Growing up, everyone I knew hung prints on their walls: large landscapes, idyllic small town scenes, abstract splashes.
Then, as a young adult, I met a man who filled my life with texture and pigment. He was always talking about Peru, his homeland: the food, the warmth, the history, the economic poverty, the cultural wealth. If I wanted to enjoy his company, I sought him out in the future campus coffee shop, where he was painting a mural in exchange for tuition.
We talked often. And I married him. Now, original art is everywhere.
Propped on a bookshelf in our bedroom is a small canvas featuring a forgotten Incan king. Unfinished, on the easel, a one-legged man from Lima reminds me of the flower seller my husband encountered on his last trip home. Passion for the people of Peru, for the culture and the history of this country, drives the artist. My husband, the painter, pours his soul into his art.
Although I went to a special high school for artistic studies, I never entered into the art world with any real interest. For me, it seemed superficial. The art didn’t stir me. I couldn’t find meaning in any of it – my own work or the work of others.
Enter Alexis. His appreciation of art that goes beyond an aesthetically pleasing scene is contagious.
Art, it turns out, is a language. Those gritty reds and sweeping yellows are not just empty textures on my walls. They celebrate. They challenge. They remember.
See more paintings at https://www.ramos-mejia.com/