March 31, 2007 Humanitarianism is not a crime.
I cross the Border at Palomas. Bienvenidos A MEXico!! Beyond the fence there is the colors, hot pinks, turquoise greens, coca cola reds, and the gray red dust. I am looking for the yellow building and the pizza palace which is the landmark for the Desert Humanitarians soup kitchen. I met Helen Myers, who is a volunteer I met during the last leg of the Villaista Cabalgata when we crossed over with entourage. She invited me to donate art for an art auction in Las Cruces to aid their efforts at providing food and some basic needs for people who get stuck on the border. They have only been open for four months and they serve food to almost fifty people a day. I am perpetually lost and found in Mexico, and have gone to the Red Cross Center to ask for directions; I am personally led to their door in a neighborly fashion. I feel I walk into a Shonto Begay painting. At the colorful table are people from different regions of Mexico; The Tarhumara women and children, the field workers, young and old; young men with backpacks sit eating stew, a scene that could be akin to the last supper. Weather worn faces, obsidian and green eyes meet mine with curiosity and warm greetings. Helen shows me their humble layout; a dorm room for volunteers build by a group of young Mennonites from the states, a bathroom with a shower, another storage area that holds food donations, and emergency blankets that are in short supply. There is a closet of donated clothes, and overlooking the room, a glittered rendering of Our Lady of Guadalupe shines from a darkened corner where all pass. Immediately there are people who are in need for the basic things. There are requests for a shirt, socks, water, food, medicine; I join Helen in the closet and rummage for items that can meet the requests; what does it mean to find a shirt, the right size, something to protect against the sun, or provide warmth when the nights and mornings are cool;A single pair of socks takes on significance. The pure whiteness of a new pair of unblemished, perfectly folded socks I hold in my hand and give to a man who is completely grateful while his companions sit patiently. Who knows where they are going or where they’ve been. I see pictures of worn and blistered feet from ill fitted shoes; I try and imagine what it means to walk and walk across long passages of land in the elements; I become aware of the basic need for food, shelter, and clothing remembering social studies classes from my grade school days. What does it mean to be a mother on the border to find a safe haven so far from home, to be able to find nourishment for your children; their husbands either gone to the other side, la otra lado, or are working in parched fields in a faraway village days away from La Frontera; They sit dignified and eat slowly; I ask if may photograph. I jump into the duties of serving coffee and heating tortillas and washing dishes for the next group. I am learning about the world that is real beyond the news reports of the border. I wonder about the depersonalization of the issues and feel compelled to see and learn more. How can I in my work make a difference??? How do I help people understand and see and feel what I feel as I wave goodbye to strangers who go down the deeply shadowed sidewalk into the blaring light of the Mexican sun?? Vaya con Dios. Vaya con Dios. I hold my camera and say a silent prayer. As I say goodbye and get back onto the road to Casas Grande I see a group of religious statues , Our Lady, Saint Jude, Tweety Bird, Mickey Mouse,angels are everywhere. They seem to appear out of nowhere when I feel a strong emotion ; Everywhere the sacred and the mundane. I am back in the country I love, in the middle of Atzlan, the ancient Gran Chicimeca.I crank up the stereo with Calexico blaring it’s mix of spaghetti western and mariachi brass, breathe deep and wipe a tear from my eye.
April 1st. Rodeo in Mata Ortiz
The wind blows. It is the first hot day in the afternoon. I am directed towards the rodeo arena
across the train tracks. Men are mounted on horse back and line up in formation; a small boy in red cowboy boots ties a line across the gate; There are more baseball caps than cowboy hats. Cars, trucks, circle the arena and park around it like a drive in movie; a man drags an ice cream cart over the dirt and around; Dust, wind, speed, grace. I sit on the sidelines trying to capture the moment. I walk around and am greeted by the artist Roberto Hernandez. He and his nephew are cruising; his long, lanky, elegant frame extended from the compact car with the grace that most people here have. He adjusts the brim of hat and squints into the sun. ¿Quieres una cerveza? Timing is everything. We drink red beer s in the afternoon light, and watch the the shadows grow longer until the event is over.
April 6th, Good Friday, People Crossing, Bumps in the Road, sharp turn.
I missed the church. Emie tells me to hurry. The procession is probably by the train tracks.
The gathered crowd stands under a potpourri of colorful umbrellas in the hot sun. The priest is on his knees adjusting the weight of one of the giant crosses. A man and a woman change places; Men lifting the cross onto the shoulders of a woman; a woman stands head bowed and over the loudspeaker mounted on a pickup truck orates the stations of the cross. More heads bow, sweat is wiped, dogs wander about waiting to cross the new road; A boy I recognize from the Cabalgata carries an albino chihuahua in his arms the way a father might carry a son. His brother gives me a hug in silence. I stand apart and with; watching and feeling the weight of the reenactment of this journey. The people. The people. La Gente. Faces of all the ages. I look up the road and across the dry grass blowing in the wind. A blinding gold against azure blue sky. They move in unison, like the flock of birds in flight I saw earlier in spring. Moving together in a dance between earth and sky. A tour bus comes in the opposite direction and stops. Tourists get out on one side of the road and line up in a row with their cameras; I am not sure if they comprehend what is happening;I can’t help but wonder if this were to happen state side would people be welcomed to join in....what do they see? and feel? I am filled with emotion again; to witness, to be apart of... this is not a show, it is a window into faith, family,community...The young girl holds an image from one of the stations of the cross depicting St. Veronica wiping Jesus’ face; The image obscures her own innocence and youth. It is all surreal. The crossing of the road, the signs, the climbing of the hill, the planting of the cross, the litany, the recitation out in the open, mountains, the new spring green, young married couples hold hands trough the open gate; A grandfather takes his wife’s hand and they climb the small hill up to the chapel on the hill, their small silhouettes moving slowly and deliberately up the hill. Inside the small chapel, the images of Our Lady of Guadalupe and Santo Nino, the baby Jesus with his basket and hat look out from a rose colored interior. Burning and burnt out candles are placed with intention. Crosses are lowered and raised, candles are lit in day light. The ceremony continues, people stand clustered in different groups; holding one another closer as if it were a cold day, and brush their children's heads with their strong dark hands. Lupita Ananya, in her green dress invites to go see “The Lady”. As we walk down the hill to her daughter’s house, she tells me I am never alone. That God is always with me....I think of my mother faraway. Later at her home I join her family for a meal of enchiladas,corn and calabasa stew, and a sweet nut bread. The girl who held the image in front of her face sits to my left and smiles shyly hiding her braces. Their son in law is trying to get permission to go stateside for work. In this soft green world of Lupita’s kitchen I think of those people I met in Palomas who have crossed the border and eat soup at the Desert Humanitarian Soup Kitchen. I wonder what it must be like to leave your family and your land believing a better life is on the other side. I am a traveler going in a contrary direction finding what I’m looking for without knowing at these kitchen tables and roadside shrines decorated with plastic roses and simulated rain drops. It is the sacredness of everyday in the ordinary act of living. It is beyond time and religious belief. How can one not feel moved by the spirit and the struggle of living?? As I look back on the images I feel the weight of the symbolism I’ve seen. I reflect on the images on my computer screen a few days later; reflecting in the late night hours as the images move across my computer screen; We must help each other cross the road, there will be bumps in the road, and some signs that tell us what lies ahead.
April 7th, 2007 to Jimmy Santiago Baca
I had a wonderful day in Mata Ortiz yesterday watching, walking the stations of the cross with the village people. It was very special, and poignant in ways that as a stranger being embraced by and observing the familial relationships, watching the clouds, and feeling the earth and sky. I made some of my most power images .I have also been reading Mystic Mexico by Frank Watters as my anthro intro and wouldn't you know his describes Mexican History as an onion???? very kool....
¡¡¡Y Volver, Volver,Volver!!!
I don’t do night photography. So how do I explain what it is to be held in a valley between the Sierras under a river of stars with Orion dancing on one foot on the mountaintop?? We return from dinner in El Pueblo, which is the old Casas Grande. It is about 20 minutes to Mata Ortiz. Midway on the new road, there’s a pull off. It is nights like these I want to sear into my memory because I do not have a photograph.
I remember returning to the village with Juan Quezada after he took me into sierras. ...The land he has known like the back of his hand. Here was where he found the inspiration that would lead to the transformation and art renaissance and the legacy of the great potters of Mata Ortiz. It was the last light, and the air cool, just before the last gate we stopped and stood looking out across the valley. No noise pollution. just mountain ranges, the plains and the Pallanganes river valley. It was peaceful and magical and it was the moment when I felt I wanted to return, again and again.
“You’re not here because you want to be, it’s because it’s your destiny...”, our friend tells us. Is it a sign? Light in dark. There’s a village twinkling like an old Christmas card, a night scene with glitter sparking in the quickening darkness. there is a river, a silver line, a lone car slowly,very slowly, makes it way down the mountain from La Cueva De La Olla, from Willy, over the Sierras and to the west; it is a slow descent as we watch the moonrise from the east. Thank God for i-pods and portable speakers!!! We’ve got Hank the 3rd singing like his grandpa, George Jones, songs about Mexico, Tequila, and the pain of loving and leaving, trucking down the highways with the radio on, classical music, old Mariachis, Tres Ponchos, mexican guitar riffs and deep throated songs, a contemporary soundtrack to the magical journey pierce the heart in the middle of the night and we swirl and dance and spin into a blur under the Mexican Moonlight. LIfe is like a song; passionate, volatile, tender, and so short. How can one contain all what one can feel in a moment?? Hours go by,the moon has begun to set. My head is swimming in stories about Pancho Villa, the myths, the legends, the compassionate, the indifference and drive of men and what we can do to one another; The Good, The Bad and The Ugly There's the site of an execution where many people were shot just over there, and those whose made the ancient stone circles up on the hill, I wonder about their spirits on a night like tonight, and the hidden gold, the anti pasados, those who’ve gone before, people who looked up at these same stars millennium s ago, I think of Jaguars and multicolored pickup trucks, of water and onions, the Chinese who built the railroad, the trees that once covered these hills, the trade routes between Zuni and Paquime; a time before borders when free trade comprised of shells, feathers, corn, Rainbow Gods and Mexican Grandmothers,Quitziquatal, the feather serpent the Milky Way, where color and intelligence come from. I learn that there are two paths in life, a good path, and a better path. I look to the sky and remember nights like this in the bottom of Grand Canyon and the two become one. I think of my friends looking up at these same stars from a different shore, and feel the pulse of the universe and am in awe of the mystery.
April 18th. 2007
In my path a dead bird. Another one. It is small and delicate. A soft avocado green. It lies as if sleeping in the palm of my hand. It’s the second dead bird that has come to rest at my home. I want to photograph it. Now it lies in a floral bowel next to three red and gold mangos. I study it every time I come and go. What does it mean??? I am slightly disturb by this symbol.....and yet am compelled to embrace it...I want to make a collage with it. I imagine dried earth, crosses in blue sky, smoke blackened saints, life, death, at every bend in the road. I remember being four and my dad photographing me with a dead bird on a piece of blue paper. I remember feeling saddened...images stay with you and in time will reveal their meaning even if its thirty fives years later. I ask Jason to take my picture with the dead bird we found in front of the house. I haven’t told him yet of the new little one we found.
April 20th, 2007 from Jimmy Santiago Baca
As far as ideas and how to obtain what you're looking for, my answer is, well, that it will come when it comes, appear when it needs to appear, shape and form and materialize in a moment when you least expect it---- just keep doing what you're doing, enjoy it, bask in it, reap the lessons of life and love and generous portions of blinding beauty in each day and dive head first into the light....
April 23rd. e-mail from Jason.
Calvin: Look, a dead bird!
Hobbies: It must've hit a window.
Calvin: Isn't it beautiful? It's so delicate. Sighhh... once it's too late, you appreciate what a miracle life is. You realize that nature is ruthless and our existence is very fragile, temporary, and precious. But to go on with your daily affairs, you can't really think about that...which is probably why everyone takes the world for granted and why we act so thoughtlessly. It's very confusing. I suppose it will all make sense when we grow up.
Hobbies: No doubt.
April 23rd, 2007.
I don’t know where I am going but I know I will be lost and found.
Chile Heaven and Charreadas
Everyday I meet wonderful people who are here doing something interesting and following their passion; art, organic farming, pottery, tango dancing, archeology, antiques, flyiing, biking, hot springing. I am invited to go to the chile processing factory by my new friend Randy early Monday morning. He is here working on cordinating organic farming for his El Pinto Chile out of Alburqurque, NM. He moved here at the beginning of the month and is staying in one of Spencer and Emie’s adobe houses. He invites me to join him the next morning early. There are peach orchards, and naked fields waiting to be planted. In the middle of the desert life is being cultivated; When we arrive he has me put on a mask and hair cap and then the tour begins to see the process of washing,roasting,and cleaning of thousands of chiles. I join the workers whose arms are elbow deep in roasted green and red chiles. We communicate only through our eyes, and tub after tub of beautiful chiles are passed along; There must be over a 80 workers; Women, men, of all ages, shapes and sizes. I learn about the living organisms of EM, through a Japanese process of composting;
I am overwelmed by the colors and the smell. I want to make photographs of the pickers when it is the right season. I think about the book by Alfredo Vea’ Jr. The Silver Cloud Cafe
where he describes the Mexican and Philipino workers in California whose hands and knowledge of plants is a lost art when it comes to the automation of contemporary farming techniques. He descrbes how the asparagas and workers have a relationship that is lost. Here I imagine being a chili washed by grandmother’s hands, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat another chile without remembering this experience. Do people know where their salsa comes from? Do they think of the people who plant and pick their food? So much is connected; So much unrealized when you buy it all packaged up off the shelf. I close my eyes and breathe deep; the smell of heaven .
I return down the road in the morning sun. In a field to my left I see two cowboys riding circles. I pull off to the side of the road, grab the camera and make my way to the fence; I motion to my camera in a gesture to ask permission to photograph. They come riding up to me. Introductions are made and the eldest, Oscar shakes his head, “SI, no problema...”
Before they leave they return again to invite me to a rodeo practice; Getting and following directions has proven to be an adventure in becoming lost and found; “Si, Si...,” I say; gesturing as I go over the directions; “Mas Tarde, entonses.” We wave goodbye....I figure I better go find the dirt road to the right while it’s still early so as not to be lost later. I speak and ask a gardener near the tracks and a man going to work; each one helps get me closer to the destination. Visions of handsome Mexican cowboys fill my head; I think of the images I have still yet to make and previsualize. I find the empty arena, and the stables with only the horses and the care taker there. Again there is a formality of introductions, and questions and exchanges of names, and where are you from, and what are you doing here? I return in the afternoon earlier than later. There are four young women getting their horses ready; there are only the two cowboys I met earlier but it’s not what I expected. This is Charreada practice; Oscar is the coach of this amazing sport preformed by eight young women in their mid to late teens. Pricella Dominguez introduces herself right away in perfect English; She goes to the Mormon School that is one of the best schools in the region. She offers her expertise and to answer any questions I may have. Next thing I know there’s I am asked to mount a horse and I ride into the arena with her. The light is gorgeous, there are only a couple mothers there; Oscar takes the place of the girls who have not shown up for prac tice. We make at least 15 rounds the arena; Pricella asks me if I am married; I say no, I once was. “Ah,” she says, “single and ready to mingle”. She speaks openly in a soft voice expressing her love for the sport, her passion for horses and the love of her country.” She asks me what religion I am. We talk about coming of age, the end and the beginning; I tell of a similiar conversation I had when I was her age with my Spanish teacher, Sr. Lazano; He still sits on my shoulder whenever I speak spanish or discuss the persuit of happiness. I tell her that to never forget her love for her passion and country as no matter what happens in life it will be her strength. Fifth round she says, “ I am so glad to meet you; even though we’re different I think we think alike.” We express our love for Our Lady of Guadalupe, and I feel surprized and moved by being right here riding in the arena....we come to a pause, and politely she asks that I go into the stands, “We will begin now” and with a commanding voice, she rallies the other girls into formation and the horse dance begins. Fast circles, quick stops, dust flying, horse hair, and the strength of young women and horses, muscles and grace and fine horsemanship; “VA!!,” she yells across the circle of interwoven patterns of circles and lines; I am inspired and feel moved by this unexpected gift. This morning I was in Chile heaven, and now I am witnessing a coming of age passage; It is more than I could have imagined. The day ends back at the stables where the light in the stables is a perfects studio; Gustavo, the young handsome Cabellgerango, the right word for cowboy, carries their saddles; waters the horses and stands patiently in the light. You know when you get the shot; you know and feel it when the magic shimmers across your lens; This is the right place at the right time. Pricella gives me a kiss goodbye, and I feel like a long lost sister, or mother I’ve never been. I feel the love for Mexico and her people swell in my heart like a wave as the sun sets gold into the fields and I turn down the road where I once was lost and now have been found.
Friday Morning, April 27,2007
morning coffee with the last of the imported half and half. sunlight streams into the Museum house, an old adobe painted in shades of blue. I have come to love the morning ritual of opening the old wooden double doors to greet the warmth of the sun as each new day holds all the possibilities of learning and seeing something new. What will it be? There is a flurry of excited greetings with the local stray dogs who live on my street; Bochito, the golden dog who is never too far from my door is the most enthusiastic greeter of them all. He hunkers in the shade in the afternoon, and sits like a sentinel watching the comings and goings of locals and strangers at night, a comforting shadow in the streetlight as he waits for the biweekly visits of Sr. Dewight, the geologist who likens himself to the old gringo whose affection for Buchi is expressed in his nightly noctural visits with his half of a T-bone steak.
Saturday morning, April 27th,2007
This morning there is the smell of rain in the air. The gardener, Chiparo is back under the green trees making the garden grow. New Nopales, birds, watered earth. I remember sitting at the bottom of Grand Canyon on a February morning. My boatman and friend, Queso, was playing his guitar, and the teenagers were doing homework. Queso began singing a song by Robert Earl Keen Jr, Mariano..I have been haunted by this song for over two years now. When I saw Chiparo in my backyard carrying and planting the catus and with his shovel over his shoulder I was struck with the recognition of similarity. I asked him if I could do his portrait in my home studio, which is a north facing window. He is 79 years old and still works hard; his face reminds me of the Navajos, the Apaches, the Olmecs...His is the face I now think of when I hear this amazing song that
still haunts me.
Robert Earl Keen, Jr. Mariano Lyrics
The man outside he works for me, his name is Mariano
He cuts and trims the grass for me he makes the flowers bloom
He says that he comes from a place not far from Guanajuato
Thats two days on a bus from here, a lifetime from this room.
I fix his meals and talk to him in my old broken spanish
He points at things and tells me names of things I can't recall
Sometimes I just can't but help but wonder who this man is
And if when he is gone will he'll remember me at all
I watch him close he works just like a piston in an engine
He only stops to take a drink and smoke a cigarette
When the day is ended, I look outside my window
There on the horizon, Mariano's silhouette
He sits upon a stone in a south-easterly direction
I know my charts I know that he is thinking of his home
I've never been the sort to say I'm in to intuition
But I swear I see the faces of the ones he calls his own
Their skin is brown as potters clay, their eyes void of expression
Their hair is black as widow's dreams, their dreams are all but gone
They're ancient as a vision of a sacrificial virgin
Innocent as crying from a baby being born
They hover around a dying flame and pray for his protection
Their prayers are all but answered by his letters in the mail
He sends them colored figures that he cuts from strips of paper
And all his weekly wages, saving nothing for himself
It's been a while since I have seen the face of Mariano
The border guards they came one day and took him far away
I hope that he is safe down there at home in Guanajuato
I worry though I read there's revolution every day
