Panteón de San Juan, the oldest and largest cemetery in La Paz, is not on tourist maps, even though it is heaven for photographers. The dearly departed lie undisturbed in a quiet neighborhood in the back of town in a breathlessly hot valley surrounded by jagged dessert mountains. I set out with friends on foot to climb a long set of stairs for a view of the city. When we reached to top we were looking down at an unusual neighborhood, but what appeared to be acres of tiny homes in disrepair. When it dawned on me the miniature city was the final resting place for the dead, rather than very small houses for the living an odd moment of relief washed over me. 

Walking through cemeteries is a reminder of mortality. The crypts ascend in age and the number of children’s graves speak to a harsh life. Some family lines must have vanished as many crypts and grave markers are worn and broken. The craftsmanship was not lost, until we walked further. More recent crypts revealed the gradual death of artistry as well. Carved stone and wood were replaced by the clean lines of cement and cinder block. The newest structures, painted with bright, happy colors gave none of the somber feelings cemeteries often inspire. Although, they were a reminder that life is a celebration. 

We stood in the shade of a dusty, gnarled tree to escape the midday sun, which was hot enough to spontaneously combust. Artificial flowers appeared dry and wilted. The patina of dust reduced the older structures to monochromatic brown earth, as if the need to stratify between rich and poor turned into a silly waste of time after all.

I keep a file of paintings that have been lost, stolen, painted over or given away for a variety of reasons. There’s more than 80 paintings in the file, which speaks to some difficult passages in life. I have so much empathy for struggling artists. Don’t give up. The paintings I did while living in La Paz I wasn’t able to retrieve. Among them were these six little paintings. Adiós, cactusito.