May, 2007
MANUEL OLIVAS, R.I.P (1940-2007)
We have lost the most inventive and colorful of potters of Casas Grandes and an outstanding human being. About six p.m. last night, Thursday, May 3, while sitting and talking with friends, Manuel Olivas Lucero fell over without warning and died.
When I arrived in Nuevo Casas Grandes 31 years ago, looking for the maker of three anonymous pots I had found in a junk shop in Deming, New Mexico, I was directed to Manuel Olivas’ house near the main plaza because he was the one potter in town. Lest U.S. Customs officials think the pots were old and confiscate them, I had brought photos rather than the pots themselves. When I showed the pictures to Manuel, he immediately said he could make some pots just like those. “You don’t understand,” I said, “I’m looking for the person who made those pots.” “I can make some just like them,” he said, “maybe better.” “No, you don’t understand ..,” I said. When we finally got straight about that, we visited. He showed me his kiln, an ingenious, semi-subterranean affair that he fired with sawdust which he got free from a nearby lumber yard. As we spoke, he said something about firing his pots at night. “At night?”, I asked. “Yes, always at night,” he said, explaining that the sawdust created a lot of smoke. I got the image of a neighbor woman hanging out her wash on the line and what the clouds of smoke might have done to it. Manuel then said that I might look for my potter in Mata Ortiz, and of course that’s where I did find Juan Quezada, who said he’d made those three pots about six months earlier.
I enjoyed visiting with Manuel, and each time thereafter when I came to Mata Ortiz, I would stop to see him. About the third or fourth trip, however, I found his house empty—deserted. With great difficulty, I finally located him on the far, eastern edge of Nuevo Casas Grandes. “Why did you move?”, I asked. “Well,” he said, “people began to notice that the houses around the plaza were starting to turn grey, and they didn’t know why. One day they found out, and I had to move.”
But now Manuel had developed a new method of firing that did not require sawdust. Mounted on four high, metal stilts was a small keg of kerosene, from which a thin copper tube ran down and into a large drum, which was his firing chamber. The kerosene, warmed as it descended in the tube, had vaporized by the time it entered the drum. This arrangement made an excellent kiln. It was placed about six feet from his neighbor’s wire fence and was operating as he explained it to me. Admiringly, I began to walk around it on the side of his neighbor’s fence. But just as I started, he told me to go back. Go back? Why? Well, he said, a week earlier, he’d had an accident, an explosion. It had severely burned his neighbor’s pig. It had burned the pig so bad, in fact, that the neighbors were forced to have an unplanned barbecue. Manuel said it was all right with them now. But on my next visit, I found his house empty—deserted.
This time, Manuel had moved to Casas Grandes, the Pueblo Viejo, outside of town and well away from neighbors. As the pueblo grew over the next 25 years, a subdivision enveloped him. But he’d been there first, and this time he had devised a wholly different kind of kiln, wood-fired, that served him for the rest of his life. His house is a distinctive landmark on the left side of the highway leaving Casas Grandes toward Mata Ortiz, a house with long-legged, welded metal birds and abstract human figures in the yard, giant, open bowls painted in Paquimé designs, and a high pilon of five stacked oil drums, welded together and painted in alternate bands of red and white.
Manuel’s home became a popular stop on the schedule of dozens of tour buses every season. He and his wife, María, developed a winning pottery-making demonstration. In the back yard of the house, he would explain and show how he prepared the raw clay, how he made his mineral pigments, and how he fired pots in the outdoor kiln. Then, inviting the tour group which often numbered as many as 40 persons into the large studio room in their house set with chairs, they would sit on a raised platform in the front and demonstrate pottery-making, María hand-building a pot while Manuel expertly painted it in traditional Casas Grandes polychrome style. During this performance, a prehistoric pot was passed around for each person to take out a numbered piece of paper, the lucky person winning a free pot made by María and Manuel. Following this demonstration, Manuel and his son, Heriberto, would take up their guitars and give a concert, playing and singing a small repertoire of songs. Finally, they would invite the group into the sales area of the house where pottery of the entire family was displayed—and here the buying would begin.
Today, a small Elderhostel group of 16 persons was scheduled to attend Manuel’s and María’s demonstration. Instead, the bus drove to the velatorio where Manuel’s wake was in progress. Here the visitors paid their last respects to María and the family.
Manuel was independent of the Mata Ortiz tradition. He had learned pottery making from his grandfather, a potter. But around the time of the revolution, enameled tin-ware had displaced utilitarian pottery in the stores in northern Mexico. Manuel hadn’t made pottery for some decades when, in the early 1970s, it occurred to him to create some replicas of prehistoric Casas Grandes ceramics. When I met him a few years later, he would paint a pot with white, commercial paint after firing, then do the designs, and finally dirty it up with mud to give it an antique aspect. Unaware of how it was painted, I washed the first of his pots when I got it home and was surprised to find it suddenly come out shiny and bright. On every visit for several years I urged Manuel to develop a natural, mineral slip colorant like that used by Juan Quezada, one that he could paint with before firing. He was inventive and finally did. While I like to feel I can take some credit, Manuel almost certainly would have done so without my urging.
Manuel loved climbing about and exploring in the Sierras, looking always for new clays and penciling many pages of designs from the prehistoric pottery shards he came across. He made sometimes surprising applications of the prehistoric designs, such as automobile hub caps and even the Paquimé-painted toilet seat in his home.
When we first met, Manuel had a musical group that was popular at bailes, or dances. He once told me that some of his more regular work was in the red-light district of Nuevo Casas Grandes, where he provided music for dances that went on all night until morning. Maria didn’t care for that, he said, but it was good work. In the morning, he added, his eyes crinkling with humor, the madam would offer him part payment in kind. Not that he ever accepted, he said. But she always offered.
Manuel is survived by his wife, Maria Prieto, four children, Blanca 37, Teri 34, Flor 32, and Heriberto 30, and seven grandchildren. The children are skilled at pottery, some surpassing their father in the quality of their work. Manuel Olivas was a warm and devoted family person, the center about which the family life revolved. He is remembered within his family as cariñoso, a buen abuelo, and alegre (kind and loving, a good grandfather, and happy). He will live in the memory of all who knew him.
Spencer MacCallum
Casas Grandes, Chihuahua
May 4, 2007
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Editorial Archive
June, 2006
Property Rights in Mata Ortiz
A recent happening in Mata Ortiz illustrates the pitfalls of buying property in an ejido. Ejidos are collectives, and Mata Ortiz is one, although the law allows conversion of sites within an ejido to private property once a town attains a certain level of infrastructure (water, sewerage, power, etc.), which Mata Ortiz now has. Ejido property can be bought and sold, but the tenure is subject to the will of a council of ejidatarios, so that politicking can run rampant—as it did in this case. Emi and I live in Casas Grandes, 20 minutes from Mata Ortiz, and are restoring a number of old adobes near the plaza. All of the property here is privado, not ejido. We’ve the best lawyer in this region. He’s not available to help where ejido property is concerned; he won’t touch it.
This case has Byzantine twists and turns. Because of its sensitivity, names will be withheld. The matter began ten years ago, when a member of the ejido of Mata Ortiz sold a piece of land on the river with great cottonwoods on it to an American woman, let us say Charlotte, a teacher who regularly brings groups to Mata Ortiz for language and cultural immersion. Charlotte built an attractive house on the land, and when she had groups, she housed them there while she stayed in an apartment rented from a family in nearby Barrio Porvenir. For eight years, Charlotte lived happily in her house. Relations with her neighbors, most notably Francisco, were harmonious. Francisco had no water to his house, for example, and Charlotte let him pipe from hers.
Six months ago, a friend of Francisco who happened also to be the son of the ejido member who had sold Charlotte her land, suggested that Francisco re-survey the land. Francisco did so and then claimed that Charlotte’s title was invalid and the land was his. He said the person who had sold to Charlotte had bought it from an old man to whom he himself had sold it and whose claim was not good. Francisco then began a campaign to get Charlotte off the property. He agitated the fighting cocks he raised so that they crowed all during the night, interfering with Charlotte’s students’ sleep. He threw numerous dead roosters from cockfights over the fence. Four months later, he strung barbed wire across her gate and put a padlock on it. Another neighbor, also a relative of the person who had sold Charlotte the land, cut off her access to the property so that she had to detour through the riverbed.
Charlotte made a concerted effort to restore matters and regain her access, but to no avail. Twice the council debated the matter. At the first meeting, a number of the council members favored Charlotte, but at the second, by a surprise switch, they unanimously came down on the side of Francisco. The president of the ejido in effect abstained; he did not attend the second meeting. At neither meeting did the person who had sold Charlotte the land come forth to speak or in any way defend her title.
The situation deteriorated to the point that Charlotte felt compelled to abandon the property. However, she thought Francisco was poised to move into her house the moment she removed her furniture. That prospect was offensive to her, so she decided on a plan. With the help of neighbors, she would move all of her furnishings out of the house and everything of value, including roof beams, doors and windows and their frames, all wiring and plumbing, everything that she might use when she rebuilt elsewhere. This she would accomplish in one morning, and in the afternoon, she would bring in heavy equipment to break up the cement pad and raze the house.
On the appointed day, everything went according to plan. Forty to fifty neighbors with as many as 20 trucks labored all day without pay to help her. In the afternoon, a cousin of Francisco’s rented her some heavy equipment and operated it to destroy what remained of the house. Francisco called the police from Casas Grandes, the seat of the municipio that includes Mata Ortiz, but with so many people gathered in support of Charlotte, they were unable to stop the work. The Jefe del Ministerio Público, who had come with the police did nothing to hide her anger at the situation. That evening, Charlotte’s American friends brought food for a celebration dinner at a Mexican friend’s home to thank everyone who had helped. During the dinner, the Jefe came and gave notice that Charlotte would be charged with destroying a house belonging to Francisco and would be fined $100,000 pesos (approximately $10,000 dollars).
In the morning, as Charlotte and a friend, Inez, left Mata Ortiz to drive back to Tucson, they saw the person who had sold her the land, together with his son, outdoors leaning against a truck. They thought nothing of it at the time, but later they wondered if the two had posted themselves to see what time she left the village. Three more friends were caravanning with them in a second car. They were all going to stop and visit with Emi and me in Casas Grandes. But the police had set up a roadblock where they came into town. They arrested Charlotte and took her to Nuevo Casas Grandes for interrogation at the Agencia Estatal de Investigaciones. Inez drove the car on to our house and notified us. On arriving at the interrogation center, we found Charlotte and her other friends, who had elected to stay with her, waiting in a small room. Francisco’s lawyer was sitting in the hall. Several people remarked at how uncomfortable he looked. Moments later, he came into the room and apologized for his role, saying he was only doing this in the line of his business.
On entering the building, I’d spoken to a large, fine looking Rottweiler who had let me know that we were not to be friends. I assumed he belonged to one of the police. Twenty minutes later, we heard a commotion. Francisco had arrived, and the Rottweiler had severely bitten his arm. I watched out the window as the police shot the dog. It took more than a dozen shots to kill him. No one knew whose dog it was.
In the afternoon, Charlotte’s caravanning friends went on to Tucson in her car in order to get it out of the country, leaving their own car for Charlotte and Inez. When the interrogations were finally over, the police brought Charlotte back to Casas Grandes and jailed her. Meanwhile, half-a-dozen people assembled at our house while we found a lawyer. That done, we walked over to the jail. There we found some two-dozen people standing vigil outside on the sidewalk; word had reached Mata Ortiz. The police were courteous and allowed us to go in and talk with Charlotte through the bars and even to photograph her through the bars. Her cell had no chair to sit on, and we were told that friends would have to bring her food and blankets. When the lawyer arrived to represent her, one of the first orders was to wash and mop the floor of Charlotte’s cell. An officer gave her a plastic chair.
Now began an ordeal of waiting. The vigil outside showed no signs of thinning. Lengthy depositions were taken. Around mid-afternoon, the Jefe del Ministerio Público, who had the authority to release or hold her and who had expressed such annoyance in Mata Ortiz the previous day, left, saying she would return at six-thirty. She eventually returned at ten-thirty. Then interminable discussions with the lawyers for both sides went on behind closed doors. Emi and I brought blankets and a pillow in case Charlotte had to stay all night. When we left, it was midnight. Some half-dozen of Charlotte’s neighbors still stood vigil outside. If released during the night, Charlotte promised to stop at our house on her way north so that we would know what had happened.
Charlotte was charged with damaging property, although it wasn’t clear whose property she had damaged but her own. It came out that the complaint against her had been prepared several days earlier. Someone had got wind of her plan but thought it would take place on May 3rd instead of the 6th; so the complaint charged Charlotte with demolishing the house on a day when she was not yet in Mexico. This discrepancy worked in her favor. Taking the offensive, Charlotte then pressed charges against Francisco for padlocking her gate. If she were jailed, Francisco should be too. Accordingly, just after midnight, the police arrested him and put him in another cell. Charlotte next let it be known that if she continued to be held in jail, she would press charges for fraud against the person from whom she had bought the land. If her title wasn’t good, his must not have been either.
At two a.m., Charlotte and her friend knocked at our door. Before her release, $1,500 dollars had to be paid to Charlotte’s lawyer. She didn’t have such a sum with her, but three of her Mexican neighbors in Mata Ortiz got it together in the small hours of the morning and lent it to her. Charlotte was told the whole matter was settled and the land was now hers to do with as she wished. Title papers would be sent to her in a few days. How ironic! My interpretation of that surprising turn of events is that the authorities wanted to protect the person who had sold her the land from a charge of fraud and possible imprisonment, and the way to do this was to validate Charlotte’s title. Notice that with ejido land, there seems to be no consideration of fundamental property rights; it all seems to be a game of politics.
Charlotte has many friends in Mata Ortiz and no thought of leaving. But once the house was gone, she wanted nothing more to do with that particular property. And here enters another irony. After the demolition, she had planned to quitclaim to Francisco any interest she might still have and thus help to bring the village back together again. But the arrest and imprisonment changed her mind. She would keep the land and do nothing with it. I offered a suggestion: she could donate it to a worthy cause in the village such as Unidos por Mata Ortiz, the organization that worked to build the library and is now looking to undertake other projects, or Pilo Mora’s foundation, Comité de Asistencia Pro-Salud de Alfareros de Mata Ortiz, which he has set up to assist aging potters and their families who might be in need.
We shall probably never know what was at the bottom of this land dispute, but several things stand out. Francisco is poor, without resources to re-survey the land, never mind to retain a high-priced attorney to harass Charlotte, with whom he had been on quite friendly terms for eight years. Someone else had to be behind it. The son of the person from whom Charlotte bought the land is a longtime friend of Francisco’s and has resources. Could he have prompted Francisco to claim the land, wanting it for himself? That might explain the father, who sold the property to Charlotte, not having come forth to assist her in any way. He would have been supporting his son’s ambitions. But then, why would the son go to such lengths to get that piece of land, and what was in it for Francisco? Well, it’s good bottom land for crops or cattle, and it’s rumored the son wanted to build a spa (balneario) there. He might have promised his friend, Francisco, the house, never dreaming Pamela would demolish it. On the other hand, does the son know something other people don’t? Whoever Charlotte donates the land to might be well advised not to sell it immediately, but to wait and see what may be in the wind.
Some twenty Americans live part-time in Mata Ortiz in homes they have built or refurbished. Some are wondering how secure their tenure is in a collective where there is no equivalent of fee simple ownership, but all discretion resides in a council. They are not alone; Mexicans are concerned as well, and this case has brought their concern to the fore. Within the past eight months, I’ve chanced to hear of two other cases where an individual claimed that someone else’s tenure was defective and he could take the property. Fortunately, a number of titles in Mata Ortiz have been converted to privado, and this trend will probably continue. The state must favor such conversions, because private land can be taxed.
Postscript: This question of property rights in an ejido interests me especially because of the parallels I have found with common-interest developments in the United States organized under a homeowners’ association. For anyone interested, I’ve a forthcoming article on market alternatives to the manifold problems of common-interest development and will email copies on request. See Critical Review : An Interdisciplinary Journal of Politics and Society Vol.17 Nos.3-4.
March, 2006
Doña María de Jesús Celado Saenz, affectionately known as “Tia Chu,” was Juan Quezada’s maternal aunt and the last of the generation that had migrated from southern Chihuahua to Mata Ortiz. Tia Chu died February 15th, age 94, two months after her partner of 56 years, Cristóbal Hernández Márquez (“Tobal”). Chu and Tobal were a special couple, and Emi and I want to use this space to share some of our memories of them.
Tobal was accomplished as a mountain man. He had lived in the Sierras, working in sawmills and a distillery. He was skilled at distilling sotol, the native, fiery “white lightning” of Chihuahua. For many years, he tilled his own labor (field) in Mata Ortiz. Tobal accompanied the Quezadas in my little Datsun truck when we traveled down to Tutuaca and San Lorenzo, where the family had migrated from many years before, to re-establish long-lost contact with their relatives. On the way, we camped for a mid-day meal in the hills near the road, and Tobal and Juan’s father, Don José, expertly built a fire and threw steaks on it. Then they reminisced, Tobal about his years in the Sierras, and Don José about how, as a young man, he would lead strings of horses along our same route, selling and trading as he went. Instead of our few hours on the new highway, his trips had taken him weeks.
Chu and Tobal lived simply. Instead of spoons or forks, they still used tortillas in the traditional way, deftly pinching one piece into a scoop and using another as a pusher, the scoop and contents becoming a mouthful while the pusher becomes the next scoop, and so forth. Theirs was the last house on the right, approaching the cemetery from Mata Ortiz. Out of respect for her age and because of our affection for her, Emi and I always made it a point to stop first at their house when we arrived in the village. We would often take a can of coffee. The house was simple and small, with a little porch and lots of flowers, almost Disneyesque. Here at their kitchen table she would serve Emi coffee and me hot chocolate.
Occasionally Chu would make some little pots, lumpy, ungainly things, little bigger than a walnut. Emi and I and sometimes other visitors would buy some of them because of who Chu was, but there was little demand for them. The only really successful marketing venture was the time that Mickey Vanderwagen, a third-generation Southwest Indian trader (his grandfather founded the first trading post in Zuni Pueblo in the late 1800s), bought all that she had—several dozen—and at a grandiose Indian show on the East Coast displayed them on a separate table. On the table with the display of the pots stood a large portrait of Tia Chu, then in her early 90s. The lumpy little pots sold out immediately.
Chu and Tobal were poor by conventional standards. Though nearing 80, Tobal still supported them from his labor (field), which yielded them some beans and corn. Lydia Quezada, youngest sister of Juan and Chu’s niece, wanted to help her aunt in some way but didn’t know how without offending her. Then she got an idea. It would require the help of trader Steve Rose, who lived in the village. But because of the sensitivity of the situation, Lydia waited a year before broaching the idea. She waited until I could be present to help translate so that there would be no possible misunderstanding. This was her plan: Each and every month, she would pay Steve twenty dollars for him to use to buy four of Tia Chu’s pots at five dollars each. Steve agreed, and the arrangement worked smoothly for some years. One day, about a year into the arrangement, Emi and I were visiting, having coffee and hot chocolate at Chu and Tobal’s kitchen table. Suddenly Chu put on a puzzled expression and asked me, “Why does Steve always buy just four pots from me? Why doesn’t he ever buy more?” I kept a perfectly straight face and said I had no idea.
One day five or six years ago, I stopped in at Chu and Tobal’s house alone. Emi wasn’t with me, and Tobal was away working in his labor. Chu wanted to unburden herself of something, and as she spoke, tears came to her eyes. She said Tobal wouldn’t marry her. After more than fifty years of being together, he wasn’t ready to marry. I commiserated the best I could. Her sadness weighed on me, and a few days later I asked Lydia if she thought it would be appropriate for me to have a “man-to-man” talk with Tobal about this matter that meant so much to Chu. Lydia thought that would be a fine thing to do. She said I could tell Tobal that the family would pay all the expenses. There wouldn’t be a centavo left for him to pay. So I went back and found Chu and Tobal both at home. But how could I talk with Tobal in front of Chu? So I said to Tobal, “I’ve never seen your labor; would you show it to me?” His face and eyes shone. Tobal was enormously proud of his labor, and this was evidently the first time anyone had ever asked to see it. I felt like a worm for having asked him under false pretenses to take me to his labor. Nevertheless we went, and it was a fine labor, a tract of good bottomland about ten minutes from the house, near the cottonwood trees lining the Palanganas River. We talked out the matter thoroughly, but Tobal said the relationship had gone well for many years, and he didn’t want to change anything about it.
Another time, Chu became ill and had the unaccustomed and frightening experience of being taken to a hospital. She recuperated a few days in her niece’s home, Genoveva (sister of Lydia and Juan), in Casas Grandes. Emi and I went to visit, and the family, gathered in the front of the house, said we would find her in a bedroom. We went back and, finding a door open, entered. There on the bed were Tobal and Chu, fully dressed and laid out straight, side by side, like cordwood. Their eyes were closed, and to all appearances they were waiting and expecting to die. When we spoke and Chu saw who we were, she said in a barely audible voice, “The next time we visit will be in the panteón (cemetery).” A few weeks later, Emi and I were in the area again and called on Chu and Tobal in their little house. There was Chu sweeping off the porch. We said in pretended surprise, “Tia Chu, we went to the panteón to see you—but you weren’t there!” At that, Tobal laughed and said, “No llegaron los boletos” (the tickets didn’t arrive).
Last November, with Jon and Charmayne Samuelson, we stopped for the last time and found Tobal ill, unable to stand without pain and unable to care for Chu. As he greeted us, Jon asked permission to take his picture. It was the last picture ever taken of him. Tobal was taken to be cared for by family in Chihuahua City, but shortly returned and was admitted to the hospital in Nuevo Casas Grandes, where he died a few days later. I regretted that I hadn’t thought to broach once more, man-to-man, on his deathbed, the possibility of his marrying Chu.
The circumstances of Tobal’s death underscore the mystery of life. Tia Chu had been taken home to be cared for by Juan’s sisters, Lydia, Genoveva, and Rosa, rotating two or three weeks at a time in the home of each. Death came for Tobal at about 8 p.m. on December 10th. Since Rosa was caring for Tia Chu at the time, the hospital phoned her the news. Rose then called Lydia and asked her to bring Genoveva in the morning so that together they could break the news to their Tia Chu. When Rosa went into Chu’s room in the morning, however, she found her shaking. Chu said that it was only nerves. Then she asked, “Tobal died last night. Isn’t that right?” Rosa said, “Yes—how did you know?” “He was here with me. He held my hand.” Rosa then called Lydia to say there was no need to come, that Chu knew and was taking it well. Lydia asked, “Who told her?” “No one,” Rosa said. “She told us.”
Chu was tired. Without her companion of 56 years, she was ready to die. So she shut her eyes and waited for death to come. Her nieces called the priest. On arriving at the house, the priest looked at Chu and said, “Bring her some atole” (a thick, nourishing, corn drink). Rosa brought the cup of atole—whereupon Chu opened her eyes and had some.
Two weeks ago, our phone rang at four in the morning. It was Lydia, calling from her home in Nuevo Casas Grandes. When she heard my voice, she was startled and apologized, saying she was calling Rosa in Mata Ortiz and had mistakenly dialed our number. (A day later, she said that she’d made a mistake, but God hadn’t.) Tia Chu seemed to be dying, she said, and the family thought they should move her to a hospital; Lydia was going out to Mata Ortiz to help arrange the transport. After Lydia hung up, Emi said we should get dressed and go out too.
We drove out under the stars and got to Rosa’s before Lydia. On the way there, Emi had expressed her strong feeling that Chu should die at home and not in the strange environment of a hospital. Someone would have to stay with her at the hospital in any case, and it might be days or a week. Because family members might be reluctant to suggest they keep Tia Chu at home and deny her whatever a hospital might offer, Emi thought it might be up to her, an outsider and a nurse practitioner, to say it. I’d teased Emi lightly that she might have taken her stethoscope mainly to reinforce the nurse image. The gathered family did take Emi’s suggestion. Because Rosa was exhausted from her two-weeks stint, with little sleep because of Chu’s nighttime restlessness, it was agreed to move Chu by ambulance to Lydia’s house in Nuevo Casas Grandes. Emi said someone should stay with Chu at all times by turns, and volunteered that she and I would take the first shift, starting right away. So here was a plan. The ambulance was called, and all but Emi and I retired to the kitchen to work out a schedule of shifts for the next week involving a large number of the family.
During these several hours, Chu had shown little ability to respond, the death rattle sounding in her throat as members of the family spoke in her right ear (that being her best ear), fervently praying to God to take her and earnestly imploring her to repent her sins so that He would do so. The ambulance arrived, and the attendants lifted Chu onto a gurney and the gurney into the ambulance. As they did so, Emi called out a farewell to Chu and waved. Chu opened her eyes and managed to bring a hand out from under her blanket. Weakly but gallantly, she waved back at her.
Chu died that evening. In the morning, Emi brought to the mortuary in Nuevo Casas Grandes Tobal’s last photo, which Chu had never seen. Emi had mounted it in a simple folder and now set it on the viewing glass of the casket. That afternoon, the Mass for Chu in the Church of San Antonio in Casas Grandes struck me as one of the most beautiful services I’d ever witnessed, and I so wished Chu could have seen it. Following the Mass, the body was taken to the panteón in Mata Ortiz and lowered into the grave. We noted that the photo of Tobal went with her. From that grave site on the hill, we could almost see Tia Chu’s and Tobal’s little house, the last house on the road before reaching the panteón.
January, 2006
Guest Editorial: Pilo Mora and the Silent Auction
Greetings my friends in the Mata Ortiz family. It was an honor to be asked to write about my experience at the ninth annual Gathering of Traders and Friends of Mata Ortiz and to have an opportunity to become a part of your world. During my visit to Mata Ortiz, after years of hearing about you, I was able at last to meet and interact with many of you. My name is Santiago Garfias Turok. My mother, Marta Turok Wallace, has been a part of the community for some time.
Among many highlights of this meeting, one event stood out that I would like to write about for those who could not attend. That was the Silent Auction organized by the great master potter Pilo Mora. At the Saturday afternoon session, Pilo said that he had something important to say. He wanted us to know that he was starting a fund for those of the pioneering, first-generation artisans, now in their declining years, who may be troubled by poor health or other difficulties. Their friends are concerned for them. Pilo wanted to do something for these great masters for all they had given in the way of early teaching and experimentation and for their personal example in the village. He thought an organization of some kind could be established to assist by funding special programs in the local clinic, setting up some form of popular insurance, or in other ways.
Pilo volunteered a piece of his own work to start things off and asked the meeting how he might go about selling or auctioning it. After several suggestions, the decision was made to hold a silent auction during the rest of the afternoon and at the dinner Pilo would host for everyone at his home that evening. A certain happiness pervaded the room. One of the great ones had taken the initiative to help others in the community who had contributed in fundamental ways to its success and were now facing hard times.
At this point, three more leading potters offered to donate pieces— Efraín Lucero, Macario Ortiz, and Lila Silveira. They unhesitatingly joined the cause and left the meeting to bring their pots from home. While they were gone, some of the traders and visitors stood up and made cash donations. They thanked Pilo and said how much they were giving, and each received an ovation. As the meeting continued through the rest of the afternoon, people quietly made their way to the back of the room where the donated pots were, to place a bid.
The gathering concluded with a presentation by Walter Parks on what is known of the life of Juan Mata Ortiz, the Apache Indian fighter for whom the village is named. Everyone then retired to the Mata Ortiz public library for a short dedication ceremony. A bronze plaque commemorated all those who had helped. Prominent among those was the Mata Ortiz Foundation, a tax-exempt organization the traders had formed at one of the early Gatherings.
And now it was party time! Pilo and his wife Delia served a wonderful dinner to more than 50 people in their new home. A wonderful warmth and sense of friendship filled the house. At ten to eight, it was announced that the auction was finalizing; anyone wanting to be the lucky owner of one of these beautiful pieces should make his way to the sheets and put in his final bid. As the bidding concluded, I was given the signal honor of acting as master of ceremonies. I named all the generous people who had made a cash donation and, after a few words from Pilo Mora, announced the winners.
James D. Fox, a newcomer to the Mata Ortiz family, was the high bidder on Pilo’s pot. This was his first pot ever, and he was excited. But his luck continued, as he turned out to be the lucky bidder on Macario Ortiz’s pot as well. Mr. Fox thanked us for this chance to take part in a great cause. Everyone agreed he had made two beautiful acquisitions.
In the end the total came to an incredible $1,750 dollars. Looking at Pilo, it was obvious that he felt good about all that had just happened. He had asked for help and had received more than expected.
In conclusion, I would like to say that, as in any community, many things are needed in Mata Ortiz. Some are being taken care of, thanks in no small part to the many dedicated people who have immersed themselves in the greatness and mysticism of this little community. From my first exhilarating experience in this place, I am left with an immense satisfaction and a sense of home. This will certainly not be my last visit. If given the chance, I would like to take part in many other activities—such as this space that Spencer and Emi offered me.
To all of you, thank you. I trust I made a good impression and lived up to all the things my mom has said of me. To Walter, thank you for the warm welcome and for the opportunity to help translate. With this I say goodbye. Let this not be the last you hear of me!
Santiago Garfias Turok
EDITORS’ NOTE: Pilo More has formed an organization, Comité de Asistencia Pro-Salud de Alfareros de Mata Ortiz, opened a bank account, engaged the services of an auditor, and made meticulous accounting (as meticulous as his work on his fine pottery) of contributions. The initial officers (himself, Porfirio Mora Villalba, President; Efraín Lucero Andrew, Secretary; and Silvia Silveira Sandoval, Treasurer) are working out a mission statement and procedural rules. Financial contributors who donated at the Gathering are Kate Bauer, Blanca Chinolla, Curtis Dinwiddie, Jan Kojev, Claude Smith, Santiago Garfias Turok, and Margie Wallace. At the silent auction, William E. Zidbeck won both Efraín Lucero’s and Lila Silveira’s pots. Disbursements to date have included a contribution to the funeral expenses of Felix Ortiz and medical consultations for a broken leg suffered by Chevo Ortiz.
August, 2005
Tom Fresh was a major early player in the Mata Ortiz phenomenon. He introduced Mata Ortiz to Idyllwild School of Music and the Arts (ISOMATA) and Walter Parks to Mata Ortiz. He stepped to the bat and helped to maintain the momentum and continuity after Spencer took an extended leave of absence from the project in 1983. For the next decade, in close collaboration with Walter Parks, Tom was Juan Quezada’s outstanding friend and mentor. Now, after a long and debilitating illness, he has found his rest. May his spirit stay with us always. For those who did not have the opportunity to know Tom, Walt offers us a sketch of the man he knew so well:
Tom Fresh
May 22, 1937—July 25, 2005
One day in the meadow at Idyllwild Arts, Tom Fresh told the children in his class that they were going to build a yellow submarine. They glued together strips of yellow plastic into a large elongated balloon, painted the appropriate detail, filled it with helium, and marched through the town, the balloon flying high, singing the Beatles’ tune at the top of their lungs. Each kid had a paper mirror stuck on his forehead. Why? Because if you were a kid and met Tom that summer, he stuck a mirror on your forehead.
That was Tom in the 1960s, a wacky teacher, who lived in a teepee, surrounded by a multitude of kids ready for the next wacky art project.
In the 70s, he built a geodesic dome in the desert and among other things tried to fire clay with an elaborate solar kiln made of mirrors. In the process, he found some very good clay. One summer he traded a bag of it to the famous Indian potter María Martínez for a place in her class at Idyllwild Arts. He met other Indian artists, became their friends, learned their techniques, and from this beginning ultimately became the director of a growing Native American Arts program at Idyllwild Arts.
It was at Tom’s suggestion that Spencer brought Juan Quezada to the campus in 1982. Tom and Juan became good friends. Tom was fluent in Spanish, having wandered around Cuba, Spain, and Mexico as a young man, hanging out and painting in water colors. Over the next nine years, Tom brought Juan, Nicolás, Reynaldo, Taurina Baca, and other Mata Ortiz potters to Idyllwild. They met the Indian artists, and the Indians met them, producing interesting cross-cultural results as they worked and socialized together under Tom’s laid-back direction. For example, two Acoma Pueblo potters now use a hacksaw blade to scrape the outside of their pots, a trick they learned from Juan.
Meanwhile, Tom bought an old homestead in a canyon near Idyllwild. He lived in the old cabin and built a hogan for his visitors. Eventually he turned the property over to a Zen Buddhist organization but continued to live in the cabin until his health failed. He became ill in 1995 just after closing the art gallery he had started after leaving Idyllwild Arts in 1991. After years, including time in a convalescent home, he was diagnosed as having celiac disease, an illness where the body has an aversion to wheat and other gluten products. His weight dropped to less than 125 pounds. However, in the fall of 2002, he was well enough to move to a village called San Francisco, locally referred to as “San Pancho,” north of Puerto Vallarta. An old Idyllwild friend and retired forest ranger, Frank Smith, looked after him until last February, when Frank and Tom’s two children moved him to a private home in Ojai, California. On Sunday, July 24, he collapsed. His caretaker took him to the hospital where he was diagnosed with pneumonia. He went to sleep in a hospital room and never awakened.
Tom introduced me and many others to Mata Ortiz, to the joys of art, and to the joy of living life to the fullest. He was one a kind. After meeting Tom, you marched on with a mirror stuck to your forehead.
Walter Parks
N.B. A memorial for Tom will be held in Idyllwild CA on August 19th. See “Scheduled Events” under that date for details.
June, 2005
(Emi chides me that this month’s editorial is a shameless advertisement of Casas Grandes and what we’re doing. Well, so be it. Casas Grandes is our new home.)
Welcome to the reactivated Mata Ortiz Calendar of Events in its debut as a web site. Apologies for letting the Calendar falter this past year while we were busy selling our home in Nevada, moving our earthly possessions, and settling into our new home here in Casas Grandes. Making a web site was also new territory for us and easily put off, especially as we became heavily involved in an unexpected project—buying and restoring four old adobe homes near the plaza here in Casas Grandes.
First we bought an old ruin of a house with twelve-and-a-half-foot ceilings and two-foot-thick walls, but then got cold feet and almost put it back on the market. What did we know about adobe restoration? But we lucked into an extraordinary contractor, Luís Tena, who knows and is interested in traditional ways of construction. Work moved ahead better and faster that we had dreamed possible. So when a neighbor asked if we would buy his old house and Luís was willing to help, we went ahead. Now, little more than a year later, we’ve almost finished restoring/renovating four old homes, staying true to the old style, which Emi calls “Rural Chihuahua Rustic.”
Our rationalization for such fun? Anticipating that the day may be fast approaching when U.S. citizens will be blocked from taking assets out of the country, we brought our retirement savings here. What to do with them? Believing Casas Grandes has strong tourism potential, we thought well-selected mud might perform as well or better than gold. So, we began buying it up—old adobe mud in Casas Grandes. Our plan six or eight years down the road is to sell the houses, hopefully for a capital gain. Meanwhile, to hold our investment and realize some income to live on, we’ll furnish and rent them, mostly to visiting Americans. So that’s our gamble. Now that the houses are about done, we’re hunting vintage furnishings for them.
The last house we bought was so little changed since the mid-1800s that we want to preserve it as a museum that will show how people lived before the revolution. We’ll have no electricity; lighting will be by kerosene lamps. Local people are lending some furniture and fascinating memorabilia. The house features a large, semi-subterranean, secret room, the only one in town, said to have been built expressly to hide women and children in the event of Apache attack. As a footnote to such a possibility, we learned that the church bell in the nineteenth century gave warning of an impending attack. So how did the padre call his flock to mass on Sundays? For many years, he called them with a large, wooden, ratchet noisemaker.
As far as a place to live, our adopted town meets most of our needs We’re four hours from El Paso’s medical resources but have several good hospitals only ten minutes away in Nuevo Casas Grandes (70,000 population). We have DSL Internet connection and, for $25/month through VoicePulse.com, can make unlimited calls anywhere in the United States and Canada.
Casas Grandes is the head of the municipio of Casas Grandes, largest in Mexico, which takes in Mata Ortiz. Founded in 1661, it has both historic depth and cultural breadth. Here is where the Revolution of 1910 began, and rumor has it that it was plotted two years before the event in our “museum house” by eight men whom the federales later intercepted and imprisoned off the coast of Veracruz. Casas Grandes counts among its attractions one of the more important archaeological ruins (Paquimé) in North America, a world-class museum, cliff dwellings and rock-art sites, proximity to Mata Ortiz (or we wouldn’t be here), a ruined Spanish mission, and all of this close to the United States. It lies on the shortest route between Los Angeles and Guadalajara (yes, shorter than the coastal route), and the planned extension of the Mata Ortiz road to Madera will give direct access to the Copper Canyon. Casas Grandes’ cultural life is reflected in its up-coming, annual multi-cultural festival, July 1-10 (see under “Scheduled Events”).
So while this will always be the Mata Ortiz Calendar of Events, its focus, now that we are living here, will inevitably be larger. Emi and I have made Casas Grandes our home. Our door is open to any who care to visit, and we’re easy to find. One block past the main plaza, turn right onto Avenida Victoria. You’ll find us at the end of the second block, on the left—a corner house obscured by a vine-covered iron fence and a small orchard of quince and pecan trees.
August, 2004
Mata Ortiz is rapidly changing. The new paved road has only two more miles to go to reach the village. There are now more than 200 telephones, which will be published in the phone book next year. (Until then the Calendar keeps an up-to-date listing and will email it free upon request). An entrepreneurial spirit seems to have flooded the community during the summer. Jorge Quintana’s excellent new food market opened July 31st with good produce and fresh cuts of meat at Nuevo Casas Grandes prices. Two new restaurants have opened—the Caporal and the Trevizo, the latter with Noé Quezada’s large art gallery upstairs. Eduardo Martinez’ new rodeo arena is operating. Current movies are screened on weekends in the Salón de Actos. Lencho Sanchez has opened a car wash near Jorge Quintana’s art gallery by the church. Macario’s art gallery is under construction at his home in Porvenir, and the Quezada family’s two new galleries, one in Juan’s home and the other above the Trevizo Restaurant, opened this summer. Debi Flanigan is remodeling her home to accommodate more than a hundred day-visitors a week from Grand Circle Travel for lunch and a pottery firing demonstration. Chevo Ortega Moreno aspires to develop an RV park at his rancho in Barrio Porvenir. Israel Rentería and Oscar Trevizo have gone on-line with Mata Ortiz’ first web sites, www.mataortizpotterysale.com and www.quezadaoriginalsite.com.
All of these changes come to mind casually, without any systematic research of the subject. Carl Socolow has begun photographing the village to record the changes the new road will bring over the next few years for a photo-journalism study that will become the basis for a book. Meanwhile, as mentioned last month, the diversification into silver jewelry is slowly but surely putting down its roots. All of this will enhance the tourism potential which is already assured by the growing recognition Paquimé as one of the most important archaeological sites of North America; by the presence of the small but world-class Museum of Northern Cultures; and by the convenient proximity of these things to the United States. What a contrast with 25 years ago, when Mata Ortiz was on its way to becoming a ghost town. Today, young people of Mata Ortiz are attending universities in both the United States and Mexico and becoming bilingual. The beauty of this is that the art of Mata Ortiz, which perhaps more than any other single thing jump-started all of this transformation, continues to evolve and grow in quality. Nowhere in the world, in any period of history, has hand-built pottery achieved the technical level it has reached here. There is no indication that it has yet peaked. Where is it going from here? Isn’t it intriguing, also, that all of this florescence has happened spontaneously, without any government involvement other than the road now nearing completion. Surely, Walter Parks was prescient in titling his book, now approaching its seventh printing, The Miracle of Mata Ortiz.
December, 2003
Pavement!
One reason for this letter is to stimulate speculation on what changes may occur as new roads come into Mara Ortiz. As those who visit Mata with any frequency know, pavement via two roads will reach the village sometime early in 2004. A new, paved route will turn south before Colonia Juarez and proceed straight into Mata Ortiz. There is some speculation that this will be a toll road. The second paved route will more or less follow the existing road from Colonia Juarez, connecting to the new road just east of Cuauhtemoc.
A bigger reason for writing is to respond to the many visitors and other tour leaders we have talked with in the village recently, all of whom seem to think the paved roads will ruin Mata.
There is little doubt that easier access will bring changes, and when we love something the way it is, it is natural for us to want it to stay that way. Without a doubt, the perceived remoteness the dirt road has given the village has added to its charm and magic.
We don't sell pots; we sell the village. Certainly the ceramic revolution is what first draws people to the area, but what brings them back again and again are the people, their culture, and the colorful history of the area. These things will not change with the introduction of paved roads.
We have been exposing people to the Mata Ortiz experience since the mid 1990s, and now we have a small house in the village. Between tours for the Arizona Sonora Desert Museum and our caravan trips, we have visited the village on almost a monthly basis for the past three years. Nearly every trip has had some repeat visitors. It is not likely that they are returning just to ride in on the dirt road!
Any tour leader has probably explained to his groups how Juan Quezada and the new ceramic industry has saved the village becoming a ghost town. The influx of money has made it possible for the villagers to purchase vehicles and improve their homes. Pavement is a natural progression of this economic boom.
We hear from other tour leaders that they fear an improved road will bring hoards of people, including many “ugly” Americans. However, we doubt the number of independent visitors will rise significantly. In our experience, what prevents people from coming is not the poor road. More often, it is their irrational fear of traveling into Mexico. We may see large bus tours, but as it is now, they won’t be able to stay overnight. This too may change in the future.
Let’s consider the potentially good aspects of the pavement from the locals’ viewpoint. More visitors will mean more income, especially for the lesser-known potters. Faster access to emergency medical services will likely prove to be invaluable. Public transportation may improve to the point that parents seeking higher education for their children no longer have to move away from the village. Vehicle maintenance should lessen. With a little thought, we’re sure you can add to this list.
We want to encourage those of you who expose newcomers to Mata Ortiz to continue to stress your real reason for coming—which is the people. Don’t tell them they should have been here in the good old days when it was really hard to reach the village, since they are here now! Of course, for the purist, you can still bring your groups into Mata on a dirt road via Madero. But we bet you don’t.
Ron & Sue Bridgemon , Tucson, Arizona
520-744-2243 <azcaver@earthlink.net>
April, 2003
The Mata Ortiz art movement is gaining more fine recognition. On March 25th, Juan Quezada was awarded by the Chihuahua legislature (Congreso del Estado) the "Patrimonio del Estado" award. This prestigious award, modeled after the Japanese concept of a "national treasure," is unique in Mexico and was created specially for Juan Quezada, its first recipient. Meanwhile in the United States, Michael Wisner, of Anderson Ranch in Snowmass, Colorado, protégé and colleague of Juan Quezada for 14 years and a leading technologist and artist in the field of Southwest and Mata Ortiz ceramics, has been awarded a National Endowment for the Arts grant, sponsored by the Colorado Council on the Arts, for the year 31 March 2003 – 31 March 2004.
On another subject, Vern Hensler last month contributed a short piece on the "fireclouds" that sometimes appear on a pot when it's fired outdoors in the natural way. Mata Ortiz potters go along with most Southwest Indian potters in trying to avoid fireclouds and will often re-fire a pot to get rid of them. The Hopi, on the other hand, like them, as do the Japanese, who are among the world's finest ceramists. Collectors vary, some accepting them and some not. It's a personal preference. Emi and I have always liked them (and the poetry of the name) if they don't distract from the decoration of the pot. If it were not considered a blemish so long as it did not distract from the painting, it would relieve some of the pressure on potters doing outdoor firings. It's an interesting subject, and we'd welcome views on the subject in our Letters to the Editors.
January, 2003
A European Tour in 2005 ?
Virginia Gift started the ball rolling. An American writer living in Paris who has a home in Mata Ortiz with a wonderful view of the river and the mountains, Virginia is working on arranging a gallery show of Mata Ortiz art in Paris as a first step toward a museum exhibition there. Virginia's efforts led serendipitously to discussions of an idea that may merge with hers or proceed independently, namely, a European tour in 2005, with a first-rate catalog, of approximately 70 pieces from private collections of the finest work Juan Quezada has ever done. A major museum in this country has indicated interest in being the sponsoring institution, showing the exhibition either at the beginning or the end of the tour, and handling shipping to and from Europe. The European museums would only bear the transportation costs within Europe.
Emi and I believe this would be a dramatic way to introduce the art of Mata Ortiz to Europe. We've tentative contacts in France, Germany and Spain and are looking for more. So this is a call to readers of the Calendar to call or email us if you have contacts in the art world in Europe, or have friends with such contacts, or simply have good ideas. As they say on Public Radio, "The lines are open;" let us hear from you!! -Spencer and Emi.