Dec. 3rd, 2005

Back.

Back from another Mexico, Santa Maria de Alotepec, clouds continually passing above, below and through. It hides in the mountains east of Oaxaca, and is home for many Mixe, (pronounced Mi Hay). Their language sounds like Portuguese, Russian, and Inuktitut to my anglo ear. They were never conquered by the Spanish, and just taking the road there, you know why. It takes about 4 hours for the 40 k drive to the next town, Ayutla. I said to Antonio, why don't we take the car. He said no, with more conviction than usual. I'm glad we didn't take the car. The road is in terrible shape, but it seems they are widening it, so that the Spanish can fiinish the conquest maybe. I wonder how much the road defines this people. Either way, cutting a road into the side of a steep mountain made of mud and stone seems to be causing really a lot of environmental damage. Like 100 feet up from the road, and maybe 1000 feet below it. There is a lot of rain here, and the road is washed out regularly, and now, with the widening maybe will wash out even more, but I don't really know that much about road engineering. The place is a funny mix of technology and non technology. There is only one telephone line into town, and when someone gets a call, the woman who answers the phone shouts into a megaphone, "Telefono para Antonio" or whoever. I don't know if the person calling is supposed to wait until you get there, or if she takes a message, and you call back later. At the school they have an internet connection via satellite, which gives reasonable speed when it's not cloudy. Apparently the connection is disrupted by the clouds. There is something poetic in that, but not if you're wanting to send an email. Someone mentioned the time they weren't able to go on line for a whole month because they were constantly surrounded by clouds. Forget about the internet, I would have gone completely crazy to never see more than 100 meters. The school has 20 newish computers, and they teach html and how to use Word and things like that. I think there is a bit of inspiration taken from the well connected Zapatista movement as well.

School in the clouds

Bananas

Going Bananas
My home for the three nights is a floor in a house that is owned by the relative of the principal of the school where Antonio is painting a mural. On entering the room, there is an intense fermenting rotting banana scene happening over the altar for the day of the dead. There have been bananas hanging from the ceiling for the past month, leaking their contents onto the floor in this humid climate. Nothing seems dry here, the clouds passing through make sure of that. The floor is damp, but we have woven palm mats to sleep on. I bought a foamy from the camping store in Coyoacan, and glad I did. There is zero cushioning in the mats. I still don't sleep so well, but that's OK.

There are three murals that Antonio is painting, 2 up by the class rooms and 1 by the dining room. He had been here a few years earlier and painted one at the municipal office near the church. The murals in the municipio (town hall) are magnificent.

Turkeys are native to this part of the world, and there are a lot of them here. How do people know which ones belong to whom? Some of them are tied to a stake, others just have their legs tied with a short piece of string, so they can't run very fast.

While helping or watching Antonio, one of the women working in the dining area came out to chase away one of the stray dogs that circle the kitchen/dining room for scraps. She was wearing high square heels and had her toothbrush in one hand. She picked up a rock in the other and threw it at the dog. I made a painting of this scene.


Zone of Extreme Embarrassment
I wanted to photograph a woman's black hair on a white blouse, which is typical for many women here, so that I could use the photo as a background for the above painting. Anyways, I asked one of the younger women if I could photograph her hair, but her reaction was of extreme embarrassment. It was as though I'd asked her to pose nude in public. I felt really bad, because obviously there's something I don't understand about what constitutes a faux pas. This was some kind of faux pas. Oh well. It actually made me a bit angry, not with the woman, but with the idea that she was made to feel so vulnerable by the question. I guess having your hair paid attention to by a stranger is kind of weird. I think maybe I confused small town friendliness with trust. Of course you say hello to everyone you pass in the street or wherever you are.

Band Practice
At 4 am a band starts playing, trombones, bass drum, trumpets, everything. First I thought it was a recording, being played in accordance with the crazy schedules people keep here. I tried to keep my dream going, but then I noticed that the music wasn't by any means perfect, a few mistakes, a few pauses, and realized that it was actual live music. I guess they want a half hour of practice before going to work. There's a big fiesta on the 12th of December.

Heading Out
Very early in the morning the trucks leave to go into Ayutla, and I guess this is so that people can connect with the buses that go from Ayutla to Oaxaca at 7 or so. It's a 4 hour drive, as I said before. You can stand on the side of the road, and hope to hop into a truck, but you're better off if you tell the driver you want to go the day before, and they will come and find you. They tell you to be ready at 4 am. At 3:05 am, they (there are between 4 and 8 trucks making the trip) drive around the village honking their horns to make sure that you don't miss the ride. Inevitably, they have to go into the houses, and pull people drunk with sleep into enough of a conscious state so that they can get into their clothes and into the truck. Antonio warned me about the fact that when they said 4, they actually meant 3. So I asked Pancho, the day before, it's 3 o'clock right? and he says no, it's 4. At 3:19 am we are on the way out of town after driving around it about three times honking the whole way.

Coffee
Coffee is grown here. It grows on bushes and then is dried and dehusked. Usually on a small area between the road and your front door. Later it is roasted. Somehow, and this is typical of a lot of things like oranges and chocolate, that the way coffee is enjoyed in it's natural habitat has nothing to do with how the rest of the world experiences it. Imagine a barely brown, slightly bitter liquid, that has been boiling for some amount of time, with really a lot of sugar added to it, and allowed to cool to slightly warmer than tepid. It was so different from the caffe latte at Cafe Italia on St. Laurent in Montreal, that it's not even appropriate to try to compare them. My initial reaction was this is the worst coffee in the world, but I have come to see this as a different drink altogether, although it has the same name as the one I know.

Dec. 5th, 2005

Another one of those schedule things. I spent the early afternoon getting to the Migracion office to have my tourist visa extended, seeing as I was only given 90 days at the airport when I arrived. It takes forever to get there, it's in the west end of Polanco, maybe even into the next district. It turns out they're only open from 9 to 1 and it's 2:30. A whole afternoon lost. How much does this happen to Mexicans?

I buy an atlas for the school in Alotepec. I want them to know where Canada and Quebec are, that there is more than the US to the north. I don't understand why book stores don't have atlases. None of them.... I went to 4 stores. I end up buying a 1979 one from a book store that sells used books. They said they didn't have any, but there it was, in the window. Geography isn't a strong point here. Perhaps because the physical experience of it is so overwhelming - like 40 km trips in the mountains that take 4 hours, and hours and hours of travelling across the city.

Feeling a bit lonely, and unable to get into any kind of social scene. I phoned Monique M last night, and it was great to talk. I just want to be able to go to a bar and chat with someone. I like beer and yakking, and I'm missing it. She said, just go to the bar anyway, so I did. Didn't end up talking with anyone except the waitress right at the end, when I paid the bill. She spotted me for the gringo that I am and wouldn't let me even try my Spanish. I asked her why her English is so good. She said she learned it from watching Friends on TV. And I learned french from reading cereal boxes at breakfast. Although you're more likely to get the accent right from watching TV.

Dec. 6th, 2005

Went to a terrible movie today, if it had been TV, I wouldn't have lasted more than 10 minutes. La Mujer de mi Hermano... The wife of my brother. Somehow I thought the translation was "the mother of my brother", which is much more interesting. It is really a tele novela, a soap opera. I went with Suzanne R. We went to a cantina afterwards and had a few beers, there was a soccer game on and the home team seemed to be scoring to the joy of everyone in the bar. Very very noisy, along with the trio that was playing music right next to us. Almost impossible to talk.

Also was invited to be part of the student critiques and stayed for a few. Much of the work was sooo unfinished that it was hard to offer real support, because everything about the works was in some vague future time of realization. I also get tired more quickly of long periods of speaking Spanish. Tomorrow, more.

Enjoying reading the Refus Global, it would be great to bring this text to here.

Dec. 7th, 2005

Riding a bike is exciting here. I'm finding it hard not to throw myself right into the traffic, even though bicycles are so invisible to the typical DF driver. The cars are often not moving very fast, so I just pedal hard and ride right in with them. I want people to see me getting around on a bike, and thinking, "Maybe that's a good way to get around". Although perhaps the way I ride turns people right off that idea. Today a man asked me about my helmet, how much it costs etc. He said it's a good idea to have one. Yup.

I keep imagining the crash that I'm sure I'll have one day, when the car smashes into me and I fly into the windshield. I just hope I can jump up enough not to lose my leg on the bumper.

The work in the class was more finished today... A woman made quite a nice embroidered quilt with text and images embroidered out of her own hair into the material.

Couldn't seem to get the bad painting right. So I made another one that was less ambitious. The bad one's on the left. Too busy or something, but now that I see it in my carrying box, it has its own charm. The box keeps them from being destroyed in my knapsack. It's an image of a man falling, and a woman ready to catch him. It's tragic.

Dec. 8th, 2005

The Immigration Office.

Here's how it goes. The office is open from 9-1. I leave the apartment at 11:15 and arrive there around 12:15 after taking bus-metro-bus. I walk around the lobby, there are crowds of people, anxious people with sweaty hands holding piles of carefully ordered papers and photos. I hesitantly stand in one huge line until I see a desk with the "Ampliacion de visa de turista" - that's where I want to go. I make it to the front of the line, which isn't long, and the man says, you need this form, fill it out here and here, and come back. He is marking on a photocopy of a form to show me where to sign. There's only a couple of things to fill out, so I think sure, I can do it right here. But rats, I don't have a pen. I go outside and there's a little magazine - candy roadside shack selling photocopies and some pens. They seem to be having trouble with the photocopy machine he's got an anxious person in front of him and the toner cartridge in one hand, papers in the other... I get the pen, go back inside and sign the form, and head back to the desk. Wait... Nobody else has this photocopied form, the one the other people are giving to this desk is in color. Then something from the guys explanation which I didn't really follow too well finally makes sense. I have to go to a photocopy place to get the official form. Strange that the official place won't give you one. So I'm outside again walking with that tourist walk and look, and someone says, you need the SAT-5? I say yes. She says come this way... I go to this photocopy place and at the desk, the man says it will be 25 pesos for the form. I say forget it, why would I pay 25 pesos for three sheets of paper? I go to another photocopy place... they're all right beside each other, and ask for the forms. She says, printed? I say no, just the form. 5 pesos later I'm back at the Migracion office and am filling out my forms with my new Bic pen. I stand in line once more. One of the other people in line sees my forms and says, you can't give them handwritten forms, they will do it for you at the photocopy place. Oh... That's why they cost 25 pesos. I go back to the second place I went to. It's only 15 pesos here. Then the woman at the computer says that I need to go to the bank to pay and they will stamp the form. The Bank? Why would you pay the bank for the government business? Maybe it's a robbery thing, and they don't want wads of cash in the building. OK, the Bank. It is now 1:15 and the office closes at 1, but you can bring your form in until 1:30. It is a ScotiaBank. another block away. There are 15 people in line. I can only imagine how this is going to go. Another desperate looking woman clutching her SAT 5 form tries to evade the lineup, but I hold my place and she goes to the back of the line. At 1:28 I am out of the bank and by 1:29 I am back in the Migracion building. I sit down at the ampliacion desk and the woman looks at my papers, and looks at me. I say I want to stay until the end of January. She just looks at me, then goes away and comes back. She takes my passport and says Please wait a moment.Then she comes back and says, You can stay until the 28 of March. Signs my tourist thing and that's it. I had the idea later that she was waiting for me to speed the process up with a little tip, but I didn't get it. I also think they moved the money thing to the bank to prevent the employees from handling the money or perhaps adding a "service charge" to the fees. To be fair, I'm probably wrong about the woman at the office wanting a tip, she seemed like a nice person and was being professional, but maybe she was wondering why I wanted to stay or something, and I never said anything about that. I doubt she was coming on to me.

The photocopy which I signed, thinking that was all that was needed

The copy that I wrote on .

The final version with the bank stamp and computer generated text.

Photos.

What am I doing with these photos? These works don't feel important, like the Refus Global is important, like they could change the world. But changing the world is too big. What am I trying to capture? What can I capture? Is capture the right way of saying it? I don't want to own anything, just borrow it for a while. Life is borrowed. It gets handed to us, then we have to hand it back. Along the way it just leaks out. I just want to know the present. Me. Something beautiful. I want to be part of something beautiful. It's hard to be a beautiful man.

Dec. 11th, 2005

The Virgin of Guadelupe.

I think tomorrow's a holiday. The patron saint of Mexico city is being celebrated tonight. A constant barrage of firecrackers and fireworks. This happens almost every day here, but tonight is especially intense. This audio was made at 12:10 am on Dec. 12th.

Dec. 14th, 2005

Fresh rubber gloves and Humiliation

Very warm today, like 25 degrees C. The Christmas thing is hard to imagine in this weather. The weather. The pollution is bothering my eyes. On Monday, I wanted to find an opthamologist to see if he could check them, because I'm having a bit of eye muck, makes it harder to see at night. I just went into a regular doctors office to see if he could refer me to an opthamologist, but he said, if it's just irritation, he could have a look. The office was a lot cleaner and better looked after than the walk-in clinics in Montreal. He even put on fresh gloves. I should, however have been a little more on the ball and stuck to my plan of seeing an opthamologist. He didn't really look that hard, but said I had a small infecton, prescribed some antibiotic eyedrops and said come back on Thursday, there would be no charge for that visit. He charged pretty much what a private consultation in Canada would have cost. About $35 for 10 minutes. I don't have a clue what the going rate here is, but I'm sure it varies, and I'm sure I didn't get any discount.

Yesterday went to get some more photos printed at the Money photo lab. They were pretty disorganized yesterday. Printed the 5x7's in any but the right numbers. Next time I will tell them that they can take their time, I don't really need one hour service.

So while walking around, waiting for the one hour service which actually took more like three, I went to find the Plaza del Sexo, on the calle 20 Septiembre, which is pretty close to Palacio de Bellas Artes. It turns out it's a new mall on the second and third floors. At the bottom of the escalators there are two men in dinner jackets who want to check your bag. When they see my camera, they say "no photos". I guess the dinner jackets are supposted to represent class. Makes me suspicious, though, that there isn't any. There's maybe 10 boutiques, all selling exactly the same thing. I don't get that about these areas that sell stuff. They all have the same limited inventory, not like this store specializes in this thing and that store specializes in another. There's a great opportunity for a variety of approaches to selling erotic stuff, but here they took the one variety of straight porn and dildo shop, that you find everywhere, and just do it 10 times the same way. What if you're into something experimental, or not even experimental, what if you're into something that resembles woman positive sex? There's so little out there. At least in the stores anyways. Last week, I bought a disc called Horny Hairy Girls number 18, hoping that there would be something that resembled a real woman, and it does have its charming moments, but in the end, the guy invariably performs what in porn terms is known as the 'facial'. Squirts his load all over the womans face. That ruins it for me. Anything that relates to humiliation just turns me right off. (Thanks to Mr. Anthony Bartel, my sadistic grade 4 art teacher - I'm still recovering). Real humiliation seems to be a big part of mainstream porn, a kind of male domination by humiliation thing. Even if it's a game, as far as I'm concerned it just indicates how little confidence straight men have in themselves with regards to sexuality. Because being desired is to lose control over who's doing the looking, to not be in a position of power. Men are uncomfortable about women's desire for them, because it's not something that they can control. That's why gay desire is so threatening. Who wrote that anyway? Berger? That's an old text. I should probably read up some more on the subject. I should just recut Horny Hairy girls to suit me. That's it! my new oeuvre. Removing humiliation from porn.

Deception at Independence

It took me a long time to figure out what these were for, I thought that they were for human babies, but something wasn't quite right.

Dec. 16th, 2005

Still trying to figure out my own work..

The initial inspiration for this series came from looking at photos of artworks that showed more than they intended to show. I.E. 'bad' photos of art. I'm interested in developing a visual metaphor, I guess my visual metaphor, for how the conscious surfaces from the unconscious. The paintings and their backgrounds can symbolize either place, and I am trying to create interesting or poetic tensions between references to imaginary and 'real' space. 'Real' insofar as photographic space is real...

Dec. 18th, 2005

Went to the centro de Coyoacan today to see what the scene is for showing paintings. I think I want to go next weekend with a few more works. Maybe a grill for holding the works, the kind they use in the street sales, and having a little show.

the corner where I set up

a very light day... more later

Dec. 20th, 2005

If you catch enough of the present it will be relevant forever.
Trying to catch the feeling of an uneasy mix. That's ongoing. The whole that is formed by English and Irish. Oil and water, French and English/Latin and Anglo Saxon. Forced or obliged into being together. For better or worse.

My beautiful Karen is here. She brings "and our faces, my heart, brief as photos" by John Berger, given to her by Diane B.. I think the following passage has some interesting ideas that are relevant to the work I am making here.

Here is a quote from the book;

Dec. 22nd, 2005

Went to the Faro de Oriente yesterday, to try to find some kind of support for the photos. The Faro de Oriente, is "The lighthouse of the East" and every Wednesday, there is an open market for peoples used, found, and possibly stolen things. Hundreds of stalls of junk junk junk... Beside it is a large art studio workshop space, far from the cultural centre of the city.

On the way to Faro de Oriente. A seafood stall at the Zaragoza metro

The Faro De Oriente

I bought some of those old vinyl display signs. People often use them to put their stuff on to sell things. I am thinking of putting the photos on the floor....

Looking for a support that undermines the formality of the gallery, or really, creates an easy entry point for the work, that allows people to have whatever response they can have. Unfortunately, I end up feeling that I always take a very déclassé approach, and I don't want to undermine the ability to take the work seriously.... We'll see.

Went to dinner at Barbara P.'s house, and enjoyed a good mix of people. Warren D, who seemed completely unable to share his interests with anyone by using obfuscating language, but man, he made a great dinner of Thai/Mex vegetable curry... It's really too bad that he has that common American attribute of assuming everybody can and should speak English, and he uses it like a weapon. Sort of "I will humble you by speaking at you in a way you will not understand". Seems that your information can't be so valuable if you don't really want to share it. I think it comes from an attitude that is far too competitive... Afraid that somebody will steal your brilliant ideas, so you should lock them up and make sure that only those who can pay for them will see them. Retarded if you ask me.

Then there's Ruben... A Mexican writer who writes about culture. He stood up on his chair in the middle of dinner and lit the hair around his ass on fire. Now that's a performance. I had to stop him from putting a match to the Christmas tree.

Dec. 25th, 2005

Took my photos out for the afternoon to the Centro de Coyoacan. I liked presenting the work in this very informal way, gives me some ideas for presenting in the gallery.

photo by Karen Trask
Started painting an image of a cell phone tower.

Earlier this morning the volcano, Popocatepetl erupted a small/medium eruption. Then it calmed down and had a smoke afterwards.

Dec. 31st, 2005

Holiday in Vera Cruz. The state not the city. Karen and I weren't really planning to go the beach, but once we got close, the ocean just pulled Karen in, and of course, resistance was futile. Not that I wanted to resist, my only requirement was to be away from the city. It became completely obvious that the beach was where we had to go. Before we came to this realization, however, we rented a car and headed to Xalapa, about 400 km east of Mexico City. Driving in Mexico isn't as different from Canada as I remember. The roads seem better than they were when I rode here on my motorcycle 20 years ago. The main roads anyways. We became more committed to the toll roads as we went along, mostly because I got lost a couple of times, once in Texcoco, just outside Mexico City, and somewhere else, near Huamantla. One thing that's missing from the highways are the huge moving pyramids of trucks loaded high with pop bottles. They would inevitably pass each other when headed towards my motorcycle, and there wasn't any question about who had to go off the road. There are vestiges of those moments in todays driving. A two lane highway with a double yellow doesn't actually mean that you can't pass anyone. I wondered why people were driving so close to the shoulder, and decided to just follow along with until I could figure it out. Driving on the shoulder creates a kind of a mutually agreed upon passing lane in the middle of the road for both directions of traffic. What it means is that you can pass on a blind corner at 110 kms/hr just as before, only your chances of being alive at the end of the manoeuver are higher now. I tried it and I have to say, I like it. If you tried this in Canada, you'd only get a psycho case of road rage coming after you which would be almost as dangerous.

Xalapa (also Jalapa, pronounced with an 'h' sound) would be a great place for anyone to begin a Mexican experience, as there are big shopping malls that could be in any city in the US or Canada, so you could feel right at home. It is a university town apparently, which means that they have good coffee, and better restaurants. It is also a coffee and banana growing area. However, one should not confuse a coffee growing area with finding good coffee (see Alotepec). It's also not overly touristy like Oaxaca, which also has good coffee and restaurants. The city was pretty well maintained, and didn't have as many of the gaping sidewalk holes and patchwork repairs that make up Mexico City. I guess it's much easier to manage the consistency of the public works and maintenance in a smaller town.

Nevertheless, Xalapa is a city, and we had to get away from car exhaust, even though we were in a car. We went to Xico, a small town that seems to be popular for its waterfalls at Texolo, and its mole, of which we had some in a restaurant. I couldn't help thinking that there was an aroma of henna in the sauce, which was earthy and bitter sweet. I can only describe the taste as interesting, and acquired as far as I'm concerned. Karen went for a swim in one of the pools of water upstream of the waterfall. It turned out to be pretty cold. I like to see things in the water, like fish and alligators, but I don't care for swimming when it's cold or murky.

Mole chicken in Xico.

From Xalapa it's all downhill to the Gulf, maybe 80 k or so. Kind of missed the turn off north from the highway and ended up in the town of Cardel. It was not relaxed enough, and the idea of being somewhat close to the refineries in the area wasn't all that exciting. As the city of Vera Cruz was more to the south, we continued north.

First stop is at Playa La Mancha, and there seemed to be some kind of ecological park station here, and some beach side restaurants but not that much in the way of accomodations. We went swimming here. (My only excursion into the water). At the one place where you could stay, there were giant, round, well built cabanas, with dorm style beds made of burlap stretched over a wooden frame stretcher. There was a lumpy thin mattress of rough cotton filled with bits of cloth and foam. 6 to a room. They said they were catering to an eco-tourist scene, but it didn't seem that they had the comfort thing quite down. Well, maybe there are things I don't understand about eco-tourists. One of the people hanging around there suggested we go to the next town, El Farallon, if we wanted double beds.

We went to El Farallon, but the hotel looked closed, and nobody seemed to be around, so drove to the beach, which was about three more kilometers (two if you can convince the military police to let you drive through the army base) and found a deserted beach. Well. Almost deserted, but seeing that this is the most popular week of the year for being on the beach, 3 people per kilometer is effectively deserted. We ended up driving right past the Hotel in Farallon going back out, because it still looked closed, and drove about 20 more kilometers inland to find another hotel, Isabel-less, which seemed so far from anything that we couldn't believe it could be a real business. When we got there, it turned out to be a sulphur hot springs resort, rooms $400 pesos a night. The restaurant was closed and everything was cemented over and painted white and blue, lit with harsh flourescent bulbs. The hot springs had been turned into sulphurous cement swimming pools with kids playing in them. A radio is playing mariachi music too loud over the deserted patio. This wasn't quite what we had in mind, so we went back to see if there was really no life at the inn in El Farallon. Sure enough, when we get to the hotel, a guy comes out of nowhere, and tells us that the twin bed room is 300 pesos, and the one with two queen size beds is 350. We go for the queen size beds, because in Mexico city, we are already dealing with the two twin bed thing... and we're on holiday. There are lots of sugar cane fields around El Farallon, and the transport trucks would get so loaded with sugar cane that they looked as though they'd topple at any moment. You could tell where all the topes (speed bumps) were, because there was always a lot of sugar cane on the road.

sugar cane truck going through El Farallon. Photo Karen Trask

The toll road from Puebla to Mexico city is hugely expensive... Almost 10 Canadian dollars, but the road is a beautiful drive through a mountain park into the city, and the volcano was smoking the whole time we could see it. And I didn't get lost, even if I didn't know exactly where I was.