Socializing in a plaza

Except for their Spanish, the girls could be any typical group of young adolescents in the U.S., talking and squealing in a tight clique. They’re dressed in school uniforms and gathered along the cramped sidewalk of Quebrada just above the bus stop where I’m waiting. I watch them crowd together, then fall back from one another, laughing. Their conversations seem urgent, their friendships kinetic, like they’ve just run a mile and are out of breath. Whispers and shouts emit from the group, and their eyes collectively watch each other and whoever is around them. Then suddenly it’s time to go. Kisses all around and peels of excited laughter as they pinch each others’ cheeks in fun. The kissing gives them away, as definitely not Norte Americanos.

I was caught in a funeral procession again last week. They’re more solemn here and a curiosity to those used to the sterilized grief of a parade of cars with orange flags marked ‚”funeral” adorning their hoods. As I stepped onto Quebrado I saw the slow parade of people dressed mostly in black walking through the street ahead, en mass, black umbrellas over head. Theirs was the largest group I’ve seen so far. The first I witnessed many weeks ago came marching down Insurgentes passed the Biblioteca following a flower-laden hearse. There was no question as to what they were. Their tears were enough to tell me what I was watching. Cars went around them, never stopping or hardly slowing. At home, I’d been taught to stop the car as funeral processions went by. So I stood at the curb and removed my hat in their honor. A little huddled knot of people unafraid to show their grief so publicly.

Horses in the campo

“Hay Ingles/Espanól diccionario?” I asked the clerk at the bookstore. She told me “Si,” and handed me a copy of the one dictionary they had. Leafing through it I apologized, “Mi Espanól es muy mal.” I was on my way for a hair cut, and while I once again had looked up “length” (largo) and “grow” (crecer) and “deaf” (sordo) and “bangs” (flequillos), I’d neglected to translate “layers,” as in, “I want my bangs layered.” So, I was on a mission to get the correct phrase. My last hair cut I’d used the word “estratos” only to get a look of pure confusion from my stylist. I managed to pantomime what I wanted, but I knew I needed something more definitive this time.

Art sales in the lavenderia

Looking at the clerk at the bookstore, I took off my hat and pointed to my bangs. “Quiero corte mi flequillos en estratos. Como se dice?” I asked her, pointing to the Spanish translation of “layers.” She wrinkled her brow and got that same look of confusion. “No uno largo,” I said – not one length – using my fingers as a prop. She said something incomprehensible and then demonstrated different lengths along the side of her head. “Si,” I said, realizing she understood what I was after. “Como se dice?” How do you say it? She repeated but not to where I could understand. Another hearing loss moment. “Escribe, por favor.” Write it, please. I handed her a pen and she uncovered a scrap of paper. “En capas,” she wrote out. I repeated it to her satisfaction. “Si,” she nodded and smiled. “Muy amable,” I told her. (You are very kind.) “Muchas gracias,” I added as I tripped out the door with my newest magic phrase.

Okay, New Year’s Resolution: no more heavy, philosophical bullcrap. Just the facts as I see ‘em ma’am. Though that may not work out too well since I can’t seem to resist those meanderings, at least every now and then. Then maybe… okay REVISED New Year’s Resolution #1B: not so much heavy, philosophical bullcrap. Keep it light and tight. No one wants to spend ten minutes of their valuable allotment of discretionary time reading someone else’s brain noise.

Morning sky over San Miguel

The problem here is the same as Popeye’s and everybody else’s: I am what I am. Just bear with me and I promise to mix it up.

One promise I made myself for the new year was to get this weblog up to speed. Thanks to some new software you can now try to toss me a line when I go out dog-paddling in the deep end. Post your comments and save me from drowning in simile.

Welcome to the New Year! The “new” thing is very big in this world, so no wonder this holiday is popular. Western Culture keeps us hungry for it. Keeping on top of it is our lifestyle and you’re some dotty old crank if you aren’t right there.

The sharp point of “the new” is always staring us down as artists. While making a fresh instance in art is vital, there’s really nothing new under the sun, so finding a context and then developing a viewpoint seems to me more important. Or else you’ll go around with a big, neon, self-conscious arrow pointing to your “new art”; all shiny and new but trivial at last. It’s like the “New Toy at Christmas” phenomena. The toy that gets twenty minutes of attention Christmas morning and then passes onto a heap of mediocre plastic.

Stefanie in the campo

At some point as we age the opposite value makes its stand: Old is amazing! I see it as the ultimate test of value: been around the block a few times, still kicking and looking good! (well maybe just the first two parts). We met many great people at our art fair this week but some of our favorites were well up there on the chronological scale. One lady told us she painted watercolors for ten years but gave it up because “I decided I didn’t know what the hell I was doing!”. Another charming lady told us she decided not to buy land here thirty years ago. “I could shoot myself. In fact I’m surprised I haven’t!”

Sunset blaze on templo edifice

These old beauties tell me the wonderful part about the age I’m entering. Its time to have fun with my foibles and weakenings, let go of the pride that is death to humor and the unflinching opinions about what is real quality that make me a snob and get on with opening my senses to this big fat juicy life.

Smiles at the art fair

Sure we love our new things; new house, new car, The New Christie Minstrals. But god forbid we Americans learn a new language. Talking to a lady from San Luis Potosi (who spoke multiple languages), I lamented the lack of foreign language study in the States as well as my own inability to master Spanish. She asked me if I knew what a person who spoke three languages was called “trilingual”, Two?, “bilingual” One? “gringo”.

Happy New Year. May it bring you new ways to see growing older.