Sunday, June 25, 2017

CI. La Empieza de la Temporada de Lluvia y de Mi Taller

The Beginning of the Rainy Season and of My Workshop

Our short, but long-anticipated trip to visit daughters and friends in Seattle, shop and wander among old haunts, ended two days ago. Yesterday, on my first outing back home here in a week, I saw that the vegetation has finally begun to green on the cerros and montañas that rise behind our lakeside village in central México. 

Alebrijes are brightly painted folk art sculptures popular in Mexico. This is
a mockup of my version that I'll put on the roof of our house. Putting together
a workshop was the first step towards completing a much larger, and more
colorful interpretation of this alebrije.
I hope and believe that the rainy season, after a fitful start, has finally begun. The past two months since Pascua, or Easter, have been hot and dry, and I haven’t felt a bit like writing. Frankly, neither have I much wanted to be around people; I’ve only gone on the dusty trails with our hiking group once during that time. My strongest memories of this period will involve lying on a couch under the dome in our sala, reading through the complete lightweight mysteries of David Rosenfelt and Ann Cleves. That activity would easily segue into a beer slumber until time to mix margaritas. In cooler mornings, but more often during sweltering mid-afternoons, I would make the daily round of shops, switching sides of the cobblestone streets to stay in the usually scant shade of casas and tiendas crowding the narrow sidewalks. In between times, I’d follow the obsessively provocative soap opera revolving around that chump Comrade Cheeto. And in the middle of the night I’d plan and worry over Javier’s seemingly interminable renovations to turn our cochera—garage—into mi taller—workshop.

Javier put the frames from two double beds one on top of the
other, with space for tools and supplies in between. This table
has lockable wheels and can be taken apart for bench seating.
He also made a framework for four adjustable lights on the
ceiling. Saul and JJ painted the walls to maximize brightness. 
Now, stage one of the workshop is complete. My first project there will be to fabricate Al the Alebrije. He is a large and friendly looking monstruo, inspired by smaller versions we saw recently in Mexico City's folk art museum. Al will loom three to four feet over our flat roof's cornice and wave at passersby on the street below. He’ll be made of styrofoam with wood and wire supports, covered with plaster cloth, and painted turquoise with big black, red and yellow dots. I’ll weather-proof him as much as possible; I read that rooftop sculptures currently displayed at MoMA are finished with automotive paints. I’ve already made a model of Al, so just need to proportionally increase his size about 10-12 times. The big challenge will be gathering materials. It looks like trips to Guadalajara will be necessary. I hope I can work that out with a friend who drives there nearly weekly to visit flea markets, hoping to add to his art collection of hidden masterpieces. 

The proscenium frame hangs on a lightweight wall that shields
the laundry area. Its curtain opens to a small stage or scrim.
The screened wall to the right would let in rain during heavy
storms; rather than glass it in, Tony built an iron framework
over the breezeway that will be covered with glass panels.
There are still housekeeping goods to be bought, tubs to hold supplies under the big table, a whiteboard for the wall, a couple of shelves to be painted and hung. I’d like to have a wheelable caddy to hold the tools I’m using as I work on Al. And soon I’ll need a small desk. Four of those heavy rocks I’d intended to carve are now balanced one on top of the other in a corner of the taller; handling rocks is grounding when I'm at loose ends. The proscenium frame originally from the traveling theater I had years ago is now hung on a wall as a reminder and a prompt; it's still useable—I can open the curtains onto a small stage or scrim. The works that are inspiring me right now are old black and white comedies from the golden age of Mexican Cinema, and William Kentridge’s fantastic “Shadow Procession”. That—whatever it becomes—is for the future, though; I'm working on Al first…and then maybe his sister. 

Here's Tony putting the final touches on installation of what
will be the framework for a glass roof. Panels of colored glass
will be interspersed in the rectangles among smoked glass to
temper the bright sun.  
Finally, there’s the glass roof, or techo de vidrio, to shield the open screened wall of the taller from heavy blowing rain. That still needs to be finished. Tony did a great job of putting together the iron framework from my design and installing it over our breezeway. Juan has promised to work with me on choosing and buying the colored glass for the different-sized rectangular panels—another trip to the big city. If we can do that next week, it should take Juan and Francisco only a day our two for the installation. Things are moving along. We're about to get off the dime.

C. Ola de Calor

Heat Wave

Originally written over a month ago, and things have only just begun to improve:

It's been five weeks since Pascua, or Easter, and we've entered mayo--the hottest month of the year. In this heat I've been la sloth--every afternoon finds me lying on the couch in our sala, falling asleep before a fan, after a beer.  I seldom leave the casa in the stifling afternoons. No gumption, no energy--it's weighing on me. On mi esposa también y todo el gente del pueblo.

My mind can best be compared to a melting slice of cheddar cheese--once sharp, now sour and warm.

Monday, April 10, 2017

XCIX. Domingo de Ramos

Palm Sunday

This foot-high remembrance was sold to us by
a young girl, perhaps 7 years old. Later in the
evening the price was lowered from 20 pesos
to five.
There’s a full moon rising over the Mexican village where we live. Darkness has fallen on a warm Palm Sunday. We’ve just returned from several hours on the plaza where we were surrounded by an amiable, all-ages mix of town folk visiting, eating and drinking among friends and family. A dozen small children were flitting there around cafe tables, wrought-iron benches and more established vendors, selling images of Christ on a cross made of palm, straw and multi-colored metallic sprinkles. Twenty pesos. Earlier, a procession of faithful parishioners had passed at sundown on the verbena-strewn street just behind us at the end of their journey to the church. And not long before that a coffin, accompanied by a mariachi band, was carried from that same parroquia on it way to the panteón for burial. Semana Santa has begun…Ahhh, México.

Monday, April 3, 2017

XCVIII. Un Aguacero y un Estrépito

A Downpour and a Crash

Sala with tragaluz above. You can't see the tiles
because of the overexposure, but they fell just a
few feet away from the red pillow where I was
sitting.
It was hot the previous Sunday morning, surprisingly so for early in the day. And then it grew humid and clouds gathered. Mid-afternoon thunder began rumbling and not long after that a spatter of rain. Later—surprisingly—was a short deluge, with plinkets of hail thrown in for effect. But the already sun-heated flagstones soon caused most of the patio's puddles to evaporate. In the evening it became cooler, and stars began coming out all over the darkening sky.

Just over a week has passed now and that was our last rainfall. Not long after we awake the past four or five days, over coffee, we look at the already hot sun and say in unison, "Looks like it's gonna be another scorch-uh". I've moved many of the potted plants to more shady places; their leaves were being seared by el sol

It must be fifteen feet from the floor in our cupola-ceilinged sala to the top of the skylight (or tragaluz; literally, "bring light"). Late afternoon a couple of days ago when the sun's heat was at its daily peak and falling ferociously onto the tiles surrounding the skylight's hexagonal opening, I was lying in beer-induced muzziness on our couch, giving my ailing back a break. 

tremendous crash and clatter only several feet from where I was relaxing quickly brought me from my stupor. I threw my arms up and shouted in surprise. Dust and ceramic shards covered half the spacious terracota floor, even on to the beloved Oaxacan rug. Looking for an explanation I realized that a dozen tiles had sloughed off below the tragaluz. It's a good thing I wasn't directly underneath. The four-inch-square tiles are unexpectedly heavy and have sharp corners; it's not hard to imagine the blood and brain damage that might be caused by one of them falling nearly ten feet to land a pointed edge on your cabeza.

Our theory about the plunging azulejos is that water might have seeped in under them during the previous week's deluge, and when they expanded in the sun's afternoon heat they were loosened from their adhesive and fell. Or something like that. We're currently having work done in the cochera—garage—to make it useable as a workshop. I better ask Javier to also take a look at the remaining tiles under each of our three tragaluces, especially the one over the chandelier above our dining table—now there's a disaster waiting to happen

Until then our sala is a hard hat zone.

Sunday, March 5, 2017

XCVII. ¡Carnaval!

Carnival!

Here in Ajijic, Carnaval seems mostly about the Sayacas. At least they, together with their consort Sayacos, are the engine that drove last week’s parade down at the end of the block, along Constitución, on its way to Seis Esquinas neighborhood. Sayacas are reputed to be inspired by, and descended from, in one way or another, a pre-Hispanic village matriarch. Nowadays they are represented by outlandish actors in garish masks and wigs, balloon bosoms and skirts, who—along with their ancient and bewhiskered partners—throw flour and confetti at anyone who catches their attention among the numerous crowd along the desfile route. They were interspersed among a sometimes motley group of floats, marching brass and drum bands, and finally the horseback riding charros. Lent is supposed to be a period of self-denial, charitable works, and pious reflection, but if past five days have been any guide, it’s also a time for cohetes—fireworks—and neighborhood fiestas.

These masked sayucas (females) and sayucos (males) are a popular feature at Carnaval time. They might grab you for a dance, or--more likely--throw confetti or flour all over you. The fellow on the left looks to have a traditional horse hair bead flowing from his mask. From what I've read, people playing these clownish parts enjoy the freedom of having virtually no one know who they really are.
These happy people are throwing flower at us spectators, and it looks like there's been some blowback, too...Uh-oh. The barded fellow, center picture, is looking right at me. I bet he's reaching in his bag for more flour to toss in my direction!
Always lots of brass in these street bands. The designated water carrier is taking a break.
La Reina--the Queen--of Ajijic's Carnaval.
You can always tell where groups of Sayucos are gathered by the clouds of harina, or flour, in the air.
Salsa dancers from a local studio provide a respite from getting clobbered with harina.
You ride the "bull" and get doused with flour. The fellow, center right, with the broad brimmed sombrero and white t-shirt wheels and bucks the contraption. The sayuco, left, with his right hand in the harina pouch might be aiming to throw some at the girl taking his picture. 
Lots of beautiful young girls--always a hit!
This is horse country! No parade is complete without the charros, who blessedly ride their steeds at the end of the desfile.
Another happy, warm and sunny day here in the heart of Mexico...but here comes 40 days of Lent, full of self-denial.

Monday, January 30, 2017

XCVI. De las Semillas a la Piel

From Seeds to Skin

Seed packet
The past couple of weeks some tree around here—possibly what is commonly known as a Flame Tree—has unleashed its seed packets onto our patio and even into the house. They are each about half the size of a postage stamp. The seed itself looks like a small oat flake; it’s enclosed in clear “cellophane” so thin the dang thing can blow in the wind for more than a block.

Exhausted from a recent morning’s exercises on the mirador, I lay on my back and watched one of these little gems appear around a palm tree, twinkling the reflected sun, blown by a light breeze to land near my mat. A minute later I was doing the pushup part of a burpee and as I’m going down I see a small centipede in front of my nose. Without my glasses I can just make out five of the fifty tiny legs, evenly spaced along each side of its body, moving in unison with the leg on the other side—like the oars of a boat. After a short stroke the legs in front of those five pairs move, and so on, in a wave-like motion that makes the bug appear to undulate as it moves forward.

And then—still in pushup position—I look down at what I’d been thinking was a remarkably fit belly, and see skin sagging like twin turkey wattles—another natural wonder.

Saturday, January 21, 2017

XCV. Día de San Sebastián

Saint Sebastian's Day

I danced with a man dressed as a woman yesterday. In the plaza, to a waltz from a live marching band. He was wearing a cheap wig and cartoonish papier maché mask. Big balloon bosoms. He treated me kindly. After a long minute I bowed out more-or-less gracefully and he picked another partner from the appreciative crowd. Then came the Aztec dancers. And then more oompah music. We were celebrating San Sebastian's Day here in our village. Four men would carry his effigy into the little capilla on the square, followed by two others walking with a plank connecting them, balanced on their shoulders with bowls of food on top. This is one of those nine-day--carrying the little saint around the village--holidays. Our friends emailed to say they had fun at the party's continuation later last night.

Three thousand miles away there was a tense inauguration of the USA's new president. Here, all was smiles and good fun.