Ray Olivero

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MYTHICAL JOURNEY
It was a cold, dank night in New York City. I sat on my hotel bed trying to figure out a subway route to The Cloisters. I came to this moment by receiving a Faculty Enrichment Award from the university I was teaching at. The award paid for transportation, hotel accommodation and a per diem. I received it every year simply because my colleagues did not apply. Every spring break during the 1980’s, I would travel to Manhattan for a week to take in the museums and check out the New York art scene. I had been everywhere except for a place called The Cloisters. I had avoided it because I had been told that it was in the Bronx. I was familiar with most of Manhattan except for the northern end. I felt safe in the areas I knew; however, the Bronx was another story. From what I had heard, I imagined it to be a world of blight, crime, and gangs at war. in short, I was scared to go there.
As I sat in my boutique hotel in the Village across from NYU, I poured over a subway map determined that this time I was going to face my fear. As I studied the map, I realized that The Cloisters was in upper Manhattan next to the Bronx. Nevertheless, I equated the two areas because of their proximity to each other. Hence, my anxiety and my need to face my fear continued. The next morning was chilly and overcast as I stepped out of the hotel to begin my fateful journey. The wet cold was the type that finds its way underneath your clothes and chills you to the bone.
I walked through the Village to the subway station where my journey would move northward to Times Square and from there the A-Train would take me to my destination up through the upper, westside of Manhattan. We passed Central Park and Columbia University. As we continued, the morning rush hour crowd began to shrink. Each passing station seemed to have more graffiti and be trashier and more dilapidated than the last, all the while we were descending deeper and deeper into what seemed to be the bowels of the earth. At this point, I felt like Dante descending into hell. A point came when the subway stopped at a station and for a moment I was alone in the car until three young men strutted into the car like tough guys. I saw them as the gang members I feared. I felt like I was on the verge of having a panic attack as I was sure they were going to jump me. I was ready to bolt from the train, head to the southbound platform and flee back to lower Manhattan when three women entered the train and sat right in front of me at the center of the car. I suddenly felt calm and safe. I looked at them and thought, “Ah, the Three Graces.” I felt protected and decided that if they got off before we reached my destination, I would get off with them. As it happened, the very next station was mine.
I stepped off onto the platform. The station was large and empty of people except for a woman sitting in a lighted booth at the other end of the platform. I walked to her and asked the way to The Cloisters. She pointed to the nearby stairway and also to an elevator at the other far end of the station. She told me that once I made it up to the street, to look right and that I could not miss it. I do not have a reason for why I chose the elevator, but I did. As I once again crossed the span of empty space, I remained fearful, yet alert like a wild creature.
I pushed the button to summon the elevator. Its doors opened slowly, and an arm emerged from a gray woolen blanket that completely covered someone sitting on a wooden milk carton facing a radiating space heater. The arm closed the doors and then receded under the blanket. There was a pregnant pause of silence. I finally said that I wanted to go up to the street. The arm reached out again and turned a knob on a wheel. The freight elevator began its five-story ascension slowly and methodically. When we reached street level, the hand emerged once again to open the grated metal door and the external door.
I stepped out into a beautiful, warm, cloudless spring day. I could not believe it. I felt that I had been transported to another place and time. l looked to my right and there it sat atop a hill with a spiraling walkway to its summit. I walked towards the upward path and began my ascension. As I did, I passed joggers, walkers and others enjoying the day at an adjacent park. To the north lay a scenic view of the Hudson River and its surrounding landscape. To the south I could see the majestic Manhattan skyline. As I walked, I was embraced by the peaceful ambience of the place. I finally reached the front doors of the sanctuary and crossed its threshold into a long rectangular room filled with tapestries that seemed to line the entire wall from the high ceiling to the floor. The tapestries were filled with images of unicorns. I could not help thinking of all those nuns who had pledged lives of chastity living surrounded by the phallic symbols of the unicorn. It all seemed so ironic.
After passing several other rooms, I came upon a room where the Merode Altarpiece by Robert Campin rested. I had seen the triptych in books before, but nothing could have prepared me for the experience of seeing the actual work. The three-paneled painting radiated out a presence that lit the room. I was spellbound. I sat in front of the altarpiece bathing in its light and absorbing its details and splendor. I do not know how long I actually sat there; time stopped as I dwelt in eternity. Slowly, I was pulled back into the world of space and time, At some point, I stood up and before I knew it, I was outside descending the hill back to the earth. As I approached the stairs that led down to the subway station, I stepped with a lightness of being. When I made it to the platform, I was surprised to find it filled with people heading back to the heart of Manhattan. As the train began to move, I sat with my fellow travelers in the glow of my day’s experience. My mythical journey was coming to an end.

POEM
I dreamt of being at the edge of a cliff.
Darkness before me.
Darkness below me.
I leapt.
Embraced by a wave of euphoria, I awoke to a new world.
Olivero 2018

ALCHEMIST
After much consideration, I have decided that I am not an artist, but rather an alchemist. The reason for this change in personal identification is that I no longer know what an artist is because I do not know what art is. The definition of art has become muddled, if not annihilated, by the view “anything can be or is art.” The process of naming a subject or object is to recognize within it a combination of traits that give it its unique identity. To say everything is art is to say it lacks an identity unique unto itself. Hence, it is pointless to call anything art since it is undefinable and meaningless. The problem seems to lie in the limitations of language to define subjective human experience and also in the imposition of personal aesthetic biases. I have decided to jump off the merry-go-around and switch to being an alchemist.
When I speak of alchemy, I speak of it metaphorically. Through alchemy, the alchemist transforms ordinary metals into gold. In my work, I transform a set of materials, feelings, aesthetic sensibilities and perspectives into an object that radiates a sense of an independent presence that I view as magical as making gold out of a common metal. Paulo Coelho’s book, The Alchemist, defines alchemy as a means to living a transformative life. The process that leads me to create is itself personally transforming. It shapes my view of my existential state of being and has set my path for self-realization and self-fulfillment by putting me in touch with life. Is what I described above art? I do not know for the reasons I have already mentioned. Figuratively speaking, am I an alchemist practicing alchemy? I would say so.

THE ROBIN
When I was eleven years old, I had a burning desire to own a BB gun. I kept asking my mother for one, but she kept refusing. We were very poor yet she used the excuse that I could take my eye out with it. Her reasoning made no sense to me since I could not imagine that I would ever be pointing the air rifle at my eyes. My desire for the BB gun was amplified by envy. I lived on a block that had seven boys who were basically my same age. They all had BB guns except for me and my best friend who shared in my desire and envy.
As it so happened, two blocks away was a Methodist settlement that was comprised of three buildings, a two-story building with a residence upstairs and a kindergarten downstairs, a small one room house used for cub scout meetings and an indoor basketball gym open to neighborhood kids. At the northeast rear of the gym was a shower room and at on the northwest rear across from the the showers was a meeting room for boy scouts. It was this room that became of great interest to me due to its storage cabinet for the BB guns that the boy scouts used for target shooting. The cabinet had a serious security flaw. Although there was a lock on its double doors, they could still be pulled out far enough for someone to reach under them and, with minimum effort, pull out some of the air rifles.
It was at this point a plan began to emerge. In the room I noticed a row of windows that opened to the west side of the building. One of the windows could be unlatched at night before the gym closed. I had observed that the fellow responsible for closing the gym never seemed to check if the windows were locked. Outside the windows lay a small path that went the length of the building. Paralleling the path and enclosing the settlement’s property was a barbed wire fence and beyond that was another building a couple of feet away, making for a perfectly concealed area especially at night since the area was not lit. The path and fencing continued around the building to a gate. On the other side of the rear fencing was an alley way. A person could walk down the alley and with some effort climb the fence at the gate to avoid the barbed wire, take the path around to the windows, sneak in through one of them, grab a BB gun, and leave the same way without being seen.
The plan was complete. All I needed to do was to unlatch the window on the night before I was going to execute my plan. However, planning an act and actually doing it were two different things. To muster the nerve to do it, I needed a partner in crime so I turned to my best friend. I told him about my plan and he did not need a lot of convincing. He was on in. Finally, a moonless night came and we executed the plan to perfection. The next day I returned to the gym to latch the window so no one would discover my theft.
When I got home on the night of the theft, I hid my air rifle in my bedroom closet. I would sneak it out to go target shooting with the rest of the boys in the block. Unfortunately, my mother ultimately discovered the gun and questioned me about it. I lied and told her that a boy on the next block from us had loaned to me. She had a look of skepticism, but said nothing more. Soon after, I was with the boys when they decided to go hunting to shoot birds out of the trees. The gang started shooting randomly into the trees without any success. Disappointed, we walked down an alley until we came upon a large freshly cut lawn behind a house. A four foot chain linked fence barred the boys from the yard. On that warm, sunny autumn afternoon, a beautiful orange chested robin landed on the middle of the lawn. Upon seeing the bird, the boys went into a frenzy and instantly became a firing squad. Their BB’s struck the bird again and again as it struggled for its life. I never fired a shot. I did not even lift my rifle to my shoulder. I went into a state of shock, repulsion and despair at what I was witnessing. The bird’s body finally went limp as he fell to his death. The boys walked away laughing, proud of themselves as if they had done something heroic. Their cowardly brutal behavior and attitudes were completely alien to me. I followed the gang in a stunned state of mind. I could not reconcile this abomination and sin against nature.
We finally reached the back yard of my house. I took the opportunity to depart from the gang, whom I now felt I did not know at all. As I entered my house, I knew exactly what I needed to do. The next night, I executed my original plan of theft and returned the BB gun minus the one my accomplice had stolen. I knew he would never return it. About a week later, I was going through my closet and found a package. I opened it and discovered a new BB gun. Somehow my mother knew what had happen except for the killing of the robin. I thanked my mother but told her that I no longer needed or desired a BB gun. She smiled and said, “Wait a minute; I will be right back.” When she returned, she handed me a receipt for the rifle and said, “Here, you can return it.” I did and we never spoke about it again.

CAMPING WITH GEORGE
George and I were art students together and had a budding friendship when one day he asked if I would like to go camping with him. He said his tent was practically new and that he had used it only once before. It seems he had taken his then wife Pat and his daughter Nicole camping and had spooked them out by taking them to a spider-infested location. They had been so scared that he doubted they would ever go camping with him again. This was my first warning of what was about to happen—a warning that went unheeded.
One Friday afternoon George and I started out for the Withlacoochee River where there was a fishing camp he was familiar with. The plan was to rent a boat and head down river. I was expecting a quaint and scenic fishing camp off a curving highway, an expectation that began to fade after we veered off the highway and drove a few miles through the forest on bumpy, muddy roads and at times were there were no roads at all. We finally reached a rotting arched entryway with a sign that read Trails End Fishing Camp. The name was a second warning that went unheeded.
As we entered the fishing camp, it seemed like a scene from the Grapes of Wrath. On each side of us were dilapidated wood sheds and rusted trailers parked in the mud. Also in the mud sat barely working appliances that reflected on a culture that believes major appliances belong outside the home. Further down the road I saw some cabins that appeared to have been built at the turn of the 20th century and had not been maintained since. Across from the cabins was a makeshift assemblage of sheds stuck together with a sign reading Groceries, Bait, and Rentals. Once inside George suggested that we eat a couple of hotdogs because we would not have another chance to eat that day. In a glass encasement a rotisserie rotated in spurts with the most wrinkled pieces of meat I have ever seen. After reluctantly eating a couple, I drank a beer hoping that the alcohol would kill some of the microbes I had just ingested.
George picked up a can of spam, a can of pork and beans, coffee, worms for bait, and two cans of mosquito repellent. Oh yes, and a couple of six packs of beer—George was partial to liquor. We packed the gear and supplies in the boat and headed down river to a place more remote than Trails End. As the late afternoon began to give way to twilight, I started pointing out possible campsites. George would have none of it. He kept saying one more bend, one more bend until we were wandering down the river in darkness with a single flashlight. As I discovered, George loved to see how far he could go before he had to relent. Finally, he pointed the flashlight to a batch of reeds on the riverbank and announced that it would be a good spot. He veered the boat into the reeds awakening thousands of mosquitoes that immediately began their bloodsucking attack. We both grabbed the repellent, showering ourselves with it. Wading through the reeds and water, we reached a patch of semi-dry ground where we pitched the tent as mosquitoes buzzed around us searching for an unsprayed spot. I felt like I was breathing mosquitoes. George suggested that we collect as many dry leaves that we could find and start a smoke fire in front of the tent to chase the insects away. It did temporarily work, giving us the opportunity to get inside the tent and zip up the screen door. I spent the first hour coughing because of the smoke and the rest of the trip smelling like a charred steak.
The next morning we broke camp as fast as we could. It was a mile down the river before the buzzing of mosquitoes stopped. It wasn’t long before we spotted some high ground that we decided would be our new campsite. On the surface, the site seemed to be perfect. However, it wasn’t until I got home that I realized the place was teaming with chiggers and ticks.
We spent the rest of the day trying to catch fish. Trying is about all we did as we didn’t catch a one, not even a bite in spite of the fact that George took us to all his so-called favorite spots. Years later he confessed that he didn’t have any favorite spots and that he had been winging it on that day. It didn’t matter to me since I don’t like fishing anyway. We did finish the beer and enjoyed each other’s company.
Once we ran out of bait, we headed back to the campsite. This time we arrived before nightfall. George lamented that he had hoped to be frying fish for dinner, but instead we ate spam and beans. George had a propensity for animal fat, an addiction that continued for the rest of his life. Luckily, the quality of meat improved. As we ate, night revisited us. Then George announced, “Now that it’s dark, we need to go frogging.” For an Hispanic from a poor neighborhood in Tampa, I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. Frogging was not part of my cultural experience. George handed me a gig and explained that I was to throw it at the frogs. The huge trident weapon would have demolished a frog. It seemed more appropriate for a whale.
Once again we were on the river, in the dark with a single flashlight. We were adrift along the riverbank. George stood at the front of the boat with the flashlight in hand, like Captain Ahab in search of Moby Dick. As I sat at the rear of the boat holding the gig, I wondered what the hell I was doing out there. Then suddenly, George shouted, “There’s one!” At that point, he pulled out a revolver and began shooting into the night. “There’s another one!”…Bang…Bang. I began to shout, “George, what are you doing?” He just laughed with that laugh of his that was a mix between impish mischief and complete amusement. The gun went off again…Bang…Bang! I didn’t see a single frog and I doubt he did either. Our success at frogging was matched only by our success at fishing. Finally, when George ran out of ammo, we headed back toward the campsite. We searched the river bank for about two hours in a moonless night until we miraculously found the camp.
As we walked up to the campsite, George decided we needed a campfire. He spotted a tree stump and announced it would do fine. Although I wasn’t a very good boy scout, I knew that you started a fire with small twigs and gradually build it up with larger pieces of wood. George had another plan. He disappeared into the darkness and emerged a couple of minutes later with a can of gasoline. I looked at him with complete astonishment. What in the world was he up to now? He doused the stump with gasoline and tossed a match on it. Flames burst 12 to 15 feet into the air, singeing George’s eyelashes. Once the fire died out after a few seconds, he repeated the process again and again. I felt like I was in Vietnam surrounded by napalm. Needless to say, a sustained fire was never accomplished. Left without gas or ammo, we retired for the evening.
The next morning we drank coffee but had nothing to eat. George had planned for another fish fry for breakfast. Without bait and food and with only enough gas in the engine to get back to Trails End, we decided to head home. The boat ride back was mellow. When we arrived at Trails End, we headed for the general store and actually had some more hotdogs that were still in a state of pulsating motion and yes, still dried out and wrinkled. How we survived those hotdogs, I will never know.
We packed our gear into the car and headed past the cabins and up the mud caked, bumpy road. The fishing camp children in their bare feet, torn clothing and soiled faces ran along side the car, waving goodbye to us. After waving back, I looked over at George and saw in him a sense of contentment. As for me, I was going home without any fish or frogs, but instead with a few chiggers and ticks in tow.
As we passed the archway departing from that separate reality called Trails End, I realized that I had experienced a rite of passage into George’s inner world.
We became lifelong friends.