Down to Earth Man
An Eulogy for Marco Antonio Galaviz
May 17, 1964 – May 31, 2004
May 17, 1964 – May 31, 2004
By Eduardo Barraza
(Read at a memorial for the artist)
(Read at a memorial for the artist)
Morning of May, we are awaken to your sudden departure, wounded by unbelief, summoned to recollect even the
trivial moments. We dig in our shaken souls to recover the first encounter, the conversations, the last meeting; and
there you are, listening quietly, expressing your thoughts, offering your hand to help out. We painfully rescue your
tone of voice, your meekness that accentuated every word, your silence that filled each occasion. We rediscover the
shyness, the reserve, the humility that you breathed through every pore. We see the man, the artist; not two, but
one essence. We tearfully reflect on the unsuspected briefness of the gift you were to us, the unfinished projects, the
interrupted friendship.
Through your eyes we did perceive the greatness of your people, the Mayo, whom you portrayed with the paintbrush
of your eyesight. With your humbleness you helped us see their titanic simplicity, imperceptible to our pride. How did
you see? What did you have in those eyes of man child, that you were able to see them so enormous? What was
behind your profound vision that made you see what we couldn’t?
There is a woman, making a tortilla, a task so routinely done but in your hands became an admirable endeavor. A man
carrying a heavy load of logs. Nobody noticed that insignificant chore; only your meek talent. Who cared about a
woman at a well, tired and sweaty? Nobody else, but you. From people worshiping the famous, you chose to pay a
monumental homage to those enduring hands that quenched your thirst. You brought these underprivileged people
from dusty villages to galleries of gleaming floors. Was that your mission? Was your splendid art a sword to tear off
the veil of our self-important lives? Or was your artistic ability a desert’s hot and gentle wind to bring us down from our
throne of vanity?
Down-to-earth man, we arrive with grief to your departure, but the memory of your springy walk impulses us like the
wind. The echo of your soft accent is music to our ears. Your intense gaze makes our sadness smile. The
peacefulness of your long black hair shortens our sorrow. A river of tears cannot quench the flame of your creative
passion, nor wash away the vivid colors with which you painted existence. The trumpet of your soul has not been
quieted;
it plays its tune in mute.
Let the desert remember the path of your pilgrimage; the wind blow around your indelible footprints. Let the streets
and alleys recount the legend of your hardships. Let the silent paintbrush spread the vibrant colors on your perennial
memory. Let the people who knew you and loved you retain you in their hearts; let those who never met you be in
awe with your art for generations. And let your people, the titans, the magnificent warriors, give rest to your fertile
journey; let them treasure your humbleness inside their souls, with tenderness, forever…
trivial moments. We dig in our shaken souls to recover the first encounter, the conversations, the last meeting; and
there you are, listening quietly, expressing your thoughts, offering your hand to help out. We painfully rescue your
tone of voice, your meekness that accentuated every word, your silence that filled each occasion. We rediscover the
shyness, the reserve, the humility that you breathed through every pore. We see the man, the artist; not two, but
one essence. We tearfully reflect on the unsuspected briefness of the gift you were to us, the unfinished projects, the
interrupted friendship.
Through your eyes we did perceive the greatness of your people, the Mayo, whom you portrayed with the paintbrush
of your eyesight. With your humbleness you helped us see their titanic simplicity, imperceptible to our pride. How did
you see? What did you have in those eyes of man child, that you were able to see them so enormous? What was
behind your profound vision that made you see what we couldn’t?
There is a woman, making a tortilla, a task so routinely done but in your hands became an admirable endeavor. A man
carrying a heavy load of logs. Nobody noticed that insignificant chore; only your meek talent. Who cared about a
woman at a well, tired and sweaty? Nobody else, but you. From people worshiping the famous, you chose to pay a
monumental homage to those enduring hands that quenched your thirst. You brought these underprivileged people
from dusty villages to galleries of gleaming floors. Was that your mission? Was your splendid art a sword to tear off
the veil of our self-important lives? Or was your artistic ability a desert’s hot and gentle wind to bring us down from our
throne of vanity?
Down-to-earth man, we arrive with grief to your departure, but the memory of your springy walk impulses us like the
wind. The echo of your soft accent is music to our ears. Your intense gaze makes our sadness smile. The
peacefulness of your long black hair shortens our sorrow. A river of tears cannot quench the flame of your creative
passion, nor wash away the vivid colors with which you painted existence. The trumpet of your soul has not been
quieted;
it plays its tune in mute.
Let the desert remember the path of your pilgrimage; the wind blow around your indelible footprints. Let the streets
and alleys recount the legend of your hardships. Let the silent paintbrush spread the vibrant colors on your perennial
memory. Let the people who knew you and loved you retain you in their hearts; let those who never met you be in
awe with your art for generations. And let your people, the titans, the magnificent warriors, give rest to your fertile
journey; let them treasure your humbleness inside their souls, with tenderness, forever…
Published by the Hispanic Institute of Social Issues in Phoenix, Arizona
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Eduardo Barraza is a journalist and writer,
Barriozona Magazine's editor, and director of
the Hispanic Insitute of Social Issues.
E-mail: editor@barriozona.com
Barriozona Magazine's editor, and director of
the Hispanic Insitute of Social Issues.
E-mail: editor@barriozona.com
