Narciso (Nacho) Montero is a hopeless romantic. Although one is not likely to come to that conclusion when first encountering his art (or him, for that matter). And since viewing art is all about first impressions, we are left with a myriad of emotions as we come away from one of his pieces, of which none can be described as romantic. Instead we are cajoled, challenged, grabbed by the shirt collar, force fed, told to shut up, look and listen. Nacho doesn't create pieces of exquisite beauty, nor does he desire to walk with you through the botanical gardens of this world. Being a cuban immigrant and growing up in newark over the past thirty years doesn't allow him this luxury. Quixotic in his purpose and gangster in his approach, he is instead a soldier in God's army, weilding his art agains a world gone mad. And like Cervantes' anti-hero, he doesn't mind the challenge. Somebody's got to do the lord's dirty work.

Who is going to challenge the hypocrisy of organized religion? Nacho will. Who will stand up against the mythology of death? Nacho will. Who will oppose the gluttonous nature of capitalism's power structure and then blame us (regular folk) as its implicit accomplice? Nacho will. Like God before the flood, he is angry, but only because he loves us and cares so much.

There is indeed hard work to be done. His work comforts the disturbed, and disturbs the comfortable. How else can one react to skulls growing from daisies, or juxtaposing photos of two of humankind's most self destructive innovations, smoking tobacco and industrialism? He can create this because he understands the same self destructive force that lives within each of us is evident in hwat we create, even if it is suppossed to makes feel and live better. And more so we can't run from our terrible selves. On the contrary, Nacho realizes that our beauty lies within the struggle and truth of our terrible selves. And it is only in the denial of this fact that we become ugly.

I once asked Nacho what he wants people to experience when viewing a piece of his, "... see me through the art", he replied. If it doesn't talk to you, my art ain't shit". His work seems to notice you as you notice it, staring right back at you as if you were there for observation and not the work. And then something else occurs, the work sneers at the observer, often judging them as unworthy, or at least in contempt, diminishing us with its honesty and subject matter. Don Quixote still lieves, but he doesn't chase windmills anymore. He is still a hopeless romantic though. Now he paints, sculpts and draws. Is he still misunderstood? I should hope not, someone has to fight the good fight. We need to let him know he is not alone.

Juba Dowell 9.26.2004