The Masked Man
by Stacy Conde
I first met Rubén Torres Llorca on April 26, 2016 at a CIFO talk titled “La Generación de Volumen Uno: La escena del arte producido en Cuba entre 1978 y 1984” or “The Generation of Volume One: The art scene in Cuba between 1978 and 1984”. Unlike most first meetings of strangers, I have photographic evidence published in Cuban Art News. Rubén is on the panel looking serious, dignified, and slightly annoyed, while I am in the audience apparently having some sort of spasm. See figures 1 and 2.
Figure 1 - Llorca is second from left
Photo Credit: Rafael Diaz Canas
Figure 2 - I am in the front row, second from right
Photo Credit: Rafael Diaz Canas
The entire discussion was in Spanish, and yours truly, born Stacy Goodman from North Miami Beach, followed along with no small effort. Everyone on the panel was intelligent and well spoken, however Llorca stood out. It wasn’t only the heated exchange that took place between him and Aldo Menendez, (may he rest in peace), but it was the way he spoke, how he carried himself and the tell tale sign of an exceptional mind - the expression in his eyes. Llorca absorbs every subtle detail within his focus and listens intently, with his eyes.
Make no mistake I was there, yes to hear about the seminal exhibition “Volumen Uno” of which Rubén Torres Llorca, José Bedia, Tomas Sánchez and eight other notable artists took part, ultimately changing the course of Cuban art, but mostly I was there to meet Llorca. Our then three year old gallery, Conde Contemporary, had been growing steadily since its inception. Our specialization was in representational work with a focus on Cuban art. We worked mainly with emerging artists, and Llorca, was far from an emerging artist. He was then, and is now an established master with works in permanent museum collections across the globe.
Where I first saw his work, I don’t remember, but was struck initially by the remarkable technique he exhibited across multiple mediums. Once I got past his obvious skill set, the conceptual aspect of his work came into focus. It’s a powerful one two punch. I understood some of what he was trying to say, and some I didn’t, but it all seemed steeped in a kind of pervasive cynicism.
There is no romanticism in his subject matter, he doesn’t overtly try to pull at the viewer’s heart strings nor create beauty for beauty’s sake. He draws you in with the pretty pictures then politely tells you to go fuck yourself. Obviously, I needed to know more, for I do enjoy complicated men.
Everything about Rubén’s presence is formidable and demands respect, so it was with some trepidation I approached the artist and brazenly introduced myself. I knew he’d speak with me, for a variety of reasons, that was not the basis of my apprehension. Some time later in the eight years, to date, of our working relationship and friendship, I learned one of Llorca’s favorite quotes is from William Faulkner, “In writing, you must kill all your darlings”. Rubén is the living embodiment of that quote, both in life and in art. It was as apparent to me then as it is now, and frankly I harbor a few darlings. I had zero interest in a Llorca assisted mercy killing there on the floor of CIFO.
No Te Preocupes Mi Amor, Esta Obra Carece de Angustia Existencial
(Don’t Worry My Love, This Work Lacks Existential Anguish)
As it turned out, I had nothing to worry about. Though the man doesn’t exactly suffer fools gladly, neither is he rude. He accepted my invitation to visit the gallery and many Cuban coffees, Argentinian dinners, glasses of wine, conversations on philosophy, religion, systems of government, relationships, literature, film, music and art - all punctuated by uproarious laughter - here we are, with you reading and me writing, as I attempt to contextualize what even I first viewed as cold cynicism in Llorca’s work, by humanizing the man.
Como Mi Interes Por El Arte Contemporaneo, Se Fue Rapidamente Al Carajo
(How My Interest In Contemporary Art, Went Rapidly To Hell)
Having overcome my original, very healthy and not at all phobic, fear of Rubén, I called him a pessimist. His response, “Inside every pessimist is a wounded optimist.” In a dramatic reenactment of this moment, Rubén would have looked off into the distance with a poignant look on his face, brows knitted together in anguish, and a lonely solitary tear rolling down his cheek. However, in actuality his face was animated when he spoke the words, barely holding back his own laughter, like he was delivering a punchline, and that’s the thing, he was. He’s in on the joke, and wants you to be too, but you have to figure it out for yourself. He’ll leave you the breadcrumb trail but will never proselytize. He’s not out to convert; he presents the facts as he sees them, the rest is up to you, and “…si te gusta bien, y si no también”, if you like it good, and if not, that’s good too.
Rubén sees the human experience for what it is, filled with love and loss, joy and suffering and most of all, temporary. For as anyone with at least two brain cells and maybe 30 years under their belt knows, the only real constant is change. Llorca is well aware of this fact, and he delights in pointing out the absurdity of it all.
Perhaps too critically self aware, Llorca is without many blindspots. He spent three months in a Buddhist monastery in Japan, where he took a vow of silence, which he says was, “…incredibly difficult, especially for a Cuban”, this comment was immediately followed by the boisterous laughter I’ve come to expect from him because it always comes. The topic is irrelevant, there will be laughter, and if we’re being completely honest here, I take enormous pleasure in making him laugh.
There are no sacred cows in his work, he’s killed them too. Llorca applies the same unflinching analytical rigor to all the subjects he tackles with an even hand, including himself and romantic relationships, or less broadly, to the difference between the way men and women approach relationships. Fun fact, Rubén is always the masked man in his paintings. Batman sneaking out of the forest, arms extended, about to pounce on Snow White. The Lone Ranger approaching a virginal looking Catholic princess with guns drawn. Going beyond the mask, The Creature From The Black Lagoon absconding with the unconscious ingenue in his arms. Make of it what you will, just know he prefers Jung over Freud.
Even with all the murdering of cows and darlings, there is a tenderness in him. The piece, “Make Me A Mask”, 2005, touches my heart. The work consists of nine individual photos, stacked in rows of three, depicting men and women from a bygone era. The central figure is bare faced, while all the others have ink drawings of animals over their faces. The man without a mask in the middle has text across his chest which reads “Make Me A Mask”. The eight other images have text as well. All together the piece reads, “Make Me A Mask, To Escape, To Sell, To Rest, To Wish, To Love, To Smile, To Fight, To Listen”.
I’ll leave you with this from Francine Birbragher-Rozencwaig, PhD, who is far better at writing an actual academic review of an artist’s work than I will ever be. In a piece on Llorca for ArtNexus she writes, “Ruben Torres Llorca is after all a conceptual artist, and for him, the work of art is just an instrument, intellectually conceived and carefully made, that can only exist through the personal experience of each of the individuals who accepts to interpret it, live it, and in some instances, suffer it.” Perfection.