The Artisans and Markets of Mexico: A Collector's View
That magical time in my life—fourteen years of trips to Mexico to collect all things Mexican—began twenty-six years ago. Intense memories and dramatic images are still lingering and inspiring the high lonely desert of Hidalgo strewn with maguey, the facade of Tonanzintla giving way to the wondrous gilded carving within, the ornate folk baroque chapels of the Sierra de Querétaro, the stately portales of Cholula, a lone woman wrapped in her ikat rebozo beneath a saguaro cactus as tall as a building, the riot of sugar skulls in the old Toluca market, the explosion of fireworks in the Oaxaca zocalo, a fiery mole in Puebla, trees bending under the weight of tangerines, and pottery—mountains of it—with a diversity of tradition, form and function that has never ceased to capture my imagination. In Mexico, everywhere I turned there was the hand print of woman, of man, of families and communities engaged in creating beautiful objects, churches, towns and landscapes. I will never forget the elaborate yet ephemeral home altars for the Day of the Dead, the cactus fences of Zapotec villages, the ruins of Palenque and Monte Alban, the monumental sculpture of La Venta, stone courtyards choked by age-old vines with flowers in colors I only dreamed existed. But most of all, imprinted forever on my mind, and still warm in my heart, are the artisans and the markets!
Mexico is the place where popular arts are a consummate and spontaneous expression, a blend of ancient traditions and cultural and religious beliefs. Travelling and collecting in Mexico has been a never ending treasure hunt that took me to remote mountain villages, weekly markets, seasonal celebrations and lavish fiestas. In Mexico there is such a wealth and richness of traditions that to fully appreciate symbols, design motifs, ritual and form could mean a lifetime of exploration—a lifetime of working through layers of history and mythology searching for origins and sorting out influences. At times the intricacies of this complex world were overwhelming and impenetrable.
In approaching popular arts it was important for me to maintain a certain openness and innocence. An openness and enthusiasm to which I stubbornly cling to this day, knowing at the same time academics and anthropologists are still at the periphery battling out the definitions of folk art. What is traditional, authentic, what is derived, what is tourist art? What aesthetic and cultural values have affected pieces made for an Indian's own use or something made for the collector. Over the years I'm sure many of us have anguished at times over these arguments, but then we forget them and return to collecting with zeal. We all imagine that the degeneration of folk art is occurring at this moment in time, while historically each generation laments the passing of things as they knew them. We have to keep in mind that tradition is often utilitarian and throughout Mexican history there were critical junctures that caused change and upheaval. The Spanish Invasion wrought enormous changes, introduced new techniques and crafts; the 19th century was a time of stringent artisan guilds, severe regulation, industrialization, foreign intervention and a war of independence; and of course the Revolution of this century and the "discovery" of folk arts by intellectuals and artists. It is crucial to have a perspective that encompasses time and that allows for a rhythm of change and creativity. What seems like a radical departure in style, form and world view today, might in time prove to be only a minor departure and interesting innovation.
My collection is very personal—a reflection of things in which I delight, and the objects and artisans that intrigued me as I collected. It was not premeditated, it did not adhere to guidelines, nor was it dictated by an adherence to concepts. It documents Mexican popular arts from 1966 to 1981. The exhibition Living Traditions focuses intensely on those years—on old forms and new directions and innovations, on traditions skewed by interventions, both internal and external. The exhibition highlights the innovators who came of age in those years: Herón Martinez of Acatlón, Puebla, Teodora Blanco of Santa Maria Atzompa, Oaxaca, the Pedro Linares family of Mexico, D.F., the Aguilars of Ocotlán de Morelos, Oaxaca and Manuel Jiménez of Arrazola, Oaxaca. These were artisans with whom I visited often in those years. Three of them are no longer living (Martinez, Blanco and Pedro Linares) (Plate 6).
Collecting popular arts in Mexico is always an adventure. Awakening early to the incessant clang of church bells, you set out on a crowded bus for a weekly market, and from that moment on you are thrust into a vortex of jostling humanity—a throng of Indians and mestizos intent upon buying, selling, and socializing. You enter a cultural arena and witness age-old rituals that are taking place all over Mexico much as they did in pre-Hispanic times. You are intoxicated by exotic smells and vibrant colors. Moving slowly, packed tightly, you wend your way through a maze of flapping fabric stalls, pushing past squawking chickens and squealing pigs, passing herbal cures and medicinal remedies, past the brilliantly stacked fruits and vegetables, distracted by a slice of pineapple sprinkled with chile powder or a gorgeous mango in season, and then suddenly you see it.... It could be a basket, an incense burner, a carved comb or a push toy, or it could he one water jug in the pile of fifty. But it is there for you. And it is that moment of discovery that for most collectors is the excitement that kindles the quest. Often you make the vendor's first sale of the day. She crosses herself; you silently cross yourself for your luck in finding that special piece. You know there will never be another! Out of those hundred painted pulque jars that look alike to the uninitiated, you find the one that speaks a different language. The painting has an energy and expressiveness that sets it apart, and the form is more beautiful. This might sound like a strange fabrication, but remember that within the village of potters, the artisans can always distinguish each other's work. In the highlands of Chiapas each woman knows the language of the other weavers, each one can tell the quality, the time taken and the symbolic language of the embroidery. We might think of these artisans as anonymous. Hardly! So I say to all prospective collectors to look carefully, don't ever be fooled by a surface similarity, don't glaze over when confronted by a quantity of sarapes or by twenty embroidered blouses. Enter into that world, understanding that each piece is hand-made. Little differences are not minor aberrations, they are aesthetic decisions and personal choices.
I discovered Mexico, its artisans, markets, and culture in the mid-1960s after a whirlwind trip that had a profound affect on my life. As a peripheral child of the 60s my personal battle against technology and the machine-made was simmering. It was in Mexico that I saw another way of life: men and women and families making things that they always had made, the things they needed, and that others needed, leading lives enriched by ceremonies and fiestas, lives in tune with agricultural cycles. This was all quite an overwhelming experience for me, one that changed the course of my life.
In 1966 I opened the Mexican Folk Art Annex, a gallery shop hidden away on the third floor of a loft building in midtown Manhattan. It was the beginning of a fourteen-year love affair with Mexico. I look back with some astonishment to think that in the summer of that year I was a floundering college graduate and within three months, with the encouragement and help of devoted parents, I was in business. I was able to blend my craft and art background with social concerns and also have a business selling and exhibiting objects that touched other peoples imaginations and enriched their lives. The only trouble was that it was hidden away, but within two years I moved to a second floor loft closer to Fifth Avenue on 56th Street. My gallery-shop became the focal point for collectors and aficionados.
My store was discovered by Nelson Rockefeller in 1968, then the Governor of New York State. Fortuitously his office was right around the corner. He was also a great discovery for me—a renowned collector who felt passionate about the same pieces I so loved. As governor of New York from 1959 to 1973, political life absorbed most of his energies, but his feelings for Mexican folk art were always near the surface. One day on his way home from his office, he looked up and saw my store. I still clearly remember his first visit. It was after five o'clock, and the shop was closed. When I looked through the peephole to decide whether or not to let one last person in, I thought I had better let that tired looking man have a look. What a surprise to discover that man was the Governor! An even greater treat was to watch him voraciously assimilate everything on all the shelves and in every corner. After a few minutes he looked like a different person—he had been energized. His old interest was alive again.
Soon after this visit, he had all the old boxes in the basement of Rockefeller Center reopened after twenty-eight years and began planning an exhibition of his Mexican folk art collection for the Museum of Primitive Art. He wanted to update the collection and sent me to Mexico in search of contemporary pieces to fill the gaps.
When the shipment arrived, he carefully checked every inch of the storeroom, often on his knees, searching for pieces he might have missed. The 1969 exhibition was for Rockefeller a personal triumph in his battle to have folk art recognized in major museums, a battle he still waged with the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He would have been deeply saddened that the Metropolitan did not include folk art in their recent extravaganza Mexico: Thirty Centuries of Splendor.
Rockefeller continued adding to his collection throughout the 1970s, bringing friends and colleagues by and always encouraging their interest. I was able to be a guiding eye and fill him in on changes and developments. When he retired from politics in 1977 he announced he would prepare a series of five books on his personal collections. The Mexican folk art collection would be one of those hooks. In late October 1978, in time for the Dia de los Muertos, a group of us, including his daughter Ann, went with him to Mexico to set the mood for the project. I planned a strenuous itinerary for our four days in Oaxaca and the surrounding villages. We bought enthusiastically in local markets and visited many of the valley's innovators including Teodora Blanco, Manuel Jiménez, and Doña Rosa. Rockefeller loved the physical and emotional contact a market place is all about, and his excitement was infectious. When Rockefeller died the following January, I continued to work with his daughter Ann, organizing the collection which she bought from the estate, searching for its final museum home, and completing the bookFolk Treasures of Mexico, The Nelson A. Rockefeller Collection (Abrams 1990). His collection was eclectic and personal, and reflected the 1930s, his most active period of collecting.
Over the years I was involved in some serious adventures in Mexico. My good friend, the late Carlos Espejel who wrote extensively about ceramics, folk toys, and popular arts, was Director of the Museo de Artes y Industrias Populares in the middle 70s. Before that he was at Banfoco, one of the initial government organizations to promote popular arts. In 1973 he helped me organize a show of Pedro Linares’ paper alebriges, and after that I organized many small exhibits highlighting my favorite artisans. In 1975 I travelled throughout Mexico with Carlos working on his hook Artesania Popular Mexicana. In those days we travelled by horseback to San Pablito, Puebla in search of embroideries and to observe the production of bark paper. We flew into Jesus Maria, Nayarit to see and document the Cora's Holy Week celebration, and made many trips to my favorite markets in Cuetzalan, lxmiquilpan, and Huehutla. We drove through the Sierra de Puebla, the Sierra Madre del Sur in Oaxaca, the tropical areas of Vera Cruz, and the semi-tropical mountains of San Luis Potosí. We visited artisans throughout Michoacán, collecting and documenting ceramics. It was a very exciting time in my life. I met artisans from all over Mexico. I shared tortillas and frijoles with copper workers from Santa Clara del Cobre, and fruit tamales with lacquer artisans at the opening of the Lacquerware Museum in Chiapa de Corzo.
Carlos was part of so many artisans' families, not only as a mentor, adviser and buyer, but also as a compadre. It was a rare experience to be able to see the love that these people felt for him, and the care and respect he had for them. He was able to nurture their spirit of creativity with an energy necessary to perpetuate crafts that were on the brink of death. He understood the delicate balance between old traditions and new market demands and was able to guide artisans along a course that didn't compromise skills and techniques.
I worked on a book about Olinalá lacquerware with Carlos in 1975. A then remote town in the Sierra Madre del Sur of Guererro, Olinalá was accessible only by small plane on clear still days. We would arrive in the middle of a corn field and within an hour great feasts were spread out in each house we visited. At night we ate turkey mole while music was played until no one could stay awake any longer. His philosophical outlook profoundly influenced me. Although he lamented the passing of the older artisans and the disappearance of many arts, he never had the negativity of those people who only look backward and are blindly intolerant of innovation. He focused on artisans and tenaciously tried not to be bogged down by the intricacies of the political system and the opposing bureaucratic egos colliding over policy-making at the expense of village craftspeople.
The late 60s and early 70s were an unusual time to be involved with Mexican folk arts. It was a critical time for artisans. The government was fostering programs to ensure the survival of folk art and was encouraging innovation. Many traditional forms were being embellished or modified to be economically viable. In the late 60s people suddenly woke up and realized that very little attention had been paid to these artisans, and if it wasn't, popular arts would be lost forever. At this juncture wars were beginning between the anthropological purists and cultural preservationists. Those rooted in tradition and continuity were bombarded with all these changes and lamented the demise of the folk artist. Their sometimes insular vision, full of romanticism and nostalgia, was being shattered by the reality of the abandonment of age-old forms. Why carry a clay cántaro for miles, when you can use plastic? Why weave a basket of palm or spend a year weaving and embroidering a huipil when you can buy a contemporary dress in the market? We often forget that new materials and techniques are as seductive to Indians as they are to us.
Looking back over those fourteen years of going back and forth to Mexico, I realize that it was difficult to be a systematic collector while wearing so many hats: shopkeeper, adviser, artist and collector. Many of the most extraordinary pieces I bought are in private collections around this country and in Europe. I never kept any of the fine cántaros or other utilitarian pottery, gone are the enormous trees of life and superb masks and intricately embroidered huipils. Many of these things are no longer made. There was no way I could have hoarded it all, but I still dream about pieces I should have kept. Above all, I regret not keeping a diary and documenting the pieces I did collect. It is something all collectors should do since time makes everything just a little bit fuzzy and swallows up details.
Collecting Mexican popular art is a multi-faceted experience—the pieces I love appeal to me on so many different levels. They open up a whole world. I remember where and from whom I bought them. Then that layer unfolds and I begin to remember the town, the market, or the artisan's workshop. And soon the pieces are suffused with many memories. I look around me at home and have my own three-dimensional scrapbook. If some visitor is disturbed by the wildly painted skeletons or leering devils, my flying dragons, or hundreds of miniatures, if they think that many things seem rough around the edges or too playful for a grown-up, then I secretly feel sorry that they have not immersed themselves in the magical world that is Mexico. These special pieces cannot always be understood through just the eyes...the heart and imagination must be at work too.
Annie O'Neill
September 1992
Author's note: I would like to thank Marijo Dougherty, Associate Director of the University Art Museum, who was able to see that in my sometimes haphazard and eclectic accumulations, there was not only an exhibition waiting to be organized, but there was also an embarrassment of riches. Working with Marijo and the brilliant designer Meng Hu of the museum staff was an experience no collector should ever miss. Having the support of the University at Albany and the enthusiastic attention and personal concern of University President Swygert made this whole experience not only possible but remarkable as well Marta Turok imbrued the project with a clarity of vision that brought together all the facets and implications of living traditions in Mexican popular arts.