A Portrait of the Artist
“‘I have to be really careful when I’m painting because it’s like a mantra. One time I painted a box and everybody told me it looked like a coffin. The day that I finished, my friend called me and told me his mother had passed away that morning.’”
Entertained by the company of ten vacant tables in a Starbucks just ten minutes from closing, I sip my third coffee for the evening and probe my BlackBerry for a notice of cancellation. Then, about to exchange the abyss of Starbucks for that of a rainy, dark, after-hours Michigan Avenue, I spot the man I’ve been waiting for. An hour late, sporting a baseball cap and a black-and-yellow leather racing jacket, Fidel Rodriguez opens the door casually, calmly, and with the unapologetic aplomb that only a man of his consequence should attempt. I suggest, for welcome and now necessary reasons, that we migrate to the back lobby of the Intercontinental Hotel to conduct our interview. There, once we’ve exchanged pleasantries, his cell phone rings; and so begins my conversation with Fidel the painter, the sculptor, the photographer, the fashion designer—and Chicago’s budding Renaissance man.
Fidel: Hey. You’re driving; let me call you back. A’right? Do whatever you have to do; call me whenever you want. A’right? A’right, Lolita. ‘Bye. All women are disasters. Make sure you print that.
Mikayla: Cross my heart. I’d like to start, Mr. Rodriguez, by asking about your time in New York and how you wound up in Chicago.
F: My time there isn’t over yet, but I haven’t returned in almost two years. I like Chicago; it’s a virgin city. Not everything is exploited here. There is a lot of competition in New York—which isn’t a bad thing; it’s what makes you sharp. In fact, I think Chicago needs a little bit more of that. But that’s why I came here, too. I like the town: You can show things here, new things and things that you want, and establish a fresh mentality.
Anyway, in the beginning, New York was hard because I had to do many things on the side; that was the most frustrating part. But then I was able to merge everything I knew and create different work alternatives—painting murals, doing commercial stuff, advertising a bit. This is how I survived in the Big Apple—until I got into a gallery. When I got into my first gallery in New York, in 1997, people told me I was crazy for investing all my money in my artwork. “It won’t sell; nobody knows you here,” they said. Yet I actually sold my first piece before the gallery even opened. Two days before the gallery launched its new show, the head curator called me and said, “Your painting is sold!” And from there, I was invited to Madison Square Garden for a film festival that happened to have a section for fine art, where more of my paintings were sold. Since then, it has been a chain reaction. More and more galleries became interested. I began working with co-op galleries, which are maintained by their artists. Then I progressed to an art dealer, whose name is Monique Goldstrom; she used to sell Picasso, Modigliani, and Toulouse-Lautrec.
M: Monique was a very prominent art dealer in New York; she had a vast celebrity clientele. How was it to work with her?
F: Yeah. She was a regular provider to Christie’s and would make millions of dollars off of one piece; she represented Man Ray and also some young artists. One day, I walked into her gallery, and she looked at me and said, “You’re an artist, aren’t you? Because I don’t think you’re a collector. You look like a Spaniard.” And then she said she’d like to see my paintings. So I showed her my portfolio, and she actually wanted to go deeper into my work—she wanted the sketches, the drafts, everything. Then she told me she’d like to try selling some of my pieces and began exhibiting them in group shows. Next, she started putting me in museums as a part of a corporate collection. Unfortunately, she passed away a couple of years ago. And now I’m in Chicago trying to do something new.
