José Clemente Orozco Farías
“Clemente,” as we called him, was an almost mythical figure at camp. Giggling, almost madly, he was always halfway out of frame and not in focus. He hated to be the center of attention. His style was New Hampshire hermit. He drove a Rent-a-Wreck with a trunk of battered antiques, scavenged iron parts, demented treasures. He was like a gnome who plays tricks at night: swapping out the eggs in the carton for clementines or switching a daisy in a pitcher with a carrot — sweetly reminding the world of the absurd possibility of joy.
Always mischievous, never malevolent, so kind to anyone lucky enough to wander through his cluttered studio. He was endlessly patient, helping kids through tie-dye after tie-dye, the rubber bands, the dead swirl. It was barely art, but I’m sure he thought that the soggy, blurry, truly lazy tee-shirts were a gateway drug, a way to nurture the happiness and creativity and mischief he found in art. The last time I saw him, he showed me the handmade books he was making, an evolution of the lithographs he lovingly carved.
Today, I heard with shock that he died this past January. It’s hard to believe that someone made of magic could ever die. As he did for so many others, he let me enter into his world of possibility, at a moment I really needed it, and I miss him terribly.
Rest in peace.
