CARNET DE VOYAGE: MAROC
NAVIGATION:
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Morocco
Marrakech.
The narrow street is a never ending tide of robed and sandaled humanity. Bicycles and motorbikes career through the crowds, threading their way in fits and starts, the sharp smell of exhaust clouding the air, a blunt smackdown of the rich scents of various spices that tinge the air. Merchandise is ubiquitous, on the street, hanging above and piled into small storefronts. Eye contact with any of the sellers is an invitation for them to approach and try to haggle a price from you. They are incredibly persistent and we've finally learned how to be firm and say, "La Shokoran!" (sp?) (No Thank You!) Even then we have to repeat it several times, shaking our heads and moving on. I'm learning to generally not look anyone in the eye, which is an invitation to be approached and pushed to check out a stall or be lead somewhere to then look at some kind of merchandise. And that's a crime, really, because there are so many wonderful faces here! Marrakech is a kaleidoscope of sights, sounds, aromatic smells, alluring textures, and throngs of people pressed together sharing the harsh heat of the day.
I remember answering the doorbell at home in Beaumont, Texas when I was about fifteen years old and before me stood a rail thin young man wearing a white turban and sporting a long red beard. He carried a gnarled stick for a cane and the white shirt that swallowed him had “Africa Joe” stitched above the breast pocket. My cousin Jake Pratt had just returned from Africa and came to our home first on his way back to Victoria, Texas. He had been in the military then travelled through the Congo, and to Morocco. He had contracted a plethora of diseases while floating on the Congo River waiting for his friends to drop him a passport or visa. He had been stopped by the Russian army while he and his German friends were caravanning in the Sahara. I nag him to publish his diary of those days, “I Ate the Bwa-Bwa Bird”, and the slides he took every time I see him. Stories of white rhinos, fishing with sticks which when thrown in the river paralyze the fish and they float to the top. But I vividly remember his stories of Fez and merchant stalls cut into the ancient walls of the city.
Years later my fascination with Morocco was sparked by the watercolors of John Singer Sargent when he visited Spain and Morocco in 1879-80. I was attending Pratt Institute , an art school in Brooklyn, NY and those stunning watercolors hit me as extremely exotic, filling me with a wanderlust I've barely been able to scratch the surface of. Morocco became my Grail, the destination that nestled and burned in my heart demanding that I get there someday. The Bedouins, the Arab stables, all of it hit me extremely hard. It was the allure of the traditional garments, the robes, the burnooses, the camels, the architecture, the Arabian Nights stories.
Other artists have also piqued my interest and stoked those fires further. Frank Brangwyn's oils when he traveled through Morocco, as well as his traveling mate Arthur Mellville and his extravagant watercolors. There's Delacroix, Gerome, Matisse, Lord Leighton, Mariano Fortuny, and on and on. Each adding another stent opening that space in my heart until finally I could wait no longer. I've been incredibly fortunate to have been awarded a sabbatical from Ringling College of Art and Design, where I've been teaching for the past ten years. Everything aligned perfectly and during my teaching with the Illustration Academy I hit Jon Foster up with the possibility of joining me. It took me over 30 years to get there. And though time had other plans, I finally made it.
My good friend and artist Jon Foster was with me for the first three weeks of my two month stay and some of his work is included here as well.
Enjoy this visual taste of my two-month sabbatical to Morocco!