Guanajuato

Last weekend, I was in Guanajuato.
A more thorough post is coming, but for now, enjoy these terse descriptions


A panorama from the city's pantheon, or cemetery if you like...
There are lots of tunnels under the city. Here is the entrance to one. It is like an ant farm.And it's also very colorful.Neoclassical and baroque.
Is it a cathedral or a delicious cake?And their's a university my mother would hate.
There's a market designed by that Eiffel guy.
And mummies too. Lots of them.And the Mexican War of Independence kind of started here in this boring building.
And had something to do with this guy.This is his eternal view. Not so bad...

SISMO!

It has finally happened.

Saturday morning around 7:30 AM I woke up and felt the sensation of rocking. And I looked over and saw the shirts hanging in my open closet rocking back and forth and then HOLY SH|T an earthquake!

Well, it turned out to just be a harmless tremor, pretty common around here, but it's the first time I've concously noticed one, here or elsewhere. For those of you who do not know the experience, there is certainly no better way to get one up and out of bed wide awake than for the earth to shake your concrete building a little.

For those overly concerned, fear not. The room I sleep in survived the big one in 1985, so unless there's one worse, it will survive these little shakes and I'll sleep safe and sound.

But WOW, that's a humbling feeling.

Puebla y Cholula

I found myself in Puebla last weekend by both desire and chance: desire to see the famous village of the angels, and chance that I could hitch a ride down one of the nicest, though not so free, highways in Mexico. After about and hour trying to get out of the city, which gave me a glimpse of both the highly recommended Xochimilco swamp/park and some of the cancerous concrete sprawl without a tree to be seen in the foothills on the outskirts of the city (I guess that is where the millions and millions live), we were well on our way out of the basin of Mexico and into states unknown. It takes about an hour to get there, and to occupy myself on the way, I gawked at the twin peaks of Iztaccíhuatl and Popocatépetl. So named for some pre-Colombian legend I am unfamiliar with (although I believe the is a kitsch painting of the title characters in just about every Mexican restaurant in Kentucky). Popo is an active volcano, and spews a little smoke constantly, and sometimes enough to leave a light 'snowfall' of ash. It's really mindblowing, especially that millions of people live within the eminent reach of it's pyroclastic flow which will most certainly come in a matter of time. Passing between the two is like driving through Colorado, with high peaks, steep slopes, and majestic old pines I'd love to get to familiar with.
While the drive is not exactly the Mexico of my childhood imagination, Puebla is certainly more in line with that vision. Passing through fields of horse drawn carts and hand-hoed fields (and there are no Amish here I'm aware of), we finally arrived in the historic center of Puebla. A stopover between the old port city of Vera Cruz and the capital, Puebla was the only one of the colonial cities of any size not founded around an indeginous precedent. Such a tabula rasa condition explains why it is perhaps the most perfect execution of the Law of the Indies around. Here is a grid, a perfect matrix, that unlike the more utilitarian New York example is both more humanly accessible and more sure of it's center: the well shaded, highly activated Zocalo. Smaller in scale than it's neighbor in the DF, it is nevertheless more tranquil and accessible, full of trees and monuments. That there is a massive old Cathedral goes without saying, although it faces west, giving it's flank to the Zocalo and providing a somber backdrop to any one of three shows given by the many many clowns in the city.
The Zocalo is, like it's big city cousin, surrounded by arcaded passages. And there is one passage glued to the audacious 19th beaux arts municipal palace. And unfortunately, because my battery died immediately after I took this picture, and it is one of the rechargable lithium types that are supposed to last longer than the double AAs, this is the last of the pics you'll get from this whole trip. So, if you want to read further, you'll just have to put up with a few thousand words.There are several other great 19th century buildings in the city, and also many markets, both for food, artesan crafts, and mass produced everyday goods, each with its own home in its own quarter of the city. And there are some great churches, much better than the rather monotonous, disappointing lot in the center of the DF. The Cappella del Rosario in the Templo de Santo Domingo is covered top to bottom with gold on an undulating textured surface that you can easily fool yourself into believing is moving like the pit of snakes in Raiders of the Lost Ark. In the words of a good friend, it is Bernini on Acid. And in an act of the surreal and the profane, while I was standing outside admiring the chapel and the wedding going on inside, I caught sight of a small, red spot on the otherwise glimmering gold surface(s) and recognized it immediately as helium filled Spiderman head, out of reach to all but the angels.

I had some great Pechuga con Mole in a place called La Fonda de Santa Cruz (which is nowhere near the ex-Convento de Santa Cruz and the myriad of candy stores bearing the name Santa Cruz). Pechuga con Mole on the English menu is translated as 'Breast with Mole', not exactly the most appetizing of images, but if you like the almost chocolatey taste of Mole, then it does justice to the reputation of the city as the best for the dish.

As I was wandering in the northern quarter of the city I saw a light on at the end of a block and thought to myself, well here's a bar, perhaps I'll check it out. As I got closer, however, I saw a few patrons but no drinks and no bar, but only coffins. And then I saw another place across the street, also filled top to bottom with homes for the dead. And above these stores I saw the sign '24 hrs'. I suppose that historically in such a warm climate it has been imperative to take care of the dead with speed. Ironically enough, I just finished 'As I Lay Dying' in which a similar situation is not attended to with much speed and I can see why there might be a market for such things in the wee hours of the morning.

Well, I hightailed it out of there to another quarter where I did find a nice bar, sans coffins, and with something even more fun: live music. I took in a few chelas and a set and as I made my way out to get back to the hotel I saw something that is straight out of my childhood dreams of Mexico. Now, I had a few drinks, but I swear I saw two horsemen replete with big sombreros riding down the street and one had an open bottle of Chivas Regal. The only thing missing were some pistol shots in a cantina.

One cannot escape the feeling of the abstract in Puebla, as the grid is so overwhelming, both as a physcial atmosphere and in the nomenclature of the quarters. The numbered, directional names of the streets '3 West', '4 North', for example, are pulled straight from my Pre-Calculus class. If I threw a few parabolic curves on an inverted map there and talked about what could happen in the interstices left by such a superimposition, especially with regard to the various aforementioned markets, I could do quite well in some upper level design studios of a few years ago in my university.


And lest I forget, I also got over to Cholula, that for all the sprawl is like suburban anywhere USA, is essentially the same city as Puebla. Unlike Puebla, Cholula was a pre-Columbian site before the Spaniards arrived to spoil the party. Although only a town today, in 1519 it was second only to Tenotchtitlan in population in the whole of central Mexico. But not to be outdone, the Cholulans boasted not only the largest pyramid in Mexico, but the largest by volume in the entire world. This is still highly visible today, although as it had fallen out of use even by the time the Spaniards arrived, nature has largely reclaimed it and it looks more like a pimple of a hill today with a quaint orangish-yellow church on top. From that church there is a great view of the entire landscape: the Cathedral of Puebla in the near distance, the ominous doom foretold by Popo's bad habit, the various, colorful churches of Cholula (supposedly one for each day of the year, though from my observations, I find that unlikely), and the Zocalo. The Zocalo here is also well shaded, and is arcaded on one side by shops and restaurants (one of which serves an amazing churro relleno con zarzamora). Opposite los portales are two churches which are so old you can see in them the traits typical of the transition from medieval to classical dispositions which are usually only to found in those parts of Europe which weren't detroyed not so long ago. And speaking of senseless death and destruction, the Zocalo in Cholula was also the witness to a massacre of the locals by Cortes and his Tlaxcalan allies. Official histories typically cite this as a battle, but let's not forget that winners write those and power has always, even to this day, used lies and deceit to further it's aims.

Fiesta Brava a la Plaza de Toros Mexico

Also known as bullfighting....which I saw last Sunday afternoon at the Plaza de Toros Mexico, the largest such arena in the entire world. From the looks of it, however, I think Fiesta Brava has passed it's heyday in popularity. Apparently, people prefer to watch young men in shorts in games where things don't necessarily die.
We're all familiar with bullfighting from loony tunes cartoons and the like at an early age, but I really had no idea what the real deal was all about. There is a lot of pagentry involved, and it's very routine, except for the occasional severe injury to the matador who might be a few seconds or a mere few inches off. So the bull, who is 3-5 years old, has a name and is announced just before he charges onto the scene in what is his first and last bullfight. There are several matadors in the circular ring to provide no shortage of distractions for the bull. They act as a team, most of them with pink cloths which draws the bull's attention but seem not to have the same hipnotic effect of control as the famous red ones, which are introduced later.At this point, the bull is at full strength, very fast, and quite pissed off (I'm not sure what they do to the bull behind the scenes, or if they are just naturally maintain an ornery disposition). He charges the nearest matador, and once they (the human) knows the bull has singled them out, they run for cover behind one of the covered entrances like the one in the above image center left. They'll butt the partition with their horns until another matador draws their attention away to another part of the ring. Then once the bull has tired himself somewhat, these guys on padded horseback ride onto the scene looking like Sancho Panza and armed with medieval treachery.
The spears are not for show: the matadors draw the bull to the flank of one of the hosemen and then they stab it in the back, which makes the bull gore the blinded horse. The damage is done, and the bull starts to bleed himself into utter exhaustion as he seems to forget his severe injury and continues to charge one matador after another.At this point, the bull is then struck in the back with feathered barbs. There are two strategies for this: either the matador draws the bull to charge and then jumps out of the way and stabs at the last moment, or if he is especially brave (and tall), he himself charges the bull and jumps around and places the barbs around the initial spear wound.
Whatever the heirarchy is among matadors, this must be a step into first name billing.This is done 3 times, delivering a total of 6 barbs into the bulls back . Whether this is just for show, as the bull is now wears a garland for the remainder of the show, or done to expedite the bleeding process, is still a mystery to me.Now that the bull is very weak and disoriented, the star matador comes alone into the ring. One can tell they are stars by their slightly more distinctive dandy outfits, and their headshots on the bill. The one above came from Spain, and while he was certainly not the bravest or the most skilled, he was far and away the biggest showmen of the three. The star has a red cloth and a sword. Somehow, they really are able to control the bull's movements with that red sheet.Whenever they wish, they can make the bull charge left or right and otherwise they can stand mere inches away from the injured creature without much worry. Or at least they do not show it. And they also turn their backs to the bull more often than I would think was good for their health. After perhaps five or ten minutes of this exhibition, when ever they see fit, I suppose, they take their sword, aim well, and then stab the bull in the back. A good delivery puts the sword right through the heart , which kills them pretty much instantly. The matador in blue delivered well in both of his two bulls. The Spaniard did not, and had to finish the mortally wounded bull with a special sword made just for stabbing it in the head.

There is a moment I am sure, just after the delivery of the sword, when the bull starts bleeding profusely from the mouth, when you can see in his eyes, the realization of his own mortality. He knows then what we humans are blessed to know from a young age, and then that spark is gone forever. It is as though this space is more than just an arena for public entertainment; it is a universe contrived to carry this cursed knowledge forcefully to another species and relieve us however briefly from its burden.And then the reality of matter is dealt with. The 450-500 KG of dead meat is dragged head first with a chain by two white horses and a host of characters who seem borrowed from a job selling peanuts in a 19th century circus. What they do with the bull afterwards is anyones guess, but there is a popular taco place across from the arena which provides three kinds of ground mystery meat...I'd prefer to think something like that came from their passing.It's dangerous for all parties involved. Both the matadors shown above suffered injuries. The guy in purple on the left was lifted by the groin as he delivered his barbs but he walked away in one piece with only a limp and a hole in his fancy pants. The star on the right was laid out when he delivered his fatal sword and he was carried away. We never found out what happened to him.

For a very long time, man was always at odds with nature, and always overwhelmed by it. In those times, such displays of dominance over the beast were necessary for our sanity. But now, when the odds are so obviously in our favor (at least for the present) it's time to let go and focus on saving it for us all.

Man gave names to all the animals
In the beginning, in the beginning.
Man gave names to all the animals
In the beginning, long time ago.

He saw an animal that liked to snort,
Horns on his head and they weren't too short.
It looked like there wasn't nothin' that he couldn't pull.
"Ah, think I'll call it a bull."

Anahaucalli

I should subtitle this post 'or how I get my bearings back'. After about a month's hiatus due to too much work and too little interest in using a computer when I was not, I finally had a chance to get out and explore the city in ways more wholesome than New Year's debauchery. On a whim, I struck out for Anahaucalli, Diego Rivera's ambitious obsession in his golden years to make a permanent home for his extensive collection of per-Columbian artifacts. It is not so easy to find, especially since you have to transfer at Tasquena from the super frequent, very fast Metro to the lazy tren ligero, and then trek out a few blocks.
The architecture is pseudo Mayan, utilizing elements of the talud-tablero , and the complex is composed of a few low slung service buildings organized around a court with that massive hunking block holding down the south side (again, a scheme not unfamiliar to the Mexica). The plan is square, and the (sometimes) vertical distribution of elements, particualrly the windows, indicates some western infulence, but on the whole, it's really more an architecture of individual fantasy (I imagine Rivera dreamed himself a god in a place like this).Inside the tone is heavy, dark, particularly because this is surprising a load bearing masonry structure. It must be a nice place to be on a very hot day, which int turned out to be, although by the late afternoon, as always, things cool down to a brief moment of perfection before the wind picks up. Anyway, as you can see, there are oodles and oodles of pre-Colombian artifacts (Mayan, Aztec, Toltec, etc.) The tour guide (all visits are guided, no exceptions!) mentioned there were over 70,000...mostly small of course, but charming nonetheless. The planta baja (lower floor) is softly lit by marble glazing like the Beinecke at Yale. Unfortunately, as is the case in most museums I've seen in Mexico, there is no subtly or grace in the way the exhibits are displayed and lit so whatever the quality of the natural light may have been was largely unoticable under the high wattage of the unnatural light. Because each room in the entire complex is topped off with a unique ceiling mosaic, and they are highly illuminated, this is an issue in each and every room. It's a delimma between the architecture which creates an atmosphere demanding a certain experience and the need for artifacts to be displayed clearly and neutrally. Here I think that the architecture is just square enough to work out ok, and given the nature of the artifacts, the mood implied is a decent on for viewing.And there were some other temporary exhibits of interest, like the dragons populating the plaza.
And this contraption of cow bones made in the form of human skeletons which could be operated with an organ , a micro-nightmare version of David Byrne's Battery Building installation from last summer.Oh, and there is a terrace just below the pyramidal roof which affords rather excellent views of the mountains (when the haze permits) and the sunset. Next week, I think I'm going to get into those mountains.

Centro Redux +

After long hiatus due to an immense demand from the office, I have returned, albiet briefly. I will sum up these pictures, as I am sure there is generally more interest in them than in the content or composition of these glyphs. So I showed my new housemate, Mr. Benja, the magical center previously commented on in the pages below....

Our first stop was the Palacio de Bellas Artes, which I was lucky enough to get inside this time...
and was it a treat. The beaux arts facade belies the marvelous Art Deco/Ne0-Mexica interior....and while I knew there were Rivera murales inside, I didn't realize their scope or the diversity of artists represented...for instance the Sequiros nude in agnoy below right.

Being early Deciembre, the Zocalo was in full chirstmas spirit, even if the weather was not.

And then sometimes one is reminded, particularly in the less wealthy areas, just how many people call this valley home.

This time I made it into el Palacio Nacional, which is an archetypal example of how Mexican architects are interested in the spirt of symmetry if not necessarily the reality of such. Likewise with straight perspective lines. Its the ghosts of the mexicas buried beneath lake Tezcoco taking revenge on the classical influence of western architecture. Take that Alberti!

Like wise the courtyard, which is ringed by Rivera murals depicting the life of Mexico City before, during and after the Spanish came to crash the party.

And while the US portends to it's vehement seperation of church and state, in Mexico one can find a church inside the traditional home of both the executive and legislative branch. That altar must be rather weighty...
And since this was a day of repetition, I found my way back up in the Torre Latino, which afforded as excellent a view of the city as ever, being centrally located in a valley.

It is also an excellent place to observe the choke hold the automobile has here. In cases like that below, I know from personal experience you do much better on foot.

Pecha Kucka DF 08

Last Thursday I was lucky enough to get an invitation to this half of the year's DF installment of Pecha Kucha. I now know the misfortune of missing last years New York episode because what I saw was quite encouraging and more than a little fun. I say saw because while I heard much I simply could not follow but a few words here or there. Nevertheless, I understood, more or less, I believe, the gist of each of the presentations. Such is the power of images. Pecha Kucka participants are artists of a variety of media (in this case, architects, actors, artists, musicians) who have 20 slides and 20 (or perhaps 10) minutes to present something of their work. 20 slides can certainly make an argument where language is a barrier. The only piece I understood in full was the sound performance by one artists where the only words were the ones I (and I'd imagine most people in the audience) didn't understand to begin with - Pecha Kucha. Utilizing silverware, ripping paper, ceiling tiles, and a cell phone chronometro, this generously hairy dude made quite a show of simple sounds and rhythms while conciously ensuring the lights of the room were half on so the audience was quite aware of itself at the same time. Some of the other pieces were more conventional (especially the architects, who always seem to have the same kind of less than confident self-serving lecture style) and some were rather disappointing (the actress who presented more or less pictures of herself and her friends and not a single peice of video - her supposedly preferred medium). The disappointments only further illustrate that there are far more people in this world who want to be artists than who can actually make a case to being such.
Overall, laughter resounded, which I could only partially share in because I simply do not understand. Really, it was not even until the first presentation started that I even remembered all these presentations would be in a foreign tongue, so accustomed am I to attending lectures by foreigners with proficient English. Humor, if for no other reason, is cause enough to apply myself to this language issue. Frankly, I want to get as many jokes as I can, and they really resound in the office here (as opposed to the library-like stillness which sometimes envelopes the one back north).
Well, I'd recommend Pecha Kucha here or elsewhere to anyone who encourages the struggling arts and a good time with all those wannabes (which is really every one of them until somebody makes a breakthrough). Hasta Luego mis amigos.