Kaw Point Park along the Missouri River, site of an ongoing artwork by José Faus (photo by Jim Barcus)
This is an origin story. What was the first artwork I ever made? It’s a piece expanding most of my life. I know exactly when it began; I don’t know when it will end, though it does have an end.
I’m standing before my uncle and cousins in a wobbly canoe in the middle of the flowing Magdalena River. I then demand that my uncle and cousins pull to shore so I can relieve myself. My uncle laughs and insists I pee off the side. Respectful of his wishes, I can control my balance but not the gust of wind that rises and takes my discharge back onto my cousins’ and uncle’s faces, arms, legs and clothes.
I don’t know why but from that moment I have been challenged to resist the temptation to aim my bodily fluids at any flowing body of water, whether creek or river. It encompasses the wind-driven lakes, seas, oceans, archipelagoes and fiords. It became a work of art the minute I decided to repeat and catalogue, if only in my mind, the many iterations. Art is that — a response to a need that morphs into an expression, a pattern, the meaning and value of which I leave to the critics or society at large.
The latter has made a judgment on the work. There is a furtiveness that makes it both dangerous and satisfying yet singles it out for punishment. I could bore you with tales of the many close calls my art has taken. It is not a work appreciated by many. There are ordinances. One can be charged with disturbing the peace, public indecency, or whatever category of high crime this qualifies for.
I admit I did not set out consciously to make a lifelong work, the parameters of which are distilled from the science of atmospheric moisture — the cycles of evaporation, condensation and precipitation, coupled with the biological processes of digestion, i.e. consumption, absorption and expulsion.
I could say it’s cutting edge, but the covert nature of it begs the question, “If there is no one to witness it, is it really art?” A valid query, but I can state firmly that the most natural of arts has little exposition in the world of art. There are exceptions familiar to many as they walk along the city. A statue of a cherub relieving themselves into a bowl hides somewhere on the Plaza.
There are other depictions, not top-shelf works hungrily sought after by collectors unless it be Andres Serrano’s “Piss Christ,” but this is not a direct attack on religion so no more need be said. There is Marcel Duchamp’s urinal artwork “Fountain.” The original disappeared. “Fountain” is a piece, which in retrospect falls far short of its possibilities. Though not strictly aligned with my quixotic pursuit, I admit a wicked urge to sneak into the Philadelphia Museum of Art, the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, or the Tate Modern in London, and use the replica urinals for their intended purpose. I aspire to high things with my art.
In pursuit of my vocation I have left a mark, however transient and ephemeral, in many places of this city. Locally the Missouri, the Platte, the Kansas, Brush Creek, Turkey Creek, Blue River, Lake Jacomo, Smithville Lake, Blue Spring, Clinton Lake and more have all received my art. I have checked the etiquette manuals. You must be caught in the act of it.
There is also the art of unintended consequences. We are mostly unaware of how art invades our lives. I was in Buffalo once for a poetry reading. I mentioned my art journey to a friend, and he looked at me with wicked joy and volunteered the best place for me to continue the work. We drove out of the city and then it dawned on me: Buffalo is home to the mighty Niagara River.
As we drove into the meadow, I could hear the roar of the river, knowing that just hundreds of yards away the mighty falls awaited my discharge. Because it was witnessed, it took on a solemnity rare for this type of work. He recorded it and I treasure the photo as the only evidence of my art journey. I have evidence for the impact of the work.
Twenty minutes later I’m standing at the rail that overlooks the falls and spy below me boats filled with little figures covered in yellow rain slickers, riding into the mist. In that moment I knew the power of art. Those on the boats paid serious money to ride out and unknowingly experience one of nature’s greatest wonders enhanced by my performance — the unintended consequence of art.
My journey through this life has taken me many places, and I have dutifully left my mark like some feral cat or dog marking my territory. My canvas has been worldly from its first iteration on the Magdalena of Colombia, to the Mississippi in St. Louis, the Maipo in Chile, the Rio de la Plata in Buenos Aires, the Paraná in Argentina, the Seine in Paris, the Arno in Florence, the Piraí in Bolivia, the Lerma in Mexico, the Nile, and many more than I can count here.
There are places I must pilgrimage to. The Ebro in Spain, the Yangtze in China, the Ganges in India, the Danube in Germany, so many in fact I will have to come back in another life to complete. Or perhaps, I have already mostly done it, and this life is a gift to finish or wrap up the loose ends.
There is still a Rubicon to cross. Somewhere in the future, the boat that takes us on the last ride will stop to ferry me on. I will cross it grudgingly. I already know the oarsman has given permission. I know by the rain slicker he wears. I will stand and do my part, an artist till the last ride.
