A Self-Portrait with God: Statement
“In the pandemonium of imageI present you with the universal BlueBlue an open door to soulAn infinite possibilityBecoming tangible.”Derek Jarman, excerpt from “Chroma”
I am not sure what to say.
At this moment I feel overwhelmed. Sometimes I wonder how I ended up here. “Here” meaning CalArts, Los Angeles, around you and her and him and them and whomever else. I can say it happened because of this reason or this action or this event. The truth is that in the center of it all is one man. My father, Jesús.
What is your earliest memory of your father? I am trying to place it now, but struggling. A couple come to mind. I remember as a toddler, I would wrestle with his feet as I crawled on our royal blue carpet. He sat on the corduroy sofa and tickled my belly with his toes. Another time he took me to a water park, and in the wave pool my body succumbed to the swelling of the artificial ocean. Down under I went, choking on the chlorine and urine-infested water, eyes irritated and struggling to open. All I could see was a sea of cerulean as my body was thrashed by a stronger force. Quickly, I was rescued and brought back above from the chaos below. Saved by Jesús.
Our relationship has been tumultuous since those early years. Plenty could be written, describing and analyzing the time passed. It is of no use to me right now. I remember and that is enough. However, one thing can be expressed. I love my father.
I have been in Los Angeles for nearly two years now, exchanging glances and at times lingering long enough, taking the chance to say hello. Each gesture of kindness shown feels like a blessing, encouraging me to move forward. To say I have been influenced by these encounters would be an understatement. My life has been irrevocably changed.
Red-light kisses. Late-night boba runs. Phone calls on the 5, 10 and 110. Fogged glasses on the dance floor. Cat-sitting. Dog-walking. Karaoke with just you in bed or with everyone. A last-minute facial. Roller-skating at Moonlight or under the moonlight. A lazy Sunday in Long Beach. A drive to El Monte where I always almost miss my exit but still get it just in time. Borrowed clothes and shared time. A picture. Your portrait.
I have two homes now. I always go back and forth. Here I am, Zenaido. There I am, Eric. I do not know who I will be later, or where home will sprout up again. When I get lost, I will look back to you and know that I will always have a guiding light here amongst the blue.
Zenaido Zamora