Anneseye on Rioverde Part II - Let them Eat Cake!

I got a huge cake – and the people did not stay home. Just as Neyda had promised, the Semillas of Esperanza turned out in numbers, in there tacones and flowing vestidas, their niños in tow with gelled hair and polite gallery comportment. The duena from Yogurlandia, my landlord and her daughters, my yoga students from Gim Atletica, the Amore café mujeres Paty and Vicky, and ciudadanos who’d heard about the show through the intimate grapevine of conversation that connects a small pueblo. Antonio the artist was there and Samantha the librarian and a Doctor I’d never met who came to record the event on his new Ipad!

I was relieved to see them arriving at the IMAC, taking seats in the courtyard in familial clumps, waiting patiently, as Mexicans are used to doing, for the festivities to begin. Copeland’s El Salon Mexico, the American composer’s homage to the Mexicans, floated into the still night air from my Ipod. And behind the scenes I was sweatin’ it. Kriya and I were still scrambling to get the space ready, attaching photo tags to the walls corresponding to the correct images – functioning on tiempo Mexicano, adapting a little bit too well. Despite a full day of harried preparations – picking up Peace Corps posters from the printers, buying ice, cups, snacks, hanging the collection of 50 photos in a sequence to create balance and flow, making sure in the 100-degree heat the adhesive would hold – we still weren’t ready.

But what really had me perspiring in my black party dress was the formal panel table and microphones they had setup in a courtyard. Apparently, I was meant to give a speech, but had been given no notice –and the Regiadora and Director were waiting for me to take my place to open the ceremony.

‘Can’t they just peruse the gallery and enjoy the photos without all the pomp and circumstance?’ I wondered aloud as I jammed bottles of white wine into the cooler of ice. ‘The art should really speak for itself.’

‘But this is the way we do it,’ said Kuko, a painter and gallery assistant who’d been a huge help in the setup process – and with a decent English vocabulary he’d also become our cultural interpreter. ‘All the openings go like this, official process.’

‘It’ll be fun, just go with the flow,’ Kriya affirmed in her perky, positive Americana manner, a manner I realized I’d been missing, living amidst the demure verguenza of small-town central Mexico.

She was right, I’d given lots of intro speeches in Mexico already, I’ll improvise, speak from the heart, mind my conjugations, I told myself, as I rummaged through our bags and realized we’d forgotten the bottle opener. I motioned to Adoracion’s son, Alejandro, in the courtyard and handed him 50 pesos to run to Waldo’s for an ‘abrabotella.’

The final photo tag hung, the registration table setup, the wine on ice, we took a step back to gaze at the gallery, the amber light, the regal cake ready to be sliced, the space in beautiful, calm order. ‘Listo,’ we agreed, exhaling. Then I took a breath and rushed into courtyard to take a seat at the head table before an audience of familiar, smiling faces. And in this sudden quiet moment under the stars I remembered what I was here for – promover la paz y amistad mundial.

So proud to (attempt to) uphold this mission, I took the microphone and let it flow – told the audience how appreciative I was for their presence and excited to share my perspective of their pueblo with them. And I hoped, in turn, they would share with me their reactions, impressions, questions – because that’s the purpose of art, to create dialogue. Well, I hoped that’s what I said – that across the language barrier they got the gist.

After some light applause we filed toward the gallery behind the Regiadora and the Art Director who carried three pairs of scissors on a red velvet pillow. Just go with the flow, Anne, I told myself, as we paused at the door before the giant orange ribbon. (I’d wondered what that secretary was doing all day long making a giant bow as we rushed to get the gallery ready! Now I knew.)

‘This is the first time I’ve done this,’ I admitted aloud, giddily, selecting a pair of scissors, pausing to pose for the cameras. Then simultaneously we cut the ribbon and the guests filed in, filling the gallery with their energy and curiosity.

The thing I love most about putting on a show is watching the people take-in the images and wonder what’s going on in their heads. Many loved the Flying Nina because she just made them smile, and my elote man, Serapio, who Kuko told me is as funny as his picture and an expert in bird calls. Others loved Sombreros Eschuchando – Hats Listening – I’m not sure why, a different way of looking as such a common scene, perhaps. The Garcias, who run the best beauty salon in town, discovered their sons in my Palm Sunday photo and stood there pointing and marveling.

We snapped photos – photos of photos and us in front of the fotos – around the urns – a chorus line of the mujeres of Puente. We made a toast and reluctantly cut into the beautiful cake, made by Sophia, a piece of art itself, decorated with the Mexican and American flags and the Peace Corps seal, and oozing with chocolate, strawberries and cream. The guests lined up to buy 10 peso postcards of the photos which I signed with personal notes, small recuerdos they could take home – and the proceeds helped pay for the big pastel.

Then suddenly, in typical Mexican style, we were all informed we had to leave. The funcionarios had removed the food and shut-down the music. It was 9 pm and there was no guard on duty and apparently they had to close. Of course there hadn’t been a guard there all day – Cesar had not shown up for work. Daniel and the ladies in the office were simply ready to go home. But they could not get the conversations to stop and the people out the door – so they gave-up and just left us there in the gallery to continue our chatter and finish off the last of the wine. As the crowd dwindled down to just a few of us, the diehards, we started getting silly, hanging out the barred windows of this former prison, pleading for freedom, snapping more photos for posterity. Eventually Kuko and Kriya and I closed and locked up, then wandered the streets giving out leftover cake.

A few days later, after all the excitement had died down and Peace Corps life was getting back to normal, I was walking the sweltering streets of Rioverde and feeling the slightest bit of post-show depression. None of my co-workers at SEMARNAT or the Municipio had shown-up, and I wondered why. Did I even have an impact, was it all worth it? What does art matter anyway, in the work of development?

Oh well, I was onto my next initiative, and a meeting with the jueza from Puente about our EcoFeria plan. Rushing past the storefronts on Madero, heads-down, going my usual Americana pace, I heard my name called-out. ‘Anna, I want to talk to you.’ It was the pharmacist where I sometimes stop for a Gatorade and a chat.

I reluctantly paused and turned around. ‘Mande? I asked, looking at my watch impatiently. I really didn't have time today for a chat, but I ducked under the awning for a break from the sun and a quickie greeting. That's when the senor went into a diatribe, apologizing for missing my opening, explaining that he’d visited the gallery on Sunday night with his family, and he wanted me to know how appreciative he was.

‘Si, gracias, no problema, glad you enjoyed it.’

But he continued on: his wife loved Birds on a Wire, and his son loved the Flying Nina, and he loved La Planta and Serapio too. He buys his elotes from Serapio. And his son speaks a little English and would like to talk with me someday. He told me he hadn’t really understood why I was here, and now he did. Then he came from behind his counter, in his white pharmacist coat, and contrary to distant Rioverdenses style, he gave me a hug. ‘Thank you for being here in our pueblo,’ he said, ‘for leaving your country to do this work. Thank you.’

I was so surprised I felt my face redden; I ducked out before he could see, thanking him as I continued on my route, but this time going at a slower pace, replaying what he’d told me, trying to remind myself to remember that I may never know the impact I’m having – all I can do is plant some seeds and years later, with some water and light and luck, they may become trees.

And then there’s the impact they are having on me.