Mom's clay bean pot
Cuco Sanchez was one of Mexico's greatest "cantantes" (singer/songwriter). I had the privilege of seeing him in person some years ago in Mexico City. In was an intimate venue at one of the historical hotels near the Zocalo (central square). He began the concert on the button, but it was soon evident there was a problem with the sound system, feedback and squelching. He would frown, toss frustrated glances backstage, but never missed a beat. After a few songs, and increasing frustration, he simply turned off the mic, and sang a' capella! El Maestro simply did not need the damned thing! That night, dressed in his Charro outfit, he belted out all his classics like "Cama de Piedra" (A Bed of Stone), "Gritenme Piedras del Campo" (Cry To Me Rocks From The Fields), and "Anillo de Compromiso" (The Engagement Ring), and "Guitarras, Lloren Guitarras" (Cry Guitars, Cry). He eminated machismo, confidence, power and his delivery was flawless despite the crappy sound system. When the intermission came, I excused myself and went into the men's room to pee. And there, there in the urinal next to me was The Man, El Maestro de la Cancion Mexicana, Cuco Sanchez, peeing alongside me! I told him how much I was enjoying his performance, despite the cursed sound system; he just smiled and thanked me. It was indeed a most memorable night, especially being granted the privelege to have peed with Cuco Sanchez. Aye, aye, aye.
When I was a kid we always had dogs. However, it was unheard of in the barrio to keep a dog inside the house. Usually, the dog slept out in the yard in a shelter made of wood by some member of the house. We fed them scraps from the table, old tortillas, frijoles, papas (potatoes), and an occasional bone. Whenever a dog turned his nose at the food, my mom would say "Andale fregado, vas a ver. Conque no tienes hambre? Manana te lo comeras! Vas a ver" (Ok damn you. So you're not hungry now? We'll see how hungy you are tomorrow). Then, she would put the dog's plate in the refrigerator and place it out again the next day. It was fun to watch the dog scarf it up the next day with no complaints! There was no such thing as "dog food" at the store. Doggie baths? Unheard of. Vets? Unheard of. When one of our dogs got rabies, one of my older brothers would take an old 22. cal pump rifle and shoot him. Not unusual in the barrio. Once, my mom told me to shoot one of our rabid dogs, but as I stood over him in the front yard, and aimed the rifle, I just could not pull the trigger. My older brother, Jess, had to do it for me. On another day, one of my cats came home with a mangled front leg; it was shredded. My mom bandaged it as best she could with rags soaked in some smelly ointment, and we put him out. However, he failed to return for about 4 days and when he did, the leg was worse and had begun to decay. I begged my mom to take him to the Vet and the prognosis was to put down the cat or amputate the leg at the shoulder. It would cost $17.00 and believe me, that was big time money in the 40's. After I pleaded for my cat's life, my mom conceded and afterwards I would continue to happily play and romp around the yard with my 3-legged cat. He could even climb trees! However, my mom broke all the rules one day, when my brother Ed gave her a Pekinese puppy for Mother's Day. "Tiny" was king. He slept inside the house and my mom pampered him like one of her own kids. She would even buy him those little circus animal cookies in a box! 
My mother was named Guadalupe, after her patron saint, The Virgen of Guadalupe and she had an abiding love and faith in the virgen. This print had a prominent place on the family altar which she had formed atop a mint-green dresser in her bedroom. Always, votive candles burned before the images of saints (santos) she had brought with her from Mexico. She loved to tell the story of the virgen's apparaition to the indian, Juan Diego and of how miraculous she was. "She appeared to an indian", she would stress, "not to the Europeans or the priests, but to an indian." She seemed especially proud of that. Another image that was dear to her was San Martin de Porres, the black South American saint, pictured with his broom to emphasize his humble status. He was especially kind to the poor and to animals. One of her favorite stories of Martin was of a miracle he performed in a church that was infested by mice. "Look", he told the mice, "you must move out of the church because the priest if getting ready to exterminate all of you." The mice obeyed Martin, exited the church, and were saved. One of my favorite prints was one of San Antonio (Saint Anthony) holding a Christ child. It is a beautifully colored print and seemed almost holy to me. I knew little about him but in the print he lovingly holds the child and looks heavenward, bathed in a glow of golden light, the child with a halo around its head, peers benevolently at the viewer. He wears the traditional brown Fransican robe tied at the waist with a rope, and a rosary tied to it. The print depicting Mary was, I felt unique. It is softly colored and her expression is one of peace, tranquility and tenderness. One hand is pointing to her sacred heart (burning with the fire of Her love) and the other holds a branch of white lilies. No wonder my mother prayed to the mother of all mothers, who understands our human suffering, especially those of a mother. El Santo Nino de Atocha (The Christ Child of Atocha), was yet another of her favorite "santos". The print, a delicate black and white lithograph on old, yellowed paper, she kept in a simple wooden frame, depicts a Christ Child sitting in a chair, wearing a strange plumed hat, holding a staff in his left hand and a small basket in his right. He wears sandals on his feet. I recall thinking how the artist had failed to capture the face of a child, and how he looks too grown up in it. At the time, I had no idea about the stories of a mysterious child who magically appeared to the sick and needy, in the far off Atocha, Spain, bringing them food and water. The Virgen of San Juan de Los Lagos was yet another of her favorites. She was especially miraculous my mother said. She is pictured in a triangular shaped, elegant and fluffy blue gown, rich with gold brocade. Long and wavy locks of hair tumble down her shoulders, and an over sized crown graces her head, bordered by two cherubims holding a banner which reads: "Immaculate Mother Pray For Us", in Latin, and crescent shaped moon at her feet. I will never forget visitng the church in San Juan de Los Lagos, Jalisco in Mexico with my mom about 1965. The entrance to the beautiful old colonial church is lined from floor to ceiling with retablos (miracle boards), documenting the hundreds of miracles attributed to her. Painted by amateur artists, the child like images on tin depict the suffering of mankind, and the lettering on each one tells of the specific event, with names and dates, and the divine intervention of La Virgen in their lives. I was stunned. As I wandered around outside the church I found a large open room and stepped inside. Piled to the cielings and along its walls were stacked, dozens of old dusty wheelchairs, crutches, and old arm, leg and body casts. When I asked my mom what it all meant, she said "These are things left behind by people who came here in them and left, no longer needing them." I felt humbled, and embarrased by my stupid question.
There is an old Mexican addage: "Como Mexico no hay dos", meaning like Mexico, there is no other and I agree 100%. When you visit, get ready for a trip (journey) but also a mind trip. We arrived in Oaxaca, Mexico after an grueling bus trip, tired and hungry. As we entered the hotel I noticed a taco stand outside and once we were given our room, my wife opted for a nap while I went outside to get me some tacos. Mexicans have never heard of waiting your turn or of standing in line, so getting served was a matter of survival of the fittest. There was the usual jousting, pushing and elbowing and the hand gestures, or whistling to catch the eye of one of the servers, who were racing around filling orders. It must have been arounnd lunchtime since there was a large crowd. After about 12 minutes I was no closer to getting my order in. In an act of desperation I cliked my fingers and finally made eye contact with one of the girls. I shouted in my order and she nodded. After another 10 minutes I caught her eye again and she assured me my tacos were on their way. When my order was finally done, she raced by and slid my plate of tacos accross the counter and disappeared into the chaos. However, there was no salsa anywhere nearby and everybody knows you can't eat tacos without salsa! Again, I tried to make contact with one of the servers so one of them would bring me some salsa. After another 5 minutes, I made contact with the young lady who had served me and shouted out "Salsa! Aqui!" Pointing to my plate of tacos. She looked at me contemptously, grabbed a molcajete filled with salsa and deftly slid it towards me, spilling some of the contents all over the counter. By this time my blood began to steam. To make matters worse, one of the legs of the molcajete was shorter than the other two and the salsa continued to spill. Once again I glared at the girl's back hoping she could feel my growing rage and when our eyes met, I shouted "Look, one of the legs on the molcajete is too short and the salsa is spilling all over the place!" She paused, scowled at me and in an almost acrobatic movement, grabbed a tomato and stuck it under the short leg! I was dumfounded. I ate my tacos quietly, my ego totally burst, and accepted my defeat "como un hombre" (like a man). It is true: Como Mexico no hay dos!
Many of us hispanics grew up with the terror of being devoured by El Cucui at night. Although no one ever claimed to have actually seen it, we knew he was horrific, and voracious for young children to eat. We loved to play at dark, especially in the orchard across the road from my mother's house, or alongside the railroad tracks, or down at the nearby Tuolumne River, but all it took for us to race home, was someone saying "Did you hear that!? It's the cucui!!" Laying in bed at night, with the lights out, any sound of the wind or branches scraping against the walls of the house was "El Cucui!" And we would snuggle deeper under our blankets. Moms would scold us saying: "Portate bien o te va llevar El Cucui!" The thought of being carted off by a monstrous Cucui, just for being disobedient was terrifying. I tried it on my own kids but it didn't seem to work as well as it did for us. Somehow, they could not quite conjure up the horrific images of some child-eating monster like our imaginations could. Maybe they have seen too many horror films?
When I was a kid my mother told me the story of La Llorona. This powerful oral tradition story often began with: "I knew a woman in my pueblo in Mexico who was La Llorona." I have come to find out that there are many variations to the myth, but there seems to be one resonant theme: a woman has lost or killed her children and she is wandering the earth in search of them. My mother's version went this way: An indian woman was married to a cruel and womanizing Spaniard. When a neighbor told her one day of his many affairs, she took her children 4 or 5 to the river and drowned them one by one in a desperate act of revenge. The river washed each away and she never saw them again. One day she died and went to heaven and as she stood in judgement before God, he asked: "Where are your children?" When she could not answer his question, He proclaimed: "I cannot let you into Paradise until you bring me the souls of her children". "But how can I ever find them", she moaned, "the current has taken them away!?" "You find them and bring them to me." The story goes that as night descends, wherever there is water, a river, a marsh or a lake, you can hear the piercing wail of La Llorona: "Aiiieee mis hijos! Aiiieee mis hijos! Aiiiee mis hijos!" At any rate, the story served to bring us all in early at night for fear that La Llorona would devour us! "Did you hear that??!!" Someone would shout, and we would all race home! Will she ever find them? Qien sabe?
"Primavera" (Spring), is a clay mask, about 10" high. She too has been decorated with under glazes, which are painted on after the piece is already fired. The piece then goes into the kiln for a second firing, and the colors brighten. A coat of glossy glaze has been painted over the entire mask. She is delicate, and reminiscent of Precolumbian masks, epecially Maya ones which I have seen. Her head dress is adorned with flowers and insects, symbols of Spring, and she wears gold earrings and a turquoise necklace. The leaves are attached to the face of the mask using wire which is pushed into the clay form while it is soft. The wire survives the hot temperatures of the firing process. This technique is used commonly, especially in the Trees of Life from Mexico, where forms are attached to the main body of the tree with wire stems.
This clay figurine (10" high) I made many years ago (c.1985) when I first began working with clay (hand building). Though he is rather simplistic in concept, I still like it. I have always wanted to maintain a "folk" crudeness to my work reminiscent of the quality I see in many of the hand-crafts of Mexico. My work would get more technical as I gained confidence in the media and learned how to control it. It is bique fired and then handpainted with acrylic paints. I have been intrigued by the Mexican Revolution (1910-1920). I still love singing corridos from that
