Julie Mollins

Living in a remote historic Mexican village established by the Aztecs is as romantic as one might expect.

And yet, despite the many pleasures on offer — including almost nightly fireworks and fiestas –the experience is slightly deflationary after residing amid the hustle and bustle of London’s South Bank and Toronto’s trendy Seaton Village.

Apart from walks, gardening and the odd dinner party, it seems that all else socially inspiring occurs in places other than here.

At this high altitude, in the Valley of Mexico near the city of Texcoco northeast of Mexico City, days are hot, evenings are cool, the air is thin and breathing at times laborious.

To fill the void, after a hiatus of many years, I’ve taken up my paintbrush again, but this time around not for oil or acrylic, but to learn the fine art of watercolor in the nearby village of San Nicolas Tlaminca. I’ve also started drawing again, eschewing familiar pencils, pens and charcoal to learn the fine art of pastels in the village of Huexotla, near Chapingo.

The practice reminds me of days gone by when I pursued fine art studies at the former Jackson School, a campus of the former Corcoran School of Art in Washington, D.C., recently visited for the first time in many years. I Googled my teachers remembering them fondly.

Sketchy results of current efforts follow, two of which were somewhat surprisingly displayed in a group art exhibition curated by Rosa Galindo at the cultural center in Texcoco in December.

Included in the exhibit — my first “fine” art to appear in a show since I participated in an exhibition in a stairwell at the Corcoran school curated by Tuft and Newman — were “Frida Kahlo’s Garden” and “Marionette.”

– Certificate –

– Marionette, pastel –

– Frida Kahlo’s Garden, pastel (excuse the reflections in the photograph) –

– Cactus, pastel –

– Wheat Field and Palm Tree in Obregon, pastel –

– A gathering, watercolor –

– Geranium, watercolor (excuse the blurry picture) –

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Today, I received an admonishment at a Spanish-language school in historic San Miguel de Allende — criticized for having a perceived incorrect impression of Dia de Muertos, a present-day public holiday, which has been celebrated for thousands of years in Mexico.

My six classmates and I were told by the director of the Academia Hispano Americana (AHA) that the day is an extremely solemn event, recently commercialized, and for that reason any aspirations to visit a historic cemetery or participate in any festivities should be abandoned.

Sticking to the classroom setting is the best way to learn, we were told, after a classmate asked if we could go to the cemetery as a group — not roaming about the city where we might be unable to hear the instructor properly. This rebuke, perhaps part of our cultural training as foreigners in Mexico, was met with bemusement and weak chuckles — one student giddily applauded.

Clearly, we still have much to learn. Chastened and penitent, we turned our focus to the intricacies of Spanish grammar, many thoughts no doubt wandering to the multitude of sugar skulls, pan de muerto, and other “Day of the Dead” delights in the Plaza Civica, just a short walk away.

I recalled the offrenda I saw and the performance I attended in Texcoco a year ago during which I was mocked by an actor dressed as “La Catrina” — a skeleton dressed in gothic Victoriana, representative of the wealthy elite in Mexico. The image was first popularized in the early 20th century by artist Luis Posada, then by muralist Diego Rivera some 30 years later in his “Dream of a Sunday Afternoon in Alameda Central Park“.

Nevermind.

This year, due to travel plans I will not be in Mexico for Dia de Muertos, but the November 1 holiday provides an opportunity to remember not only the dead, but that a year ago I was struggling without any Spanish language skills.

I now communicate the very basics in a bizarre “Spanglish” dialect.