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 the montañas that rise behind our lakeside village in central México.
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| Alebrijes are a popular Mexican folk art form. They are brightly painted fantastical creatures. This is a clay model for a much larger version that will be my first project in the new workshop, or taller. |
I hope and believe that the rainy season, after a fitful start, has finally begun. The past two months since Pascua—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, although I usually managed to keep to my volunteer schedule at the garden and food bank. But during that time I only went hiking once with my group—usually a touchstone.
Waking up late in the still cool morning, I'd waste hours following the obsessively provocative soap opera revolving around that chump Comrade Cheeto's latest outrage. It seemed like it was not until the sweltering mid-afternoons that 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. My strongest memories of this period, though, involve lying on a couch under the dome in our sala, reading through the complete works of David Rosenfelt and Ann Cleves, about 20 lightweight mysteries, probably more. That activity would inevitably segue into a beer slumber until time to mix margaritas. In the few hours before and after, on a good day I’d be drawn back to comedians poking fun (Meyers, Colbert, Bee) at that loco, muy mal hombre referenced earlier. 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.
Waking up late in the still cool morning, I'd waste hours following the obsessively provocative soap opera revolving around that chump Comrade Cheeto's latest outrage. It seemed like it was not until the sweltering mid-afternoons that 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. My strongest memories of this period, though, involve lying on a couch under the dome in our sala, reading through the complete works of David Rosenfelt and Ann Cleves, about 20 lightweight mysteries, probably more. That activity would inevitably segue into a beer slumber until time to mix margaritas. In the few hours before and after, on a good day I’d be drawn back to comedians poking fun (Meyers, Colbert, Bee) at that loco, muy mal hombre referenced earlier. 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.
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| 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. The current plan is to make him of styrofoam with wood and wire supports, cover with plaster cloth or celluclay, and paint him T-Bird turquoise with big black, red and yellow dots. I’ll weather-proof him as much as possible; I read that rooftop sculptures recently displayed at MoMA are finished with automotive paints, so may try that. I’ve already made a clay 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 something out with an amiable acquaintance who drives there nearly weekly to visit flea markets, looking to add to his art collection of hidden masterpieces.
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| 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 a couple of shelves to be painted and hung for the taller, housekeeping goods to be bought: more tubs to hold supplies under the big table, broom and dustpan, a whiteboard for the wall. I’d like to have a wheel-able 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 (when that was to be my métier) 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. That's an occupation I can see continuing for a long time.
Four of those heavy rocks I’d intended to carve (when that was to be my métier) 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. That's an occupation I can see continuing for a long time.
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| 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 agreed 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. I'm getting off the dime.
Update: Next day, yesterday. I just stopped by Juan and Francisco's vidrieria, which is what we call a glass workshop here in Mexico. I made sure we were talking about one of them driving since I don't have a car. We arranged with Francisco to take me to Guadalajara tomorrow a las ocho. I'll pay for gas, lo que es más igual. Back home I figure I'll need seven 2'X4' pieces of stained glass—tonalidades de azul y verde, del mar—and six pieces of what I've always called "smoked" glass. There'll be cuts left over of course. Today I affirmed with F that he can haul back 13 pieces. Unbroken. It should be an adventure.
Update: Next day, yesterday. I just stopped by Juan and Francisco's vidrieria, which is what we call a glass workshop here in Mexico. I made sure we were talking about one of them driving since I don't have a car. We arranged with Francisco to take me to Guadalajara tomorrow a las ocho. I'll pay for gas, lo que es más igual. Back home I figure I'll need seven 2'X4' pieces of stained glass—tonalidades de azul y verde, del mar—and six pieces of what I've always called "smoked" glass. There'll be cuts left over of course. Today I affirmed with F that he can haul back 13 pieces. Unbroken. It should be an adventure.
