Walking through the backstreets of the town I came across a small front yard filled with naive wooden sculptures of animals – a crocodile, a monkey and birds. I was invited through the gate by a slightly diffident but attractive woman, Monica, who introduced me to her father – the sculptor – and mother, Maria. Maria had none of the shyness of her daughter and welcomed me like an old friend, whisking me into their house on a tour of other sculptures made by her husband. I found it hard to understand him as he explained each piece in a rambling mumble but he was a dapper old man, smartly dressed with a jaunty cap and bright sparkling eyes in his confused face. My favourite works of his were birds – herons and other wading birds – made from long brown curls of palm tree bark but there were all kinds of carvings in the spare bedroom and along the black and white tiled hall. So art you like? I asked. Yes replied the old man but more than art I love to dance. Maria told me they’d been married for 50 years and showed me old photos of the handsome couple, dressed for a night out. As a young woman she was just beautiful with a round smiling face and thick hair braided into plaits which coiled around her head and as an old one – she still was. My husband’s name is Yolo she said – it’s actually Martires (which means martyrs) but well, so ugly a name! so we call him Yolo. And then, as I left, she invited me to come for lunch the next day.
No comments:
Post a Comment