True Riches
By Federico Leon de la Vega - July 2006 - Leer en Español
I am writing this chapter on Father's day 2006 and so I dedicate it to my sons Federico Santiago and Alvaro. They are now grown and independent men, since I had them when I was very young and they lived through my transition from businessman to painter artist with all of its consequences. It is my hope that they strive for doing what they enjoy and take pride in it and live with quality, not blinded by appearance of richness. There are those who having their bank accounts full lead empty lives. I question if you can call a businessman successful if in his ascent to the top of the corporation he looses all else, a millionaire who sacrifices his honor and friends in order to live worried with a fortune he cannot peacefully enjoy. I am not pretending to say that all artists are happy, nor do I recommend painting as a way of life. I only suggest that in our heart of hearts we all hold dreams which can be fulfilled in exchange for some patience and sacrifice; sometimes it takes long to find the right road to follow and then, out of inertia of fear, we never make up our minds to take it.
My eldest son, Federico, experienced some of the difficulties I had to go through to pay for his last tuitions at the Jesuit University where he studied law and witnessed how I bartered with a painting that now hangs in the rectory. I also completed the payment for his first automobile with a painting. We went from being affluent to being not poor, but definitively limited. I say limited because bartering has many limitations cash does not: if you have bills in your wallet you simply hand them over, no need for talking or making value estimates; not so when you are exchanging a painting. You have to first find the proper individual, since not all persons value art or are allowed to decide its acquisition. You certainly cannot walk into a store and ask the sales lady to exchange your artwork for an article; you will have to talk to the owner of the establishment and wait to see if the painting you propose is of his or her liking, if its value is recognized. In the case of a tuition you will have to talk to the rector. It isn't a matter of money; its more a matter of upbringing, of sensibility to art and higher values. In a world where drug lords and embezzlers are the riches, money has little to do with culture and good taste, nevertheless there are people for whom money or not, art is a delicious need and bartering is an opportunity.
Lucky for us, the borough we lived in Mexico City, Guadalupe Inn, had a good percentage of educated people, though not necessarily rich. I had a chance to test this one Holy Week Sunday. when we desperately wanted to go on vacation. To put enough money together I sent two of my sons (then 7 and 10) to the Catholic Church nearby with one of my paintings. It was a marine theme where waves ran towards the beach, seen as a bird flies toward land (I had made a sketch while landing in a flight to Ixtapa, which I later turned into an oil painting that I liked a lot). I instructed my kids to wait outside after 10 o'clock Mass with the painting placed on my easel so people leaving could see it. It was quite an act of faith and a desperate will to go on vacation. Now that I think of it the chances where very slim, because the price we were asking was not low, but it sold! An elderly couple bought the painting... and we went on vacation. In each chapter I am writing in this monthly magazine PVMirror I have accompanied a photograph of the painting I refer to. This time that will not be possible since I was in such a hurry to leave for vacations I did not have the time to take a photograph, so I am offering the reader another marine painting, more recent and which is still for sale.
I remember there was a time when I was afraid of recognizing my painter vocation. Images of hunger and sad ateliers in attics spun in my head like ghosts. When talking to each possible buyer of my artwork, I would make it a point to explain that painting was not my only training or profession. I felt it necessary for them to know about my graduate studies, or about my having my own business with a respectable income, painting being only a fortunate hobby. I felt a need to demonstrate I was not a poor painter artist. I also felt guilt for not finding more motivation to further promote my father's insurance business and I feared what might become of my children, with a painter artist for a father. It would often happen at business meals I attended, that I would become weary of poses that had to be held (I suspect even my father became finally tired of this too). One had to pretend that all of the guests seating at the table were pleasant -and many were: honest, hard-working people filling their duties to entertain clients and agents, striving to provide an atmosphere conducive to good negotiations of insurance premium, or so that the payment of casualties would go smoothly. The real problem was that there was always some jerk insurance manager trying to favor a mock agent just because he was a relative, or a sales director trying to establish a direct relationship with our client to skip our commission, or a crooked client pretending for the company to pay the unpayable, or the alcoholic who went on and on long after we had all finished dessert, cigars and all possible negotiation. There were too many long meals like these, while a tie choked my collar, while we all smiled. Perhaps the most disagreeable part of my job was the insurance premium collection. Since Insurance is an intangible service which shows no benefit until something goes wrong (accident, fire, death) it is hard to collect. I was good at it, but I did not like it. I had to smile, smooth talk and insist. On occasions our messenger boy had to make several rounds before the check was ready. Painting is quite different: it either pleases or not; only looking is necessary, not much talking. If the painting is good it speaks for itself, the client takes it home happily to show it to friends. Through the years prestige builds up for the artist and surrounds him with a mystique which I never knew as an insurance broker. I am very grateful for the economic advantages, for some good friends, for the fun conventions, for clients such as General Motors, which let me know riches that in spite of stress and enslaving sacrifice, paid many bills. Today I know a different, better kind of riches which I here try to describe.
We all speak about true riches not necessarily consisting of money, but few come to put these words into practice...because it is not easy. It's not easy to quit a job that pays bills, even if we spend the time abhorring it. It's not easy to leave behind the urban blight, because in spite of the violence and enervating traffic there is hope that money will compensate or at least permit us to live within some protective isolation within gated communities with closed circuit TV that defend our little gardens, which we seldom enjoy since we are chained to an office desk. As they contemplate some advertising, people experience brief moments of illusory fulfillment. They picture themselves living in a peaceful place, or working in something they would really feel proud about doing. Billy Joel's song Piano Man words speak about this longing: "...but there's somewhere that I'd rather be". If you decide to be brave and leave your present job, or the big city or whatever seems to be binding you, there is always the risk things might not work out the way you thought they would, your plans may fail.
Many times, while seating at the table with my kids, I would fantasize saying "behind that wall is the beach" and we would laugh. In reality, behing that wall was Juventino Rosas street, ever so congested with cars. "Someday we will live by the ocean" we would comment day-dreaming. My dream to change that urban reality took us through many uncertain roads. There were several attempts, a Ranch in Chiapas among others, which will require its own chapter some time in the future. One day, after many years of saying I would, I sold my house and belongings and left my dear Mexico City toward some place by the sea. My three boys were adults already, so I could only invite them to come, I could no loner command them, they were old enough to make their decisions. We started by living in San Diego. There they went and visited; Santiago even held a Job and lived with us for a while, but there was no strong conviction to stay, not even in my wife and myself. California felt foreign and aloof; additionally the pollution, traffic and tension were similar to what we had left behind. So from San Diego we traveled down the coast to Rocky Point, to Guaymas, to San Carlos, until we got to Chapala, next to the lake and so near to beautiful Guadalajara. My sons visited us there too and considered staying. In Chapala we heard a lot about Puerto Vallarta, so we decided to try there also. Something I have not mentioned is that the year we spent traveling and trying out places I continued to paint, yet our income did not come strictly from painting but also from the interest produced by the money from the sale of my house and other properties. Had this money remained well invested I could have continued to live modestly without being pressed to sell any of my paintings for low prices. The problem however, is that painters are usually not good investors. One day I learned how to invest in the stock market through internet. In the beginning I only put in 10% of my capital. After a period of good results I increased it to 15% and this multiplied my earnings by 70% in only a few months! This brought on a seductive confusion and a deviation from my true calling: I stopped being a painter artist to become an online investor. For over a year I woke up to see the market open and monitored its moves through the day. I read all sort of books on strategies to anticipate the market moves, moving averages, trends, and all. I took expensive courses, bought the latest equipment and programs. My life depended on the Nasdaq. At the end I lost everything. So at age 49 I had no choice but to stay in Puerto Vallarta and make due.
For the first time in my life I became really poor. I experienced anguish and wants I had not known before. I then was glad my older children had not followed me. I regretted having a baby daughter only two years old and a young wife who trusted me to provide their sustenance, because I felt totally defeated, old and tired. As I write these lines I decided not to shorten my account of this critical stage in my artistic life; I would like to present it in full detail. So with the approval of my editor I shall continue in the next issue.
Federico León de la Vega
E-mail: fleondelavega@hotmail.com
Author Note: This is a chapter of a book I am writing about my adventures as a painter artist.
The Federico León de la Vega Estudo – Café is open to the public and is located in Paseo de la Marina 31, Nuevo Vallarta, Nayarit. Opening hours are Monday to Saturday from 8:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m. Sundays from 8:00 to 11:00 a.m.
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