Carlos Fentanes

Conversations with Virgin Mary

I have no experience making cat videos. I don’t even have a cat. But social media seems to reward them more than provocative artworks. Should I shift my work just to gain followers or advertising revenue, instead of continuing to search for the Holy Grail?

Speaking of Holy Grails—last week I heard that my first gallerist back in the nineties, in Mexico City, passed away from pancreatic cancer. I had a complicated relationship with him. After several years of working together, our paths diverged. Before I moved to Canada, I visited him one last time—without realizing it would be the last time.

So I went to Jorge’s place, hoping he might have a letter from Virgin Mary that could comfort me.

When I arrived at Jorge’s, a tuxedo cat was sitting on the porch, perfectly still, like a statue. Black and white, symmetrical markings, watching me approach with complete indifference. I wonder, is Virgin Mary sending me a messenger about my cat videos? No way, maybe it’s just me looking for conspiracy theories with Virgin Mary.

‘Is this yours?’ I asked when Jorge opened the door.

‘Oh no, that’s Virgo. My neighbor’s cat. She comes by every afternoon. I think she likes the sun on this side of the house.’

The cat followed us inside without invitation. While Jorge went to the kitchen to prepare his infusion, I told him about Oscar, my gallerist—how he’d died suddenly, how we’d never had the conversations I thought we’d have someday.

Virgo jumped onto the table and sat directly on the manuscripts.

‘Off,’ Jorge said gently, moving her aside. ‘She does this every time. I think she wants to be part of the conversation.’

The cat settled on one chair instead, tail flicking slowly, still watching.

I kept talking about Oscar—how he taught me about the art world, how he held me back, his business model was selling paintings but not exactly creating an art discourse, for him it was easy to sell paintings matching the color of the sofa, well expensive paintings matching the style of the sofa but aligned to what we can call modern Mexican school, but not pushing limits, that’s when our paths had diverged. How I thought I’d see him again and finish this conversation about what is art. But now that conversation would never happen.

Virgo meowed once, sharply, as if commenting.

‘She has opinions,’ Jorge said, pulling out a letter from the stack. ‘And she’s usually right.’

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Tuesday, September 10
All Things Must Pass

I remember when you ran to the shoe store after receiving your first paycheck. You asked your father to take you there to buy a pair of Dr. Martens boots. You were happy—dancing all the way home.

Then you grew up. Your feet grew, and those shoes wore out. They became your favorites, but the time came to let them go. They were still strong and in good shape, but they no longer fit. You had become a bigger size.

Your first girlfriend? You remember her fondly, but you separated because you couldn’t grow together. Life often asks you to let go of things, even when they seem irreplaceable. People, moments, even mentors—each has a season in your story. When they no longer fit you, they are left behind in the attic of memories just like your old shoes, some of them will be with you forever in your attic but not for wearing, just to remember you that you outgrow them like the shoes.

Your task this week:
Wear shoes one size too small. Walk your dog with them. Feel where it hurts. Then take them off and understand why letting go is necessary.

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When I finished reading, I looked at the cat. She was still there, watching.

‘I understand the statement,’ I said. ‘I know why Oscar and I took different paths—it was necessary. But it still hurts. The feeling isn’t even close to sending your shoes to the attic.’

The cat jumped down from the chair and rubbed against my leg, then walked to the door, ready to leave.

‘You’re experiencing a loss,’ Jorge said. ‘You’re grieving. Of course it can’t compare with old shoes. When I took this letter out, I didn’t know about your loss, I’m very sorry about all this messy and unfortunate misunderstanding.’

“I know. But all of this — the sudden death of my friend, the conversations we never had… I thought I’d see him again someday, to show him that I’d outgrown his gallery, that there were many paths, and that was okay. It makes me think of my mother, too — of her inevitable end, not too far away. Even in the best case, even if she’s cured, time will still pass, and she’ll still go. Did I tell you I already bought plane tickets to visit her at Christmas? My wife says it will probably be the last one we spend together.”

‘That’s it,’ Jorge said softly. ‘It’s like the Dr. Martens—enjoy them, dance with them while you have them, instead of putting them away in the attic.’

I knew what Jorge meant. But this time, I wasn’t in the mood for aphorisms.”