the cassandra pages

Hermit Diary 41. Searching the Landscape

I can't leave Montreal, at least until the end of the month, because a new lockdown was imposed on October 1, so there is no question of driving out into the country to see the fall foliage, visiting a natural area, or going apple picking, let alone visiting Vermont or the Adirondacks. I'm fortunate to be able to see trees and fall color from my window, and to have begonias, geraniums, nasturtiums and sweet peas blooming on our terrace, but I still have a persistent sense of being trapped -- as so many of us do.

It helps to turn to images of places I love. A couple of weeks ago I re-explored a garden we visited at the Ex Convento del Carmen (former Carmelite convent) in the Mexico City suburb of San Angel, and made a few drawings and watercolor sketches. The first drawing is below, and that's a watercolor of the same basic view at the top of this page.

From a different position, 90 degrees to the left, this is a massive stone seat with the convent walls behind:

One afternoon at the studio, I was looking through last year's Instagram posts and came across a  watercolor of Delphi that I'd forgotten, and it struck me as much better than I remembered. I searched and searched through my sketchbooks until I finally found it in a drawer in the flat file -- I hadn't remembered that it was painted on a scrap of extra-heavyweight Arches watercolor paper -- my favorite surface to use -- and that's perhaps why it came out well. I'm always surprised how certain materials seem to inspire a better effort, while using others that may be just as good but somehow don't feel quite right to me personally always seems to end up with a lesser result. Originally I had cropped it much tighter; I don't know what I was thinking. Anyway, I cut a matte, put a frame on it and brought it home so I can remember that extraordinary day, everyday.

Yesterday I started on another subject, a hillside in Greece with blue agaves and cacti, and if it ever stops raining, I'll walk back up to the studio and finish that one, or work on the same idea in another medium.

As you can probably see, these watercolors are getting looser, less realistic, and more expressive -- but often I still do a fairly realistic black-and-white drawing first to work out the shapes and compositional relationships -- plus, I just like to draw. There are few activities that feel more absorbing, and even though I've done it all my life, it always feels like magic to start with a blank sheet of paper and end up with a representation of something observed and a record of that particular time and place and state of mind.

Drawing, more than any other art activity, also connects me to all the artists who've filled sketchbooks and made drawings. I feel my eyes travel from the object to the paper and back again, without much conscious thinking, as my hand somehow -- I don't pretend to understand it -- translates that seeing into lines and forms. Even when the drawing doesn't come out particularly well, it still seems like a little quiet miracle that human beings try to do this, and have always done it: "I sat here, I was still, I looked, I used my hands and eyes and made this." Maybe there's some hope for us after all.

The Best Thing I've Read about "Roma"

"Roma" exposes Mexico's darkest secret,

by Marcela Garcia in the Boston Globe

 

Such an excellent essay by Marcel Garcia. A number of people I've talked to may have liked this movie, but when we've talked about it in more depth, it's like we've seen two different films. That's always possible with a book or film, of course, but in this case, and at this particular time in history, I've found the dissonance quite disturbing.

 

It always bothers me that so many people think they already know all there is to know (or all they want to know) about the complex cultures south of the American border, when they actually know very little. I'm probably hyper-sensitive because I too was quite ignorant before I started going to Mexico and learning about it myself; I wasn't even sure I wanted to go, except that I knew there was a tradition of art that I wanted to see firsthand. Now I wonder how I could have been so limited. Where does this ignorance come from? Is it because we are inundated with media "information" and mass culture through Hollywood films and TV, and equate that with real knowledge? Is it because most people don't travel to Latin America beyond the resort beaches? Is it because so few of us form real friendships with people from different cultures, religions and ethnicities than ourselves, where we are willing to actually listen to and learn from the truth of their lived experience?  Perhaps most people simply don't want to be stretched in this direction because it also requires looking at oneself.

 

I've now been to Mexico City for six extended periods of time, and have relationships with a number of Latin American friends. Yet with every visit and conversation, as with people from every culture different from mine, I realize how little I knew, and still know. Of course I've become uncomfortably aware of my own privilege, and ability to travel and come back to my far easier North American life. But it's a lot more than that. I want to be as open as possible when I see a film or read a book or talk to someone, as well as when I'm traveling, so that I am able to learn. I don't want to live in a North American bubble and take it with me everywhere I go. We all do that to some extent, but dropping it consciously seems to be more than most people want to do.

 

I also know firsthand how uncomfortable this process can be. I've been doing it for my entire adult life, partly because I married outside my culture, but also because of a longstanding desire for knowledge of otherness and for being stretched. I know everyone doesn't share this, or feel that the reward of growing wiser is worth the pain of feeling uncomfortable, hurt, misunderstood, or being in the minority, where we suddenly have to listen and accept different ways, and not be in a position of control or power. I get it. Most of us prefer to stay in our own tribe, however narrowly or broadly we define that. The world is moving in a different direction, though, and we can either accept that, understand our own privilege, and change -- or fight against it, which I see so-called liberals doing just as much as conservatives, when it involves actually confronting one's own stereotypes and sense of entitlement or superiority. It's one thing to oppose building a wall, or separating families, and entirely another to actually learn what is beyond that border, or who those families are, or our own complicity in the systems that have made them want to leave -- perhaps for a life of domestic servitude in America.

 

Roma confronts racism in Mexican culture, but it also asks us to look within. So I was grateful for Garcia's insights and explanations about her own culture, and the lens through which North America has viewed both Mexico and this particular film. I'm grateful she took the time to write this piece.

Drawing a Mexico City Interior

Because we liked the apartment where we were staying so much, I drew the interior more than I had expected to. The furniture, in heavy wood, glass, and leather, was so different from our northern interiors, as were the bright Mexican colors and bold shapes of the plants, vases, lamps and other objects. My eye is always energized by seeing something different, and my spirit too.

And when I'm seeing inspiring art every day, it makes me want to draw. Mexican art often encourages simplicity and the search for form, I find. Even the two-dimensional art feels quite "plastic", and I sense that sculpture, painting, and nature all inform each other, leading to bold, monumental shapes and a minimum of fussiness or elaboration for its own sake. For example, this detail from a fabulous, huge mosaic titled Rio Juchitan (1953-56) by Diego Rivera and assistants in his workshop, now at the Soumaya Museum:

Back at home, here's some fruit in a pedestal bowl:

The food we were buying at the market was inspiring in itself - we always had a bowl of mangoes, bananas, tomatoes and avocados on the counter. And our residency was also changing the space a little too, as we bought flowers and some embroidered textiles and ceramics, and settled into the places where we liked working. J. often worked at the dining table, while I sat on the couch with my knitting, computer, and drawing.

As I filled the pages of my own sketchbook, I was touched by this book in the anthropology museum - written and illustrated by some kindred spirit at the time of the Spanish conquest of Mexico.

Most of all, I think drawing at the apartment provided a quiet time after the noise, busyness, overcrowded intensity of the metropolis: a way to re-center and come back to myself.

Patience

Rough surf at Block Island. Fountain pen, grey ink, 8.5" x 5.5" on beige toned paper. First stage.

I was curious whether it would be possible to render such a complicated scene in pen and ink, without washes or color. It's difficult! This was the first state of the drawing. Later I added some white and brown colored pencil to increase the tonal range, and take advantage of the toned paper used for the drawing; I think I like it better as a drawing without, but the white makes it easier to "read" the scene. I'm not sure if the Block Island scene will end up as a painting or print or series of drawings, but I'm glad I did this study.

Rough surf at Block Island. Fountain pen, grey ink, colored pencil. 8.5" x 5.5" on beige toned paper. Second stage.

The real challenge -- and absorbing pleasure -- is to start with a blank page and, an hour or two later, see a depiction of the scene. That's the magic of drawing; it's what attracted me as a child and why I've kept drawing all my life. You're creating something from nothing, only through the work of your eye and your hand. Drawing can be so many things, done in so many styles. Sometimes I like to make a careful detailed study in order to help myself see what's actually there, where the structure and form lie, and so I can later make decisions about what to emphasize or leave out. But there is also genuine pleasure in the act of drawing itself - watching the tool move across the paper, seeing the marks emerge under your hand, feeling the tooth of the paper or its smoothness, watching shapes and forms develop, the unconscious process of making decisions as you work. It makes me angry when I think how many teachers and critics have disparaged students' abilities and their innate love of drawing, often discouraging them forever, and both forced students into particular styles or taken talented students apart for drawing in their own way. (My friend, the illustrator Priya Sebastien has recently written about this in her own life.) Drawing should be about joy and discovery, concentration and pleasure. It should be personal. It's so elemental, too, so fundamentally human - as the earliest cave paintings show us. How can anyone be so arrogant as to say, "this is the right way to draw, this is wrong?" And what harm they do!

Jose Maria Velasco, View of Chiquihuite Hill, watercolor on paper.

I've been inspired recently by looking closely at the work of Jose Maria Velasco (1840-1912) the legendary 19th. C. Mexican landscape painter. His drawings, watercolors and paintings are all marked by careful observation, immaculate draftsmanship, and patience -- while never losing sight of the whole, and as I stood in the gallery, moving closer and further away, what struck me the most was the extraordinary patience it must have taken for him to get it right: not just the details in the drawing, but the tonality, the exact precision of the colors he mixed. Each time I go to Mexico City I visit the National Gallery in order to see these paintings again: they remain fresh, alive, vibrant, and beautiful - even though they are very much in the academic tradition.

Jose Maria Velasco, Mexican landscape and detail, oil.

So many of us have lost that ability to be patient, either with our eyes or with our tools, perhaps because of the premium that has been placed on spontaneity and originality in modern art, and on speed and output in modern life in general. What we forget is that even the great innovators, like Picasso, were also great draftsmen, and they didn't acquire the skill to innovate, play, invent, and adapt without learning to see, and to draw extremely well. Patient, careful observation is the foundation of the most memorable art, from the great masters to Lucien Freud. You have to see first, and drawing is a way to see fully. To do that, you have to settle down for a while, a good long while, and put in the time. Then you can let it go into abstraction, allow your emotional response to dominate -- whatever is right for you at that time, with that subject. But if you don't know what an eye, or a fish, or a particular rock looks like to begin with, how are you ever going to capture its essence, let alone distort it at will?

Jose Maria Velasco, Rocks, oil study.

I say this because patience has always been a problem for me, in art, in practicing the piano, in slowing down enough to read carefully. I absolutely refused to play scales or etudes on the piano or flute, and my technique has always been weak as a result. In other areas, calligraphy for instance, I was willing to write pages and pages of examples. Some of the problem is just my impatient nature, my tendency to get bored, and an innate ability to "get by" on less-than-full attention. Some of it is the preference for expressive brushwork or an energetic line -- or sight-reading a new piece of music. Some of it is restlessness: the internal desire to move on to the next thing when the first one isn't finished. At the same time, I'm capable of being very attentive and patient when I remember to be, or when I insist on it for myself. I'm always glad when I give myself an exercise in slowing down, because I always learn something valuable and notice things I'd otherwise miss. Drawing is the back-to-basics practice that is the foundation for everything else. My friends who are professional orchestra players still practice every day; I need to draw every day too.

Vincent Van Gogh, A Fishing Boat at Sea, pen and ink, 1888.

The sketchbooks of great draftsmen are always inspiring - I think of Turner, Whistler, Van Gogh, Sargent, Winslow Homer. Because they were working more quickly than in the studio, their drawings often contain an energy, embodied in the line or the brushstroke, that is as palpable as the wind. Yet, they had the skill, honed by years of practice, to use every minute well, through patient concentration, and I don't think they saw their studies as "lesser" works. Sargent, who made his living from society portraits, once said that his true legacy would be his watercolors, and that is proving to be the case. Van Gogh's drawings of landscapes, trees, and gardens are every bit as moving to me as his paintings. And when I stand in a museum in front of one of these drawings or watercolor studies, I also feel myself, and my connection with all the other artists who have also faced a scene and the next blank page.

J.M. Turner, Storm at Sea, watercolor without pencil underdrawing.

 

 

 

Aerie

The view southwest from the roof.

We rented an apartment in Mexico City, in the same general area (Condesa/Roma) we've stayed in recently, but a bit closer to Chapultepec Park, metro and metrobus stations, and the major streets of Paseo de la Reforma and Insugentes Sur. It turned out to be an excellent fit for us, with a well-equipped kitchen, good appliances, a comfortable bed and living room, lots of storage, a washing machine, a balcony, and 24-hour security.

Looking northwest from our balcony, toward Reforma.

But one of its best aspects was its height: we were on the 8th floor of a 14-story building, with access to the roof, good views to the west of the city and Chapultepec castle, the flight path of airplanes coming into Aeropuerto Internacional Benito Juárez, and the dramatic thunderstorms that moved eastward across the mountains into the city on a number of late afternoons. We spent way more time than we'd anticipated in this aerie, just watching and looking and listening, whether it was the life on the streets and rooftops below or helicopters landing on pads on top of the skyscrapers on Reforma.

Street vendors below a date palm.

Mexico City's official color is hot pink, and so are its taxis.

Nighttime on a beautiful, clear evening - usually the pollution got worse during the day and then sometimes cleared out at night.

It was interesting and disturbing to see the differences in pollution and atmospheric conditions each day -- sometimes we could see the mountains, but more often not. We only went up on the roof once, on the afternoon we arrived, which turned out to be one of the clearest days of the sixteen we were there. More often, it was like the photo below.

I sketched the urban landscapes from our windows: not my usual subject, but the view and its endless details compelled me to try. Here's a pen-and-ink version:

And one with added watercolor and gouache:

The first drawing engendered this exchange on Instagram:

Me: I had fun doing this but it's also kind of exhausting!
XB: I can imagine it, hard to keep chaos and balance all together.
Me: Yes, it's just a lot of stuff, and easy to get confused where you are, while trying to keep a general sense of balance through the whole scene. What to leave out, what to leave in. And, of course, perspective. I don't use lines but try to be fairly accurate by eye, and mistakes always happen!
XB: mistakes are... beautiful

Re-entry

Between singing at yesterday's services, I walked the quiet streets of my city. Queen Victoria stood coldly on her pedestal, the sun -- wan, but at least palpable -- shone on pale faces, but in the cafe where I finally stopped, a coach on the video screen was explaining hockey plays to little boys, still eagerly piling out onto the ice.

We'd been back from Mexico City for just two days. I felt disoriented, bereft. I missed the vast swarms of humanity at street crossings, the noise and exuberance, their luxurious black hair and relaxed faces; the riotous colors; the smells of frying meat, onions, chili, potatoes, corn, spices; the excessive surface decoration, the effortless mix of elegance with the popular street. We're so tame up here, I thought. So reservé, so diplomatique indeed.

In the cafe, I thought about how my choir would be singing Orlando Gibbons in a few minutes, with his tightly coiled but always-contained emotion. I love that music: it's part of my heritage, after all. But more and more, I find important parts of myself released in the warmth of Latin cultures, and it's hard both to leave that exuberance and largeness behind, and to preserve my discovered self in this much cooler and more private place.

--

Avenida Francisco I. Madero, in the historical center

It's always a shock to come back to Montreal from Mexico City, that maximum metropolis of 22 million people which fills the vast Valley of Mexico. After six trips, we've come to know it fairly well, and to feel comfortable there: we know where to go, how to get around, where to buy what we need, what to eat and what to avoid, where to get information, who to trust. There are favorite places we return to each time -- favorite paintings and artifacts, restaurants, public plazas, churches, markets, streets -- and there is always exploring and adventure. It's intense but no longer intimidating, so long as we don't take foolish risks, and accept the fact that unexpected things may happen. Over the years we've had bike accidents, and tripped on the uneven pavement; we've had phones stolen on crowded metro platforms; dealt with the altitude and pollution and figured out what to do in case of an earthquake; we've gotten sick and been helped and survived. What we've gained has vastly outweighed the problems. Some people probably wouldn't like that learning curve, or maybe they just want travel to be more comfortable, relaxing and easy, but they're missing one of the world's great cities and cultures, and they're missing interaction and relationship with Mexicans of the present, and their long, difficult, and proud history.

Chapultepec Park, Mexico City

Each year we've gone, there have been fewer white tourists, probably due to American politics and the spread of fear of violence by drug cartels. I often hear Canadians expressing a desire to go to Mexico's capital city, or telling us they've already been, but most Americans look horrified. There are large parts of the city where we would not go, for sure, but it's also true that Mexico City is not where most of the drug-related violence is taking place. Pickpockets operate in every big city: I had my wallet stolen in Rome; it also happens right here in Montreal. I feel sorry that so few people travel there. It certainly hurts the Mexican economy, and doesn't help dispel misconceptions and stereotypes. But I freely admit that it's not an easy place to visit or to become comfortable with. Someday, perhaps, we'll feel like it's too much for us, but I hope not, because it allows us to access a different side of ourselves, it offers challenges for both the body and mind, and gives us an opportunity to learn something about humanity in general that seems repressed in these colder, more formal, and privileged cultures further north.

Saturday salsa dancing, a regular event in the public park near the Ciudadela.

On a personal and even spiritual level, I find it encouraging to go there, because in spite of their terrible government, and the poverty and corruption, many of the people manage to live with a buoyancy and vibrancy, warmth and simplicity I seldom see in our own culture. There is a sense of pride that gets expressed in innumerable ways. Every single evening, the street vendors near our apartment scrubbed all their pans and stoves and then the pavement itself until it shone; people washed the windows of their shops and swept the street; the subways are extremely crowded but clean, with the floors made of glistening marble (beautiful stone is one resource the country has in abundance.) And there's constant music, noise, and color, and attention to design, in minute detail, everywhere, in spite of the hard lives so many people lead. Cultural attitudes, at least among the common people, seem less individualistic and more collective than ours; people look you directly in the eye, they smile, they say buenos dias and buenas tardes, and always return your greeting. Family is still extremely important, and positive, realistic attitudes toward aging, caring for the elderly, death and dying are deeply embedded in the culture. When people hear that we come every year, they smile with pride -- they love their city and their country, and are delighted that we do too. We got into a political discussion with a cab driver, who complained a lot about the candidates in the upcoming election and the general state of things, but then, after having exhausted the subject, he smiled and said, "Pero, yo soy Mexicano!!" "But, I am Mexican!" It spite of it all, he identifies himself as Mexican, not with a political party, or a current government or current problems: being Mexican is so much more than that.

Part of a huge mural by David Alfaro Siquerios about the Mexican revolution and workers' struggle, at the Castillo de Chapultepec

This is an attitude I've observed among other people -- Iranians, for instance, or Chinese -- with a long history who've seen governments, dynasties, dictators, emperors and kings come and go; they are united by language, place, culture and shared history, shared suffering. Mexican history goes back to the Olmecs, the first Meso-American civilization, dating from 1000 B.C., in the region near modern-day Veracruz. In America and Canada, we have nothing comparable: our national histories go back only a few hundred years, and the indigenous cultures were younger and less developed than in Latin America, and so decimated by genocide that few of us share that heritage, while in Mexico, a majority of the people are mixed-race. So here in the northern New World, we are left to piece our identities together from the fragmented histories of the places we, or our ancestors, came from. But it is never entirely satisfactory to understand oneself that way -- at least it hasn't been so for me.

Olmec sculptures, c. 1000-300 BCE, Museo Nacional de Antropologia

I'm interested not so much in nationalisms, but in what makes us human, and the shared qualities that give rise to civilizations. While these questions have been common to cultures for millennia, I find them harder and harder to grasp in the modern political landscape, which seems to me extremely destructive  -- perhaps even opposed -- to what we have historically called "human culture" and expressed in different and deeply valued ways. Perhaps that's why I appreciate the experience of going back, for a time, to live in an older society which hasn't yet been taken over by globalization, materialism and greed, and where people are still resistant to the whitewashing of their own culture. Yes, there are some franchises and global brands, American movies and tv, and people wearing t-shirts emblazoned with "Abercrombie & Fitch" and English slogans; there's wealth, multinational corporations, sleek skyscrapers, and a desire for modernization, but the reach of mass media has not yet destroyed the past, or altered people's innate sense of themselves as part of a whole complicated constellation of histories, meanings, and relationships that occurred in that particular place. "Yo soy Mexicano," says the taxi-driver, and he knows what he means.

Drawings from Mexico - II

The jacaranda blossoms were beginning to fall from the trees, and I gathered a few one afternoon to sketch. My palette didn't allow me to mix the exact shade of violet, but it was close, and after this I became interested in doing some other botanical sketches. I collected more samples of seed pods and flowers on subsequent walks.

Here's a drawing of the flower from a red bottle-brush tree.

And the resulting watercolor.

White roses, mango, seedpods and tequila on a rebozo.

Young Nahuatl girls, trying to make a little money on the streets, sell small nosegays of these fragrant, creamy white roses, probably gathered from wild bushes. They fade within a day, but even so, I like them and wanted to buy some to draw and remember.

Two artichokes, agapanthus, and a palm-leaf coaster.

The same artichoke (and then there were none...) and woven palm-leaf box and coaster, with some chips and beer.

I didn't do as much sketching of interiors or architecture as I'd have liked, mostly because we were usually moving through spaces rather that sitting down for longer periods of time, except to eat. This sketch of the front altar at the Metropolitan Cathedral was done one afternoon when I was alone and tired enough to want to sit for half an hour. This "black Christ" is famous in the city. The crucifix stands in front of a gold-encrusted altar with polychromed statues of Spanish priests and friars, but the people come for the Christ figure, and leave bouquets in front of him after they kneel and pray.

I had taken my small, traveling watercolor set, a block of Arches paper, a small 5"x5" sketchbook, and my Lamy fountain pen with a small bottle of Lexington grey Noodler's ink. By the start of the second week, I realized I needed a few more things, so I found an art supply store nearby and paid them a visit. In spite of my limited Spanish, we managed to communicate pretty well. I bought some sticks of Conte compressed charcoal, a larger watercolor brush, and some large sheets of good drawing paper that the proprietor cut up for me into quarters. It was a good move, because after I got hurt and was laid up in the apartment, I was glad to be able to work larger than in the little sketchbook. These pieces were done on the balcony, looking down at the street from the fifth floor.

I did the charcoal sketch first, then the watercolor, in the late afternoon of the same day.

Artwork always absorbs me: in this case it kept my mind off what had happened, and gave us a souvenir of that particular place we wouldn't have had otherwise, except in photographs. When I look at something like this watercolor sketch, I always remember -- even years later -- what it felt like when I was doing it: the circumstances, the scene, the challenges I had. Usually that isn't true for me when taking photographs; it seems to be part of the heightened concentration and awareness that drawing requires over a longer period of time.

I hope you've enjoyed seeing these - I've been working on some other pieces inspired by Mexico since getting back, and will show them to you eventually. The color and sculptural forms there always shake up my visual reality, and I plan to keep working on these subjects for a while.

Palms for Passiontide

Palm tree and live oaks at Anwar and Mary Anne's, Jacksonville, Florida. Watercolor.

Palm branches overhead, Mexico City.

 

A pencil drawing of Quebec-style braided palms, from 2013

Nahuatl (Aztec) braided palm crucifixes and bundles of sacred herbs, Mexico City

Mexico City's Metropolitan Cathedral decorated for Palm Sunday

 

 

The Mexican Printmakers - Part II

Alfredo Zalce, "La revolucion y la libertad de prensa" (Revolution and freedom of the press), 1945.

This was such an impressive print. I was often struck by the complicated nature of the compositions, always in service to the subject, and how the artists played with variations in scale, distance, density, positive and negative space in order to achieve the most impact.

In this detail you can see how vigorous and free the carving is. Even in a minutely-planned image, that vigor gives an energy and immediacy that are palpable. Look at how different each face is, and how the artist has treated the texture of the clothing, hair, hats -- so much variation, so little repetition. Only a master could achieve this, because those aspects, I'm sure, happened directly during the carving, not in the drawing.

 

Ignacio Aguirre, "Las tropas constitutionalistas hacen el primer reparto des tierras" (Constitutionalist troops make the first land distribution),1946.

Another great use of perspective and scale.

Ignacio Aguirre Camacho, "Venustiano Carranza arenga los jefes constitutionalistas" (Venustiano Carranza harangues the constitutionalist chiefs), 1947.

I love the large dark figure of Venusiano contrasted with the multiple figures and flags on the top and right . And the many types of marks used to make the ground interesting, then the composition tied together with the white banner. Such a great use of positive and negative.

Leopoldo Mendez, "Deportacion a la muerte" (Deportation to death), 1942

And finally, another enormously effective print that uses perspective, scale, and light to create maximum impact, drawing attention to the faces of the huddled deportees, but insisting that we also look up the line to the malevolent cloud of black smoke in the distance.

Seeing these images up close felt like taking a master class in printmaking - it was a privilege, and I learned a lot.

The Mexican Printmakers - Part 1

Jose Chavez Morado, Escuela rural (Country School), 1936

Because I make relief prints, I was very happy to see original prints by of some of the Mexican masters of the early 20th century, in a show about the Arte Moderno movement (Modernism) and Mexican Identity at the Chapultepec Castle. In this post I'm just going to share some of my favorite prints, by different artists using different styles.

Some of these images were made to encourage social programs, agriculture, the building of schools.

Alfredo Zalce, Cosecha de maiz (Corn Harvest), 1948

 

Adolfo Mexiac, Ejidos comunales (no date)

Alfredo Zalce, Jurado popular (Popular jury), 1945. Look at the confidence and expressiveness of Zalce's carving - he was amazing.  

Others commemorated particular events or people.

Alfredo Zalce, Portrait of Venustiano Carranza (first president of the republic) (not dated)

But prints by enormously talented artists were also a major means of political commentary, and I must say they feel more direct and effective than a lot of what goes on today.

Alberto Beltran y Elizabeth Catlett, Detengamos la guerra (Stop the war),1951

Finally, this lithograph seemed particularly timely:

Jose Chavez Morado, La Nube de mentiras (The Cloud of Lies), 1940