Welcome back to the Deep Dive. You know, usually,
usually when we sit down and talk about an artist,
we're working with a full deck of cards. Right.
We have a, you know, a thick biography. Yeah.
A glossy coffee table book or interviews, letters
to their lovers, maybe even a manifesto or two.
We have this clear, high definition picture of
the human being. We usually have a narrative
that's already been written for us. Exactly.
Yeah. But today. Well, today is different. Today,
we're kind of working with ghosts. We are looking
at the life of a Cuban artist named Juan Andres
Rodriguez. But if you type his name into Google,
you don't get a life story. No, you really don't.
You don't get a video essay. You basically just
get a data set. It's a list of dates, a list
of exhibitions, and one very specific. Very mysterious
nickname. It really is an exercise in art historical
forensics today. We're taking these fragments
and trying to build a real person out of them.
And the nickname is the first clue that hooks
you. He wasn't just Juan. He was known as El
Monche. The monk. The monk. Now, our mission
today for you listening is to take these digital
breadcrumbs, specifically his exhibition records
from the 70s, 80s, and 90s, and his entry in
the definitive source, Memoria Cuban Art of the
20th Century. and we're going to reconstruct
who this man was. We're trying to understand
how someone can be a monk, a primitive artist,
and a union member all at the same time. Right,
and that combination of labels is exactly why
this is worth doing. It challenges how we categorize
artists. Definitely. I mean, we tend to think
of... folk artists or you know outsider artists
one thing and professional artists as another
rodriguez seems to have existed right in the
gray zone between them which is a very difficult
place to balance for an entire career it's incredibly
rare so let's start with the hard facts the bedrock
who was juan andres rodriguez before he became
a legend well we know he was born in november
1930 and crucially he was born in sancti spiritus
which is a province in central cuba and the records
show he died right there in 1995. That geography
stands out to me immediately. In the art world,
there's usually this, I don't know, this magnetic
pull toward the capital. It doesn't matter if
it's Paris, New York, or Havana. If you want
to be someone, the conventional wisdom is that
you pack your bags and move to the big city.
But Rodriguez stays put. He does. He lives his
entire life, about 64, 65 years. anchored in
sanctus spiritus. And that immediately tells
us something about his artistic practice and
his personality. Yeah, he wasn't chasing the
Havana cocktail circuit. Exactly. He wasn't trying
to be the toast of the Vedado galleries. He was
building something intensely local. Which feeds
right into the nickname, right? El Manger. Yeah.
The monk. When I see the monk attached to a guy
who never left his home province, I'm picturing
a recluse. Sure. I'm picturing someone shut away
in a dusty studio, maybe a bit detached from
reality, just painting by candlelight. It's a
very romantic, very tempting assumption. The
monk implies asceticism. It implies solitude,
you know, a dedication to a higher calling, perhaps
at the expense of social interaction. We love
the idea of the lonely genius in art history.
But the data doesn't back that up at all. This
is where the detective work gets messy. Because
you simply do not find hermits in the membership
roles of national labor unions. That is the first
major contradiction we have to grapple with here.
The records show he was a member of UNIA. The
Union de Escritores y Artistas de Cuba from 1969
until his death in 1995. OK, for listeners who
aren't familiar with the Cuban structure, let's
unpack that. What does that membership actually
signify? Is it just a rubber stamp or does it
mean he was actually out there pressing the flesh?
It is definitely not just a rubber stamp, especially
not starting in 1969. Unié is the official organ
of cultural production in Cuba. Being a member
means you are a recognized professional. So it's
a big deal. A huge deal. It means you have access
to materials, which is vital. It means you're
invited to meetings. You're part of the state's
cultural apparatus. It implies a level of bureaucracy
and social integration that is the exact opposite
of being a social outlier. So we have the monk
who is actually a card -carrying professional
networker. Or at least someone who understood
that. To survive as an artist, you need to be
part of the system. You can have the soul of
a monk, but if you want canvas and paint, you
need the card of a union member. That's a great
way to put it. He's pragmatic, but there is another
layer to his background that makes the monk persona
even more complex, and that's his education.
Right. The file mentions he studied at the Central
Vocational de Artes Plasticas in Sancti Spiritus.
Which means he went to art school. Exactly. He
didn't just pick up a brush one day because he
had a vision or a fever dream. He was trained.
He learned perspective, color theory, composition,
art history. He had a formal vocational foundation
in how to actually make art. OK, hold that thought,
because this is where I got stuck when I was
looking at the sources. This is the knot in the
rope. We have a trained artist. We have a union
member. And then I look at his exhibition history,
specifically this entry from 1976. He's in a
show in Kingston, Jamaica. At the Institute of
Jamaica, a very prestigious venue. But look at
the title of the show. It's called An Exhibition
of 11 Cuban Primitive Artists. Primitive. How
does an art school graduate, a union member,
a guy who knows the rules, get labeled primitive?
Usually that word is reserved for untrained,
naive artists, right? Right. Like the Grandma
Moses style. The whole, I don't know, perspective,
so I'm just going to paint what I feel style.
This is one of those moments where art history
terms get very slippery and very fascinating.
In the 1970s Caribbean context, primitive didn't
necessarily mean clueless or unskilled. It really
wasn't an insult. So it was more of a branding
thing. In many ways, yes. It referred to an aesthetic.
It meant art that looked raw, direct, perhaps
connected to folklore or Afro -Cuban traditions
rather than the polished academic realism that
came from the European tradition. But if you
went to the vocational center. He knew how to
paint correctly. He knew how to make a hand look
like a hand and a building look like a building.
Which implies that his primitive style was a
deliberate choice. And that is a fascinating
distinction. Juan Andres Rodriguez wasn't a primitive
by accident. He was a primitive by design. He
likely unlearned or deliberately chose to ignore
certain academic rules to achieve a specific
emotional effect. That. Changes the narrative
completely. It's not, I don't know how to draw
hands. It's, I am drawing hands this way because
it fits the spirit of the work. Precisely. It's
the difference between being unable to speak
a language and choosing to speak in slang because
it conveys more flavor. And look at the prestige
of that show again. He is representing Cuba internationally.
Right. The Institute of Jamaica isn't a coffee
shop. Exactly. For the Cuban state to send him
there as one of the 11, it means they viewed
his work as quintessential to that specific Cuban
identity. They were proud of this primitive monk.
So he's navigating two worlds. He has the credentials
of the academic world. He has the diploma on
the wall. But he is the soul of the folk world.
And the moniker El Monge might be the bridge
between them. think about it if you adopt a persona
if you become the monk you are signaling that
you are stepping out of the ordinary secular
world you're entering a spiritual or mythical
space yes it gives you permission to paint like
a primitive a monk doesn't need to paint photorealism
a monk paints visions speaking of visions and
mythical spaces we have to talk about what he
was actually painting Because while we don't
have the images in front of us, the exhibition
titles give us a massive clue. You're looking
at the 1990 show. Yes, 1990. A solo exhibition
at the Marty Library in Santa Clara. The title
is Guiges del Monge. This is the key to the lock.
This title tells us so much about his mindset.
For you listeners who haven't brushed up on your
Caribbean folklore lately, what exactly is a
guige? A guige is a staple of Cuban mythology,
specifically out in the countryside. They're
usually described as small, dark, elf -like creatures
that live in rivers or lagoons. Kind of like
water sprites. Yeah, they have big eyes. They
are mischievous, sometimes a bit malevolent.
They are the tricksters of the water. They're
basically the things parents tell their kids
about to keep them away from the riverbank at
night. So he dedicates a massive solo show to
these river goblins. But look at the grammar
of the title again. Not just the guillets. He
is claiming them. He isn't just illustrating
a children's book or documenting a local story.
He is presenting his specific personal vision
of these creatures. It suggests an obsession.
It suggests he spent a lot of time thinking about
these figures. It connects back to the primitive
style, too. If you're trying to capture the energy
of a magical river creature, you probably don't
want it to look like a photograph. No, not at
all. You want it to look weird. You want it to
look jagged. You want it to feel a little bit
scary. Exactly. The primitive style is the perfect
vehicle for the mythology. And the fact that
he calls himself El Monge in the title, he's
putting his persona right next to the subject
matter, the monk and the goblins. There is a
real tension there between the holy ascetic name
and these mischievous earthly spirits. It creates
this image of him as a sort of local shaman.
He's the guy in Sancti Spiritus who knows what
the river spirits look like. He's the one documenting
them. And remember the timing on this. This is
1990. Just five years before he dies. Right.
This feels like a culmination. He has spent decades
working, and now, toward the end of his life,
he is synthesizing his persona and his subject
matter into one definitive statement. I am the
monk, and these are my greechies. But he didn't
just arrive at 1990 out of nowhere. If we back
up just a few years to the late 80s, the data
shows something incredible happening. I call
it the hot streak. Oh, the awards list. I love
this part of the file. It's wild. So he enters
the salon Oscar Fernandez Marrera. It's the big
provincial art competition of Sancti Spiritus.
And just to clarify for the audience, these salons
are a very big deal in Cuba. They are the primary
way artists get recognized, get funding, and
get seen. And the Oscar Fernandez Marrera is
a serious venue. Okay, so in 1987. He wins the
prize in drawing. Impressive. Good year. 1988,
he returns. And he wins the prize in drawing
again. Which is already very difficult to do.
Juries usually like to spread the love around.
They really don't like giving the money to the
same guy twice in a row. But then, 1989 comes
around. And he wins the prize in drawing a third
time. Three consecutive years. A three -peat
in the art world. That is dominance, pure and
simple. In the context of a provincial salon,
that is basically the jury saying, we have no
choice. We might want to give it to someone else,
but this man is simply better than everyone else
right now. And it's specifically in the category
of drawing. That matters immensely. We were just
talking about his primitive style. Often critics
of naive art will say, oh, they just use bright
colors to hide the fact that they can't draw.
They hide behind the style. But here, Juan Andres
Rodriguez is winning the drawing prize, repeatedly.
Drawing is the skeleton. You can't hide in a
drawing. It's just a line on the paper. Exactly.
If the drawing is bad, the art is bad. So for
the monk to dominate the drawing category suggests
his line work, his drafting, his fundamental
skills were undeniable. It proves that his style
wasn't a crutch. It was a weapon. That's a brilliant
way to phrase it. He had mastered the medium
of drawing so thoroughly that he owned that category
for three years straight. It really reinforces
the idea that El Manger wasn't some outsider
stumbling through the art world. He was a heavyweight.
He was the king of the hill and sancti spiritus.
And that brings up the issue of his reach. Because
looking at this list, seeing him dominate the
local awards, you might think, OK, big fish,
small pond. He wins in Sancti Spiritus. He lives
in Sancti Spiritus. Was he stuck there? The exhibition
list suggests otherwise. We already mentioned
Jamaica in 76. That puts him on the international
map. But look at the domestic map. It's just
as impressive. Yeah. 1971, Havana. Yeah. The
Spanish -Cuban Friendship Society. And it's listed
as a solo show. That is very early in his career
to be showing alone in the Capitol. He was barely
40. That means the Havana critics were already
watching him. And then we see him in Cienfuegos
in 1976 for the Salon Pintores Villareños. And
even posthumously in Santiago de Cuba in 1996.
So think about the geography there. Havana is
the west. Santiago is the far east. Cienfuegos
is central. He covered the entire island. Why
does that matter so much? Because today we just
post a picture on Instagram and the whole world
sees it in five seconds. But in 1970s Cuba...
It was physically difficult. Moving art across
the island requires logistics. It requires crating.
It requires a truck. It requires government approval.
For an artist from the provinces to have that
kind of geographic footprint... means the institutions
really valued him. The system worked for him.
It debunks the myth that you have to live in
Havana to matter. It absolutely does. He proved
that you could stay home, stay the monk, keep
your roots deep in the soil of Sancti Spiritus,
and still have your voice heard in Kingston and
Havana. He didn't have to compromise his location
to build his legacy. I want to pivot to the so
what here. We've reconstructed this life. Educated,
labeled primitive, obsessed with river mythology,
dominant in drawing, widely traveled but locally
rooted. But we are only able to do this because
of one specific source. Memoria. Yeah. The entry
on Wikipedia cites Memoria, Cuban art of the
20th century, basically for everything. It is
the Bible of Cuban art history. It's a massive
undertaking. Without the work of Jose Vegas,
Christina Vives, and that whole team, El Monche
might just be a rumor. It's terrifying to think
about how fragile this legacy is. He died in
1995. That's the pre -digital era for Cuba. If
he hadn't made it into that physical book. He
disappears. The prize is in 1988. forgotten,
the Guiges exhibition. Just a fading memory for
the handful of people who walked into that library
in Santa Clara in 1990. It makes you realize
that what we consider art history is just the
stuff that got written down. It's not necessarily
the best stuff, just the recorded stuff. It is
a survivorship bias. We know the ones who made
it into the books. We know the ones who had loud
dealers. But this investigation into El Monche
makes me ask a bigger, almost haunting question.
What's that? How many other Monches are there?
Oh, wow. Right. Think about it. Every province
in every country probably has a figure like this.
Someone who is locally famous, who wins the prizes
year after year, who has a unique, eccentric
vision. Maybe they paint local ghosts. Maybe
they build sculptures out of trash. But they
never moved to the capital. They never got the
big monograph. And so when they die, the breadcrumbs
just blow away. Exactly. Juan Andres Rodriguez
is a success story because we found the breadcrumbs.
Because someone put them in a book. But there
are likely thousands of artists of equal caliber
whose digital breadcrumbs were never digitized.
They are just gone. That is a haunting thought.
We are looking at a map of art history that has
these huge blank spots where the local legends
used to be. And it changes your responsibility
as a viewer, doesn't it? It changes how you should
walk through the world. It means you can't just
rely on the MoMA or the Tate or the National
Museum to tell you what is good. You can't just
wait for the algorithm to serve it to you. You
have to look at your own backyard. You have to
go to the provincial salons. You have to go to
the library exhibitions in Santa Clara or wherever
you live because that is where the monks are
hiding. That is the takeaway. For you listening,
the next time you see a flyer for a small local
art show or a primitive artist exhibiting at
a community center. Go take a look. Don't write
it off. You might be looking at a master who
just hasn't been indexed yet. You might be seeing
the guijas before they disappear. And write it
down. Put it on Wikipedia. Start a blog. Leave
a trail. Please. Future historians and future
art lovers will thank you. Well, we have certainly
uncovered a fascinating life today. From the
river spirits of Sancti Spiritus to the galleries
of Jamaica, Juan Andres Rodriguez El Monge. A
name worth remembering and a reminder that greatness
is often hiding in plain sight. Absolutely. A
fascinating journey. That's it for this deep
dive. Thanks for joining us on the hunt. Always
a pleasure. Stay curious and we'll catch you
in the next one.