AmArteMx, Chapter 1

I'm currently working on this project with the collaboration of another teacher as part of the Universidad Iberoamericana (Mexico City) linked projects. A few months ago, we received an invitation from MVS Radio Station and the TodoTerreno Program by Pamela Cerdeira.

Two other colleges are also taking part of a reality-show contest called AmArteMx: the National Autonomous University (UNAM) and The Monterrey Tec (ITESM). Each of the colleges was assigned a specific state in Mexico with a particular textile handcraft. The objective is to make an innovative business model along with an original way to understand and reinvent the craft they do.

Our project takes place in the state of Querétaro, 45 minutes away from Bernal, in the small town of El Saucito from the lone municipality of Tolimán. Looking at this map, I see some scars on the dry, rugged, wise land. Some precious minerals have been extracted from some mines along the way, leaving open wounds on its landscape. The prickly pears and cacti stand proud, covering the green path towards the Sierra Gorda along 140 highway.

As usual, I did bring my wetsuit and my diving helmet. I always get this impression I'm deep underwater, moving slowly, amongst the vulnerable roads of my country. I'm Pedro Páramo all over again. Did I die? How is it that poverty has the same face but yet is another generation of men and woman I'm looking at?

It would be easy to say these woman speak with their hands and they weave their dreams on their fabrics. But to be completely honest (with great fear of generalisation), they look tired, worried but mostly disenchanted. It seems as if by selling cheaply their products to tourists and international fashion magazines, they have learned the terrible truth about humankind: Nobody cares. Of their ailments, the things they can't tell anyone, of the constant dripping of dread that comes from their husbands in the US or from the little coins that seem to flee from their hands as soon as they reach them.

I witnessed a woman cry because she, as any Simone de Beauvoir spirit, wants to do what she loves most without fretting, she desperately wants to share the delicate beauty of her work but she rather keep it to the delight of her eyes, than giving it away for almost nothing.

But in this dramatic tale there was also a small boy, around ten or twelve who was completely unaware of our presence. He just wove mindfully, surrounded by the women's dialects, getting up from time to time, asking her grandmother if what he was doing was OK. His shirt was perfectly clean, tucked in, his hands dancing up and down, moving the needle with skill and grace. This immersed boy will become my personal objective.