Andrés Monreal (1932-2012)

He left as he came into my life - a rumor.

Few will dispute the fact that he was a genius. To some he was known as the Casanova of Ibiza. He liked to think of himself as the Michaelangelo of the Baleares.

Ibiza had been his home since the early 1960s, when he began working in films. He cast convincingly as the Bedouin freedom fighter Ahmed in "The Lost Command" (1966), Mexican captain Herrera in "Villa Rides" (1968), or captain Ahab of Nantucket on the seven seas.

He had star quality, much like Anthony Quinn, and exploited his good looks grooming his beard every morning before an original ink drawing by Picasso hung next to his mirror. Picasso's graceful lines were his music. Since coming to Spain he had incorporated the qualities of his surroundings, its sensuous lines, nuanced warm colors, all absorbed in his unique, visionary paintings.

"They are a vision in the mirror".

This rumor preceded his stepping into my life. It came from the Mexican Illuminati Berta Dominguez and her brother "Poncho", both great painters and great drunkards. We had a great time, all of us, and it seemed at times, as though Tequila floated through the air.

Andrés had been living in Paris in the luxurious surroundings of Berta and her husband, producer Alex “Superman” Salkin.

Salkin was a diminutive man of iron will and scorching black wit. He incarnated the gangster producer of the 1970s who made blockbusters and then sneaked from country to country, often a step ahead of the law, to hide his proceeds. But somehow he remained above the law and financed the lavish life style of his wife in order to keep her occupied and diverted, away from his nefarious activities, as Terence Stamp put it. Her parties had the Daliesque theatrality of quiet surreality. The particles of creation shined under a bright light of art and magic.

In the 1980s – and this is not an accurate account of the chronology of events - Andrés exhibited in a gallery near Beaubourg in Paris. Assembled, his work was unimpressive. His colors were muted, the lines and figures told, in captivating real and surreal poses, most unlikely stories. His still life stood out with deep colors. His techniques were mixed; he favored oil on canvas, sometimes with collages cut-out from papers. He used pastel like a Florentine master. As a whole, the series of paintings lacked intent or direction.

It took decades to understand the theme that drove these images. They revealed the wounded soul of a child struggling to hold down the past while asserting his imaginary freedom in Europe. By creating his own world in which he reigned supreme, his dream had come true. He was more than Chilean, he had become an international artist.

His father had been a tango dancer and boxer in Argentina, he used to tell me, before coming to Chile, where he met Andrés' mother. He was born in Santiago, Andrés Gomez Monreal, in 1932. Why did he claim it was 1937?

Far from vanity (as some assumed), it had to do with the fact that as a child he suffered from asthma and spent years confined in a sanitarium. Tied down in starched bed sheets, the smell of formaldehyde and pungent ammonia disinfectant remained lingering memories. He discounted those years of confinement as though they had never existed.

In the sanitorium he began drawing. Creating his own fantasy world. The child's refuge in an imaginary world of escape, long before the real world wipes those dreams clear off your easel. His exclusion from the world of children scarred him for life. He lived to conceal this scar by sublimating it in the projection of his ideal inner world seeking balance, harmony and bliss. In posterity.

After WWII he began performing in plays and got his first paying job as a model of fotonovelas, popular in those days before telenovelas, and cheaper to make. As an artist he adopted his matronymic. Monreal sounded better than Gomez, he esteemed, it sounded aristocratic. In the effervescence of those days, he joined the Bellas Artes and like most artistically inclined Chileans painted abstract post-expressionist paintings. His work was startlingly original even 60 years later when I glimpsed at his only surviving example on the white wall of his Paris apartment.

He came to Paris to complete his art studies. For a while each morning he collected newspapers for recycling to make a few extra sous. The parties at the swinging bal des Beaux Arts were spectacular, and free. The Chilean community was thriving. In a bar rue des Petits-Princes he met the ill-fated and misunderstood Violeta Parra, who was performing nightly. Unlike Andrés, Violeta longed to return to Chile. "No me encuentro aqui", she cried. She was lost in Paris. Andrés instead went to Madrid, to work in films.

He had Castillian and Aragonese ancestry he once proudly declared. He felt Spanish.

In 1958, he landed a role in Luis Lucia's "La muralla", a classic of its time. Until 1973, when he played a tourist guide in "Love and Pain and the Whole Damn Thing" by Alan Pakula, he worked steadily in films. For most artists, actors and film makers Ibiza was a relative haven from fascist Franco. It was rural, bohemian, sunny, had great seafood and good liquor.

Andrés bartered a ruin on a crater from the local inn keeper for paintings. Over the years he turned it into his magic castle. You can still walk into the bar Costa of Santa Gertrudis and find his paintings covering the wall like in a crowded private showroom. For a while Andrés tried his hand at forgeries. To avoid being accused of fraud he claimed to have signed them with his own name, because, he felt, his copies were better than the originals.

Like most painters he was vain and narcissistic and sometimes arrogant. He disliked nature and favored the metropolis. As a friend he was harsh and ruthless, generous as well as appreciative. A lover he was, a romantic cavalier - un caballero –, who knew society codes like a swallow knows its pecking order, could tango, paso doble, rhumba, marimba, women swooning in his arms. I saw it.

I also saw the seedier side of a world struggling between recognition and rejection. Like K waiting by the side of the gate for his turn that never comes. In Paris, Andrés walked the tight rope of the trottoirs most artists shun on the look-out for galleries. It was debilitating, humiliating, uningenious.

From the 1980s he had a small flat on rue de Beaune, then an atelier on rue de Pontoise, and still later he bought an apartment near the Bastille, on the rue du faubourg Saint Antoine, in the famed Cours d'Etoile d'Or. Paris had become his second home.

In 1990, we were working on a screenplay of the life of Violeta Parra who had killed herself after returning to Chile. When I visited Chile that time, Andrés was in Santiago for an exhibit at the Praxis gallery. He had rented a two bedroom apartment in the center, so I spent a week with him working on the script. I felt frustrated by the thin air in a nation still under the spell of Pinochet.

One night I ended up in a bar of ill fame, in those days only familiar to insiders of the underworld where long-haul truckers caroused and danced having sexual gratifications for their wages till the early hours. I invited a girl who'd gotten off waitressing in a coffee shop. She had intentions of becoming an actress. She was attractive, sexy, thin and tall. She was also very shy. Perhaps it was the moon that lead her to believe that heaven was a night out with me when we entered the discreet whorehouse in the cellar of a patrician building on a corner of a tree-lined Santiago side street.

Soon after ordering our pisco sours at the dingy bar under subdued light, a girl started table-dancing in the semi-nude to a flaming cumbia. Men sat around tables with their drinks, smoking. Then the door burst open. In oozed a dozen helmeted soldiers wielding submachine guns yelling "Contra la pared", against the wall, herding customers and girls into a corner. Two of them pointing their barrels into my back. I did not move, there was not much space anyway. A stout man in a black jacket and white cotton shirt open at his neck, holding a revolver by his thigh, stepped into the light of the bar and stared at me. He showed me a badge: "Capitan Gomez, Servicio Narcoticos. Documentos!" Gomez growled. I gave him my Bibliothéque National image ID crediting me as a screenplay writer. He looked it over nearly amused. He returned the card and signaled his soldiers to lower their guns. 

"What are you doing here", he asked. "I'm searching material for a crime series for French television", I said. He looked at me more in surprise than in disbelief. I was dressed in a black Chinese Kung fu jacket, and wore kung fu pants and shoes. I stood still. 

"Your passport?"

"No", I shook my head slowly, keeping my eyes on him. "My passport is at the apartment of my producer, Don Andrés Monreal".

He reached for the phone at the end of the counter and I heard Inspector Gomez calling for Don Andrés Moreal.

It was 3 AM.

I don't recall the rest of the phone conversation. I turned to check out my companion who was gripping the counter by my side. The girls in the corner were teasing the sex maniacs who waved their guns like so many phalluses.

"D'ya", I heard Gomez say, as he looked me over head to toe, and hung up. "You can leave", he said, "but we keep the girl".

"No, capitan Gomez, she came in with me, she leaves with me; she is my assistant who told me about the great music here." Again he looked quizzically, scratching his nose. But he stepped out of the way to let the girl pass. He stared at me for a second then said: "Can you put me in a tv series or something? I have many stories they will love on French television." 

By the curb I joined my friend before a row of police cars. We walked off into the night of Santiago in silence.

Next morning Andrés told me what he'd improvised for inspector Gomez: "Let him go, Gomez, he's my best writer and I need his script before breakfast!"

Writing was his passion and Andrés without doubt was a better writer than I was. He'd authored plays, poems, stories and novels. And even an unfortunate biography. His writing was poetic and beautiful like his paintings, but it was too early to tell the life of Violeta Parra to a large public and her brother demanded a million dollars for the rights. Nevertheless, Monreal stories are an integral part of his paintings, expressing the moment's inspiration, the color of the light, and the relationships.

Yes, his strongest support came from women who selflessly abandoned themselves to him. A friend from Ibiza, Marie, became his lover mistress and muse. As a couple they explored all corners of the world. Perhaps most importantly he visited Chile with Marie, as though he had never seen Chile before. He had been confined to Santiago. He had erased Chile from his mind. This Chilean voyage changed him.

Each time Andrés brought back visionary experiences from these voyages: to Nepal, India, Cuba. His notebooks revealed that his return to his own catalog of subconscious visions was more important to him than those he had visited. His visions haunted him like projections of the past and were stronger than the present. His best series of paintings were inspired by the story of Lonko Lautaro, the only true Chilean general. He turned his vision of Chilean history into rich, colorful, powerful paintings. This highly inspired vision of Chilean history is simply stunning.

Once he had found a loyal guiding partner in the late Michel Dauberville of the Bernheim Jeune gallery he gained in direction and purpose. He also acquired an international recognition that solidified his reputation. He kept laboring at a steady pace, concentrated on a programmed output that he prepared sometimes a year ahead. He was carrying his ideas in sketchbooks or in his head. He tried to sculpt; but his only good eye proved a handicap: he was unable to "see" in three dimensions. 

Despite the jealousy pervasive in the art world, he had reached his goal. But, as an example of that jealousy, an irate Berta Dominguez splashed her glass of red wine over his painting during a gala opening. His paintings had surpassed the limits of her tolerance. She was Mexican, she felt betrayed: he had become a better painter.

You don't forget an Andrés Monreal painting once you've seen it. His painting engages you, in the pit of your spirit, through the retina, the eye, the heart, the soul... And it is no surprise to see his paintings all over the world...

I hoped it was an unfounded rumor when I heard he had reached the state of dementia and was confined in a home in Ibiza.

At the turn of the millennium Andrés needed coronary repair. He was strong as an ox, he ate and drank anything he liked; then he suddenly felt weak and tired. He had a septuple bypass operation in Munich. I went there to fly him out. At his convalescent home by the Starnberger See he looked frail. He had been dead. He had returned from the dead. His will to live was wavering. His rejection of light and life irrational. He complained about the food...

He was happy returning to Paris where I cared for him on rue de Seine, 6th floor, in view of the Eiffel Tower. I introduced him to a strict macrobiotic regime: No salt, no sugar, no starch (bread, pasta), no fat, no red meats, no pastries, no butter, no ... ; Lemon juice, ginger, olive oil, fresh vegetables, fresh fish, whole grains, beans, low fat milk products, honey.

A couple of weeks later a glass of red wine.

He had a near religious adoration of Iberian chorizo, strong liquor and black Cuban tobacco smoked unfiltered.

He was grouchy and rejected the fresh food simmered in olive oil, the amount of garlic, fish flavored with fresh herbs instead of a sauce hollandaise. All those delicious things he took for granted were gone. 

We took walks in the Luxembourg gardens early mornings when it was still fresh. It was spring time. Slowly he got into breathing. I taught him simple exercises that were enjoyable. He hated being reminded of the sanitarium. On these walks we encountered Varga-Llosas on his constitutional. He lived by Saint Sulpice. We knew each other from Arequipa. Andrés walked on distractedly, then thoughtfully said: I wished I could write like him.

At home he cried hopelessly, "When can I have some chorrizo?" "Hopefully never," I said mockingly. I teased him. But it got his attention focused on food which to my surprise he had never spent much time thinking about. For him it was the wine that was the most important, the food then just came with it. But he was a good cook who knew to please the palate of his friends. 

It is a rumor. Andrés dead? I raise a glass of red wine in his memory, a glass for you who may read and share this, his sons Nick and Rodrigo, his family and friends. Andrés was a great lover, a great painter, a great man. Un gran Chileno.

But I have incontestable proof that he is still alive, walking around out there. You have not noticed. But I have.

In fact I...

Returning from the medical center I crossed Oak Park's tree lined neighborhood. Cozy one family homes with front lawns, and the flag. Besides a few cars parked on the street, it is like a ghost town. You can walk for miles without meeting a soul. Meandering in my thoughts I crossed 2nd avenue diagonally.

The avenue lined with centenary plane and oak trees, had no traffic, no people. On the opposite side a man hobbled over the curb steadying himself on a wooden cane. He stopped as surprised as myself as I alighted and nodded a silent salut. He cried: "How are you?" I must not have been looking good, I thought. Noticing his leathery skin, I said: ¿Habla español?

"Si. Why?" "Porque quiero platicar." He was Ojibwe or Chippewa also known as Chippeway, he said. His mother had been Mexican. He had a melodious sounding voice. Under his slouchy hat stuck out a small gray pony tail. I said I was out of jail where I revived a 76 year old Navajo in cell 12, the only American. "The only American", he repeated. "Yes," I said, "the only American." I stood under the plane trees staring at the centenary trunks that had withstood the storm of time. I asked if I could walk along with him. He said he was going to the cancer memorial park and kept walking as I talked in a trance. I said I felt his heart. He said his heart came out at the hospital three days ago.   I don't speak of that heart, I said; "That, you can heal, they have tools for that. I mean the heart that hurts, receives blows, is pliable, but is the true undying heart. It is vulnerable. You have a good heart. You are a good person." He paused. I told him how I'd saved a friend's life after a septuple bypass operation. "You are a shaman", he said. "You're lucky to be out here". "Yes", I said, "better than solitary. What is your name?" "Andrés." It was him. I did a double take and with a soothing voice said: "Andrés, listen:  No salt, no sugar, no starch(bread, pasta), no fat, no red meats, no pastries, no butter, no ... ; Lemon juice, ginger, olive oil, fresh vegetables, fresh fish, whole grains, beans, low fat milk products, honey. Con mucho amor." "Gracias, y coraje," he said.

He went his way, across Stockton boulevard, to meditate at his memorial.

Photographs courtesy of Gary Hardy, publisher of liveibiza.com, copyright Gary Hardy. Thanks for the permission to use these photographs.