On a bad day, in a bad place, there is often a ray of light glinting through, a lifeline in the gloaming, an illumination that makes the murk gleam like a jewel, an unexpected recognition in a nod, that rescues the solitude. José Parlá is that bit of grace we hope for, maestro conductor of the transitory moments that remain transformative. His art is aspirational and integral, rising from the bedrock, a rainbow rising from the streets, also, it seems, casting a slight smear, a shadow, on the pretty face of privilege in a trace reminder of all ignored and ignominious. I’ve loved his work since first seeing it, not so far from its gnarly roots, which since, have blossomed and become part and parcel of that great bouquet of fine art. It makes more sense, yet, a vulgar rhythm of such eloquence duets with the white man’s finest symphonies.
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