Much larger, not to say grander, than I had imagined it to be (based on 2x2 photos in books and low resolution jpgs), the porch is satisfactorily used as both social and practice space, and the studios seems ample enough. The materials show their age, as does the aesthetic, but it still does what it was intended to do, which for me excuses a lot.
Certainly being there makes all the difference, and it was a happy accident as I was not planning on making a special trip for this.
In the same complex a few lots down the reigning dean of Mexican architecture makes his cursory contribution to all national cultural institutions. Although lacking the contraposto and flare of Fred and Ginger, this is nevertheless a striking pair (which is probably going to age better anyway) although I have doubts about the comforts of the interior. 
After the unexpected delay, the long march to Trosky's revealed another familiar feature of this city scape, this time again a grand revelation from Julian's sketches. The natotorium was one of the less tumultuous of '68's olympic venues. It's honesty of expression is a good argument against telling the whole truth in architecture (indeed, the best never do, no matter what they preach). Built some years after Dulles, this rehash is certainly at home among the adjacent concrete roadworks grafted onto a n area which is otherwise quite habitable. So anyway, after a long jaunt (which my foot still remembers these 3 days later), I found the museum that could never happen north of the border: La Casa de Trotsky!
Forced into long exile after Stalin finally secured his absolute power in 1928, Trotsky finally found his way to Mexico via Kazahk SSR, Turkey, France, & Norway in 1936. Although he stayed with Rivera and Kahlo at their nearby Blue House (see below) for some time, his affair with the later and quarreling with the former forced him to find his own residence in a quaint villa just a few blocks away. Working tirelessly to the end, he fought hard for what he felt to be the unrealized potential of democratic social revolution in the face of dictatorship, whether pseudo communist, fascist, or capitalist. 
This is his study, from which he wrote tirelessly (although severe migraines plagued his later years and limited his ability to work). It is also the room in which NKVD agent Ramón Mercader dealt Trotsky his fatal blow with a hammer. Rather poorly delivered, the blow was not instantly fatal and the two men fought rather fierely until the bodygaurds final subdued Mercader. Only at the pleading of Trotsky, Mercader's life was spared, ostensibly because he had 'a story to tell'. Trotsky soon lost consciousness and died a day later. His ashes are interred in the masoleum pictured above, along with those of his devoted wife Natalia. 
The house still retains the fortifications and partially bricked in windows added by orders of the Mexican president after the first, unsuccessful attempt on his life (note the previous entry)
But I would have preferred to stay in this more colorful, aforementioned neighbor. Frida's childhood home became, with a few buckets of paint, the wedding home of herself and her devoted (though never faithful) Diego. Now a museum, it unfortunately features just a handful of their works, though it abounds in paraphenalia and unlabeled curios which may or may not be of significance to them. There are a good number of pre-Colombian sculptures in Diego's likewise bold, simple, & primal studio addition. They are great fun, and included among them is an ancient Urn holding Frida's ashes. 
The courtyard features a more elaborate, referential rather than genuine commemoration of la casa's most famous resident. 
However, the real, much more modest shrine is hidden behind the tableau. 
And nearby is Plaza Hidalgo, obviously a center of importance for many years before Coyocan became a favorite bedroom village of la ciudad's cultural elite and long before it was absorbed into the never satiated metropolitan edge. There were plaques describing what this place was and why it has some relics which would be more comfortable in the centro historico, but I could not read them , so it shall remain a mystery for now. I do know I found a real hot spot amongst those in the city interested and capable of a little Sunday afternoon leisure. Far from any metro stop, this bustling market square is more like the markets I remember from the states: that is, overpriced, heavy on superfluities and light on necessities, and full of great food. Yes, the streets leading into Hidalgo reminded me a great deal of New England, well past their practical prime but surviving on the pesos of leisure, tourism, and the avidly palatable. 
Unless I am mistaken, I tried my first tamales here at Hidalgo. After hearing the haunting call to tamales oaxacenos in the streets for these few weeks, the anticlimax of the petite portion I got (I should have know a coffee shop would probably not specialize in tamales) was only rectified by the very generous, mole filled tamale Chiapaneco from the man in the big cowboy hat next to the church pictured above. So far, I have tried nearly all the mexican cuisine I knew only by name before, as well as many others to which I was new, and I am glad to say I can tell many of them apart from each other now.
And on the way home via Linea 3 I found this: holding one corner (though not the entire edge) of a casual residential plaza, the facade of this little church is, like much of Mexican colonial architecture, overlayed with multiple but complimentary symmeteries.Well, it's late. Hasta luego.
1 comment:
Chop chop Trotsky!!
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