A touch of concrete

All too much of the time, sterile city parks mock the spontaneity of nature that they're trying to project. Thinly cut grass, convenient sidewalks and stockroom statues rob the areas of their originality and life. But in Tucson, you never know what to expect. Its Santa Cruz River Park, 839 W. Congress St., not only showcases grassy mounds and rocky ditches, but a moving spiritual monument to the Catholic faith.


The Garden of Gethsemane is a life-sized re-creation of the Last Supper, and also includes Christ laying in a tomb and the Virgin Mary. The figures were created by a Native American Felix Lucero, who made a promise to God while he was lying wounded in a French battlefield during World War I. According to the legend, Lucero told God that if he survived, he would spend the rest of his life making religious art.
When Lucero came back, he erected the figures in the wash of the Santa Cruz River, using trash and debris as well as sand from the river base. When a flood washed away the statues in the 1940s, Lucero, who at a time lived in a shack under a bridge, built them all over again and used concrete to make them more sturdy. The statues have apparently been vandalized over the years, even to the point where a figure at the Last Supper was decapitated. If you look at the statue today, one figure's face is crudely fashioned compared to the original characters. But chances are that this head was created after Lucero's death.

The monument is now protected by fences at the Santa Cruz River Park, and excuse the pun, but thank God. These white statues are absolutely astounding, not only for the story behind them but for the technique as well. Lucero really learned how to express the intricacies of the human body, and sculpt us into eloquent manifestations of life.

In addition to the inspirational and religious aspects, there's also a sociological element to the statues. This man was fighting in a war that only slightly affected him. As a Native American, he was an immigrant even inside the physical borders of the country. Yet he was putting his life on the line for American ideals. That alone says more about his personality and dedication than the figures alone. While the man and his creation remain shrouded in mystery, the remnants of his vision will remain a life-force behind the otherwise ordinary city park.

A gem in the rough

On the last day of the Tucson Gem and Mineral Show this Sunday, I accompanied my mom to help her find a ring she might like. I thought it would be all about jewelry and shiny rocks, but I was pleasantly surprised when I encountered an art sale. Liliya and Igor Yunerman come to the gem show ever year, and bring with them some very fine examples of Russian art. They sell myriads of jewelry, decorative eggs, fancy boxes lined with Russian Orthodox portriature, porcelain Christmas dolls, paintings and more.
Although the couple lives in Phoenix, they are originally from Russia, and they import all of their products from the country. The two have developed an extensive online Web site, where they ship out the former products, as well as exotic furs. Items can range from as cheap as $20 to $550 or more for a painted egg. It's definitely more authentic than the Russian dolls they're selling now at Urban Outfitters, but also more expensive.

Menlo Park Video and Beyond

Forget downtown. One of Tucson's most interesting and insightful murals is a little removed from the bastion of public arts at the city's heart. The mural is not at the Rondstadt Center or on the side of a city court building: it's on the wall of an abandoned video store on the other side of the I-10 Freeway. This Menlo Park Video mural of the Virgin de Guadalupe revealing herself to a shepherd is one of the most authentic and mysterious works of art that Tucson can claim.



I ventured over to Grande Avenue and Congress Street to take a look for myself, after my boyfriend told me that the largest tree in Tucson was in the same area. The tree was pretty cool, but only prepared me for what was in store. On the southeast side of the intersection, I spotted a colorful array of religious art. We parked our car in a dirt lot next to an empty basketball court, and thus encited the fury of two ecstatic Chihuahuas in the yard next door. With the music of squeeky barking as a background for our experience, we stared at the wall and took it in.



At first, the wall looks like a typical religious mural: it has an apparition in the form of the Virgin, and a person on his knees praying to her. The wall is decked out in sensual blues, and has a simple shrine with religious writing on the bottom right corner. But what strikes me as different, is the Virgin's face. It's serene as usual, but a certain human quality imbues it with life. This Virgin is a person; she has thoughts and feelings and seems to be peering out of the 2-dimensional world searching for a life that this old video store could never provide.

The hidden masterpiece's creator remains a mystery. After looking for a few minutes, my boyfriend and I discovered that the video store was boarded up, but there were still artifacts inside peeking out of the window from behind bars. I would have thought that the store was just closed, but it was the middle of the day and absolutely no one was around. I went home to see if someone had written about it online, but there is nothing that mentions the mural. It's almost like a secret worship center, possibly known only by the people that live nearby, a couple of Chihuahuas and an occasional art afficionado like myself.



I want to go back and ask around some local stores to see if anyone knows about the mystery, but I'm almost scared that discovering the earthly connections will ruin the obscurity of the art that makes it so powerful. It's like this vestiage was sent down by the Virgin herself, absent of human ties and emotions, a divine work devoid of human sin and touch. But of course that's not true, so I most assuredly will attempt the visit at another time when I can interview a person or two. But for now, the artwork will remain as shrouded as the Virgin herself.

The Resurrection of Catholic Art

In a similar vein to the subject matter he paints, Daniel Martin Diaz is resurrecting a form of art that has absent for centuries upon centuries. But this month at the Hotel Congress, 311 E. Congress St., the mysticism and religious devotion of the Middle Ages will be revived. In his exhibition of paintings and drawings, "Misterium Fidei," Diaz explores the mystic symbolism of early Christian artists through the lens of a modern painter.
But Diaz is no stranger to the Catholic faith; his parents were born in Mexico and he calls himself a Catholic, although he is open to ideas from other religions. On Diaz's Myspace, he says, "One of my earliest memories as a child was the way death and religion played an important role in my family's life ... The fact that many of those beliefs seemed to render no logical explanation has also influenced me. These unanswered questions find a home in my work, which evokes the mystery, fear and irony of those vivid memories of my past."
Diaz paints in earthy browns, but dapples in blues and blacks as well to temper the effect. His characters range from dream cartoons to expressive manifestations of Christ. But even the more straightforward works, not seemingly inspired by mythical monsters, contain symbols and Latin words that shroud the meaning.
In "Peccavi," a skeleton with wings kneels down, his palms outstretched and his skull marked up like an ancient map. Stars glitter the background, and an hourglass sits atop the brown earth. The skeleton has a mystic circle halo like the saints in Medieval paintings, and a banner of Latin floats in the air.

Diaz's work has been showcased all over the country, and even abroad. Last year, he was given the honor to be in the Arizona Biennial at the Tucson Museum of Art, an extremely selective statewide contest that features many professors as well as established artists. Diaz has also been featured on the rock band P.O.D.'s album covers, a traditional altar for the San Antonio de Padua Catholic Church in Guaymas, Mexico, and in the PBS documentary "The Forgetting: A Portrait of Amnesia."