When Amy gets an idea for a painting, I can “see” the light go on. Then, with a burst of energy she goes to work. It is like tapping pure water, rising from an aquifer deep in the earth, bringing life to flow over the terrain.
Daughter of Tonantzín. acrylic on canvas, 24" x 36"
I enjoyed being near her while she painted her most recent work called, Daughter of Tonantzín.
Amy said:
“I have been a bit slow in getting to my paints since moving to Mexico last spring. My art has always had its inspiration from landscapes, people and places I have lived. I must feel them before I can paint them. So southern Mexico is very new and my DNA hasn’t fully absorbed the magic and majesty.
I have always loved Guadalupe, the dark skinned Madonna and her predecessor Tonantzín, the ancient mother goddess of Mexico. I intend to do a series of three paintings, which depict the descendants of Tonantzín who walk the rocky paths of my new home. The Zapotec women are humble and quiet; they are the daughters of Tonantzín/Guadalupe. Sacred in their own right.”
The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek. ― Joseph Campbell
Outside my back door is a small shady glade with canna lilies ten feet tall. They are always blooming. The place is so magical that it instantly claims my sense of place and time. When I arrive there, no matter what I’ve been thinking or doing, I am transported to the “here and now”.
I am living with the earth. Every day roaming on the property, planting, pulling weeds, tending, cutting grass, observing. Secretly, I think I have wanted to do this for a long time but was not in the right place and time of life. Even so, today I confided to Amy that I feared losing my creative edge; after all, I am an artist. “Don’t worry,” she said, “ that won’t happen.” For the time being, photography has taken precedence over painting. This has happened in the past particularly when I have been traveling extensively. Being out and about exploring, it is easy to have my camera at hand. My artistic eye for subject matter and composition guides my hand.
Meanwhile, adventures continue. We went to a birthday party with food, drink, orchestra and forty dancers in traditional costumes. And as a backdrop to the events were wall murals painted by art students that copied Amy’s illustrations from the book Dreamcarver.
At Dainzú site
San Jerónimo Tlacochahuaya
We took a hike with a group that explored the ancient ruins of Dainzú, a Zapotec archaeological site first occupied 700-600 BC. Then sauntered through fields of agave (used to produce mezcal spirits—takes about twenty years before the plants are ready) until we reached a village, San Jerónimo Tlacochahuaya, that is home to a gem of a church. The construction of this work dates from the middle of the 16th century and its creators were Dominican friars. We could not go inside, but the doors were open and let enough light in that I could stand and marvel at the wall and ceiling decorations and sacred paintings and sculptures.
Our Mexican friends Mayolo and Marta went with us to the village of Tlacolula de Matamoros which has a thriving Sunday market that we wandered through. I bought a watering can hand made from tin, some herbal medicine and sundries, while Amy bought handmade aprons and some organic foods to take home. We visited the village church: the spectacular Capilla del Señor de Tlacolula (16th century), also known as the Chapel of the Martyrs. It is completely covered with polychrome stucco and mirrors, and contains a series of statues of the most macabre martyrs (crucified, beheaded, stabbed, with an ax to the head ...). Precious wrought iron gates stand amid the baroque interior.
Church at Tlacolula
No sooner had we begun the forty-five minute drive back to Oaxaca than we encountered stalled traffic on the highway. Mayolo got out and hiked to a police car only to find that protestors had closed the highway. This is the second time Amy and I have had the bad luck to encounter such civil disobedience. It would be a three hour wait! We turned around and went to Mitla, a nearby town famous for an archaeological zone—one of the most important in the state of Oaxaca . It was inhabited by the Zapotecs after the fall of Monte Albán and later occupied by the Mixtecs. In this archaeological zone, the mosaic frets stand out, as well as the presence of thousands of carved pieces. “Mitla comes from Mictlan, a word of Nahuatl origin that means 'place of the dead’, and in Zapotec it is known as Liobaa, “house of tombs”. At the fall of Monte Albán, around AD 750, Mitla was one of the cities in which the political and religious power of the Zapotecs of the Central Valleys was concentrated until the arrival of the Spanish. “ —Arqueologiamexicana
At last, we headed home, this time without delay.
We must be willing to let go of the life we planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us. ― Joseph Campbell
Little devil on the roof said, “Black snake, black snake!” Fog obscured the land at sunrise. On the roof top veranda I could not see hills, fields or mountains—only a couple lights gleaming nearby. I liked the mysterious atmosphere and had my camera to take a few pictures. “What about the black snake, little devil?” “The neighbor is afraid of the black snake. His children see it in your grass.”
Because of the rain that comes each day, my property is wild in green verdure, and thick with vegetation—transformed suddenly from the end of the dry season when it looked like a brown moonscape.
Yesterday, Amy came to me and said, “The neighbor wants to take a machete to cut the plants on our side of the fence.”
We have several neighbors, and this one is volatile, unkempt, and unpredictable. He is about 33 years old, lives in little more than a shack and has five children. His property is strewn with garbage, and ours would be too if not for the fence. I went up the hill through the tall grass to see him. Amy followed close behind. Standing by his home, he saw me and from the other side of the fence began speaking excitedly. I don’t understand Spanish, but know the word “niños” or children. He used the word culebra several times. It means snake. Amy heard him and said, “He says a big black snake is in the grass and has been scaring his children. He wants to cut the plants down.” Furthermore, he saidthat since the man across the road plowed his field to plant corn, the rats and mice have come to live in the grasses at our property; thus the snake that feeds on them. I looked at his squalid property, with hardly a nice plant showing. A little boy peered out from between his legs, eyes bulging and mouth open.
We had heard of the big snake that lives on our property. The former owner, a German agronomist, liked it. Our cleaning lady says it has been here since before the house. We hear that there are more than one, and once the German woman had to call a man to the house to kill a snake that she discovered under her refrigerator.
I am a “plant person”. The vegetable kingdom talks with me and I have a green thumb. I can hear plants talk. So I don’t like killing or maiming them and apologize. Now, Amy said, “Let him do it, for the children.” So I pointed out the trees and shrubs I wanted to save. He came over and began whacking away with his machete. I helped for a while with a weed cutter, then stepped away. When I got back, he had cut a small tree and some of the tall ornamental grasses.
Later, at the house Amy saw me upset and said, “Let it go.”
Meanwhile, the fog had lifted and little devil on the roof sat complacent in the morning sun.
Stop signs have frustrated me in life. I get up to speed making real progress going to a destination, when suddenly the sign looms ahead; ordering me to a standstill. The impatience is my fault. But perhaps warranted when I see no reason to stop. Oh well.
Oaxaca does not have stop signs, only traffic lights.Instead of stop signs are “tope” (pronounced toe-pay). In the USA they are called speed bumps. After several months living here am I accepting them without much of a grudge. I have learned to ease up just in time to roll over them before gathering speed again. A couple times I did not see the tope before crashing over with a thump. Amy and I have seen them on dirt roads too, where people make them to slow traffic. Amy counted almost forty between our home in the village and the nearest shopping center a couple miles away.
The other adjustment to life we are making is learning to live with insects. For more than four decades in Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA, I often gave thanks for being free of mosquitos, flies and chiggers. That has changed and insect bites are common. And plants are eaten by pests—mostly ants. It brings back memories from my childhood in Illinois, and later Washington DC.
Just today I noticed some flowers gone we had grown from seed, called Jamaica, that make a nice tea. Yesterday 20 were about two inches high in a neat row and today only two were left standing. A similar attack occurred on rose bushes. I had to dig up denuded plants and put them in pots where I can keep an eye on them as they recover. We joke that they are in the hospital.
Standing at our back door this afternoon I remarked to Amy, “Oh well, there is so much to be thankful for. Look at our marvelous plants, and how happy the earth is now.”
Most dogs in America do not have a “dog’s life”. If they came down to Mexico, they would go running back home with tails wagging. Dogs’ in Mexico mostly have to fend for themselves, and rarely get to have owners that tend lavishly to them.
Amy and I see dogs wandering around, flea bitten and bedraggled, with wounds from fights or collisions. Our village has many. Many people live in little more than tin shacks. Unfortunately veterinary care is out of the question and the mongrels have multiple litters.
The poor creatures tug at Amy’s heartstrings more than mine. “At least they are not being eaten like the dogs in China,” I told her. Then I added, “It might be better to be eaten.”
We have property that is mostly fenced, but dogs’ have come in. I chase them out and have patched some entry points. One dog is acceptable—“Benito," who we learned belongs to a neighbor. He comes several times a day for treats, and has taken to barking at intruders. I have to say, I really like him, and Amy adores him. I joke and call him “Freddy the Freeloader," and Amy calls him “Loki”.
The thing about Benito is we cannot touch him. He will snarl and snap. As a companion he is good if I simply acknowledge him. He occasionally licks my hand and a couple times jumped up to hug me. But touching him is not allowed. Same with Amy, who is his major benefactor. No touching, though he will lick her hand.
Little hungry mongrel
We have noticed animals sometimes are slapped or kicked, so maybe if that has happened, the dog will be defensive. The other day we went for our second covid vaccination. A young dog came to us and stayed by for a couple hours. It was raining lightly. A group of ladies was behind us and one swatted the dog with her umbrella, and kicked it once. It stayed with us until the end. We felt like taking it home but maybe it belonged to someone.
Recently one of the neighbors’ dogs came on the heels of Benito to our back door. He was thin, just little more than a puppy and looked at us so hopefully. Amy gave him some dog food. (She buys dog food now at the grocery store.) He ate it quickly and looked around for more. I warned her, “If you start, soon packs of dogs will arrive at our door.”
We have heard of a dog sanctuary in Oaxaca, started by Americans who doubtless felt sympathy and had the time and resources to make the humanitarian gesture.
We have Loki; or Benito, or Freddy the Freeloader . . . whatever his name.
Lluvia is the Spanish word for rain. Now that the wet season has come to Oaxaca, the rain falls most days—and it is sweet. The dry, brown landscape so brittle, hears the thunder and opens its arms to embrace the downpour. The earth has softened and breathed again, changing from brown to green.
Typically, the rain arrives with the clouds that roll in during late afternoon and evening. Temperatures are cooler, and water cleanses all it touches. I like it. The sun always come out again but the earth is rejuvenated and never gets bone dry. Plants that I thought were dead are showing verdure and unique beauty. It is like a phoenix rising from ashes.
Book making is a wondrous and beautiful process. The best efforts are preserved for eternity, but most fall into oblivion. The book Amy and I are working on, called DreamCarver, has already proven to be an enduring work of art. It was first published in 1993 and became a traveling opera, visiting cities across America.
Diana Cohn and Amy collaborated on it. Publishers Weekly wrote: “Inspired by the life of renowned Oaxacan woodcarver Manuel Jiménez, newcomer Cohn and Córdova (My Land Sings) tell of Mateo, a young woodcarver who bravely breaks with a generations-old artistic tradition. The subsistence farmers of the boy's village are known for their juguetes, tiny carvings of wooden animals "so small they could fit in the palm of a hand," carved by men and boys, and painted in fiesta-bright colors by women and girls. But Mateo dreams of carving life-size animals, with surfaces that tingle with vibrant, improbable colors and surreal patterns. "I see animals so big and bright that I will need to carve them with a machete!" he tells his disapproving father. When Mateo ultimately produces a glorious wooden menagerie—including a quetzal with majestic feathers—he wins over not only Papa, but the entire village, and a new way of carving is born. Cohn captures the boy's pursuit with straightforward eloquence, whether describing a child's heady experience of a fiesta or articulating the imaginative forces that set apart and drive a true artist. Córdova chronicles Mateo's artistic development in radiant, double-spread tableaux, setting off the text with festive decorative borders. She borrows the highly stylized characterizations and flattened perspectives typical of Mexican folk art, but she animates the compositions with big, bold shapes and electric, saturated colors. A fitting tribute to the energy and power of an artist's distinctive vision.”
From our perfect vantage point in our home in Oaxaca, just a village away from Arrazola where the woodcarvers make the “alebrijes” magic animals carved of wood and decorated with complex designs in a riot of colors, we are remaking the book with new illustrations and bilingual text.
Amy said, “Back in 1992, my dear friend, Diana Cohn and I visited Oaxaca with the intent of creating a children's book about the origins of the fantastical, colorful alebrije carvings. We visited Manuel Jimenez , who is attributed with starting the entire movement. As a result of our love of the art form, we created the book Dream Carver, which was published by Chronicle Books, San Francisco. Since then , our agreement has expired and we requested the return of rights.
Fast forward, rights granted ! Since then, I have spent the last many months reworking and creating new images, with the goal of enhancing those images and creating a bilingual edition. Diana and I have revised the text, so that the format of two languages is not compromised. Steve has spent hours photographing and doing incredible layouts of text and image. Pages now look breathtaking! I am still painting. A labor of love, for certain.”
The Dream Carver tradition is alive and thrives today. The original artist, Manuel Jimenez, now deceased, passed his tradition to his sons, and one of them, Isaias, continues with his family to produce marvelous works. He opened the DreamCarver Museum and had students create murals based on Amy’s illustrations. He is very eager for the book, originally in English, to be published as a bilingual.
Our goal is to have books in hand for a big celebrationat the Museum during the Dia de Muertos festival November 1 and 2, 2021.
The great jazz player Louis Armstrong said, “Musicians don't retire; they stop when there's no more music in them.” I have always thought artists don’t retire.
Amy and I have slowed down our usual pace of making art. The huge project of moving to Mexico and into our big house on a fairly large property absorbs us. The number of hours we work has not changed much.
I enjoy the grounds. We arrived at the end of the dry season and it seemed many of the plants were dead. Not so. It has begun raining and they are all turning green. Below our home, down a hill I spied a clump of yellow flowers all in a heap. On further inspection, they turned out to be what was left of a tree cut down many months ago. The limbs had enough life that they were blooming. Kind of like a chicken that has its head cut off continues running around. I brought many of the limbs home and stuck them in our pond that receives the waste water for the house. It has aquatic plants that clean and filter the water. That was a few weeks ago and the blooms have continued. I dug holes and planted them this past week and they are showing signs of growth. This magic occupies my imagination and inspires me.
As for art, Amy is working on making a bilingual edition of the book she illustrated called Dreamcarver, (El Tallador De Suenos) by Diana Cohn. Some of the images are reworked and the text includes Spanish. And she has begun work on a painting of Tonantzin: the original mother deity of ancient Mexico who predates Guadalupe.
Painting in progress. 50x50 cm, Frida Kahlo, oil on canvas.
I am at work on an image of Frida Kahlo that is taking far longer than usual for me. I made a few mistakes early on and had to go back and fix them. Paintings have a life of their own. Some children are born in a wink of the eye, others seem to take forever.
I was surprised to see Amy crying, because it is rare. She broke down while reciting the poem, Cultivo una Rosa Blanca, by José Martí, (Cuban,January 28, 1853 – May 19, 1895). We had welcomed guests to our house for an unveiling of art, and birthday celebration. Ten people stood in front of a covered iron railing in our front hall, anticipating the unveiling to occur shortly. Expressing gratitude for the diverse friendships that Amy and I have forged in Oaxaca, Mexico, I acknowledged the special qualities our friends bring.
Amy spoke next—to the people who showed us such loving kindness. Delivering in Spanish the poem she learned as a child from her grandmother, tears began rolling down her cheeks:
Cultivo una rosa blanca
en junio como en enero
para el amigo sincero
que me da su mano franca.
I cultivate a white rose
In June as in January
For the sincere friend
Who gives me his hand freely.
Mayolo, the artist who made the railing, finished the ceremony by unveiling his work while explaining the symbolism he instilled in his creation. Two globes at either end represent the sun and moon, also alpha and omega. The twisting curves of iron with delicate leaves attached repeat a design throughout, and represent spiraling universes. Two deer heads with horns are fused to the railing. They represent Amy andI—the “Dos Venados” of which our house is named. They are inscribed and one, directly in front of our entrance doors has the hand of Fatima facing out for protection.
Hiram, son of Mayolo and Marta, is a famous Oaxacan chef. He began preparing food for the gathering many hours in advance at his restaurant, and then came to our kitchen and served everyone seated at our big dining table.
Mayolo, Frida (grand daughter) Marta, Hiram
Our lovely home filled with happiness as it gathered us all together in a warm embrace.
A party is in order. An artist has completed his masterpiece—an ornate railing for our stairs—and for that there must be an unveiling and celebration. Coinciding with this is the arrival of my birthday, so our home will be set for a “fiesta” this Friday. A small affair with people who have made our move to Mexico a happy one. Mexican folk with a few Americans sprinkled in. Our realtor John, an American who was instrumental in our purchasing the house is very busy with sales activities on the coast and had to beg off.
Several guests of note: Manuel Omar Rito Cortes moved some of our essential belongings from Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA to Oaxaca. He speaks fluent English and also helped us to buy our car here in Mexico. His wife is a dentist and the couple have two children. Omar owns Oaxaca Exprience Tours, but when business slowed drastically because of Covid, he stripped his tour bus of the seats and made it into a moving van.
Mayolo Martinez Galindo is a gem of a person, and very talented artisan. He says he is happy we arrived because we are intellectuals and artists. He bonded with us immediately and we are soul mates now. Mayolo does not speak English and neither do I speak Spanish, but we bonded nonetheless. Thankfully, Amy knows rudimentary Spanish. Mayolo helped us register and receive our first Pfizer covid shot. He helped us put the electric service in our name. He has made us arched curtain rods for over our arched windows, has made window screens, and most importantly created a magnificent railing for our stairway that is at the center of our home. He imbues his work with spiritual imagination. We have named our home Casa Venado, or “Deer House” because we live on Camino Cuatro Venados, or Four Deer Road. Mayolo put deer heads at the top of our curtain rods, and very special ones in the design of his ornate railing. They have symbols that are meaningful to us. One deer head is inscribed in Spanish “Amor, Steven and Amy," and the other is inscribed “Por Siempre,” or, Forever.
Salomon Garcia Moreno has lived in our house as a caretaker over the years. He had a special relationship with the German agronomist woman who owned our property. He is married with four children. His village is about three hours away, where he is head of an agricultural cooperative that grows coffee, and special herbs and spices like vanilla, cardamon, ginger and more. He brings us delicious coffee, "miel," or honey, and sacks of compost. Today he brought me a container of earthworms.
When our house sold, Salomon received a parcel of land where he is building a small home near ours. He shares with us everything we need to know about surviving here. He speaks only Spanish, but we get by, and are able to make sensewith each other. Entirely honest, he has a big heart and is gracious, even going to the TelMex offices with us downtown to register the internet service in our name.
I am a plant savant and so is he, so we are symbiotic from the start.
I followed the bird in flight. It came from where the sun had risen along craggy cliffs at Mazunte, Mexico on the Pacific coast. Breakfast had just been served. Amy and I sat on a patio overlooking the sea. The air felt soft in early morning, heating up moment by moment with a playful breeze caressing everything it touched. Thunderous ocean waves crashed below, rushing in and out along the coast while making bellows from the deep.
The blackbird, just a few meters away and close to where we sat, soared gracefully on the currents and took my eyes with it sweeping across the sea vista. The bird settled on the top of a post jutting from sand further from our cabanas. My eyes continued to where waves crashed on rocks, casting white spray in the distance. I could see a couple of dogs playing tag, happy to frolic early in the day—before the heat. A family walked together, scampering to evade the rushing waves, laughing when someone was knocked over by the force of roiling water.
I took a sip of fresh squeezed orange juice in a tall glass carafe, Amy beside me, and simply gave in to the perfection of the moments.
A funny thing happened last night. This is the story leading up to it: We had arrived in the afternoon from the Sierra Madre Mountains where we spent a night in chilly fog among the clouds in a village known for magic mushrooms used to alter consciousness. Hippies still go to San José del Pacífico. Most of the time clouds float among mountain peaks. The town sits above them. We needed jackets to walk after dinner in the cloudforest and slept under heavy blankets.
To get to the coast, we drove on a small winding road, called highway 175. At the start, we spotted a village with brightly painted church. It had stunning views and Amy pointed out in the distance a cemetery high up. We went there and walked among the graves. Many of them, even old ones had fresh flowers.
Highway 175 has so many sharp curves that we were warned in advance to bring medicine for motion sickness. We both got dizzy, and after a couple hours, I really wanted to get free of the snake.
We arrived at the ocean—and it is hot. From the road I could see the ocean, and stopped the car by some beach shacks to take a look. Amy and I walked to the beach at Zipolite, and soon engaged in a conversation with a man named Israel, a Mexican who offered to take us out in his boat to see dolphin and turtles. A man walked briskly by, stark naked. Then a few more, followed by a woman with her bare boobs bouncing. I thought, “We must be on a clothing optional beach.” Ten minutes later we were at our hotel to stay two nights and three days.
It is hot and humid. Typically around 90 degrees during the day and near 80º at night. We like our room. It is high up, with a king sized bed, nice bathroom, big sliding doors with screens that go out to a terrace that overlooks the ocean and beach below. Last night, we set a fan by the open porch screen and directed air currents in the direction of our bed, then lay naked and watched a movie. Lights out to go to sleep, even with the fan we sweltered. I managed to fall asleep. Amy flipped directions so her head was closer to the fan. She flopped around uncomfortably, but noticed a wide, squat box over our bed, easily missed because it is white like our walls. “Is that an air conditioner?” she wondered.She did not want to wake me up, but fortunately I woke anyway. “I think we have an air conditioner over the bed.” Indeed.
