Paintings peddled from a cart bring art close to the masses
From a distance, Francisco Palomares’ fruit cart looks like all the other ones that dot Los Angeles, complete with a multicolored patio umbrella to shield him from the sun. But step closer.
Instead of a man expertly slicing through mangoes or watermelon, you’ll find an artist leaning before a tiny easel, a brush and palette in his hands. Palomares’ work sells for thousands of dollars in galleries, but on the corner of 3rd Street and Traction Avenue in downtown L.A., he pumps out still lifes for $39.99 a pop.
It’s all part of “Francisco’s Fresh Paintings,” an art installation and mobile gallery/studio through which Palomares aims to disrupt the customary distance between art makthat’s er and art buyer, mediated by a dealer. Every 30 minutes, he completes an affordable oil painting, transforming the process of creating and selling art into a type of performance.
The idea for the project, he says, was born out of desperation a few years ago, back when he worked as a gallery attendant at the Museum of Contemporary Art.
Clad from head to toe in black, Palomares would stand in a corner and warn visitors not to get too close to the art. To pass the time, he’d walk up to visitors and ask what they thought about a particular piece. They often scurried away. With time, he grew comfortable with rejection.
Still, he did the job for two years and loved it, he says, “but the pay just wasn’t there.” He was struggling as an artist, and he wasn’t making ends meet. Forgoing an apartment, he would leave work and head back to his Boyle Heights art studio to sleep. Along the way, he would often see vendors selling oranges by the freeway. “Maybe that’s what I need to do to make a sale,” he’d think.
Tired of living paycheck to paycheck, he got a job at a school in South Gate, teaching children about art. Time passed. He had a few shows. Just before the pandemic hit, Palomares traveled to Thailand, thinking he’d come back feeling refreshed. But when he got home, he felt more lost than before.
On the verge of despair, he mentioned the fruit cart idea to friend Ángel Carela.
“What do you need to get started?” Carela asked.
“Well, for one thing, money for the cart,” was
Palomares’ answer.
“Go on Craigslist,” Carela said. “Find your cart. I’ll give you the money.”
It was the push he needed.
Last summer Palomares began setting up his push cart in the Arts District. Palomares secured his studio through Art Share L.A., which provides emerging artists with lofts at below-market prices in an effort to preserve the community.
Out on the street, passersby these days timidly pause to take a peek at his cart. When they do, Palomares greets each potential client, inviting them to sift through prints of other work.
“How’s it goin,’ guys?” he says. “Feel free to browse, ask any questions. I have some stuff back here that you’re welcome to check out as well.”
His more extensive works include still lifes, landscapes and portraits. They often feature fellow Angelenos and the places they like to frequent. These include “Echo Park 2020,” which depicts the lake in a style somewhat reminiscent of Claude Monet’s water lilies. “Midnight Hour,” which features a woman sitting inside La Cita, is one of two paintings centered on the beloved downtown bar.
Inspired by the work of Kerry James Marshall, John Valadez and Kehinde Wiley, Palomares continues to portray “everyday Black and brown men with dignity,” often with a divine or regal bearing.
In contrast, Palomares’ representation of women has often consisted of young, thin female nudes. The #MeToo movement has compelled him to think critically about the male gaze in the art world, he says. “After everything
come out, you can’t just be painting without having that in mind.”
When in need of motivation, Palomares looks to his mother, an immigrant from the Mexican state of Michoacán who founded a housekeeping company in the U.S. and raised him on her own.
“Nobody around me ever says she’s an entrepreneur,” the artist says.
“Maybe it’s because, in the immigrant community, you don’t ‘aspire to start your own business.’ You just need work,” he says. “But that’s a business. And though I’m second generation, I’m part of that.”
When the sun sets on the Arts District, Palomares’ playlist transitions to music that’s a bit more fast-paced, something like Tropa Magica’s “Disco Queen.” Then, the artist gets up to switch on the tiny lights that adorn his cart, as well as the portable lamps he uses to illuminate large prints.
Masked pedestrians and dog walkers come and go. A man shouts from a passing car: “Hey, bro, how much for the burro?”