Stefanie and I are getting a lot of good artwork done in between the constant steam of fiestas. September is the big month for civic and religious festivals here during which they celebrate their patron saint (San Miguel the Archangel) in the 'Fiestas Patrias'. Part of the tradition is to stay up all night and blow off a ton of fireworks and 4 am. Sounds perfectly reasonable, right? Well, not only do they light them at four in the morning but they also find a way to include everyone in the danger.

We were hanging out in the front of the plaza, sitting with our backs to the fence around the church facing the square, sleepily waiting for the big finale when a few of the guys in yellow-shirts behind us in the church courtyard said something in Spanish to the people around us. Most people got up to leave and some (including us) got up but stayed nearby, hesitant to give up our prime viewing spots. After the subsequent events we now think what they were saying was basically; "Get away. Move very far away. This is your FINAL WARNING!” because they started slinging packs of exploding bottle rockets over the fence and into the crowd. Getting the message at last, we found ourselves trapped in a little pocket by the fence with a group of ten or twelve wide-eyed members of the viewing public. Protected somewhat by tall shrubbery, we watched as the plaza in front of us filled with exploding ordinance as the people scattered. Okay, we can wait this out right? It went on for about an HOUR! No hyperbole here, a full sixty minutes of riotous fizzing, zinging, exploding fireworks. When some sparks started to shower down on us we decided to break for it. So, timing the volleys expertly like I had been drilled to do during operations training at Langley, I grabbed Stefanie (now under full jacket head-wrap) and sprinted for cover. We joined a larger crowd somewhat downrange and stood gaping back at the chaos now under way in the plaza. The wind shifted and blew the thick cloud off for a moment and you could see foolish and more lubricated youths running around in the free-fire zone, spitting directly in death's eye. One of the yellow-shirted bomb throwers recognized our little peaceful pocket off to the side and began to adjust his telemetry. One of his packages of mayhem fine-tuned its way at me and a firecracker exploded right in front of my chest. I wasn't hurt so much as disappointed. I just stood there; this big, grinning American idiot with ringing ears.

After sixty full minutes of that (punctuated with aerial fireworks at regular intervals), the yellow-togged ones heaved their last bunker busters. I, of course, had to yell out "Is that all ya got?" which only the American photo hound next to me enjoyed since I don't know the joke in the native tongue.

So we are finally taking formal Spanish lessons. One of our flashcard drills was to practice verbs in combination. We were working on "querer"; to want. I was supposed to say it in English as a question with another verb from the flashcard. My card said "bajar"; to lower. So I said "Do you want to lower the gun?" which Stefanie found extremely funny and regained her composure at length to translate (it's "Quiere bajar el pistolo?" by the way, important to know).

This life has a wonderful rhythm. I can get kind of giddy-happy sometimes working in the studio. When I do, I do a little dance over to Stef at her table and give her a kiss on the cheek. I tell her this is what I think I've lived my whole life to get to.

Now I just have to earn it.

— Dave

"If the day and the night are such that you greet them with joy, and life emits a fragrance, like flowers and sweet-scented herbs--and is more elastic, starry, and immortal--that is your success."
--Henry David Thoreau

For more photos of the parade of traditional dancers, floats and musicians which occurs on the final day of the Fiestas Patrias see the special photo page

Necesito, quiero, tengo que, me gusta, voy a. I need, I want, I have to, I like, I’m going. I need to learn Spanish. I want to learn Spanish. I have to learn Spanish. I like to learn Spanish. I’m going to learn Spanish, even if it kills me.

Hasn’t yet.

We’re kind of on a break down here since the beginning of October, gearing up on español and easing off of creating for the moment. That’s not to say we’ve stopped painting. It’s just that after 3 hours of Spanish 3 times a week our brains are like puddin’. And then of course there’s homework and studying. So we’re on hold. Or we’ve slowed down.

Necesito descansar. I need to rest.

Explorations took us into new parts of the pueblo this week. San Miguel is still a small place by way of comparison to other cities like Queretaro or Monterey, so it’s really a pueblo, a small rural town with lots of history. There were silver mines not far from town in the 1800’s that enriched several families who remain as the patricians here today. Most of the Mexicans in San Miguel are of working class families, however, and our house is in the heart of one such neighborhood.

Our walk on late Saturday afternoon took us up the hill to our east and past a lane of new houses where Norte Americanos live into the Valle de Maize, a colonia with a large population of indians. We continued upward still onto an unexplored street that brought memories of Morocco, though I’m hard pressed to say why. A pup peeked out at us from his terrace above, and we watched, mesmerized, as a young niña twirled blissfully in the street ahead of us in her confirmation gown. We came out on a busy main street and then turned onto yet another steep street headed upward. By the top of the hill we were breathless. Families were out visiting on their doorsteps, children ran playing tag. We became the obstruction in their game, running and giggling around us as we walked and they tried to catch each other. A little further on, and a few more turns, the streets sloped precipitously downward, the parroquia visible below just lighting up in the coming twilight. It felt like a whole new place in those different surroundings. We came out on Cruz de la Pueblo, a small street that is only for walking since it is a winding stairway, much like the crooked street in San Francisco. The houses along it had cozy entryways, and the absence of traffic made the street feel peaceful and secluded. We had a welcoming committee of one, a local dog who exuberantly greeted us and lead us down the stairs to the eventual conclusion on the busy street below.

So we’re becoming more familiar with our little pueblo. Our Spanish lessons are making us more comfortable with the language so we can say more than “Como esta,” and “Buenos dias.” That I was able to understand our maid, Chella, tell me that her daughter’s Quince is next week on October 16th, gives me hope. We’re excited to have been given an invitation for this auspicious occasion. A new opportunity to practice our Spanish!

How do you say, “I’m freaking out?”

— Stef

We pass our days in blissful ignorance of the new fall television schedule. Semi-detached from “el norte” culture in general, although keeping in tune with news from our RSS news aggregator which gleans the latest offerings from The New York Times, NPR and the Christian Science Monitor. Stef and I gather ‘round the laptop every morning to call up stories about rockets in Gaza, post-debate polls from the U.S., the election in Afghanistan and the like. In this way we observe a ritual that reaffirms our status as informed citizens, though truth be told this journey was spurred by a desire to step back and see what life might offer outside our hidebound stateside habits. If we are looking towards a different life that shouldn’t mean that we lose sight of the world. We review the articles that the news aggregator drops in our file and Stefanie and I toss around our take on the previous day’s events. At times I’m convinced the lady upstairs thinks we are having a domestic disturbance with me on the short end since Stef is never shy to vocalize her displeasure with the current state of politics in the Estadidos Unidos. At some point we might have to tell our housemate that Stef is pissed at George Bush and not me.

One thing we’re very grateful for is this chance to unplug from our mindless fidelity to television. Where previously we’d sit for two or three or four… maybe five hours every night watching whatever was on, we’ve now allowed ourselves the luxury to do without. The first few weeks brought on a panic reaction in me since I’m usually the one who will sit and wear out the surf button on the remote long after my corner of genuine awareness realizes that nothing is really on. By our second or third week here I’d given up on the three channels of programming that come through this TV set and found an entire universe opening outside the now silent appliance. Doing this weblog has helped. It requires regular maintenance and bi-weekly short essay creativity (Stef and I alternate with our weekly postings). So, in combination with my reborn reading skills and occasional forays into the fine art of conversation, there’s more than enough to fill an evening.

One of those recent discussions concerned an issue that cuts close to us in the creative process. We both seem to see better results in "throwaway" projects; her with her watercolor studies and me with my silk scarves. I wanted to know what it is about the bigger art projects that makes them more susceptible to a stiff or stilted end result. Why do we load so much baggage about being "significant" or "important" onto a piece of work just because we spend more time on it and it's larger in scale (physically, thematically)? If I'm making a scarf its; "gonna knock out this little thing, no problem", if I'm making a full-size batik painting it becomes, "gotta get this right, its now or never. The world hangs in the balance". The results are telling; the "small" pieces are fresher, lucid and exciting. The big-time piece is stiff and frosty. So the rhetorical question (that I still want answered) is: how can I bring that "small piece" approach to the larger works, the ones that I have to complete correctly eventually? A shift in mental approach seems indicated although that's easier to analyze than to practice.

Stefanie tells me its all part of mastering the process. She’s right in that mastery allows the artist to carve out a comfort zone where he/she can operate freely, but to me that’s another huge pitfall. When I look at something I've made that looks like I knew what I was doing, right beside that sense of gratification is a big "DANGER!" sign because it represents an endpoint instead of a process. Doesn't mastery equate with boredom and stagnation? Stefanie says one doesn’t necessarily lead to the other. She feels that mastery of technique allows you freedom and confidence when confronted with a new project. But I’ve got the exploration of new technique in the “primary requirement” position. Do I really want to repeat something simply because I know how its done?

New approaches require dealing with the intimidation brought on by the process of exploring and analyzing new technique. In dealing with those fears the good German in me will readily OVER-analyze (to defend I suppose). A bit of dissection is like exploratory surgery -— possibly constructive. Too much dissection requires the ultimate sacrifice. It’s the old problem of satisfying the tiger while sparing the lamb. I've often thought that a good piece of art should be carefully thought out and spontaneously executed. But again, easier said than done in combining the two.

Another way to express this problem is to say that the goal is to present a provocative mystery. Not a mystery that is presented with a fully analyzed, explicit cover letter, And certainly not an impossibly unreachable mystery that is obscure, or purely solipsistic. But a full-blown mystery that involves us all, that is recognizable. One that provides a small point of contact to give heart to our need to discover.

— Dave

Warren, our Spanish teacher, broke the news to the class last week that we would have to resign ourselves to not understanding every word of Spanish spoken to us. Welcome to my world, I wanted to say. I’ve known for some time that learning a new language is a lot like the experience of late-deafened or hearing impaired people. You learn to rely on other things, like body language and context, because you know that words have become fugitive. Indeed even now with the superior technology of my cochlear implant I remain the quintessential conceptualizer. Over the years conceptualizing has become automatic through necessity. Since I still don’t get everything I rely heavily on context, especially in certain circumstances. The challenge for me now with Spanish is being able to discern the key words to begin with. I know that Dave understands more than me when we’re out and about, so the hearing thing is an issue. If I can learn enough words and imbed them in my brain, they hopefully will come forward as comprehensible words.

After our final Spanish class on Wednesday, Dave and I hopped on the express bus to Guanajuato, a 2-hour trip to the west. During the month of October Guanajuato hosts the Cervantino Festival, an international celebration of the arts in honor of Miguel de Cervantes, author of Don Quixote. Over the years it has become the major art event in Latin America, attracting artists worldwide. With events and exhibits in dance, visual arts, theater, cinema, and performance art there’s something for everyone.

By the end of August there were no hotel rooms available during any of the weekends so we were forced to look at weekday events instead. Going during the week turned out to be fortuitous since the crowds were far less and we could stroll through exhibits at our leisure. The city still seemed confusing with its winding streets and houses clinging to the steep cleft of a valley. A labyrinth of tunnels cuts beneath the city so that any innate sense of direction is pretty much quashed when you pop up from below into the sunlight. With map and Cervantino Festival program in hand, we made our way through the loop of the downtown area to some of the major art exhibits for the festival including the Regional Museum of Guanajuato at the Alhóndiga and the Museum of the Pueblo of Guanajuato. The highlight of the trip, however, was the performance of the National Ballet of Spain on our second night. We’d purchased tickets on the web 6 weeks earlier and decided to treat ourselves to tickets on the main level of the auditorium. The seats ended up being front row and center, so the stage and dancers opened out in front of us without obstructions. The dance, a flamenco rather than classic en pointe created by Antonio Gades, one of the most renowned flamenco choreographers in the world, was the story of peasants rising up against repressive feudal lords. It was like a dream watching the dancers so close, their dresses swirling, the fantastic foot movement so visible and near as to catch every nuance and feel each cadence.

On Friday, our last day, we decided to go to Valenciana just north of the city. Valenciana is one of the major silver areas of the country and a big draw for tourists, as we were to discover. Our first order of business was to determine how to get there. Our taxi driver into the city couldn’t take us but said there were buses from downtown. (This David pieced together from what he understood the driver to say.) At the tourist kiosk I told the lady behind the counter that we wanted to go to Valenciana and wanted to know how to get there. Taxi? Bus? No doubt my grammar usage was ugly but the light in her eyes felt like I’d just discovered magic. She understood! After following her directions on the map and asking again at another kiosk we were able to find our bus stop with the help of a friendly somewhat bilingual Mexican gentleman. Soon the bus came and everyone sitting around the area suddenly crammed on the bus. Fare, 3 pesos each.

Valenciana turned out to be a major stop for tourist buses, hence high pressure tactics from the venders to buy silver jewelry. We opted not to take a guided tour of the mine and just walked around. It’s always a trade off, as Dave says, between getting more information though at the cost of being led to every inch of the place or getting what you can on your own at your own pace. The grounds were park-like with flower-covered walls of old ruins and a grand vista of Guanajuato below. In the center rose the elevator tower to transport the miners deep underground. Dave and I stood at the edge peering down into the abyss, a black endless nothing that hungrily swallowed the steel cables stretched from the tower above. Moments later, the cables and pulleys began to move and the elevator ascended and delivered 6 or 8 miners for their mid-day break.

Back in San Miguel we’re again studying Spanish, though on our own now. I managed to comprehend a few things said to me while in Guanajuato, including a conversation with a caricaturist who drew our “portraits.” (Who are those people?) Maybe after 100 repetitions the words will sound familiar and break through. Meanwhile, we’re about to experience Day of the Dead, the Mexican celebration of death as a part of life.

Que le vaya bien.

— Stef