A false sense of
Paradise.
Arriving alone in
Mexico with little else but spare clothes and pens on September 1st
2015 was quite a shock from the human and stress overload that has
been life in London squatland for the last few years, especially the
fact that I didn’t speak any Spanish and look about as foreign as
you can possibly coming from the British Isles (ginger beard, blue
eyes, London swagger, skanking to salsa, you get the idea…).
Upon arriving in
western paradise I realized quickly that sticking out in this way is
perfect for attracting the wrong attention, and even though there are
of course huge benefits to learning from experience a whole lot of
things go mysteriously wrong fast when you get close to a few of the
experienced locals of Tulum and learning the Caribbean version of
streetwise is a hairy experience. With the intention
of coming to this land and smashing it artistically in every way,
living and renting rather than youth hostels and moving ever 5 days,
as well as promoting the epic Minesweeper Collective was a great
talking point though, and before long, once I got used to the
attention and had my rented bamboo house looking fresh, I stuck my
neck out to see what I could hustle up in this quaint mosquito shit
party village.
The vibe here was very unusual split
between local indigenous Mayans and the new population of this very
young community, turfed out of their land by big money developers and
false promises of future work and security, excited by or ignoring
the waves of international travelers arriving form the south for one
last party before flying back from the hellish resort hole of Cancun,
crossed with the wealth of the cocaine trade passing through to the
resorts of the north. I blended in as a slightly apart joker,
chatting in horrific Spanish who spent most evenings in the bars
never stating exactly where he lived or who he knew there. Its not
the best look though and after a sneaky robbing from a little local
worm and genuinely getting my life threatened by a coke-fuelled
Columbian madman with no one around who knew me, I decided to get
back to the reasons why I came here and stop trying to fit in with
this random selection of drunks, nutters and genuinely nice but fast
leaving foreigners.
Scene set lets get back to the art.
Using the alone time to explore new styles, from shading to subject
matter was what I imagined was I decided going to be the best I could
get out of the situation not seeing much of an art scene in the area.
I had fun, confronting new problems
such as un stroppable sweat drips falling on my work, tropical
thunderstorms knocking out power and flooding the house, the terrible
relationship between humidity and paper, all the while hanging about
and feeding up my new adopted black cat Kiwi who was without doubt my
best mate in Tulum. Don’t forget I’m on the on the Caribbean
coastline. Spending half the day with cocktails in the sea and on the
clear white sandy beaches created some distractions, however having
it so unbelievably large in this gangster fashion actually became
normal so as the weeks rolled on with growing discipline some real
new pieces started bouncing off this laid back life after the grim
drudgery of my last year in London. I was a month in, rolling around
daily in flip-flops and swimming shorts with cocktails in the sun and
drawing all night relaxed the situation and gave me time to make some
moves. I made it down to Belize which was hilarious as well on the
way getting me to my first mural, for accommodation in Bacalar, a
lagoon formally overrun by pirates near the border and away from glam
fashionable drug abuse of north Caribbean Quintana Roo. Now winding
down a three story staircase in a guesthouse called Casa China is a
new resident 10 metre Chinese dragon which looks rude if I say so
myself.
For those reading who are wondering
who it is telling you this random story and why its in the new format
of public exposure from Minesweeper, my name's Joe, I’m 27, I’m
one of the co-founders of the Minesweeper project and spent a year
and a half on the renovations of the boat from 2012 and setting up
the Undercurrents Gallery with the crew at the Birds Nest.
I’ve been churning out obscure illustration under the name of
JOEFUR for ten years now and have been pushing Live Art on the
underground occupation and party scene for longer than I expected I
would be, moving into festival madness with Happy Slap Boutique
Body Art Performance at Boomtown Fair and drawing designs for
cash in many corners of the UK party and Live Music scene. All this
as well as Crack Festival in Rome for the last 6 years I’m
trying to continue the internationally residency part of the
Minesweeper Project after having guests such as Le
Cagibi from France, Cane
Morto from Italy and La
Rata Rey and Lucia
Revilla Silva from Mexico City – its these guys who invited
my to Mexico – and trying to encourage others to do the same. I’m
now focusing on combining what I see as modern surrealism with
socio-political illustration. Travelling and art production are
intertwined, leading to an explosion of inspiration and ability from
being the new guy in town on a mission with no ties. This is what I
needed. This is why I’m here. And it’s going pretty well so far
from this mountain I’m currently writing from in January 2015.
Anyway back to
October. The Tulum mural was a defining moment in my journey in, and
eventually out of the Caribbean. The opportunity came from a
beautiful girl and great friend managing to convince her boss to give
the seemingly slightly deranged but confident new local English
artist party head the random two metre wall space outside their bar
in the center of
town, in the doorway from Europe, US and Australia to North Latin
America. The place where the cheapest flights land, the weirdest of
tourists and loners mix, and the highflyers lounge buying up all in
sight. Of course this is how I saw it, see saw it as a space that
needed filling and gave me free reign to so what I like as long as I
finished it.
This was an opportunity to let it all
out, and a lot had buit up inside me about the state of this part of
the world. I wanted to capture what I thought about the whole affair.
The fact that the heavily defeated population of the local Mayans
have been isolated from their deserved land by another wave of
foreign interest, the fact that everything from a sacred waterhole to
an ancient ruin has been sold off and exploited to the point where
its original beauty only serves to contrast the ugly nature of its
new surroundings. The overpowering presence of Americana from the
Chevrolet, Coca-Cola selling purified (not mineral) to buying an
island nearly for the a modern plantation for the production of cane
sugar for the new Coca-Cola Life, to the 7/11 pumping out hotdogs and
Lucky Strikes at all hours to the sale of corn production (corn being
the fundamental grain of the whole of Meso-American civilization) to
Monsanto by the new government. The fact that many of the local or
travelling ‘alternative’ population were not focusing or doing
anything collectively to challenge any of this, no boycotts instead
lapping it up mystified by cheap cocaine, out of place
hallucinogenics and blonde girls with 3 day time limits. The way that
music is the pulse of everything, good and bad, for business and
pleasure as well as being the fun mask shielding the reality of this
rape scene from those who have the most potential to influence it. I
also wanted to bust some gritty UK urban line-styles too because it
had been a while so I excitedly and gratefully got to work.
The most profound
moment of my trip so far was when after 5 days of cautious brushwork,
again dealing with the storms, mosquitoes and skin melting heat,
(attracting praise, confusion and the occasional bout of hostility
from the never ending flow of passers by) was when, nearing its
completion groups of the local Mayan builders, most of whom cannot
read or write Spanish and are isolated from all that is around them
except the construction sites and jungle fringes of my neighborhood,
started to stare and point to the subject matter I’d carefully
chosen, as well as the Mayan symbol meaning “It happened like
this…” that was the pretext to the stories in the unburnt codex’s
that I had hoped would grab their attention. They were looking a me
and back at the piece, going close and touching it, stopping work and
debating with each other in Mayan dialect then slapping me on the
back and shaking my hand. Some just stared from across the street
what they were thinking was a mystery to me, but they were though. It
meant more than any other who stopped that week, I realized then the
sheer power of the mural in this country – the fact that all
barriers, language, class, and race are surpassed by the stroke of a
brush and the respect of the piece as something more than a cool
image or decoration for a dubious development project. A real
statement for all to enjoy, discuss and believe in, and not be
replaced. This was what I need to happen for me, and the big fish in
a small pond that was created from this achievement started to enjoy
a hell of a lot of royal treatment, with pretty much all you can
imagine from a tropical part paradise falling at his feet.
An exhibition came form this, a
collective show called “No More Plastic !” pointing out the
savage destruction of the reefs and delicate ecosystems of the
Caribbean by the slob trash nature of the rapidly growing society who
live as well as holiday there. Representing Minesweeper in these
environments showed me the fortune we have in London and even though
so many liberties are being taken away from us there is so much still
left that can be using to connect and unite creatives and
communities. With the additional confidence arising from this,
finally a conscious group dynamic like what we aim for at
Undercurrents (as well as my last rental payment ending and high
season of US tourists coming around to fill the beaches and send the
prices skyrocketing) I knew my newfound small-town fame and comfort
had to come to an end. My good friend Raf who I live with in London
had recently arrived to escape the vacuum too, after nailing it with
web design in Soho and we decided to buy a car, a 1989 VW Jetta with
a new engine for 15000 pesos from a mechanic called Carlos who owed
a local wizard I knew a favour. Having someone I could trust around
changed everything, and made my personal achievements of my two
months alone there resonate more realizing I had never been alone
before now. Its not about bodies around you, its about those who know
you and can notice your previous habits and limits changing,
revealing these details to yourself in unspoken ways I can’t
express in words.
Meanwhile, an alarming story in the
news was filtering through the country. 43 students from the state
of Guerrero had gone missing following a demonstration. In a country
with a famous modern phenomenon of disappearances, fingers where
pointing at local governors, mothers were crying in despair and faces
were being covered as a new wave of direct action was gripping this
historically revolutionary, yet heavily nullified and repressed
nation. One morning I awoke to find out a piece of bone had been
found in the local Guerrero rubbish bins, and details had emerged
from the local cartel of a collection of young men had been handed
over to them for disposal by the local municipal police force under
the orders of the local governor on the night of the demonstration.
“Its going to be a new revolution guey” a drinking companion
explained to me that night while keeping half an eye on the gaggle of
French girls who had just fallen into the bar. “It terrible news”,
I said. He looked at me with half a smile and an expression that
could only be ‘Is it?’. “Things need to change here amigo…
Now everyone’s watching…” . I realized I was here in
interesting times, and soon after I packed my bags said my goodbyes
was on my way east to who knows what…
To be continued...
