IN SEARCH OF THE SACRED

I tiptoed into Mike Vargas’ corner studio in the Old Taos Courthouse like it was a sanctuary.

After ignoring endless trinket shops full of mass-produced turquoise jewelry and appropriated pottery, I’d caught a glimpse through the window of two worn, multi-colored hands, worshipfully toiling over something on the desk in front of him, and my feet did the rest.

“If you want to know more about any of the paintings, please feel free to ask.”

Damn. He’d noticed me creep in and already stood from the beautiful disaster at his desk before I could catch him in action.

“If I’m being honest, I really just came in because I was curious about what your hands were so hard at work on.”

“Oh, right now, I’m painting Saint Joseph. Most people know him, but almost all of my work features the saints and symbols of spirituality that sometimes need some explaining.”

I took my first good look around the studio, realizing that my body and soul had known exactly how to move before my brain even processed the moment.

“I certainly recognize a lot of your subject matter. I went to private school, but so much of what I see here are things I never learned there.”

“Me either!”

For an older fellow, he moved fast to my side to detail the painting just in front of me and swap school stories.

“See this one? It’s the Seven Sorrows of Mary. You probably learned those, but never heard them called that. Nobody ever taught us the mysticism, but we sure knew to be quiet!”

He got a kick out of how hard I laughed.

One by one, he explained each of Mary’s Seven Sorrows and how they were among his most often painted subjects, spinning around the studio to show me seven branches, seven swords and all his other depictions of the Holy Mother and her pierced heart.

There wasn’t a single empty space on his walls, and as I pored over each one, I had to tiptoe again, being careful not to upset the labyrinth of framed works leaning upright against every available wall like old vinyls.

When I finally circled back up to his lovely mess of a desk, I wasn’t going to let the opportunity escape me again.

“What about your materials? I see open oil paints here, but looking around the room, I never would have guessed that was your medium.”

For at least a half hour, Mr. Vargas rewarded my curiosity with endless confessions. How he laid his oils by hand for the icons’ tempura look without the tempura mess, selected the stock himself from handmade paper, and personally framed each piece. How his icons were composed of oil paints, but his landscapes and crucifixions–which he also gave me a tour of–were in pastels and charcoal. And most intriguingly, how in a past life, he’d been a grocer, and then apprentice under master printmakers before dedicating himself to his own art.

When his outpour slowed to a steady trickle, I knew it was time to take my leave. And after hearing for myself all of the heart in his work, I decided to bring it home with me. I chose his Sacred Heart of Jesus, the only one hanging in the room.

With that same spry step as before, he had my painting down before I knew it, and just as he vanished behind a divider in the room that also doubled as yet ANOTHER wall for his work, he asked gingerly, “Would you mind if I sign it?”

“Of COURSE not. PLEASE sign it,” I answered enthusiastically to no one at all.

He rematerialized with my freshly bubble wrapped bundle, already bagged.

I was just a few days from home when I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Vargas, so against
every nosey fiber of my being, I left the painting carefully packed by its creator, and his inscription unrevealed until it was safely home.

I can’t help but feel that’s how it was meant to be.