THE KILLER FLIES OF LUXOR
Blazquez was born in Cardenas, Cuba, in 1944. He began painting at an early age, using any materials he could lay his hands on—from house paint to bubblegum. When his mother decided to mail his abstract works to a Cuban celebrity painter, the reply came that the author was born with a gift and should be given “total freedom of creation.” As a child, Blazquez experienced recurring dreams of ancient Egypt, despite never having encountered imagery associated with the civilization. These dreams remained with him throughout his life and later influenced his art. Feeling as though he were at the mercy of a Communist state, the author sought freedom by leaving Cuba in 1965 to live in Montreal, Paris, Madrid, and then America. In 1974, the artist began producing “Egyptian sculptured paintings,” which later became known as “mummies.” Blazquez recalls feuds with difficult and exploitative gallery owners as he struggled to get his art exhibited. Four years later, in recognition of his work, he was invited to take a three-week tour of Egypt as an official guest of that nation’s government. Arranged in nonchronological order, the memoir frequently returns to this trip, providing commentary on everything from pyramid visits to the cleanliness of the hotels. The author also inserts dream sequences into the account that further inform how they influenced his art. Published posthumously, the book notes that Blazquez’s intention is to offer readers “a clear picture of why I am the way I am.”
Blazquez is a forthright author who is unafraid to deliver an intriguing perspective on issues that affected him personally, such as Communism: “The best defense the people of the world have against cancerous communism is to be well informed.” His dream sequences provide an eerily surreal window into his artistic invention: “The sarcophagus and its constraints are non-existing now. I am floating in space like in a mummy position with my arms crossed over my chest.” But the author’s use of language is wordy to the extent that meaning can become obscured: “He was kind of apprehensive and his only concern was if I mentioned the name of the gallery which I didn’t to two of them but the person who referred me in the first place knew, but it was between us only.” The memoir’s nonchronological form is intended to impart a sense of freedom, but the manner in which Blazquez meanders back and forth between subjects soon becomes repetitive and disorienting. Disputes with a gallery owner are drawn out unnecessarily and mundanely described: “He began calling me ‘Joselito’ and ‘Antonio.’ After a while he became nasty and he was shouting at me”; “While I was painting, the phone rang. It was the owner of the gallery calling me ‘Joselito’ and ‘Antonio’ so I knew he was already drunk, interrupting my work with more drunken nonsense.” Still, admirers of Blazquez’s work will find insights into how the artist’s life shaped his creative process and may well forgive the memoir’s chaotic nature.
