October 31, 1989 - El Paso Herald-Post

'Pinto poet' bids adieu to a magical sojourner

"He was beauty in his essence," Roberto Barcena said of Manuel G. Acosta, a bon vivant artist who nurtured others while creating works which gave his subjects a profound dignity.

The impact of Acosta's murder is still unraveling in the minds of those who knew and loved him. Somehow there is the underlying sense that such a murder should - and could not! - exist in this seemingly serene desertland.

It does exist, though still unbelievalbe, and the pain Acosta's death has left in its wake churns, as it burns into the mind and spirit.

Acosta was a legend, a mythic and magical sojourner in his homeland. He was a friend to the humanity pulsing in our breasts, and many of us loved him for being the breadth of a humanizing continuum: greatness at one end and humilty at the other, without there being contradiction.

Two days after his murder, the wetness of eyes continues rivuletting faces, and the joy of continuous rediscovery of his artistry criss-crosses the minds of his many caring friends...friends who discovered in Acosta an easy sensibility which could celebrate the everyday, while marvelling at the complexities of the exotic and different.

Who were you, Manuel Gregorio Acosta, that you continue living within the images and nuances you shared so many times with vagabond poets, recalcitrant activists, straying youths and wondering fellow creatures?

You were always so elusive, yet very much present in the caressive embraces you gave the world.

Your studios - first at Findley and Hammett Streets, secondly at Buena Vista Street - were havens for those who revel in expressing a love for the joy which danced abandonly in vour eyes.

You regaled a world of dervishes, and a host of wandering seekers from New Mexico, Colorado, Texas and other lands caroused in your warmth.

Now, I see the tears welling in the eyes of Dr. R.A. Gardea, Carlos Rosas, and my family Tere & Chinto. I hear the plaintive notes in Jack Haddox's voice as he informed me of your death over the phone ... Mago Orona keened out a lament, and Bill Kwiecinski gave out a searing howl Of verbs and questions, somehow not wanting to accept your demise.

Why? That was the burning question, and it was not about your mortality, but simply about why in such a brutish manner.

It was love, Manuelito, carnal artista, which emanated from burning minds as your departure was duly noted.

We met again - Rosas, Kwiecinski and I - to discuss the planned -exhibition-- for next June at the Americana, and we spoke of changing its format a bit, for you would not be here in person.

"Let's dedicate it to Acosta," Kwiecinski said, and Rosas and I nodded assent, knowing that Mago would agree. So would the San Antonio artists who spoke fervently of sharing exhibition space with you, Manny. I recall Jesus "Chista" Cantu at your show in San Antonio, Manny. He was elated to meet you. So was Victor Tello.

You were a hit, and I revelled in being there as another Texas city accoladed you. It had been the same in Pueblo, Colo., when you got the key to the city, and the people at Champaign-Urbana, Ill., loved your work.

You were always there ...ready to celebrate a mutual humanity you found in all persons. You never shied away from others. You simply welcomed the world to come and enjoy the festivity of life.

Ever an artist with a humanizing sensibility, you are recalled fondly, lovingly by this pinto-poet with whom you shared your art ... never asking for anything in return, other than a poetic moment of camaraderie.

The years have passed, and there was much joy and sadness, but never did you waver nor did you cry out in desperation.

You amazed us, Manuelito, with the grace of your words and the gentleness of your strength.

Fear was not an item in your vocabulary, nor was sameness a condiment you sought. You traveled much in your life, having experienced the banter of Gertrude Stein in France, the palaver of Peter Hurd in New Mexico, and the combined aesthetic wisdom of the Wyeths.

Who were you? Perhaps the most earthen metaphor of all, sentiently reclining in the solar wonder of energy at the tip of Mt. Franklin. I can readily picture you there, dressed in a toga with laurel leaves gracing your head. You can easily also be pictured striding into Paperbacks...y Mas! in San Antonio, ready to exhibit your works at Centro Cultural Aztlan. You simply asked Tere for a paper sack, then calmly fashioned a casque and went off to confront the plastic windmills of quasi-art.

You were a warrior, gloriously bedecked. Sartorially there in full artistic regalia, wearing an aesthetic smile which embraced everyone.

You were also that curious artist wanting to capture life at its birthing, as you saw Katherine Villanueva give birth while Dr. Mendoza brought another sentient being into awareness.

It was a privilege knowing you, Manuel. The kind of privilege which helps me enjoy existence. Yours was a way of teaching which spoke to patience, to simple understanding.

I love - and loved - that in you, the simplicity of simply creating art, of daring to share it with the world.

The many worlds you inhabited used to parade into your home/studio, and you would take everyone on extended journeys through language, metaphor, image and nuance.

We couldn't help loving you, carnal. You had an infectious smile, a warmth which could penetrate the coldest of hearts.

You smiled through pain, and you sang and danced, even played a cool yet hokey piano, which moved everyone.

In all those years, I never heard you utter expletives in anger at anyone, though you did share numerous humorous ribald stories with me as I posed and you painted. I was amazed then. Now I am awestruck by the rare privilege of having known an artist who lived and created images hewn from authentic and palpable visions.

You never expressed a sense of the virtual ... perhaps that is why artists like Jose Montoya of the Royal Chicano Air Force in Sacramento spoke of you as the abuelito of Chicano aesthetics!

El Paso is richer for your having been, Manuelito, yet there is a nagging empty feeling, a cold and abject sense of loss, nipping at the mind and spirit.

We speak of still hosting the 4 X 4 art show at the Americana, and we recall being with you at your studio that Thursday, Sept. 28, as we planned festivities and expositions. It will still happen. Yet, the questions of Carlos Rosas somehow move me to also wonder - as he did when he returned from that windy city of Chicago: "Why hasn't El Paso recognized Manuel?" he asked back then.

Now Rosas wonders why a park or street is not named after the Picasso, the hijo del pueblo, the spiritual artistic voice of El Paso ... though you will not be around to see such a naming, it is important that El Paso finally acknowledges the gift of image and aesthetic sensibility you gave the world.

Yes, a street would be fine, but finer yet a park with murals by those artists whom you moved, inspired and helped launch.

I feel, a poem, a song ... a tear wells, and, querido amigo, I want to once more enjoy your banter, your wit, the power of your humanity, as colors sing and words dance their pirouetting magic upon the mind.

Adios, querido artista, estimado amigo.