Carlos Fentanes

Conversations with Virgin Mary

“I forgot to mention last time that I applied for a government grant,” I told Jorge. “I’m proposing a project based on an adaptation of The Art of War, paired with drawings made on my own rejection letters—from e-flux, Tate Modern, and other institutions.”

Jorge looked at me for a moment without speaking.

“So let me understand,” he finally said. “You want to teach people how to win a war, and your credentials are a collection of defeats.”

“That’s not…”

“Rejected by e-flux. Rejected by Tate. Rejected somewhere else. If I were looking for military advice, I would be worried.”

He reached for a small tin of tea and held it in his hand without opening it. He weighed it, not against a scale but against the afternoon itself, as if deciding whether it belonged to our conversation.

“I think it’s a good idea, you had told me several times that in order to succeed you inevitably need to fail and fail several times. Yes, I’ve failed, but I also had some successes, like the First Place at the Art Gallery of Mississauga 3rd Juried show or Best 2D of Show at Arts Illeana Gallery in Indiana with a ballpoint pen portrait of my wife, by the way, that same portrait was chosen for the 18th Annual NUDE at Manifest Gallery in Cincinnati.”

He was measuring the amount of tea for the infusion with a special tiny spoon, more attentive to his mixes than to my talk, but when I said “Annual Nude” he turned his head to me.

“Wait, are you going to send a nude of your wife to a show in the States? That’s bold. I want to see that.”

“I don’t think it’s bold but out of necessity, it’s cheaper than hiring a model, but besides that, I think this new show at Manifest Gallery will be good for my network in the States.”

“Manifest! Yes, now that you mention it, Virgo told me about Manifest, about manifestation, she asked me to give you the second part of the previous letter about Visualization.”

I was expecting the regular ritual where he disappears for several minutes and returns with a letter from Virgin Mary, but no, he just kept preparing the tea, put some water on the stove, and waited for it to reach the boiling point.

Then he poured the water into two cups and gave me a small sphere, one of those metallic spheres where you can put in tea leaves.

“I was expecting a letter from Virgin Mary,” I said.

He was focused on the preparation and then told me, “Yes, I know that you was expecting an immediate reward to your cravings, everything will arrive on time, you don’t have to be worried, but now it’s teatime, don’t be distracted from a letter from Virgin Mary, they can wait, you need to be focused on the present moment.”

“They? Is there more than one letter?”

“More than one letter? Yes, I have gave you several letters by now, you know that there are several letters but no, that’s not what I’m referring by “they”, Virgin Mary is a band.”

“What? A band? Like the Rolling Stones?”

“Well, yes, you can said that, like the Rolling Stones or like Virgo the constellation composed of thousands stars, I have insisted you on calling them Virgin Mary and several times I corrected you of calling them ‘The Virgin Mary,’ in the other dimension where I received this messages there’s not such thing as individuals, everything is part of a whole, you see Virgin Mary as a painting in a church but what I’m showing you is bigger than that, don’t try to understand, there are things that are beyond our understanding right now. When I was young and studied Chemistry there were only 105 elements in the Periodic Table, now we have 118, science is limited, we know that there’s something else but the instruments that we have available now are not enough to unveil this dimension, I hope someday science can proof me right.”

Jorge stood up without a word and disappeared down the hallway.

I assumed he had gone to retrieve the letter.

He returned carrying only a biscuit.

He placed it beside my cup.

“Eat first,” he said.

We talked for several minutes, about science, school, art, and finished our tea. Once the tea ceremony ended, Jorge stood up without saying anything. I was distracted with my teacup, repeating to myself, “Virgo, like the cat.” He didn’t answer. I didn’t realize he was gone until he reappeared holding a paper in his right hand. “Here’s the second part, please read it with calm.”

---

Monday July 1st

After visualization comes what everyone expects: manifestation.

Think and Grow Rich, by Napoleon Hill, promises that if you think correctly, the world will eventually rearrange itself to match your thoughts.

What I am going to teach you is Think and Grow Rich with steroids.

But first, let me tell you a story.

It is an adaptation of the myth of Pygmalion. You won’t find this version in Ovid or George Bernard Shaw. It belongs to me.

---

Pygmalion had just finished his masterpiece.

It was a white marble Venus.

He had spent months polishing the stone until no trace of the chisel remained. The marble seemed softer than skin. The veins beneath the wrists appeared ready to carry blood. Even the eyelids looked as though they might open if the room became quiet enough.

Visitors entered his workshop and fell silent.

Some cried.

Others knelt.

Everyone agreed that nothing more perfect had ever been carved by human hands.

Only Pygmalion was dissatisfied.

Every morning he unlocked the workshop before sunrise. Every evening he locked it after dark. Between those two moments he spoke to no one except the statue.

He waited for her to breathe.

She did not.

He waited for her to blink.

She did not.

One night he placed the point of his chisel against her throat.

“You disappoint me,” he whispered. “Either live… or I shall destroy you.”

The goddess Venus, who until then had admired the sculpture from Olympus, was horrified.

She had seen men pray before statues.

She had seen them beg.

She had seen them worship.

She had never seen one threaten perfection itself.

So, she descended to ask him a simple question.

“If she were alive,” Venus asked, “what would she be like?”

Pygmalion answered immediately.

“Great! I have a sketchbook.”

He opened it with the excitement of a man presenting his greatest masterpiece. The pages were filled with drawings, measurements, notes, arrows, and corrections.

“The face should be like the girl I saw in the market at Delphi. See it here.”

He turned the page.

“The hands? Yes, I have sketches of the hands somewhere. Hold on… here, here they are. They should resemble those of the woman from Thessaly. Beautiful fingers. Wait, I wrote something about the nails. Pink nails. Very important.”

Venus looked at the page.

“Here is the section for the arms. The arms should be like those of the girl from Ithaca. Well-tanned, with some definition. Look at this drawing. I made some adjustments because the original arms were too thin.”

He continued turning pages.

“The legs… yes, the legs of the woman from Pergamum. Although not exactly those legs. The thighs should be from her, but the calves should be like these ones from the Delphi woman. I think this combination will be better.”

Venus remained silent.

“The body should resemble the woman I admired in Sparta. But not as tall. A little shorter. I made a correction here.”

He pointed proudly to the drawing.

“And the hair must be long and blond, like the woman I met in Argos. Yes, I know that woman had short hair but look here. I imagined her with long curls. I think it improves the composition.”

The list continued for pages.

Every feature reminded him of someone else.

He described every detail with the precision of a sculptor and the enthusiasm of a collector assembling a catalogue of impossible perfection.

When he finally finished, the gods gathered around the sketchbook.

They studied every page carefully.

They did not question anything.

They did not add anything.

They simply followed the instructions.

A nose from one page.

Eyes from another.

Hands from somewhere else.

Legs from another city.

Hair from another memory.

They assembled every part exactly as it had been requested.

When the woman finally stood before him, Pygmalion stared in horror.

“This is not what I asked for,” he said. “She has no harmony. I dedicated my entire studies to an ideal body, I did my homework, I drew carefully and what you are showing me doesn’t look like those in my sketchbook.”

The gods looked at one another.

“But this is exactly what you asked for,” they replied.

“We did not create anything new. We only followed your instructions. Check the chin, it’s exactly what you drew on page 42, and the hips? Here, you can measure it.”

And Pygmalion spent the rest of his life living with the consequences of his own specifications.

Perhaps you already understand the lesson.

People make lists of everything they want. A successful career. A peaceful life. Adventure. Security. Recognition. Privacy. Wealth. Simplicity.

Then they wonder why nothing arrives or perhaps why everything seems incomplete when it arrives.

Look closely at your own list. You will probably discover that some of your desires cancel each other out. Some dreams require sacrifices that other dreams refuse to make.

Manifestation does not begin by asking for more.

It begins by wanting one thing clearly.

That is why I asked you to begin with something as ordinary as a cup of coffee.

A coffee is small enough that your mind can hold it without contradiction. You can describe it precisely.

Espresso or Americano?

Black or with milk?

Sugar or no sugar?

Hot or warm?

You are not learning how to order coffee.

You are learning how to desire.

The gods are remarkably obedient. They build exactly what you ask for.

---

“OK, this is good information, but do you really believe all these shenanigans of the new age?” I said it with a question mark on my face.

Jorge’s expression told me everything — he was in disbelief. “No, I don’t believe in the New Age stuff, in those quartz crystals, angel cards, dream catchers and ‘The Secret.’ But this is not about any of it, this is information that I received directly from Virgin Mary.”

I took the kettle and poured more water into my cup, then I said, “I still don’t understand how this band, or constellation, or Virgin Mary is communicating with you. How do you do it? How do you know it’s information and not hallucination?”

Jorge grabbed his cup and turned it upside down as if showing me a method for reading coffee, then he spoke. “Everybody is receiving messages from the other dimension from time to time, I’m not the only one, you have received before, maybe you don’t remember or you didn’t pay attention or you decided to not believe them, but you have received them before. I cannot tell you when because I don’t know any detail on your life, but I’m sure you have experienced it before.” He grabbed his cup again and showed me the stains of the tea, as if showing evidence.

I was curious about the cup. I saw some shapes but nothing I could interpret as a message. “I don’t know. I can see what you tell me, and what I called coincidence you’re calling miracles. But this has happened to me once in a while, and what I’m observing here is a large amount of information constantly poured onto you. Why? How?”

“It’s a muscle,” Jorge said.

“A muscle?”

“Yes.”

“What muscle?”

“The one you’re using right now. The more you develop it, the more you will receive the information. Just like the pianist can play Bach with practice, or the mechanic can diagnose your vehicle only by hearing the engine, or how the chef knows when the asparagus are cooked just by the color. You developed a sixth sense on what you are exposed to in your day to day routine. But let me be clear, that is unimportant. The lesson today is about manifestation, you should start doing the exercise instead of questioning the messenger.”

I grabbed his cup of tea with the message in it and said, “What do you want me to do, order a coffee like I’m in Starbucks? I already have tea, why do I want a coffee now?”

He grabbed his cup again as if it were a chess piece we were fighting for. “Someday you will understand. Yes, there’s no need for coffee, for double-tailed mermaids and complicated lists of ingredients for a simple coffee. I thought it’s good information that you should have, that’s all. It’s not about coffee, it’s about manifesting something, anything, something that you desire with your heart.”

He was closing the session, setting his cup back on the saucer. “OK, I’ll try. Do you have a pen and paper? I’m going to create my day, that’s the object of my desire.”

“Good choice, you shall start to write it down,” Jorge said.

And that’s how I started to create my day. Not a coffee, not money or fame — just one day, one day at a time.