CORRESPONDENCErnForeignrnCorrespondencesrnby William MillsrnDown Ecuador Way, Part IIrnPart of the charm of Latin American visualrnarts for me is the absence of extremernpolarities in the continuum anchored byrnfolk art on one end and fine art on thernother. A continuum often seems not tornexist in “First World Countries.” Thernfine art that I saw in Ecuador often containedrnthe themes and mythology of indigenousrnart; in addition, it had not sornseparated the natural, visual universernfrom the canvas that only the gnostics ofrnart criticism could be a painting’s interpreters.rnThe “uselessness and destruction ofrnthe object” which heralded the beginningsrnof abstract art grew partly out ofrnthe conviction that man is truly unconstrained,rnand thus any constraint in artrnbecame taboo. While out walking, thernCzech painter Kupka apologized to naturernfor having attempted to copy it andrnpromised not to do so anymore. Born inrnMoscow, Kandinsky was living in Munichrnbefore World War I when he declaredrnthat “Everything is permitted.”rnAnother painter, at least 20 yearsrnyounger, was also living in Munich at thisrntime, Adolf Hitler. Perhaps he overheardrnthe older, more accomplishedrnpainter.rnIn “First World Countries,” individualism,rnor at least the illusion of it, is thernorder of the day, and communal lifernseems to evade our grasp. Concurrently,rnthe process of autonomy takes over everyrnfield of endeavor, including painting,rnwhich insists on the right of independentrnprinciples, certainly principles independentrnof community. While ordinary citizensrncould, and still can, be moved by arnGiotto, a Donatello, a Botticelli in theirrndaily lives, it would be interesting torncompare the number of those who havernbeen moved, consoled, or inspired byrn”Composition in Bright Colors withrnGray Contours,” to use a single example.rnI was fortunate that my friend andrnaide-de-camp, Fernando Sanchez, wasrnable to introduce me to the distinguishedrnEcuadorian painter LeonardornTejada. Tejada, who is 87 years old, mayrnbe South America’s oldest living masterrnpainter. Vigorous and full of life, he tookrnme around his rooftop apartment wherernsome 50 or 40 paintings mostly leanedrnagainst the walls. I was not prepared forrnthe onslaught of brilliant colors; 1 wasrnbathed in color. Tejada led me to a large,rnvertical canvas resting on an easel andrnsaid this was his current work. Five or sixrnIndian faces hovered dreamlike aboutrnthe canvas, and mixed with these werernimages clearly representative of indigenousrnmythology.rnFigures from the indigenous worldrnfilled many of the other paintings,rnthough not all of them, A few offeredrnsomewhat cubistic scenes of Quito’srnstreets. Without in any way suggestingrnimitation, some reminded me of Chagallrnand occasionally of Miro. I nearlv alwaysrnfind it difficult to speak about an art thatrndoes not work through words, even morernso when the artist is at my elbow. Thernoverall effect, however, was that Tejada’srnwork was a great deal more than simplyrnshowy technique—it has subject matter.rnIt called to mind for me that agingrnpainter-genius, Gulley Jimson, of ThernHorse’s Mouth. He says, “Why . . . a lotrnof my recent stuff is not much better,rntechnically, than any young lady can dornafter six lessons at a good school. Heavyhanded,rnstupid-looking daubery. Onlyrndifference is that it’s about something—rnit’s an experience, and all this amateurrnstuff is like f—ting ‘Annie Laurie’ throughrna keyhole. It may be clever but is it worthrnthe trouble?… Sit down and ask yourselfrnwhat’s it all about.”rnCertainly Tejada’s technique is notrnheavy-handed or stupid-looking daubery.rnOne aspect of it is the surface texturern—a surface laid down first by knifernbut then virtually carved with small toolsrnthat the Indians use for working inrnleather and soft wood. At one point Tejadarnreached out and touched variousrnpatches of different colors and said eachrnwas a musical sound for him; he touchedrnthe dark greens and blues hummingrndeep notes, then moved up the scalesrnwith lighter colors until his highest noternwas on some brilliant yellows. Towardrnthe end of my visit he took me over to arnsmall painting of rough texture about thernwar with Peru. He touched several partsrnof this canvas and named the villagesrnwhere the fighting was. He did not tellrnme what sounds the painting made.rnPainter Leonardo Tejada.rnFrom Tejada, preeminent among thernolder generation, we set about lookingrnfor one of the leading young painters in arnleft-wing, quasi-communist bar by thernname of “Mayo de 1968.” I was told byrnFernando that the bar’s name is the daternthe government outlawed the CommunistrnParty in Ecuador, and that this wasrnwhere we might find Luigi Stornaiolo.rnNowadays a few painters hang out in thern”Mayo de 1968″ and watch other customersrndo the salsa. The slender, unshavenrnStornaiolo always seems to have arnwry, even sardonic look in his eyes, althoughrnhe and his handsome wife werernfriendly hosts when I visited them laterrnin the week.rnIf Tejada’s work often has a dreamlikernquality, Stornaiolo’s frequently has arnnightmarish quality. Both painters havernseveral styles. Stornaiolo can paint withrnalmost draughtsmanlike realism, but herncan shift to broad, violent brushstrokesrnthat strike the viewer with powerfulrnemotional impact. Again, with bothrnpainters, objects are not destroyed. Atrnthe same time, their work reflects manyrnof the technical msights of the last century.rnStornaiolo is above all a satirist, atrnleast in the works I am familiar with.rnSome are only gently so, for examplernJANUARY 1997/39rnrnrn