Luis je želeo da ostane u Srbiji | To Sam Ja

Priča o Luisu Enriqueu Riveru Leyvi, kubanskom slikaru koji je u Beogradu radio kao kelner, ponovo počeo da slika i na kraju otišao u Madrid.

A few years ago, Marija and I went to a restaurant on a Friday evening. We were served by a young man from Cuba. I wrote about him at the time. His name was Luis Enrique Rivero Leyva.

The conversation began quite ordinarily. But then we discovered that the man placing plates and glasses in front of us was not just a waiter. He had graduated from the San Alejandro Academy of Fine Arts in Havana and already had an artistic career and exhibitions in Cuba behind him.

He was a formally trained painter who was not painting in Belgrade. Not because he didn’t want to. He simply had nothing to paint with.

By Sunday, we had bought him an easel, canvases, paints, and the basic supplies he needed to start working again. It wasn’t some grand act of charity. Quite the opposite. I have always believed that the best way to help someone is to give them the opportunity to do what they know how to do.

And Luis knew how to paint.

From Waiter to Artist – In a Single Weekend

We gave him a place to work in our space. And he began painting as though he had simply been waiting for someone to put a canvas in front of him again.

He painted a portrait of Marija. I still remember asking him what the unusual objects surrounding her in the painting represented. His answer was something along the lines of: objects that simply exist, without imposing themselves.

That was when I understood even more clearly that Luis was not merely someone who knew how to paint. He thinks through his paintings.

We organised an exhibition for him. His paintings began to sell. He met a gallery owner from Slovenia who purchased his pop-art works and commissioned an entire series of new paintings. At the time, I wrote about all this with great optimism for To Sam Ja.

I thought we were witnessing the beginning of a beautiful story.

Today, I know we were only witnessing its first chapter.

He Worked to Survive, but Painted to Live

Over the following years, Luis did whatever he had to do. During the day, he worked to earn a living. Whenever he could, he painted. Always in very modest circumstances.

I found myself thinking about how calmly we read the biographies of great painters once they have become famous. Poverty, a tiny studio, a job unrelated to art, followed by nights spent in front of a canvas.

When such things happened a hundred years ago, we called it the bohemian life of an artist.

When they happen right before our eyes, we often simply walk past.

Luis spent about five years in Serbia. And he wanted to stay.

That may be the most important part of this story for me.

For years, we have talked about people leaving Serbia. I sometimes say that every year, “an entire town leaves our country.” Yet here was a man who had come from the other side of the world, saying: I like it here. I want to live here.

It seemed almost unbelievable to me.

And it made me happy.

And Then We Began to Lose Him

Over time, other aspects of life as an immigrant began to emerge.

Being talented does not mean knowing how to protect yourself. Being hardworking does not mean everyone will respect your work. And being a foreigner without secure residency status means being far more vulnerable than the people around you sometimes realise.

Luis told us about work he had not been paid for, promises that had never been kept, and people who had tried to take advantage of his work and his circumstances.

What hurt him particularly was when these experiences came from within the art world itself — from people he had expected to understand better than anyone how much an artist puts into his work.

According to Luis, none of the earlier painting commissions had ever been paid for in full.

During his final days in Serbia, he sent me a long message.

It was completely different from the messages I was used to receiving from the Luis I knew.

This was no longer a man talking about his next canvas. This was a frightened man describing a serious conflict with his employer, unpaid wages, accusations on both sides, police involvement, and threats of deportation.

I do not wish to act as a judge in events I did not witness. These are Luis’s allegations, and it would be irresponsible to present them as facts established by a court.

But there is one thing I know for certain from our relationship.

Luis had decided to leave.

He Crossed the Border

And perhaps he did exactly what I would have done in his place.

He crossed the Croatian border and continued towards Spain.

Today, he is in Madrid.

When I found out, I felt both sad and happy at the same time.

Sad because a man who had wanted to make Serbia his home for five years had left with more than just beautiful memories.

But happy because he had arrived among people who speak his language. In a country with a rich artistic tradition, and in a city where he might find it much easier to meet people who understand that an artist cannot go on painting for promises forever.

And, after all, he is now in the country of Picasso and Dalí.

Somehow, I feel that is where he belongs.

We Haven’t Heard the Last of Luis

A few days ago, I saw one of his new paintings and read what he had written alongside it.

I realised something I perhaps hadn’t fully understood when we first met.

Luis is not just a painter.

Luis is a thinker.

His paintings do not simply ask to be looked at. They make you stop. They make you think about freedom, ideology, power, poverty, money, and the human condition.

Perhaps that is why his life and his art are so inseparable.

I don’t know where Luis will be exhibiting five or ten years from now. I don’t know how much his paintings will be worth.

But I am fairly certain of one thing:

We will be hearing much more about Luis Enrique Rivero Leyva.

And perhaps, one day, someone will tell the story of how a great Cuban painter once worked as a waiter in Belgrade.

Marija and I will have the privilege of saying:

We know. That’s where we met him.

On Friday, he brought us our drinks.

And by Sunday, we had brought him an easel, paints, and canvases.

We didn’t give him his talent.

We couldn’t have, even if we had wanted to.

We were simply fortunate enough to recognise it.

And so, despite all the painful experiences he took with him from Serbia, I don’t want this to be a story about how Luis left.

I want it to be a story about how Luis began painting again.

And the next chapters, I hope, will unfold on the walls of art galleries.

In Madrid, Havana, Belgrade — and who knows where else.