PHA-Exchange> A PHA2 anecdote

[Claudio]

    From:    nsantuah at pcaccra.org


Pretty portrait of an ugly man



Among the many memorable occasions that remain etched on my mind is an
encounter with Servio Zapata, an Ecuadorian artist who exhibited his works
at the Assembly.  I found him in a secluded corner on the ground floor of
the PHA2 secretariat.  He was isolated, alone and perhaps lonely and
painting away at something.  I approached him cautiously like a vicious
predator would stalk a precious prey.   I took a glance at his works
displayed on the wall before I bestowed some attention on him.   After all
if I wished to show him respect I needed to admire his works.



"Can you paint me?" said I hopping he does not misunderstand my question.
He took a quick look at me, effected a coy smile and nodded.  I interpreted
to mean 'Oh sure, I can do a good job on any ugly man, and you are no
exception!'



"But I don't really have the time, I'm already late for a press conference.
Let's see what you can do in five minutes!" I threatened.



I sat on a stool facing him.  He dropped his tools and put away what he was
painting.  He examined me from ear to ear as he robbed his fingers
repeatedly and nodding.  He pulled out a fresh card from a pack by his side,
reassembled his tools and got to work promptly.  He made a few aggressive
strokes on the card with his painting brushes which looked like the outline
of my skull.



He would look at me every now and again as he progressed.  I tried to resist
the temptation of looking at what he was doing, trusting that he will face
up to the task.  As the aggression considerably reduced, I suspected he was
nearing the end of the assignment.  Soon he was done.  He pushed the card
towards me and got back to doing what he was doing when I interrupted.   I
snatched the works from the table.  I froze for a century.  What I saw
completed changed my perception of myself.  I began to wonder 'Did he need
my guidance to finish up?'  On the portrait, my jaws were drooping and I
appeared balder than I thought I actually was.



My eyes went from the portrait in my hand to the crown of his head as he
bent down painting away, almost ignoring me.  He had succeeded in making a
monster of me.



"How much?"  He did not seem to understand.  Or may be he did.  Without
raising his head, he waved at me.

"Muchas gratias," said I but I probably did not mean it.  I was just trying
to remember the few Spanish words I have been memorising since I arrived in
cute Cuenca only a few days earlier.

I rummaged my pockets to find him a befitting honorarium.  I had in mind a
gift of at least five dollars but what I had on me was only two dollars and
a $50 note.   I put the two dollars on the table while still holding onto
and displaying the $50 note in my left hand, not in a manner to show off but
to let him know I thought the two dollars was insufficient reward for his
forbearance, but on the other hand I could not muster the needed courage to
part with the $50 bill.   He raised his head momentarily, looked at me,
looked at the two dollars on the table, nodded his thanks and went back to
work.



When I arrived home in Ghana, it was at midnight.  My seven-year old
daughter, like the rest of the family, had been expecting me.  She rushed
out to embrace me.  They also knew that, as usual, I had brought things from
abroad for them, and indeed I had.  I brought out the painting from the side
of my bad and waved it at her.   Her reaction was mortifying.  "Hey daddy,
mmo mo konto!" exclaimed she in kasem, our mother tongue.  What she said
meant, "Daddy, this is you!"  I took a look at it once more and I began to
understand.  The portrait looked very, very ugly but it looked just like me.
It then dawned on me that I had not expressed sufficient gratitude to Servio
Zapata for doing a great job and when I said "muchas gratias", I ought to
have meant it.