Peruvian Painters: 8 Most Famous Artists From Peru

 

Peruvian Painters: 8 Most Famous Artists From Peru

Tushar NagpalAugust 16, 2023Art

Peru is probably most well known for the city of Lima and the mountaneous Andean region. This impressive mountain system bisects the country from north to south. This South American nation is also the home to the indigenismo art movement. In this article, we will take a look at the 8 Most Famous Artists From Peru.

 

 

Daniel Morillo

 

Idle Woman by Daniel Morillo

Born on August 1, 1856, Daniel Morillo was a Peruvian painter known for his Academic style, spending most of his career in Paris. He was raised in Lima and he started his artistic training at fourteen under Leonardo Barbieri. He gained recognition with his rendition of the “Death of Socrates” in 1872, which earned him a grant to study in Europe.

 

Settling in Rome, Morillo honed his skills with artists like Marià Fortuny. Returning to Paris in 1883, he was active in various art societies and exhibited at the Salon. In 1912, he displayed his works in Montevideo, Buenos Aires, and Rome. Influenced by his brother’s position, he helped establish the “Escuela Nacional Superior Autónoma de Bellas Artes,” IN 1919, becoming its first director until he died in 1932.

 

José Sabogal

 

Plaza Serrana by José Sabogal

José Sabogal, a Peruvian painter and muralist, emerged as a key figure in his country’s early indigenist movement. As a leader of this movement, he earned recognition as its primary advocate. Although he had Spanish ancestry, Sabogal passionately championed pre-Columbian culture and aesthetics. His extensive travels across Europe and North Africa from 1908 to 1913, including significant time in Italy, were followed by enrollment at the National School of Fine Arts in Buenos Aires, Argentina, where he studied for five years.

 

A transformative six-month stay in Cuzco ignited his indigenism, leading him to focus on portraying the city and its inhabitants. In 1919, his Cuzco-themed artworks garnered acclaim during an exhibition in Lima, setting the stage for his influential career. A pivotal moment occurred in 1922 when Sabogal encountered prominent Mexican artists Diego Rivera, José Clemente Orozco, and David Alfaro Siqueiros, motivating him to promote Peruvian art to global audiences.

 

Teófilo Castillo

 

Self Portrait

Teófilo Castillo was a Peruvian Impressionist painter, art critic, and photographer. Born on October 2, 1857, he initially studied at the Seminario de Lima before pursuing further education in Spain and France. Upon returning to Peru, he showcased his works influenced by Ricardo Palma’s Peruvian Traditions. In 1888, he relocated to Buenos Aires, working as a photographer alongside painting after his marriage. Castillo also served as an art critic and portrait painter, contributing to magazines like Prisma, La Ilustración Peruana, and Variedades.

 

Passionate about establishing the Escuela Nacional Superior Autónoma de Bellas Artes, Castillo endorsed Daniel Hernández Morillo as its first Director, though he himself was excluded from its staff. In 1920, disillusioned, he permanently left Peru for Tucumán. There, he edited Sol y Nieve magazine and created notable artwork including a significant canvas portraying Argentine General Manuel Belgrano.

 

Also Read: Panamanian Artists: 3 Most Famous Painters from Panama

 

Francisco Laso

 

The Three Races By Francisco Laso

Francisco Laso was a Peruvian painter and politician, who was initially famed for portraits but gained renown posthumously for his early indigenismo art. Born into an aristocratic colonial family, his father, Benito Laso, played a key role in Peru’s foundation and governance.

 

After attending public school and a brief law study in Lima, he joined the “Academy of Drawing and Painting” and later headed to Europe on the advice of his teachers. In 1843, he joined the studio of Swiss painter Charles Gleyre in Paris. His Italy visits in 1847 included exposure to the works of Titian and Paolo Veronese. Returning to Lima in 1849, he opened his own studio.

 

A government grant facilitated a second European trip in 1851, furthering his interest in indigenous themes. He settled in Arequipa in 1855, fulfilling requests for religious works.  While aiding the Red Cross during a yellow fever outbreak, he contracted the disease and passed away on May 14, 1869.

 

Pablo Amaringo

 

Pablo Amaringo, a Peruvian painter and healer, is renowned for his vibrant, ayahuasca-inspired artworks. At 17, he battled severe heart disease, confined to bed for over two years. A local healer administered ayahuasca, leading to a transformative recovery. This experience marked his rebirth, igniting his artistic journey. Pablo’s confinement prompted him to discover his talent for drawing.

 

Despite limited resources, Pablo Amaringo used pencils, soot, and even his sisters’ cosmetics on discarded cardboard for his creations. His paintings vividly portray ayahuasca visions with dazzling colors and symbolism.

 

Simultaneously working as a shaman and an artist, Pablo continued his Vegetalismo practice, painting, supervising ayahuasca retreats, and contributing to the Usko-Ayar painting school. His creative journey persisted until his passing on November 16, 2009, during which he was immersed in paintings of angels and depictions of Peru’s flora and fauna.

 

Diego Quispe Tito

 

Historical Scene By Diego Quispe Tito

Diego Quispe Tito was a Quechua painter from Peru, who is renowned as the leader of the Cuzco School of painting. Born in Cuzco in 1611 to a noble Inca family, he spent his life in the San Sebastián district, with his house still bearing his coat of arms. Quispe Tito’s earliest known work is a 1627 Immaculate Conception, displaying the characteristic gilded style of the Cuzco school.

 

Influenced by Spanish Mannerism, Flemish painting, and possibly Italian Jesuit Bernardo Bitti, Quispe Tito’s masterpieces include the 1681 Signs of the Zodiac in Cuzco Cathedral, a series mirroring Flemish engravings but tied to Christ’s parables. His landscapes, teeming with birds and angels, showcased his unique touch.

 

Marcos Zapata

 

Seated Madonna with Graduation of the García Brothers

Marcos Zapata, also known as Marcos Sapaca Inca, was a Peruvian painter born in Cuzco. A member of the Cuzco School, which taught indigenous artists religious painting, Zapata integrated local elements into his works. Notably, his 1753 portrayal of the Last Supper features guinea pigs and chicha, reflecting his cultural context.

 

Zapata produced around 200 paintings between 1748 and 1764. Over two dozen depicted the life of Saint Francis of Assisi for the Order of Friars Minor Capuchin in Chile. Zapata’s style matured between 1748 and 1773, focusing on striking portraits of the Virgin Mary. His compositions conveyed complex theological ideas with simplicity. The influence of his work extended across Peru, Chile, and northern Argentina, carried forward by his followers, including Antonio Vilca and Ignacio Chacón.

 

Jorge Vinatea Reinoso

 

The Peasant Poet By Jorge Vinatea Reinoso

Jorge Vinatea Reinoso, also known as Reynoso was a Peruvian painter and caricaturist. He was known for his indigenismo art style, although he operated independently from the movement led by José Sabogal.

 

Born on April 22, 1900, into a modest family as the eighth child, Vinatea Reinoso’s artistic flair emerged early through the watercolor landscapes of his surroundings. His initial exhibition occurred at seventeen in Max T. Vargas’ photography studio. Moving to Lima the next year, he contributed caricatures to the magazine Sudamérica, alongside prominent figures like José Carlos Mariátegui and César Vallejo.

 

Enrolling in the Escuela Nacional Superior Autónoma de Bellas Artes, he studied under Daniel Hernández Morillo and Manuel Piqueras Cotolí. His innovative comic strip in 1922 introduced speech balloons to Peru. Vinatea Reinoso’s legacy includes impactful indigenista paintings, although his life was cut short by tuberculosis at the age of thirty-one.

With affection,

Ruben

 

The Real Jack From Titanic: How Did Jack Thayer Survive?

 

The Real Jack From Titanic: How Did Jack Thayer Survive?

Tushar NagpalMarch 4, 2024Mystery

The iconic movie “Titanic” introduced us to the bittersweet love story of Jack and Rose, but did you know that Jack’s character was inspired by a real person who survived the tragic sinking of the Titanic in 1912? The character of Jack Dawson was inspired by Jack Thayer, a real passenger on the Titanic.

 

Jack Thayer and Leonardo DiCaprio

Jack Thayer and Leonardo DiCaprio (Credits: TitanicWiki)

Unlike Jack Dawson’s character in the film, played by Leonardo DiCaprio, Jack Thayer actually managed to survive the Titanic disaster. Thayer’s experiences on the ship inspired the popular character of Jack who has now turned into a cult figure.

 

Let’s delve into Jack Thayer’s background, his actions on the night of the Titanic tragedy, and his remarkable survival, uncovering the real-life story that inspired one of the most beloved films in cinematic history.

 

Jack’s Background

Jack Thayer was born into Boston’s affluent Thayer family. He was the son of John Borland Thayer II, a high-ranking executive at the Pennsylvania Railroad Company, and his mother, Marian Thayer.

 

At the age of 17, Jack, along with his parents and their maid Margaret Fleming, embarked on a journey across Europe. Their return to New York led them to board the RMS Titanic at Cherbourg on April 10, 1912, setting the stage for the young Thayer’s remarkable and tragic experience aboard the ill-fated ship.

 

Night of the Titanic Disaster: Jack’s Experience

On the fateful night of the Titanic disaster, Jack Thayer’s bravery and survival instincts came to the forefront. After the collision with the iceberg around 11:40 p.m., Thayer, then 17, ventured to the ship’s deck to assess the situation. Unable to find any significant damage, he proceeded to the bow, where he noticed ice on the forward well deck.

 

Alarmed, Thayer woke his parents, and together they returned to the port side. As the ship began listing, they went back to their rooms to don warmer clothes and life vests. While returning to the deck, Thayer lost sight of his parents and presumed they had joined a lifeboat.

 

Thayer encountered fellow passenger Milton Long, suggesting they jump off the ship and swim to safety. Long, initially hesitant due to his swimming abilities, eventually jumped, never to be seen again. Thayer followed suit, leaping from the rail with his back facing the ship.

 

In the frigid waters, Thayer reached Collapsible B, an overturned lifeboat. Alongside other survivors, including Junior Wireless Officer Harold Bride and Second Officer Charles Lightoller, they kept the overturned boat stable for hours, surrounded by the cries of those in the water.

 

After a harrowing night, Thayer was eventually pulled to safety into Lifeboat 12, not realizing that his mother was nearby in Lifeboat 4. Lifeboat 12 was the last to reach the rescue ship RMS Carpathia at 8:30 a.m. Sadly, Thayer’s father did not survive the sinking. Jack Thayer was among the approximately 40 individuals who jumped into the water and lived to tell the tale of the tragic night on which Titanic hit an iceberg and sunk.

 

Life after Titanic

After surviving the Titanic tragedy, Jack Thayer continued his life with both achievements and profound tragedies. He graduated from the University of Pennsylvania, got married to Lois Buchanan Cassatt, and had two sons, Edward Cassatt and John Borland IV, along with three daughters. The couple faced immense grief when their third son, Alexander Johnston Cassatt Thayer, passed away shortly after birth in 1920.

 

World War I saw Thayer serving as an artillery officer in the U.S. Army. Tragedy struck again during World War II when Edward, one of Thayer’s sons and a bomber pilot, went missing and was presumed dead after his plane was shot down in 1943.

 

In 1939, Thayer took on the role of treasurer at the University of Pennsylvania, later becoming the financial vice president in 1944. However, the weight of loss continued to haunt him. His mother’s death on the 32nd anniversary of the Titanic disaster in 1944 and the subsequent loss of his son took a severe toll on Thayer’s mental well-being.

 

Jack even published a pamphlet about his experience with the name, “The Sinking of the S.S. Titanic.” His account also helped Robert Ballard to find the location of the shipwreck. Sadly, he succumbed to his inner struggles, ending his life on September 20, 1945. His body was found in a car in West Philadelphia. Jack Thayer rests at the Church of the Redeemer Cemetery in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania.

With affection,

Ruben

 

Story: Never in my life

 

Never in my life

Story

Fernando Ampuero

 

Source: Literary Magazine of the University of Guadalajara, Mexico

In the silver-framed picture on my bedroom shelf, I see her walking through Plaza San Martín. It is a black-and-white photograph taken in the early 1940s. Who took it? Some itinerant photographer, no doubt; there were many of these in the squares of Lima. But the image, captured in motion, is not blurred or distorted in the slightest. It is a sharp, well-contrasted, vertically framed snapshot that records the walk of a slender eighteen-year-old girl. A girl with high heels and a loose, light dark coat over a light dress, and whose accessories—a small purse, a turban hat, a flower in the lapel of her coat, a pearl necklace—match perfectly. In other words, I am looking at an image that, in the second decade of the 21st century, is glamorous, because the fashion style in the 1940s was full of elegance and distinction. That fresh, distracted girl, who I now see as so pretty, would be my mother in a few years.

 

Mom died relatively young. She died of a heart attack caused by an electroshock in a psychiatric hospital at the age of fifty. I wrote a few lines about this in a novel, leaving open the possibility that the reader might interpret the event as fictional. It was not.

 

Mom's drama began with her first period, with a sudden pool of blood between her legs and a chemical disorder. She was diagnosed with diabetes and acute melancholy. "Manic depression," she was diagnosed.

She was hospitalized for three months and recovered.

 

Her first psychiatrist was Honorio Delgado, an illustrious doctor who corresponded with Sigmund Freud; the second, Javier Mariátegui, Honorio's favorite disciple, was the son of the Marxist thinker José Carlos Mariátegui, founder of the Peruvian Socialist Party. Both of them managed to alleviate Mom's crises with the experimental medicines of the time, which were not as good as those of today. Sometimes, if the doses were high, Mom became frantically happy; she ran around the house, laughed, played the piano and was the life of the party.

At other times, she behaved normally. I often remember her in that state: serene, affectionate, understanding.

 

When I was six, in my aunts' opinion, she was a model mother. She looked after me and pampered me as if I were the most precious child on the planet. Every three days she ordered my pyjamas to be changed, as well as the sheets and bed covers; and, at bath time, she herself bathed me with warm water, combed and groomed me, and after arranging the soft pillows at the head of the bed, which I used as a backrest during my reading, she perfumed me with the refreshing Drowa cologne.

 

When she had finished her task, she would utter joyful comments:

 

—How handsome you are! Not only are you intelligent, but you also look like a very handsome child! You look like a maharaja!

My wife believes that my strong self-esteem was born there, in those days. That people can say anything outrageous about my actions or my works and that I will remain safe, unharmed.

 

Mom, I think, gave me more cuddles than she did to my older brother. She felt guilty. I soon found out about this guilt, at thirteen, one night when, without asking permission, I went to one of my first parties with dancing and drinks, and returned home at three in the morning. Disturbed by the worry that something terrible had happened to me, Mom began to scream and my grandfather had no choice but to sedate her. Then my grandfather, who was waiting for me at the door of the house, greeted me with a mad attitude and suddenly said what everyone was hiding from me.

 

"Your mother is sick!" He raised his voice, as he rarely did. "She is a very nervous woman! It is time for you to know!"

 

“Very nervous” meant that she was on the verge of insanity. She had been crazy, actually. Apart from her brief confinement in her teens, she had been confined for a year when I was three months old, because one afternoon when I woke up crying from my nap, she approached the crib and tried to strangle me. Her hands were squeezing my neck, and her sweet gaze—she had clear green eyes—showed a well of darkness. Grandma and a housemaid stopped her. When she realized what she had done, she was afraid of going crazy again and, according to her psychiatrist, she thought that her second birth, the one that brought me into the world, was the cause of her imbalance. I also learned that she had tried to commit suicide. She tied the cord of the Lord of Miracles’ robe around her neck and hung herself from the shower; luckily, the thick iron of that old bathroom broke. Grandpa told me all this in less than three minutes. And, referring to some of her relatives, she added that the real fault came from a hereditary problem, genetic, as it would be said now ("she was born pretty but damaged"). »), and to make matters worse, she fell in love with my father («an irresponsible man»), from whom she was separated. Grandfather hated my father and would not allow him to even visit her.

 

So many revelations, apparently, did not affect me. Apparently. Anyway, my older brother raged against Grandfather; he said that I was not old enough to be aware of such sad things, and certainly not in that way. I kept quiet, or calmed them all down.

 

They put Mom to sleep for a while. And as soon as she woke up, she was an angel of sweetness again. Did she remember what had happened? Vaguely, said the psychiatrist. But some hidden impulse used to bring her closer to me, as if asking for forgiveness or trying to protect me.

 

A few months later, I became ill: I had asthma. I was choking, I felt like I was short of breath and therefore I breathed with hoarse gasps. Grandma resorted to a home remedy: toast with garlic, parsley and olive oil; the doctor advised me not to get agitated and, preferably, to stay in bed. In response, Grandpa, knowing that I was hyperactive and could get bored, brought new books: wonderful stories and novels, The Thousand and One Nights, Treasure Island, White Fang and other classics.

But the asthma did not subside. And one night, as I looked out of my bedroom window at the stars, I noticed that I was turning blue from lack of air. I got up and tried to open the window, but I couldn't, because something was stiffening the lock, so I took a small jug of water and threw it against the glass; it shattered and fresh air came in. Then, alarmed by the crash, my entire family burst through my bedroom door.

 

Everyone was irritated, of course, except my mother, who looked at me and smiled as if it were a simple prank. Was it a symptomatic smile? It didn't seem so to me. That's why, for me, Mom's sporadic fits of madness have not constituted serious, indelible wounds; only one, in any case, brings back memories, although I admit that something of it left a mark.

The mark, to be precise, is an unconscious habit or a nervous tic, which would be an exaggeration to call a psychological injury. And how did it happen? Through another routine event, also at night. When I was fifteen, I was sleeping soundly in my room when suddenly a nightmare disturbed my rest. I screamed twice, apparently insane, and, according to what Mom told me; I started talking in my sleep. It was midnight and she heard these screams from afar. Mom was in the kitchen, having woken up hungry and wanting to make a sandwich. She ran quickly to my bedroom to see what was happening. She found me asleep and talking in my sleep, and then she became curious about what I was saying. She picked up my desk chair and, taking care not to make noise, she moved it to the edge of my bed; then, still as a sphinx, she sat down to listen to me.

 

She didn't understand much. In her opinion, my dream was about a fight, yet another one!, and the speech was confused, but it was in that trance that I woke up. The time it took my eyes to adjust to the darkness lasted two seconds; it was a clear night and the window curtains were open. Besides, at that time, I don't know why, I always slept facing the wall. And so, as soon as I judged that I was not alone—I sensed another breath in the room—I turned quickly in bed. Seeing her and being surprised were the same thing. Mom, with an absent expression, was disheveled and in her nightgown, sitting with her knees together, but what was most disturbing to me was seeing her hands in her lap: they held a sharp knife.

That was a stereotypical view; good horror films, from Psycho to Carrie, were imitated by television and were a substantial part of everyday life.

 

“Mom,” I said. “What are you doing?”

 

“Nothing,” she replied, smiling. “I wanted to hear what you were saying, but it was difficult. I only heard clearly the word “dog” and several swear words… You had a nightmare, with screams and everything…”

 

“A nightmare?” I couldn’t remember anything. “And that knife?”

 

“Oh, well… I was cutting bread to make a sandwich when you started screaming. How strange that I brought it!”

 

We didn’t talk any more. She immediately returned to the kitchen and, ten minutes later, Mom and I, each in our room, tried to get back to sleep. But I, in fact, was already a different person. To say the least, my way of sleeping underwent a change. Never in my life, from that night on, have I slept facing the wall again. Never in my life. I slept that night, and would sleep from then on, facing the bedroom door. To this day I cannot sleep if I do not watch the door.

With affection,

Ruben

 

Subversive maneuver

 

Subversive maneuver

Story

Source: Literary Magazine of the University of Guadalajara, Mexico

 

Fernando Ampuero

After having received a fierce beating and being left with bruised faces and multiple wounds and bruises on their skin, the three men entered the cell. Two of them looked very young—they were boys of barely twenty years old—and the third, who limped on his right leg, looked to have reached fifty. The dark and small room smelled strongly of urine and had no cots or benches. Shivering from the cold, in pain, the men sat on the floor. They sat together, as if to keep warm, and together also to reflect on the seriousness of their common situation, which left them with no hope.

 

They knew that the interrogations and beatings would soon resume. And that, for that very reason, their captors, in order to soften them up — "We're going to break them down, to destroy their morale," whispered an equally young man — had shown them electric prods and sharp surgical instruments. That was what was coming.

 

The three men, for security reasons, had not informed anyone of their whereabouts — the surroundings of a fortified barracks in the pampas — and no person, no peasant, no soul in pain, would be able to testify that they had been arrested, and even less that they had been found with incriminating evidence:

 

plans of the barracks and explosives. So what could happen to them was what had been happening all the time since the beginning of the conflict: disappear. Without traces, without any news.

At this prospect, the lame man shouted for the jailers.

 

Some men approached with annoyed expressions, and he told them that he wanted to speak privately with the lieutenant in charge.

 

They took him out of the cell and led him to a well-ventilated office.

 

"What do you mean?" asked the lieutenant.

 

"I'm going to talk," said the lame man. "But on two conditions: first, I ask that I be treated as a collaborator, and second, that my two companions be killed."

 

"I accept your collaboration," was the calm reply he heard. "However, I don't understand your other request... Do you want us to kill your people? Why?"

 

"They can't stay alive, because in prison or wherever else they end up, they'll accuse me: they'll say that I'm an informer."

 

"I understand," shook his head the lieutenant. "You don't want the truth to be known."

 

—The truth? I don’t know what the truth is. There are many truths. Each person has his own.

The lieutenant looked into the lame man's tired eyes and thought for a moment. Then he stretched out both arms, as if stretching. It was four in the morning.

 

"Done," he said. "We'll kill them," and ordering some armed soldiers to keep an eye on him, he added, "Wait here..."

 

The lieutenant left the office and ten minutes later two explosions were heard.

 

"They're already dead," he said shortly after.

 

"Dead? Dead?"

 

"Coup de grâce."

 

"I want to see their corpses."

 

The lieutenant looked him in the eyes again, but this time he concentrated on the depth of his dark circles and the small wrinkles around his eye sockets.

 

"Let's go to the yard," he said. And they all left in a group, the lieutenant in front and then the lame man, who walked flanked by the soldiers.

 

They arrived in time to see other boys in uniform loading the lifeless bodies onto a wheelbarrow, on their way to a mass grave or perhaps a hole in the ground.

 

The lame man stopped to look at them: both had bullet holes in their foreheads. With an imperturbable expression, he then turned to the lieutenant.

 

"I have to tell you one last thing," he said. "These comrades you have killed were my closest friends. One was my youngest son and the other my nephew. I asked you to kill them because they would not bear the pain and they could tell a lot. You will no longer have that opportunity... Now, lieutenant, I am the only one left, and I do not intend to speak. You can do with me what you want, but I assure you that I will not speak. <

With affection,

Ruben

 

Story :The Bet

 

The Bet

Fernando Ampuero

 

There are so many people who tell stories and so few who listen to them that it is logical that many of them end up forgotten. Casual listeners, perhaps out of indifference or contempt for the chatter, assume that they are being saddled with any nonsense. And, well, they are probably not wrong. However, something happens in the memory of one or another listener—of an impressionable listener like me, I mean—where the memory of a detail determines that the stories maintain their inexplicable freshness. I am not referring to all of them, of course; I am not Funes, the memorious one. I am speaking only of that kind of strange stories that, in the end, endure like a concern.

 

I am going to tell now a story by my friend Enrique. I usually say of him that he is a simple and down-to-earth man, with no desire to be interesting or to want to disturb anyone; he hates to attract attention. But this last thing is not easy for Enrique: the ordinary world in which he moves sometimes declares itself in rebellion against normality. To me, let's say, he always tells me strange and crazy things; or, to say the least, curious things. In any case, his story does not bring great tragedies or catastrophes; nothing of the sort. They are rather small things, irrelevant things. Like, for example, the story of that passenger in a dilapidated provincial minibus —one of his oldest stories—, whom he met one day while traveling from Trujillo to Lima.

 

Enrique got into that minibus because the vehicle he was driving, his old pickup truck, began to smoke and stopped due to a radiator failure. He then decided to push it onto the side lane of the highway and park it; then, in search of a mechanic's shop, he climbed into the minibus that would take him to Casma, near Huarmey.

 

The trip, according to what the driver told him, took about fifty minutes. The van was full, but he found a free seat in the third row, next to a bearded man with a peaceful expression. He sat on the aisle side and spent twenty minutes in silence, like most passengers, dozing or contemplating the desert.

 

Enrique, by contrast, looked quite awake and restless. It was in this mood that his seat neighbor turned to him and spoke in a low tone of voice.

 

“I have a question to ask,” he said. “How long do you think a fish lives out of water?” My friend was surprised, but managed to moderate his reaction with a friendly smile.

—What a question!

 

—It's a simple question —said the man—. All children ask it.

 

—I don't doubt it —commented Enrique—. Children are always asking that kind of questions.

 

—And other more interesting ones! I suspect that most philosophers of antiquity listened with fervor to the questions of children and, stimulated by these, while answering them, they forged their philosophical ideas. Children are natural philosophers… But, anyway, I would like you to answer me…

 

—What?

 

—The question I asked you… How long do you think a fish lives out of water? Enrique let out a little laugh this time.

 

—I don't know —he replied—. I imagine it's the same time a man could resist in water…

 

Three minutes, four minutes… I don't know the human record under water.

 

—Is that your answer?

 

—Yes —he hesitated Enrique.

 

—Listen, I'll make you a bet... Five soles! It's not much money, but it adds excitement to the whole thing. If you win, you'll remember this forever; and if you lose, you'll remember it too. What do you think?

haking his head, Enrique cheered up.

 

“I accept it,” he said. “Although I can't imagine how I could prove it right now.”

 

“I can prove it right now.”

 

“Oh, really? Let's see, tell me: how long does a fish live out of water?”

 

“An hour, more or less.”

 

“Impossible!” Enrique growled, shaking his head. “I don't believe you… But I'm curious what proof you're going to present…”

 

“The most convincing proof,” the guy emphasized. “Look at me carefully.”

—I can see it.

 

With studied slowness, the man put his hand in the inside pocket of his jacket and took it out again, holding a fish.

 

—This fish is proof… Touch it!… Feel how it moves!

 

Stunned, watching the scaly fish with enormous eyes moving in the man's hand, Enrique didn't know what to think, but he stammered:

 

—What is that?

 

—A fish! A tramboyo! And it's alive!… Come on, touch it!

 

My friend touched it and, indeed, felt life in that slippery contact.

 

—How long have we been traveling? —the man attacked—. Almost half an hour! It hasn't been ten minutes or less. And when we get to the town in the next half hour, I assure you, this fish will still be moving.

 

Enrique abruptly asked the man to open his jacket and show him the pocket from which he had taken the fish.

 

"Do you have a bottle of water in that pocket?"

 

"Of course not! Check it out."

After searching his pocket, he didn't find the small water tank he had imagined. He didn't even notice anything wet.

 

"Satisfied?" the guy boasted. Enrique nodded. "Well, you owe me five soles. We'll have a beer at the next stop. You pay."

 

My friend never discovered what the trick was.

 

And then, sitting at a table in a kiosk, he drank a large beer with the guy. Meanwhile, on the table, next to the bottle, the fish was wagging its tail.

With affection,

Ruben

Fernando Ampuero

 

Fernando Ampuero

Peruvian writer and journalist

Fernando Pedro Ampuero del Bosque ( Lima , July 13, 1949) is a Peruvian journalist , writer , short story writer , poet , playwright and screenwriter , who has practiced the most diverse genres: short story , novel , theater , essay , chronicle , poetry .

 

Fernando Ampuero

 

Fernando Ampuero and The Imperfect Peruvian at the Bolaño Chair, 2011

Personal information

Birth

July 13, 1949

(73 years old) Peru , Lima

 

Nationality

Peruvian

Education

Education

College of the Immaculate Conception

Educated in

Pontifical Catholic University of Peru

Professional information

Occupation

Writer , journalist , poet and novelist View and edit data on Wikidata

Employer

Pontifical Catholic University of Peru

Biography

He studied in Lima , at the Colegio de la Inmaculada and at the Catholic University . He has been deputy director of the magazine Caretas , director of Jaque and Somos , general editor of Canal N and director of the television programs Documento and Uno más uno of ATV . Until the end of 2008, he was director of the investigative unit of the newspaper El Comercio and of its cultural supplement El Dominical and of ATV Noticias .

 

As an investigative journalist, "he has managed to put several of his compatriots in jail, in a crusade against corruption that he undertook from journalism. This earned him walking the streets with two bodyguards, one of whom received a bullet in the thigh as a warning sign." [ 1 ]

 

"Journalists have played the role of inspectors, or even investigators, sometimes replacing the police," he said, although he admits that it is a frustrating task: "For one person you manage to unmask and imprison, ten equally or worse corrupt people emerge." [ 1 ]

 

He began his literary career during a long backpacking trip, which took him to live for a time in the Galapagos Islands . [ 2 ] His first book was a collection of stories published in 1972 and titled Stop the World, I'm Getting Down Here , which has been followed by several volumes of short stories, Bad Manners (1994), Weird Bug (1996), Difficult Women, Blessed Men (2005), Lone Wolves and Other Stories" (2018), the compilations Ghosts of Chance (2010) and Stories (2013,2016,2017), and his volumes of selected stories Intimate and Wild (2017), While Dreams Burn (2019) and Essential Ampuero Vol. 1 and Vol. 2

 

His best-known novel is Caramelo verde (1992), which was the beginning of his Lima Quartet , which also includes Puta linda (2006), Loreto (2014) and Hasta que me orinen los perros (2008). The latter is based on one of his most celebrated stories: Taxi driver without Robert de Niro , which according to The Times Literary Supplement "is one of the most striking Latin American stories of the 20th century." On this circumstance, Ampuero explained in an interview:

 

"I am essentially a short story writer. My novels are actually long stories."

 

In 2011 he published El peruano imperfecto , a more personal work than his previous novels and in which the protagonist, Pedro José de Arancibia, is, like him, very tall (Ampuero is almost one meter ninety tall), he headed the investigative unit at El Comercio , whose bodyguard was shot in the thigh and who is descended like him from a Spanish conquistador and an Inca princess; he also backpacked around the world, lived in the Galapagos and Budapest , and writes stories. "This game of mirrors amuses him, because although there are some aspects that are faithfully taken from his personal history, there are others that are fictitious: 'What I did was exaggerate some episodes of my life and attenuate others that, if I didn't, would seem implausible'." [ 1 ]

 

 

Ampuero with visual artist Ricardo Wiesse ; FILSA 2018.

He published the book of chronicles and essays Tambores invisibles (both in 2014), and the following year his most lyrical and personal novel, Sucedió entre dos pétalos (It Happened Between Two Eyelids ). In 2017, the booklet Lobos solitarios ( Solitary Wolves) appeared , a narrative praised by critics and one of the books that appeared on the list of best-sellers at the 2017 Lima International Book Fair.

 

In 2018, the year in which he published The Witch of Lima , the first installment of his memoirs, Fernando Ampuero received the FIL LIMA Literature Prize.

 

Some of his works have been translated into other languages ​​( Caramel vert , Paris, Taxi driver sans Robert de Niro , Lyon) and he has also been anthologized (for example, The Picador Book of Latin American Stories, London; The Vintage Book of Latin American Stories , New York; Erzählungen aus Spanisch Amerika , München, Germany; or Beings: Contemporary Peruvian Short Stories , London, with his story «Malos modales»,) etc.

 

Works

 

Ampuero in 2018

Stop the world, I'm getting off here , short stories, Editorial Ari, 1972 (Estruendomudo, 2007)

Let's rave together , Kosmos, 1975 (Campodónico, 1994)

Miraflores Melody , novel, Serconsa Editores, 1979

Cat in the bag , chronicles and profiles, PEISA , 1987 and 1998; ( Punto de Lectura , 2009); (DEBOLSILLO, Penguin Random House, 2015); (TUSQUETS, Planeta, 2023).

Green Candy , crime novel, Campodónico, 1992 (first book of the Lima Street Trilogy ); Seix Barral , 2002; Alfaguara , 2006, 2012; Planeta , 2015.

Bad manners , short stories, Campodónico, 1994 (Booket Planeta, 2007)

The Weird Bug , short stories, Campodónico, 1996 (Planeta, 2009)

Voices of the Full Moon , a collection of poems, Campodónico, 1998 (Deluxe Edition, M.Zegarra Editora, 2002, illustrated by the artist José Tola)

Selected stories , Alfaguara, 1998

The Dwarf, History of an Enmity , fictionalized chronicle, Mosca Azul, 2001. PLibros, 2014.

 Memoirs, TusQuets , 2018.

House arrest , theatre, 2003

 

Ampuero, October 31, 2018

Thigh that I raise , poetry collection, Alta Niebla Editores, 2004

Difficult women, blessed men , short stories, Alfaguara, 2005

Pretty Whore , novel, Planeta AE&I, 2006 (second book of the Lima Street Trilogy ) / Salto de Página, 2006

Until the dogs pee on me , novel, Planeta AE&I, 2008 (third book of the Lima Street Trilogy ) / Salto de Página, 2008

Ghosts of chance , complete stories, Norma, 2010

40 poems , Alegoría Editores, 2010; with photographs by Sonia Cunliffe

Maida Sola and other stories , QG Editores, 2011

New Selected Stories , Albatros, 2011

The imperfect Peruvian , Alfaguara, novel, 2011, (DEBOLSILLO,Penguin Random House, 2015)

The games of love , Arsam, selection of stories, 2012

Lima Street Trilogy , Tajamar editores, Santiago de Chile, novels, 2012

Personal anthology , stories, poems, prose; Punto de lectura, 2012

 

Ampuero with his book One Way Trip

One Way Trip , essays, chronicles and prose; Lápix editores, 2012

Stories , practically all the stories written to date; Planeta AE&I, Lima, 2013 (expanded reissues: 2016, 2017)

Taxi driver sans Robert de Niro , short story, Zinnia Éditions, 2013, Lyon, France.

Musical Creatures and Other Stories , a selection of stories from Plan Lector, Bizarro editions, 2014

Loreto , novel, Planeta AE&I, 2014

Invisible drums , chronicles and essays, PEISA , 2014

It happened between two eyelids , novel, Planeta AE&I, 2015

Beyond the love of dogs", selection of stories Plan Lector, Bizarro editions, 2017.

Intimate and Wild , short story selection, TusQuets, Mexico, 2017

Lone Wolves , short story, PEISA , 2017

The Witch of Lima , memoirs, TusQuets, Lima, 2018

Lone Wolves and Other Stories , PEISA , Lima, 2018.

While dreams burn , new selection of stories, TusQuets, Colombia, 2019.

Essential Ampuero Volume I, selected stories 1972-1996, Booket, Planeta, Lima, 2019.

Never in my life , stories, Planeta AE&I, Lima, 2019.

Lima Quartet , novels, TusQuets, Lima, 2019.

Essential Ampuero Volume II, selected stories 2005-2019, Booket, Planeta, Lima, 2019.

Six lost chapters and other misplacements", miscellany, TusQuets, Lima, 2021.

Run Run. The sad and excessive story of a captive fox , a children's story illustrated by Camila Gómez. Lima, Planeta juvenil, 2022.

The First Storyteller", short story and object book, with illustrations by Casandra and Joshua Tola. Lima, Lunwerg editores, 2022.

"I gave you so much life", five stories and a chronicle. TusQuets, Lima, 2024.

With affection,

Ruben