DO NOT MISS ARTE+AJIJIC. We will be their with our newest and finest work ready do show it off and make it easy for you to buy as Xmas presents on your master card or visa. We will be there hoping to see you, along with 99 other artists also showing off their work. OUCH! It is going to be an exciting time with music and dancing, food and revelry, contests and awards and slick, colorful catalogs featuring all of the artists FREE after paying only a 50 peso entry. Ajijics fairgrounds next to Salvadores,--dates—SEE YOU THERE!
On our attachment is a preview of our exciting new work. We would like to know what you think of it.
VERANDA VISTAS—I designed these Large Panels to give your home a quiet softness
These lovely tropical vistas as seen from interior spaces have been woven by my weaver Maestro Francisco on a primitive ancient loom in our studio. They are constructed using the wools we hand dyed in the street in front of our gallery from the latest fade proof dyes from the United States. WE used our collection of metallics and intense acrylics as accents.
A day before my big yearly event, Marshmallows and Music, promoted as an old fashioned marshmallow roast and gallery opening I ran into a glitch. My friend said to me, “Janice, you must have American marshmallows, those Mexican ones won’t get soft roasted on the bonfire. They just won’t do. ”
“Good, grief,” I cried.” I can’t go all the way to Guadalajara at this late date!” Well, I didn’t have to. To my relief they had them at good old Super Lake, in the pudding department, right next to the pink and white Mexican “Maravillosos.” I bought 6 bags of Kraft America’s Favorite jet puffed marshmallows at 55 pesos a bag and also threw in 3 bags of Maravillosos {Mexican Marshmallows} into my cart at 100 pesos a bag, just in case I ran out.
“Are we going to have S’Mores? “ I have such wonderful memories of eating S’Mores before a bonfire.” Jill pleaded. “Me too” her friend replied”. I would give anything to make a S’More just one more time.” At the last minute I went back to Super Lake and found giant Hershey bars in the candy department. I bought a gross, the graham crackers were generic and sprinkled with cinnamon, but I knew they would do. 480 pesos later I returned back to our Live/Work gallery, broke.
I hired Lola from next door to be in charge of the bonfire in the street so I could greet guests in the Gallery. I asked her in and gave her a S’More making demonstration before the gas burner at the kitchen stove. She smacked their lips in approval on tasting the samples, so I offered her some more. In my very best Spanish I explained that the Maravillosos were for back up only. She listened intently and told me I could trust her to be completely in charge.
Later, as I was hosting the party inside the gallery I heard Max Bird Shriek. As I ran outside I saw Jill flyer throw her S’More in the garbage. Walking over to the bonfire to investigate I became aware that Lola had been making these from the back up Mexican marshmallows that had no squash. I saw an obliging guest attempting to take a bite whose mouth simply could not navigate the thick sandwich concoction. Rushing over to the bonfire, much to Lola’s dismay, I removed the remaining bags of Maravillosos. I replaced them with those from the United States that were jet puffed. I wondered why they did not make jet puffed ones in Mexico.
In defense of Mexican marshmallows, I can say that they lack a lot of downsides. Later in the evening, with the guests all back home, the neighborhood children gathered at the fire. They delighted in the way the American “mallows” went up in flame and waved them in the air like sparklers. Lola’s granddaughter scorched her fingertips as she pulled a burning mallow off her stick removing only the burnt outer layer. Another child grabber it from her and stuck what was left on the stick back into the fire and burnt his tongue licking it off. There was also a little girl that had a glob stuck in her pony tail.
Old fashioned bonfire in the street and gallery tours and exhibition. This is one of Janice's paintings that will be on display along with a retrospective of a large collection of handwoven original tapestries. All of the work in this collection has been made in these studios. Everyone is welcome to see our new 1,000 sq. ft. area now all on the first floor. Wine and botanas, come as you are or dress up or dress down. We will be delighted to see you. Thanks, Janice and Francisco.
Saving the Wild Orchids
The array of flowering color plants — from dahlias to caladium and roses to impatiens — at this roadside nursery in San Juan Cosalá reminds me of the "flower lady's" Detroit gardens.
I was once known as the "flower lady" basking in the weekend summer sunlight on the stairs leading to my wrap-around porch. I reaped sweet satisfaction relishing the flowers I had planted and nurtured.
The plans for other, and perhaps even more glorious, flower gardens gave me the bright spot necessary to ward off the stark winters in the historical district of Woodbridge where I lived, in Detroit's inner city.
I waited for the first snowy weekend and then headed out to purchase the finest in leftover spring bulbs — $800 dollars worth of tulip bulbs purchased for a fraction of that price. I planted them on a freezing day — digging late into the night under the headlights of my old Cherokee, vibrating with elation and exhaustion.
The huge bloom the following spring, with purity of backlit color embanked along the sides of the serpent-like grass path that wound through the front yard was stunning. That spring, for sure I lived up to my name.
That winter I was teaching art in a student at-risk program near Belle Isle, once the Grande Dame of inner city parks, but, by then in despair. Saddened by children's eyes that took on the desolate gray of the sky I started escaping at lunchtime by crossing the ornate, decaying Belle Isle Bridge to drive past abandoned buildings and haunting fountains.
The park patrols guarded me as I munched big Macs among the snowdrifts, my defroster blasting. Then, I noticed a truck parked behind what I had presumed was the abandoned observatory. When the director stepped out of the building, I begged for a peek inside.
The domed atrium, once imposingly fit for a palace, was home to a very fine collection of orchids. I was introduced to each orchid by name and then given their history and lineage, as if they were royalty. The director explained that the conservatory collection only included cultivated orchids.
(Left:) In the depths of miserable winter I discovered the beauty of this building in the once lovely inner city Detroit park, Belle Isle. (Right:) My next discovery was the rainbow of blooming orchids inside and the collection's director who introduced me to the world of these exotic blooms.
During one of many return visits, he was adamant, saying, "I will never own a live thing that was once growing wild. Orchids that are free are not like the cultivated gorgeous creatures in here stripped of their tongues and in bondage. They may appear to be like a country cousin — until you experience them, fluttering about in the treetops, their life substance being drawn from pure air."
Those orchids helped me through my last winter in Detroit. Giving up my cornerstone house in the historical district, where I was a slave to the Victorian, restored my passion. I explained to the street people for whom I'd been an advocate that I had to move where, like the wild orchids, I could bloom. They were the only ones that understood. I knew they would miss me and that the ancient Catalpa tree with its orchid pink blossoms would know I wasn't sitting under it when summertime came.
These small lavender blooms once grew wild on the mountains above Lake Chapala.
With my precarious health and my caged pet, Construction Cat, I boarded the airplane for Guadalajara leaving all else behind in search of a new beginning.
We happily settled in at Lake Chapala with a new garden — one with almost no season if you had enough water; this garden could simulate spring most of the year. I was standing in my courtyard on the fringes of Chapala counting bananas when I had my first encounter with Jalisco's silky lavender wild orchids. An unkempt man came walking in my gate with a clump of them in each fist, shaking them in the air as if they were rattles.
"Muy bonitos orchidias para ti," (very pretty orchids for you,) he chanted. "Muy baratos, dos para una, especialamente para la señoras jardin." (Very cheap, two for one, especially for the lady's garden.)
I shielded my eyes from the sight, remember the words of the director and murmuring, "No, please no." He headed to the neighboring houses, following in the heels of the topsoil salesman, a man in distemper leading his old mule, from which I bought plenty — while still in ignorance that it had been stripped from under the trees in the wild.
Visiting a neighbor, I noticed clumps of orchids tied to a tree; I was transfixed by the sight of them. The owner said that the orchids were there when she moved in. I heard that explanation many more times, as the raising of consciousness regarding the protection of wildlife began to take a foothold in Mexico.
I went back recently to that neighbor to photograph that cluster of orchids for this article but they hadn't survived. I discovered that these poached orchids rarely do.
In 2001, the federal government passed a law making the cutting, or the removal of orchids in the wild illegal. Soon after they began to enforce stiff penalties. After that, the Orchid salesman did not come down the street again, and later I heard the old man who hawked poached topsoil from his decrepit mule died, it was his time.
(Left:) I visited several local nurseries to snap pictures of blooming hybrid orchids. This is the graceful entry to Flora Exotica on the corner across from Walmart. (Right:) These pink orchids were flourishing, along with beauties in shades and combinations of yellow, white, and purple in Granja la Paz, the large nursery on the highway west of Ajijic.
Over the ten years I've lived at Lakeside, I have seen incredible growth in all areas. I find today's viveros (nurseries) particularly exciting. When I feel restless, I head out to visit my favorites, basking in their flowers.
The nurseries are the place to buy orchids for your garden; they sell hybrids that will survive, and thrive if kept moist while making sure their roots do not drown from over watering.
For less than you would pay for cut orchids up north, you can buy real plants here, exquisite in every detail, in a myriad of mood and form and so many combinations of waxed and silken colors. Let them sell you a little bag of fertilizer to take home and you will be a happy Gringo.
(Left:) Be sure to stop in and talk to Karina at Viveros del Lago, the nursery on the highway in Ajijic, next to the Telmex office. They have a lovely display of orchids. (Right:) The orchids at "the Japanese nursery" (Granja la Paz) are scattered through the displays of other potted plants.
The end of the orchid poaching era is almost here, but not quite. The tail end of this saga can often be seen in front of Ajijic's Farmacia Guadalajara. The man that once stood in my garden shaking his handfuls of wild orchids with glee now spends his days there, wandering the parking lot with shame written in his footprints. I looked away as I head into the store to use the ATM, not wanting to encounter his wares of snatched orchid clumps, clamped between slabs of bark, suitable for placement on the kitchen table.
He dodges the cars going in and out and is no longer allowed to sell on the public streets or in the plaza. Attention has been drawn to his activities by The Guadalajara Reporter periodicals and he is no longer popular.
These days he is unpalatable and unbathed, legs wobbling beneath him like rubber. His eyes stare off into nowhere, as if covered by faded film. He arrives each day propped up on one arm by his fresh scrubbed portly wife. She looks strangely displaced, especially from the rear, reminiscent of a Midwestern farmwoman in her scalloped straw hat, imported from China, bedecked with artificial posies.
I asked permission to photograph the couple as they sat on the curb. She became hostile as he explained that he had let a newspaper woman photograph him, and now he was in trouble and had to go to Guadalajara, and could not understand why. She told me I either had to buy an orchid plant or leave. I left with apologies for my intrusion.
(Left:) It's really easy to forgo the wonders of the wild poached orchids being sold in local parking lots when you can purchase legal plants from helpful local nursery owners. (Right:) Look at these beautiful orchids tucked into an assortment of other blooming plants.
They pass my studios on their way to Ajijic. I took out my camera to shoot them on the sly, but that feels as wrong to me as snatching orchids from the wild.
I was fortunate to have my botanical consciousness raised before I retired to the land of wild orchids. Never did I dream I would be living on the shores of a lake, surrounded by an extinct volcano, below the forest whose heights harbored communities of wild orchids swaying in the breeze — some of the orchids that Belle Isles man had described to me a lifetime ago.
After several failed trips into the wilds of the high Sierras, my health always betraying me, I have altered my dream to see orchids blooming in the wild. I will be with them in their wild habitat, but it will be from within the confines of a hot air balloon or a glider. I will toss sheets of music, or maybe someone else will toss my ashes, to flutter down among them in the breeze. In the meantime the local nurseries with their magnificent cultured orchids will sustain me.
I hate the connection at the Dallas airport so much that I only visit my family in Detroit every few years. I thought I would have a stroke the last time I hefted heavy suitcases off the conveyor belt and raced to customs in order to make my connecting flight. I swore I would never, ever check baggage again. My lust for American-bought art materials, however, has pre-empted that solution.
Our friend, Gatito Elliot recommends that you get a running start on the sale of the Pre-Hispanic tapestries that were on display at Lake Chapala Society this spring.
He sat at the entrance smoking, sorting out his mind in peaceful ways as new spring freshness fills the air. My son is on vacation from a Detroit group home for Veterans who had faltered. His most profound memory from visiting his mom is how each Mexican greeted him as they passed by on the lateral in front of our gallery.
Gold Coiners of the Sierra Madre
I immediately recognized the beaded detail on the waist of this dancer. I'd seen him in a recent ceremonial dance.
Have you ever tried to play the game, "Cooties," with missing parts or been on a wild goose chase?
The men of western Mexico's Sierra Madre do something similar when they go hunting for lost treasure, just beyond the mountains that rise above the picturesque village of Ajijic on the north shore of a high volcanic lake.
"Gold coin fever" is a men's tradition and those secrets are not disclosed to the uninitiated, and particularly not to the women. I learned about this tradition in a roundabout way.
A while back, unfamiliar men began to slip in and out of our art studios during working hours; my partner, Teo, continued to weave. They conferred with him, confidentially, as he threw the shuttle, then just as quickly they were gone.
One Saturday a dashing indigenous dancer in full costume slipped into our space, a feather tucked behind one ear. I was lounging in a low chair knotting the fringe on a finished tapestry. When I looked up I saw his beaded waist piece and recognized it from a "Save the Lake" ritual I had experienced.
He cleared his throat. "Teo needs your permission to join our dance troupe." he said with a slight shuffle. I looked up, and was caught speechless as he told me how blue my eyes are, I was blinded by his fetching smile. Teo, whose vocabulary does not include the word "no," had sent the dancer to me, confident that I would agree if this charmer asked. Meanwhile Teo continued weaving, his hopes, and confidence ill placed.
I remembered that this dancer had also been one of the young hopeful males standing at the perimeter of Teo's group of old men at a granddaughter's quinceñera (15th birthday fiesta), hoping to be included. I'd wondered then, why this young man so desired to be part of these old men. I realized now that I was his opportunity to get close to them, yet instinctively knew it could also be an opportunity for me.
The dancer took advantage of my long pause at the surprise of his request to advance Teo's cause and asked another question. "Can you dance?" he asked. "Of course," I replied, not remembering my arthritis.
Lake Chapala dominates this area. (Left:) The dogs of Teo's cousin enjoy frolicking at the edge of the water. (Right:) No matter where we look, there are lovely views. Here we're looking toward Ajijic on the north shore.
My blush-tinged pale face stared at him, as he told me how glorious I would look in a revealing Pre-Hispanic costume. I gazed at him through eyes that have faded little despite my more than 65 years and enjoyed another moment of fantasy before I told him that Teo and I would both love to be part of his group.
Teo unwittingly went along with this pretext until he discovered the dancing was after his bedtime, but not before he promised to provide the entire dance troupe with feathers for their headdresses in momentary flush of enthusiasm.
The following morning we drove to San Cristóbal, a fishing village on the far shore of Lake Chapala to visit Julio and another cousin, Hector, who had just returned from the states after spending the last 30 years of his life working in the fields of California. The reverie between them was such that you would think no one had ever left.
(Left:) Julio's wife prepares a lakeside fire so she can cook fish for us. (Right:) We had a good time with Julio, his wife, and Hector who had just returned from the states.
The three happily visited under Julio's fishing shack of reeds and discarded Venetian blinds hanging askew while Julio's wife prepared to roast fish over an open fire. I took my customary walk. I looked forward to these times, walking the lakeshore alone, turning in where the goats are penned, walking the lane toward the old church, observing the village, unnoticed.
When I was just about to give a tortilla to the goat appealing to me at the fence, Teo came after me, wanting to head home. I barely had time to say goodbye to Teo's cousins as he dragged me out. We left so quickly that Julio's fishbone eating perros still playing on the fringe of the water, didn't have time to do their customary shake off. This time we weren't drenched with water for the ride home. I turned the truck back around on the beach, at Teo's insistence, and we left.
(Left:) The goat in San Cristobal was anxious to share my treats. (Right:) There's nothing like having time to walk along the edge of Lake Chapala.
In a surprise move, Teo anxiously directed me to drive up and down the rutted one-lane dirt streets of San Cristobal, speaking rapidly in an indecipherable Spanish that he knew I could not understand. He jumped out periodically, and engaged in long, animated conversations with everybody he saw, while I spent half the day waiting, wondering what was going on in my camioneta (small truck) with the air conditioning running.
His only explanation to me was more gibber jabber. More than a little irritated, I informed him that the next time he wanted to come to his old barrio (neighborhood) he could take a bus, which, indeed the very next Sunday he did, on the pretext of finding feathers. He dressed up in a white shirt and his new sombrero. He actually looked quite fine standing at the bus stop. I knew something was up.
I removed my stained tee shirt, donned a red silk dress and headed for my Unitarian Church activities, prepared to be among the enlightened people of my culture.
(Left:) My partner, master weaver, Teo, agreed to become a member of a dance troupe as part of the intrigue that arose from the men's secret plans to search for gold in the mountains. (Right:) Meanwhile I donned a dress and headed off to share time with other foreigners in Ajijic.
He returned that evening full of himself, wide eyed, with one hand on his hip, the other clutching a handful of broken peacock feathers. As I curiously questioned him, he blurted out that he had been at a very important meeting. He told me with great animation that this meeting was going to change the course of our very lives.
"Hmm, and who else was at this meeting?" I asked. "My cousin Hector, and, his grandfather." Teo was shouting and leaping in the air with excitement. My instincts peaked and I carefully considered the best line of questioning.
"And where was this meeting?" I asked. "In the Panteón de San Cristóbal (San Cristobal cemetery). Hector's grandfather told us where a big cache of gold coins are buried."
Teo pointed and I followed his gesture, looking up into the Sierras that ascended a short distance away. "Near the bandits' camp, where they buried it before they escaped just after the Mexican Revolution," he said resolutely. He went on at length before he was able to contain himself. Teo spilled a lot of beans before he clammed up, remembering I was a woman and that he was sworn to secrecy.
It appeared that the cemeteries here in Mexico are even more interesting than I had realized. I've always known they are fascinating places; the Ajijic Panteon is almost my neighbor. Mexican cemeteries are living places, drenched in sweetness and secrets, with twinges of theatre and amplified macabre.
Now I was learning, and confirmed with further observance soon after, that the panteones are also meeting places for the men. In November I had innocently participated in the admiration and fawning the women make over the incredibly beautiful decorations on family gravesites on the Day of the Dead. The beauty of those adornments is a source of pride, and a display of love for those departed, yet somehow not dead. After all, as I've learned, only those who are not remembered are truly dead.
(Left:) Mexico's cemeteries are a riot of color on the Day of the Dead. (Right:) Local musicians perform for the living and the dead during Day of the Dead festivities.
Now I realized as I'd never noticed before, that only the women and children stand around the gravesites during these celebrations. The men stand in clusters against cemetery walls, speaking of dreams of success, and hopes of riches.
"Were you talking about finding the gold coins?" I asked Teo as we walked home. "Can I go to search for them, too?' I asked, knowing full well the word "No" is not in his vocabulary.
I discovered that truckloads of men, young and old take off for the mountains before daybreak on Sundays after the foliage has dried up and the snakes go underground, and a wild boar or coyote can be seen at a small distance. They go before the Easter celebrations, a time when wives and girlfriends put up the least resistance, as for a few weeks the men will no longer be seen on precious Sundays when their families gather. During that time if you see a truckload of men speeding along in the wee hours on a Sunday, you will know where they are headed.
They stop near Jocotepec and rent an ancient, well-used metal detector. They joke about it, as it seems they either detect everything or nothing. The group is in luck if there is a rabid gold coin hunter among them, one who is not secretly jaded. The new guy might have gone to Guadalajara on Saturday afternoon to rent a good metal detector; he'll have to return it by the time the store opens on Monday so the group only has to pay one day's rent.
The men stop by a roadside store each buying tortillas, or maybe a lonche (Mexican-style submarine sandwich) and some bananas, then pool the rest of the money in their pockets to buy as many cans of beer as possible. Those they'll drink at sunset, after their climb down from the mountain, exhausted, and with their clothing shredded into tatters by the rocks.
I know about these traditions because at my insistence, I had been invited along. I had visions of seeing the giant trees I had heard about, and maybe a wild boar or fox. At the last minute we made a wise decision, and Teo and I followed the main group in my pickup. It was a long, rough and exhausting drive over forbidding terrain following the other men into the high Sierras. The shocks had long since been destroyed in the truck I was following. I watch with concern the younger men in the back of the truck being ruthlessly tossed around like so many sacks of potatoes.
I tried to take my mind off their torture as we listened to "Rocky Mountain High "on the stereo. Teo dozed in his cozy seat beside me. When we arrived at the end of the road, the bunch in the lead truck all jumped out, unloaded the metal detector, too heavy for two men to carry, various bars, picks and shovels, and, of course backpacks to carry out the gold coins.
The terrain was rough and they headed straight up the face of the mountain. "How long before we reach the hideout," I said after walking a few hundred yards. The men just smiled.
It was about at that point that I realized I barely had enough energy left to drive back home, and needed to leave — soon. As I drove, I ate my banana and a bag of bean tacos.
Back at home, wiping the salsa off my face, I went straight back to bed and fell asleep thinking of alternate plans to join in the adventure. I dreamt of talking orchids, lips wavering in the breeze, and of foxes winking as they very curiously observed us, in all of our strangeness.
We are the blessed, embraced by the incredible verdant forest that rises up, just beyond us, those of us lucky enough to live on the shores of Lake of Chapala.
