Anatomy of Sorrow
Paintings by Daniel Martin Diaz
September 15–October 26, 2008

Like most viewers I turn to look, again, at each of Daniel Martin Diaz’s archaic yet riveting images hanging in his recent exhibition “Anatomy of Sorrow” at Arizona State Museum’s Native Goods Gallery. A second look at one painting, “ArborMors” peels back a layer of what its title implies. It seems to be an upheaval of the traditional tree of life. This is, instead, a tree of death. Yet, though we may be quietly horrified by this unexpected twist of something known into something frighteningly unknown, we can’t help but turn to look again. His craft as a painter is a compelling tool, as each fresh layer unfolds. This is the power of good art—that it draws us towards the artist’s vision, and causes us to willingly abandon our own worldviews, for a brief moment, to enter theirs.

In “ArborMors” we are rewarded for this effort with a complex, layered image of a crow or raven affixed to the flattened symmetry of a flowering tree as a foreground image. It abounds with red berries, a poisonous signal in the world of plants. A thick, red, central vein undermines full green leaves almost fleshy appeal. This metaphorical body element underscores the danger implied by the berries. Is this the infamous tree of the Garden of Eden, rising from dead mysteries, or a common image supplanting our family trees? I look for more clues and am not disappointed. Diaz is a visually facile guide.

If one were to try to decode the title first, the reference to arbor, a shady garden shelter or bower, it would offer a genial, if somewhat disquieting, entry into the artist’s deeply researched iconography. But the second half of the title refers to mort, the root of the word mortality, and the condition of being subject to death. This title may trigger our subconscious suspicion that the black bird is akin to the ferry operator who rows souls across the river Styx. He is the harbinger of death or, at the very least, a dark messenger.

Still, Diaz’s work does not require a literary reading of titles to engage the viewer in a rich dialogue. His work operates on an ecstatic visual level. All-seeing eyes, embedded in the trunk, deviate from what might be an otherwise traditional icon of proto-typical European folk imagery. They lend a mystical aura with their Latin and Christian captions painted below one another. There are three eyes, a magic number in most mystic traditions. They are in visual dialogue with a skull, poised on a stick embedded in the exposed artery-like roots of the tree, one of a trinity (again) that lie mute upon the ground at the foot of the tree. Is the tree a stand-in for a cruciform? Other mystic symbols anchor foreground corners of the painting, drawn from the Kabbalah—or is it Masonic? As viewers, we don’t know. We can only take in this set of images so deftly painted against the glowing wash of sepia sky, itself hosting a universe of medieval stars, and trust that there is a vital question—or observation—posed here for our consideration.

It is to Diaz’s credit that he so successfully engages us in this rhetorical dialogue. The exhibit “Anatomy of Sorrow” continues to repay a viewer’s trust. It has been said that all great art must first disorient, then reorient. By this measure, Daniel Martin Diaz executes great art.
................................................................................... —Martin Kim