He was a mess. He smoked, drank, stirred things up, exploded, and then deflated into an exhausted smile once he’d worn down everyone’s patience. A tender, violent man—an artist in the only way an artist can truly be one. I’m not talking about talent, more or less. Back then—maybe before, and probably after—he was obsessed with Kcho. Beyond the formal similarities, they shared a peculiar way of drawing: rough, grimy strokes, half-sloppy, until that black smudge of charcoal—once it finally broke free—turned into something raw and moving.

He convinced me to design the first issue of TAlento for him, not charging a cent—maybe a thousand and one beers. I ended up exhausted. I didn’t want to hear from him again. But I was left with enough memories to love him anyway, even from afar.

Javier worshipped his mother, and a little less his father. He cooked for friends, invited everyone to drink, to eat, to listen to Los Van Van. In that house on 19th and O, the train stopped and everyone got off—except me, with the gang.

I quit smoking, stopped drinking... focused on work. Found gentler friends. Maybe I can guess what he never stopped doing. The last time I saw him was at the Havana airport. We were both heading here, to Miami. He said, “Watch my suitcase for a minute, I’ve got to go somewhere.” No please, no humility. I got up and went to stand in line. His bags stayed there. And that’s where Javier Guerra stayed too. I never saw him again. One day I got a friend request from him—from a new account—but after a moment’s hesitation, I deleted it. One of the blondes he gave me I brought here, though I don’t have her anymore.

I’m sharing a few photos. One with Bladimir Zamora (those two must be celebrating somewhere now), another at La Fuente, where we spent many afternoons—making the magazine, a page or two. And the one I like most: him cooking what he called caldosa, which, to be fair, was pretty damn good.