talent…
or the path I was going to take.
At the time…
I had the option of…
carrying on.
What I did know was that I didn’t want to be a…
housewife or cook…
and sew and all that…
which was all I’d known until then…
with my family, my mother and...
I don’t want to follow…
Penelope’s path…
but Lucinda’ s method of plying layer upon layer...
that at once reinvents and erases the previous day’s work…
conjures up the image of a weaver who undoes by night…
what she weaves by day.
Perhaps it would be more fitting to talk of weaving…
as a birthing of sorts.
When the weaver cuts the last thread of her work...
isn’t she somehow giving it life?
Cutting its umbilical cord?
But what I want to talk about is the birthing of light,
which is the very stuff of the plasticity we see in Lucinda’s works.
Can you tell us how you conceive of a painting?
Where it comes from, how it begins to take shape?
How you execute it and how you finish it?
I don’t have a formula as such…
Sometimes I’ll get my inspiration from a glance…
or something more concrete, but...
obviously…
you have to acknowledge it has the potential…
not to be a tangible reality, but one...
that entertains the possibility of the subjective.
One you can extract from...
create, blot out, remove, erase…
and return to....
And that, I think, has been my path:
subjectivity and.....
yes, a sense of freedom.
As the saying goes, "the sky’s the limit."
I always begin with something
that's in my immediate environment,
but to get to the subjective,
to transcend the craft,
transcend the subject matter,
the object...
It's like diving into the depths of the ocean and
swimming inside the painting.
totally losing yourself in it.
What I mean is, you plan the painting...
I always begin with something
but then it turns out...
it doesn't work at all.
The painting starts progressing...
-when it wants to talk, when it wants to...
tell you something and in the meantime...
there you are...flailing in the dark.
Sometimes you paint just a few square centimeters
as if saying to yourself, "Maybe there's a thread here
I can keep tugging at."
Maybe at the end of the day...
you think you've achieved something, made some progress...
and the next day...
when you walk into the studio...
you're utterly disappointed.
You realize it's awful,
that you have achieved virtually nothing...
and so you have to put your nose to the grindstone...
and start over again.
Sometimes you think it's almost done, almost baked
and you turn it to face the wall...
believing it's done, but when you turn it around later on,
you see it again after a while,
you say...I need to pick up where I left off!
Of course, implicit (in that freedom) is fear.
What? How? Where do I draw the line?
But as you progress, you gradually realize
what is the painting wants most.
- What did you start with here? What idea did you begin with?
It's
Let's say I haven't decided yet...
but it is...I don't know what they're called... It's one of those things...
you use to put tortillas in,
that's made of woven palm,
of dry palm leaves.
One day someone who used to work here told me it's called "chiquihuite".
Now I want to add a bit more. There.
That's it. I wanted it lower, but now it's too low.
Because if someone wants to... frame it later...,
the frame will take up a bit more space,.
maybe half a centimeter or a centimeter.
So I'm going to bring it down about three centimeters.
It's still very much a work in progress. Still very green.
Well, not green exactly. As you can see here, it's more like
grays and blacks.
About the paintings you’ve done...
of all kinds of animals…
A while ago you told us…
about your experience with the chickens…
that were killed for food…
and how that was a traumatic childhood experience.
I was wondering, how is it that someone who doesn’t have pets…
paints animals with so much love?
Do you think that traumatic experience has something to do with it?
You don’t want to own animals anymore, but you still love them?
Yes, it’s funny you should make that observation. It’s very...
I don’t think I could live… I don’t think I’ve ever had the desire to live with animals.
I’ve never felt the need. That said...
yes, they have form and light and volume and so on...
The idea was to use only white...
with a more or less central, linear theme.
I tried to achieve different shades of white…
including grays and the odd smudge here and there.
That’s why I included the spots…
so it wouldn’t look like a flat mass of color.
The one above, for example, "Striped Cat "…
is a collage in oil...
A collage means sticking things together, right?
And as you can see I used pieces of fabric...
to give it a bit more relief…
so it would work better with the relief
created by the passepartout of sorts…
that forms part of the painting.
I did that one as a gift for my granddaughters
when they were small. For a birthday or something.
Which is why I chose a more fun, light-hearted subject matter.
The one underneath, "Fat Cow"...
is situated in a pen or a haystack.
I incorporated part of the frame, which is something I like to do...
Overstep the canvas so it’s not boxed in by wood…
but forms part of....
the painting. Integrate it as far as possible.
Tell us about your love for still life.
Why is it so important in painting? In your paintings?
Yes, you’re right…
because...
because it’s life, although I don’t know why they call it "still life".
I think it comes from the French.
But "tranquil" life would be a better description, wouldn’t it?
On the one hand it allows you...
to perceive things...
because of its concreteness,
but on the other...
it allows you—at least I speak for myself— I don’t know…
to break with...and extend that concreteness…
with air and space;
to immerse yourself in something…
that appears mute on the surface…
but that has something to say to you.
Could you tell us about this shelf?
Yes, maybe you’ve noticed…
but I’ve always been attracted to…
old, battered, rusty things and...
I could never get rid of them because…
I still find them visually fascinating.
I like things that are old and rough and rusty…
because they’re matter and color. And I like that.
This was one of them.
It’s not very rusted, but anyway.
I included it.
I wanted to do a…
monochrome painting…
using white and its derivatives…
grays and texture.
The lack of subject matter and elements…
forces you to make the most of…
your materials and texture…
to enrich the painting as best you can.
You mentioned the term "matter".
It’s a term I associate closely…
with Mexican art…
that incorporates gravel and marble powder mixed with pigments.
- Sand... - Lots of Mexican painters use it.
Your work is very material.
Yes, it’s true. Well, I suppose if you see it that way…
but yes, matter and the material...
What I mean is, I’d never dream of....
I think that’s why I’ve never felt very drawn to watercolor,
because the color is diluted in water.
Maybe it’s the Spaniard in me…
The primitiveness of... matter.
There might be some Tàpies there? He too....
When I saw a painting of his in Spain, in Barcelona,
full of texture, I said to myself: “Yes, yes!”
“Now that says something to me.”
And...
yes, yes, marble powder lends oil paint
a completely different consistency,
because on its own oil paint is...
deliquescent and greasy and...
a bit like goo if you don’t....
And yes, I’ve worked with marble powder…
and sand.
There was this... I’m not sure if it was a garage somewhere...
I don’t remember if it was here or in New York.
It was like a restoration shop and…
and I asked them…
because they show you samples...
fragments…
samples of frames.
moldings for new…
So I asked if "by chance you wouldn’t happen to have an old frame?"
"Oh, so that’s what you’re after? they said.
As if insinuating, "You’re cuckoo, aren’t you?”
"Yes," I said.
So they took me to a kind of...
I wouldn’t call it a trash heap, but something like it,
because the frames were all strewn on the ground.
Some of them were disassembled…
Others....I picked it out from the pile.
There were gold leaf frames and baroque ones…
and ones with reliefs...
So I took a chisel
and a small hammer (clack clack clack) and...
my intention was to remove it all…
but I liked the marbled appearance it took on.
Maybe I took too much off here, but…
Who knows if it’ll stand the test...
...of time.
By intervening the frame,
she dissolves it in a manner of speaking,
makes it disappear, imbues it with a ghostly quality.
Even though the frames she uses…
tend to be old, well-made ones...
with elaborate moldings
—by no means nondescript—,
instead of drawing attention to them, the painting tends to…
mask its frame,
because it has been imbued with a chromatic substantiality...
that originates within the work.
You could say the artist weaves from the inside out…
with lines and hints of color,
volumes that invade the forbidden zone.
This is how she manages to establish a gray area between the painting and the frame...
to the point where the latter is suppressed...
not because of its absence, but due to its amalgamation.
Of course we can find countless examples In Lucinda’s work...
of paintings that don’t have frames,
especially her medium-sized and larger works.
But the fact remains that in either case...
like the mesh of a wire fence,
the artist plays with the dialectic of boundaries.
By subtly playing with the spectator’s perception like this,
Thus Lucinda blurs the borders between
Thus Urrusti blurs the borders
between containment and creation.
I feel a painting doesn’t end at the edge of the canvas,
that it shouldn’t be enclosed,
that it should continue....
and the frame allows me to…
include the painting in it,
either to merge them or in a way that doesn’t enclose or delimit the painting.
You can’t stay stuck with one material...
or a given space,
which might require expanding...
because limits and confines...No!
That’s not my style.
Would you say it somehow echoes your attitude towards life?
How you tend to overstep boundaries...
and don’t easily let yourself be "boxed in".
You’re not an abstract artist...
You’re more of a figurative one, but now and then...
you do things like this piece here beside you.
They’re a couple of paintings with wire that remit me to...
a type of pictorial structure...
that goes beyond painting in the strictest sense,
in keeping with your disregard for restrictions....
Yes, exactly.
I wasn’t aware of it,
but I don’t like limits or feeling constrained.
What I mean is, I use tangible...
figurative elements...
but there’s more to it than that.
You have to convey the subjectivity of it all.
Not get trapped by the form,
but emphasize the subjective element,
more than the tangible aspect.
The emotional aspect too?
Of course.
I think subjectivity is...
not completely rational, but definitely emotional.
What I mean is, like every cultural or artistic expression...
painting requires both logic and emotion.
And…
yes, it’s there, but it disappears
if you dwell on it...
and expose it. What do I know?
This painting...
“Orange Background and Collage",
Like this string here that can be
interpreted as loose threads or...
some people see a bird...
but that’s the spectator’s prerogative.
Obviously I conceived of it as a monochrome painting...
but some parts have more texture...
than others, to vary the tone,
apart from the gray element,
which adds a material or more....
I thought the gray of the string
went very well with this orange
in this corner...
And... the string was on a table
and I liked it as a material and the color
so…
I included it.
I don’t feel…
I’ve ever done abstract painting.
Although naturally,
even when it’s figurative…
art always has…
an expression...
or something interior…
and that might be...
what we could call its abstract element.
And...
well...
that’s been my struggle.
My work isn’t what you’d call "abstract".
I’ve never done anything totally abstract,
not in the sense of 'non-figurative’,
a work in which...
you can’t find…
a motif,
but it does have…
that certain something…
innate to figurative art…
that is abstract.
So maybe…
that’s been my path.
To begin with, I’m not big on colors.
Color or colors…
I don’t feel them...
Rather, I see them…
I view color as a concession.
Maybe because of this, because of my coloristic limitations…
I prefer monochromes...
and very little color,
because it demands
more subjectivity.
Over the course of her lengthy career,
Lucinda Urrusti has consistently used her craft…
to recreate over and over again…
one of art’s time-honored metaphors:
that of the canvas as a loom.
Of course there are other recurring metaphors in art.
Ones that Urrusti has also used:
the painting as a window,
or the canvas as a wall marred…
by the passage of time and the elements —
a metaphor that was much-employed by a certain school of abstract art.
These are illustrations of how plasticity can be grounded in metaphor.
I‘d like to take the time to discuss the tapestry-like quality…
I see in many of Lucinda’s paintings,
which sometimes appear like thick weaves of basting and backstitches.
In "Profile Portrait of my Mother" (1961),
the precise rendering of the face is at once complemented and softened...
by a profusion of pencil strokes scattered over the surface...
toward the lower part (of the portrait),
creating a tangle of gestural forces
that perfectly balance out…
the portrait of very composed lady.
Again, metaphorically, these (strokes) are like threads...
trussing an atmosphere of bonds, attachments and emotions...
that would otherwise go unnoticed…
in a simple academic rendering of her profile.
This portrait reveals a compulsion…
to simultaneously create and tear asunder.
The other day I read something about
an interview Bacon did
and, funnily enough,
This portrait reveals a compulsion…
I was telling you.
He too...
had a painting in mind
and...
he mentioned a painting
where he'd begun with a...
figure, with a face.
I don't think it was a portrait,
but anyway,
he started making some smudges...
the eye sockets and the mouth
and the nostrils, and...
It didn't even...
have any features,
but yet
it looked like...the subject.
Of course he didn't speak much
about his process or his work,
but, no,
it's hardly ever like that.
it's not something that happens (often)...
especially not with oils.
Another facet of your work…
we see here and that would appear to be a natural gift…
is your talent for portraits.
Can you tell us about this?
The procedure is the same as in any painting.
First I do a sketch...
Then you have to consider the space you have,
its dimensions,
the proportions you want
and get it to fit naturally,
in the space,
you want to put it in,
whether it's a face,
or a group of people.
If you look at a Leonardo or a Tiziano for example,
first you make a general sketch
and then you gradually give it more definition.
You explore the shadows until you find it....
But there are as many ways to go about it
as there are human beings.
The first one I did was of my brother Juan.
He was very young at the time. So was I.
Just a year-and-a-half older than him, and
Juan used to be home a lot, studying and what not...
or (reading) the paper.
So...
One day he was reading and I said to him:
"Stay like that a minute...." and I started drawing him.
That was in essence my first portrait.
At least the first spontaneous one,
because before that, as a callow young girl,
I’d done a few of the women…
who’d come to see my mother…
to have dresses made.
My mother made clothes for them…
on the side.
First she worked for Liverpool as a seamstress making overcoats and...
I’d put my (art) things away when they’d come...
because it was a very small apartment
with just two bedrooms.
When they arrived I’d hide, but...
"Oh, she paints!" "The kid draws!"
"Do my portrait!" they’d say...
And...
one day Salvador Zubirán came.
I think he was rector at the time...yes...
and he asked me to do a portrait of his daughter...
or niece. A blonde girl… Pretty.
I remember because I have a photo somewhere…
of her in a cashmere sweater.
I copied the texture of the cashmere,
of the sweater and...
everyone was like "Ohhh..! “It’s as if you can touch the sweater!”
"How amazing!"
And...
he said...
I had to charge him, but I didn’t know how much because...
I think Zubirán said "No, no.”
"You have to charge me!"
And I said "But I don’t know how much."
"At least 100 pesos!"
Or maybe he said 150, I’m not sure.
And I said “That much...!”
But when he paid me I felt guilty.
I said, "But I haven’t studied...
I haven’t been to art school..."
Of course I’d read...
a lot of books on the Renaissance, on this painter and that...
contemporary artists...
especially Renaissance ones.
I read how young painters…
would go live with their maestros…
to learn everything… how to grind the colors…
and prepare the canvas and what not.
And I said "But I don’t know anything!"
"How can I....!"
I felt guilty.
As if I’d taken advantage or robbed him blind.
And when I got that first payment I said "Wow!"
"This is great! I get to paint, which I like...
and I get paid for it into the bargain!"
And...
I said to myself, "This is a good thing.”
“This is definitely the way to go.”
And with the 500 (pesos) they gave me,
we bought a book of anatomy
for my brother.
It was an expensive book.
I don’t remember if it was one volume or two, but we hadn’t been able to buy it for him.
He’d go to the library to study.
But with that book… Fantastic!
Portraits...
Without a shadow of a doubt, man, human beings are...
incredible creatures.
Internally, what they do and what they....
Just observing them, what their features, their faces say...
Each one is an inimitable individual...
No one looks like anyone else.
So when you start trying to decipher them...
That, yes.
I remember sometimes I’d be on the bus...
And I’d think to myself…
"I’d like to paint that guy or that girl over there..."
But I didnt dedicate my time and energy…
solely…
to portraits.
I haven’t done many portraits.
At least not unplanned ones, which are the ones that interest me…
as an artist.
They were either of important academics...
or they were out of town or...
I had to make do with what I had:
work from a photo or until they announced "I can’t come to pose anymore",
which was the case with Octavio, Octavio Paz,
who I think posed for me just once or twice.
After that he went off to Paris and...
time passed…
and when he came back he was sick…
and couldn’t...
The point is you have to adapt
to the circumstances.
I started doing portraits...
Portraits have always interested me…
when they’re done directly…
of a living being.
Obviously I prefer to work with a real live subject.
and…
Well, Carlos was brilliant…
in every sense, including as a person.
Speaking of which, the portrait I did of him...
I remember the last... maybe it was that same time we had lunch here at the house.
He came with his wife,
Silvia Lemus.
But when he saw the portrait he was with Gabo,
García Márquez. They arrived together. With Mutis.
I think we had lunch together here at the house.
And when they saw it...
Carlos said, "Oh, you’ve portrayed me like god!”
“How crazy is that!"
And I think it was Gabo
who said…
"Well, aren’t you?"
And...
well, yes, he was a....
genius...
a well-read, cultured man…
and a magnificent conversationalist...
and...
he had all these anecdotes about people and what not.
He and Gabo were good friends,
but Gabo wasn’t extroverted or talkative or any of that.
You were friends with Ricardo Martínez.
Yes. I met him by chance in San Ángel where I lived.
I was married at the time.
One day my husband came up and said "Look who I’ve brought you!"
My husband would go out walking in the mornings…
and it seems Ricardo did too.
Somehow they met and my husband said,
"This woman here...
has lost...
How did he put it?
“She’s lost her…
muse" or something like that.
Now Ricardo was a very intelligent man…
A well-educated...well-read man.
And he said, "Well, it’s only to be expected."
By then I had two...
very young children.
It was a lovely, big house and everything, but
"She has nowhere she can lock herself in to paint," he said.
"It’s a necessity" he said.
And proceeded to take care of the situation.
And...
he had three children and...
two of them went to the same kindergarten as my two.
So...
Oh, yes, he suggested...
He said, "If she doesn’t have a place where she can work in peace and quiet...
He said "You can come to my studio,”
which was also his house. He had a big, long…
garden and…
a room where he painted.
And so...
I took him up on the offer.
Then he and my husband…
ended up falling out.
My husband would drop me off and pick me up,
but if it wasn’t about bullfighting or politics they’d find something else to argue about.
They fought so much my visits came to an end.
But...
I kept in touch with Ricardo by telephone.
That said…
he never got very involved, not even as a teacher.
It was nice though...
having the opportunity to go to another studio back then,
somewhere I could be alone...
Yes,
he was a contact...
and a good friend after that, from then on.
As a newly-wed I lived...
We had a house in San Ángel...
(On) Calero, on the corner of Jardín.
Juan O’Gorman, the painter,
lived on the opposite corner.
We could practically see each other from our windows...
because Jardín was a small street and...
On Saturday afternoons we’d hold an open house.
The most amazing people would come. People I admired and who...
I respected immensely. The group came to be known as "The Hyperion":
(Luis) Villoro, (Ricardo) Guerra, Jorge Portilla.
Jorge was a great singer.
He’d start singing and…
all in all, a lovely man.
They’d discuss philosophy...
or the German philosophers, the Hyperion Group...
But I’d turn…
to look at (Juan) Rulfo, who was also there...
He’d get up....
Sometimes he’d play domino or something.
But he never said a word. And I’d say to myself,
“If there’s anyone I identify with,
it’s Rulfo…
Juan Rulfo.”
He didn’t speak much, but he’d written Pedro Páramo.
I did a drawing for him.
It wasn’t a very professional drawing or anything of the kind
but...
I didn’t ask him to pose.
I just watched him…
when he was there and...
Back then...
two female poets would join us.
The only two women,
writers or....
They were Rosario Castellanos…
and Dolores Castro.
They were friends…
and…
I thought "Thank goodness..."
“It’s not just men!"
For me...
it was…
during those formative years,
getting to meet people like that…
and...
listen to them... and watch them and...
Naturally, it was very enriching...
because the Mexico of those days
was a wonderful Mexico, a small city...
I remember Archibaldo (Burns)...
my husband at the time,
saying to me, "You know Octavio Paz..."
"Introduce me to him!"
I’ve sometimes asked myself…
"How is it I got to meet the crème de la crème of that period?"
Firstly, because there weren’t that many of them.
And secondly, because back then…
as we all know, the city was the cily like...
and because we all had a tendency to get together...
because we were like-minded.
You, writer; him, photographer...
Salvador Elizondo and...
Octavio, who was already famous and...
All the times…
all the Saturdays he came…
He came for a long time.
Octavio
would come alone.
Until one day he said…
"Elena’s on her way!"
Elena (Garro) was traveling.
Finally, Elena arrived…
very late, with an Argentinean in tow.
A friend of...
Borges.
He was... I don’t remember.
Friendly and all that.
They arrived about midnight,
but she was acting very....
One thing that did strike me at the time…
was Octavio’s admiration for her,
for Elena.
In time...
our respective spouses...
saw to it that… Well,
both his marriage and mine…
fell apart.
In my case...
it wasn’t so terrible.
Quite the opposite actually.
And the first time Octavio and I…
bumped into each other after that at Casa del Lago,
at some cultural event,
he said, "Looks like we both came out winners."
To which I replied, "You’re right there."
Truth be told,
I always saw it as regaining my freedom…
not as a...but...the thing is...
I found it funny that...
he felt the same way.
Shortly after that...
he started seeing Mari Jo Paz and looked the picture of happiness.
I didn’t know her that well,
but she seemed a happy person
with a positive outlook and....
Lucinda, you came into contact with a man…
who dominated...
Mexico’s museum scene. I’m talking about Fernando Gamboa.
What was your relationship with him like? I know you worked with him.
What was that like?
I was very young…
at the time.
I was studying at La Esmeralda.
Having contact and working with Fernando Gamboa
was incredible. I worked with him…
doing museography at the Palace Fine Arts.
My first project was a retrospective of Diego Rivera…
and it was utterly amazing…
because there were lots of…
blocks of…
Diego’s drawings;
charcoal drawings.
of a woman carrying firewood or carrying something and...
we’d spread them out on the floor...
There were of dozens of them and we had to select just a few.
Once I got to go to (José Clemente) Orozco’s studio.
As you can imagine, at my age I was...
especially since he looked so stern and unapproachable...
but he was actually very nice and friendly.
He said... I was told to take something. I don’t remember what I showed him...
but he took a good look at it and told me to…
keep up the good work,
that I was on the right path and had talent...
and that… I remember him saying,
"Behind the Spanish tradition."
All this allowed me to…
work as a museographer with Gamboa.
Plus I got to meet the painters in person.
Painters I wouldn’t have had access to, except for my teachers at La Esmeralda.
Who were they?
There were three of them.
There was the principal, "El Corcito"…
who was an adorable man.
Well, I found him charming at any rate...
but it wasn’t until later that he discovered he was a painter.
He painted miniatures and they were very well done.
He gave me…
At La Esmeralda school of art…
you had to take the full course: a Masters in the Plastic Arts,
but I didn’t want to and I couldn’t anyway because I didn’t have time.
You had to take Chemistry, Art History... subjects I’d already studied.
So I said to the principal, to Corcito.
“No, I want three non-curricular workshops,
because I have to work."
"I want to take three workshops in the morning. It doesn’t matter in what order,
because I work at the Palace of Fine Arts in the afternoons."
"Who do you want?"
“Agustín Lazo for Painting..."
"Guerrero Galván for Drawing..."
"Federico Cantú for Fresco and Mural Painting."
All three were good teachers.
They weren’t overbearing or too attached to the rules,
but had a lot of criteria.
And naturally I got to see some of…
the works of these artists I admired.
Because they weren’t just teachers or academics or whatever,
but artists, creators of maestros, right there.
For example, Guerrero Galván...
he’d walk past to check what we were each doing…
at our easels.
There’d usually be a nude model…
or sometimes they’d be dressed.
But that’s normal for a drawing class, isn’t it?
So...
I’d draw and...
he’d come up and say, "Good, very good."
And not long after that…
he asked me to supervise…
the drawing class.
And I said, "What is this? I came here to learn,
not correct other people!"
He’d drop by on Saturdays for roll call and what not.
In some ways...
yes, looking back…
those were good days,
but the time came when...,
I had to decide…
to strike out...
on my own.
By then I also had to...
earn money…
and give classes.
I think I began...
or better put, I don’t think…
there is a starting point.
Sometimes you don’t know what you’re looking for.
You do it because it interests you.
It’s intuitive... but there’s no
accompanying mental process,
no reasoning...
"This is the path for me."
You get on with it…
and later you realize…
it’s like Machado said,
"You create your path as you go along."
And down the line you realize...
that what you did instinctively…
intuitively, was in fact…
what interests you, what you’re most cut out for.
I once considered studying Architecture,
but then decided against going to university,
Maybe because it was the closest thing to…
the plastic arts or…
but...
then I realized it wasn’t…
the technical part…
the building walls and making…
calculations and all that,
but the aesthetic side...
of it (that appealed to me):
art.
And...
that search,
that surrendering to something....
that...
drives you.
It’s in her name:
Lucinda twines filaments of light.
Threads, ropes,
fabrics are all constants…
throughout her oeuvre.
Let’s take, for example, "The Knots" series…
from 2008…
in which the artist worked with ropes.
Or "The Folds" series…
inspired by blankets.
Then there are the paintings in which Urrusti…
leaves the texture of the canvas exposed…
to complement her thick impastos.
Like in "Small White Horizontal Nude 1"…
from 2007.
But deserving of special mention is her use of pastels and charcoal...
in her nudes on paper,
composed of a mesh of lines…
that weave an image we can barely make out.
That frayed stroke that leaves strands in the air…
but ties together strings of movement…
to describe naked bodies,
that warps threads of colors,
as if braiding or crocheting...
marks the moment drawing and painting come together...
to give birth to light.
Without being too obvious,
this painting balances on threads.
Like these birds Urrusti has painted…
perched unpredictably on other filaments of light:
electricity cables...
in "Birds on the Wires" (2010).
Some people from your generation…
studied with you at La Esmeralda…
and then you joined a group of emerging artists…
that ended up being called or that is now known as…
the "Breakaway Generation".
Yes, but I really don’t think...
we were aware of it at the time.
It was more because we were like-minded,
because we knew each other, because we had...
But no, we didn’t break away from anything… and we didn’t set out to break anything.
I think I’ve said this before,
but we didn’t break as much as a plate so I don’t know why they’d call us that.
Maybe "breakaway" meaning the rupture artists...
like Orozco and Diego…
instigated with the Academy and everything that...
I remember Lucinda Urrusti…
as a painter.
Her art is... how can I put it? Very material.
Every time she does a painting,
you can tell she’s labored over it…
for a whole month or maybe two.
Thy' re full of fine detail, of dots!
She’s a very meticulous painter:
you can tell she gets engrossed in it...
and works away with no notion of time.
More so than most other artists.
She puts a lot of work in.
No, it’s not...
I mean, I can give you examples…
that go to prove...
I can vouch for the fact that…
she’s an extraordinary artist.
Very meticulous.
Even in Lucinda's early works,
mainly from the Sixties,
you can see her preoccupation with volume,
with achieving a three-dimensional effect.
When you look at her easel paintings,
which combine
sand and marble powder with oils
to suggest -to more than suggest- volume,
you can see this intention.
But you can also see it
in her drawings
and even her graphic works,
in her nudes
and still life paintings,
where she toys with volume,
where you' re never sure if her figures
are vanishing, or emerging.
I find this sense of volume
very interesting
and it's what allows us to understand why she later
makes this leap....
this leap towards volume
in works that are not conventional sculptures.
She doesn't make bronze sculptures
or carvings,
but toys with the question of volume
using objects
that she comes across
on her walks, in the street,
in the park, in the countryside.
She then reinterprets them,
reworks them,
She has even intervened
parts of her own home.
She is an artist who doesn't limit herself to conventional painting,
to the frame, to the easel,
but who pushes the envelope.
She even sculpted a bench
in her own garden.
Then there are pieces like the one behind me,
a conventional vase
that she has decorated
with materials to give it a different texture.
She is always purposely searching for new languages,
new forms of expression.
Lucinda's work contains countless references
to ancient cultures, primitive cultures.
You can see this in the titles,
in her constant references to Persian,
Etruscan,
and Egyptian culture,
but she doesn't just refer
to these cultures;
the objects themselves, the objects she creates
remit to them,
although I'm not sure if she does this
consciously or unconsciously.
Take, for example,
her intervention of a Celtic dagger.
It's a three-dimensional object on a wooden base.
The central figure is a dagger,
but if you look more closely,
you can see she has made incisions and applied staples
and metal to it,
Taken together,
I'd call these pieces a new archaeology of sorts;
objects that hark back to the past, but that have been reworked
in a very innovative fashion
from an artistic point of view.
Lucinda is a suggestive artist.
It is rare to find direct,
literal references to things in her pieces;
she always intimates.
She always exacts a dialogue
between the creator and the spectator,
and it is this dialogue that connects her work with the external world.
Maybe that’s what’s so hard…
or impossible about art,
that you can never have…
the satisfaction of saying, "Wow, that’s great!”
"It’s finished.” “My work here is done."
It’s not an option.
And so...
maybe that’s where the wonder…
and the impossibility and...
the struggle with the work or with art,
with the painting lies,
in that it is…
never finished.
It can always evolve more,
meaning you’re the one at fault.
Maybe it’s because you’re tired or worn out…
or because of your limitations…
that you haven’t…
managed to complete…
the work yet.
And...
that gets me thinking about Leonardo,
Because he never considered a portrait finished,
he’d take the Mona Lisa with him
about the Mona Lisa and a...
I think a Saint...
I’m not sure if a Saint Sebastian or who,
but one who kept on working as long as he could…
and if he had to travel…
when the King of France invited him…
to France…
he’d take the Mona Lisa with him.
Maybe that’s why…
when we see it we go,
"Ohhh...!"
They say the Mona Lisa has a smile…
like no other,
but it’s not just her smile,
because that would depend only on her mouth,
but there can be no denying…
it’s indescribable:
the artistry,
the struggle, the achievement and...
There’s definitely something very, very special…
about that portrait.
Shall we put some music on, or not?
Leonardo Da Vinci used to say
the best time to do a portrait,
was between 5 and 6 in the afternoon, because of the light,
with an orchestra… with chamber music playing
in the background for the expression. - Wonderful!
How about that? Nice, right?
We’re missing all that.
Let's call them then!
Sure, why not?
Salvador Elizondo wrote these very clear words...
I quote:
"Their substance…
is ineffable."
“The inspiration behind them, indescribable…
and unfathomable.”
“A vivifying hand wraps them in a pure light…
made of dense glazes,
imprecise, magical colors…
fiery in essence,
evanescent and ambiguous
in their radiance and hues.”
What role has painting played in your life?
After family ties,
the most essential thing,
the thing that has filled my life, is painting.
Not only that, but it has infinite possibilities.
Infinite paths you can travel,
explore.
It can be nerve-wracking too,
but on the upside...
it gives you a sense of freedom,
a sense you’ve found what you’ve intuited, what you’ve been looking for,
which, at the end of the day, is the subjective…
aspect of art.
Freedom and....
Simply that.
Thank you.
Thank you, Jaime.
Among the many works hanging on her studio walls…
is a small painting…
12.5 by 17 centimeters…
mounted in an old frame.
It’s called "White and Black Paintbrush"…
and that’s exactly what it depicts:
the bristles of a thick paintbrush;
the sum of so many other threads in the tapestry…
Lucinda Urrusti weaves…
on the white of the handle…
of this instrument…
and the canvas.
Finally, I’d like to mention another work:
"Collage of Siena" (2012),
on whose dense surface…
the artist has placed…
a large rectangular fabric of sorts,
reminiscent of the burlap fabric…
Spanish informalists…
like Manolo Millares…
used in the days of Franco.
They’d stretch torn fabric over their frames…
to symbolize the ravages of the war,
the tearing apart of families, exile,
and bodily wounds.
I asked the artist…
where she’d found this disturbing piece of…
unraveled cord that she’d included in her painting.
"It’s an old doormat," she replied.
A much-trodden mat…
that gives us an inkling…
of the many different paths traveled...
and the lines that connect them.
English translation: Alison Stewart