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.