Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between: Murals of the Colonial Andes 9781477300442

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Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between

Heaven, Hell, AND EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN

Murals of the Colonial Andes Ananda Cohen Suarez

University of Texas Press, Austin

This book is a part of the Recovering Languages and Literacies of the Americas publication initiative, funded by a grant from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation.

Copyright © 2016 by the University of Texas Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America First edition, 2016 Requests for permission to reproduce material from this work should be sent to: Permissions University of Texas Press P.O. Box 7819 Austin, TX 78713-­7819 http://utpress.utexas.edu/index.php/rp-­form ♾ The paper used in this book meets the minimum requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-­1992 (R1997) (Permanence of Paper). Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Cohen Suarez, Ananda, author. Heaven, hell, and everything in between : murals of the colonial Andes / Ananda Cohen Suarez. — First edition. pages cm — (Recovering languages and literacies of the Americas Mellon Foundation Initiative) Includes bibliographical references. ISBN 978-1-4773-0954-4 (cloth : alk. paper) ISBN 978-1-4773-0955-1 (pbk.) ISBN 978-1-4773-0044-2 (library e-book) ISBN 978-1-4773-0045-9 (non-library e-book) 1. Indian mural painting and decoration—Andes Region. 2. Indian mural painting and decoration—Peru (Viceroyalty) 3. Indians of South America—Andes Region—Antiquities. 4. Indians of South America—Andes Region—Religion. 5. Art and society—Andes Region— History. 6. Art—Political aspects—Andes Region—History. 7. Spain—Colonies—America. I. Title. II. Series: Recovering languages and literacies of the Americas. F3429.3.P34C64 2016 751.7′3098—dc23 2015030235 doi:10.7560/309544

To Nana

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Contents

Acknowledgments  ix Introduction  1 1. The Painted Walls of the Andes: Chronology, Techniques, and Meanings  27 2. The Road to Hell Is Paved with Flowers: Journeys to the Afterlife at the Church of Andahuaylillas  51 3. Clothing the Architectonic Body: Textile Murals of the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries  83 4. Turning the Jordan River into a Pacarina: Murals of the Baptism of Christ at the Churches of Urcos and Pitumarca  119 5. Earthly Violence/Divine Justice: Tadeo Escalante’s Murals at the Church of Huaro  145 Conclusion  183 Notes  189 Bibliography  237 Index  261

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Acknowledgments

It takes a village to produce a book, and this one is no exception. I am grateful to all of the people and institutions that have supported this project along the way. When this manuscript was in its early stages as a dissertation, I was fortunate to have numerous mentors who encouraged me to take risks and to let the archives and images themselves guide my process. I am grateful to James Saslow, Judy Sund, and Raquel Chang-­Rodríguez at the CUNY Graduate Center, who provided valuable input on earlier drafts of this book. I would also like to thank Tom Cummins for his insightful feedback, which helped me to conceptualize its major stakes and contributions. Miguel Arisa, Jeremy George, Maya Jiménez, Jung Joon Lee, and Renee McGarry all made valuable suggestions on earlier drafts of these chapters and, most importantly, were great friends during a grueling time. Andrea Coronil, Allison Curseen, Madonna Lee, and Jennifer Samuels all touched this project in different ways and were always willing to lend a sympathetic ear. Most of all, I reserve special thanks to my dissertation advisor, Eloise Quiñones Keber, who enthusiastically supported this project from its very inception. She immediately took me under her wing when I began as a naïve graduate student ten years ago and has been a constant source of guidance and inspiration. Her enthusiasm for pre-­Columbian and colonial Latin American art and her commitment to disentangling these histories from Eurocentric grand narratives have profoundly impacted every aspect of my work. I would not be where I am today if not for her, and for that I am tremendously grateful. I have had the privilege of numerous mentors in Peru who helped me navigate this research project in ways that would never have been possible without their guidance. In particular, I would like to thank Elizabeth Kuon Arce, who was instrumental in facilitating my research at various churches and archives. Her own

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x     Acknowledgments scholarship on Andean murals has been very influential on my work. I am deeply appreciative of her generosity and our stimulating conversations, many of which are reflected on the pages of this book. Most importantly, she made Cuzco feel like home during my research trip there in 2010–2011. I would also like to thank Donato Amado for his mentorship and friendship. His expertise in Cuzco’s colonial archives is unparalleled, and I am thankful that he was able to guide me and offer suggestions for the historical dimension of this project. Edith Zevallos provided invaluable Quechua instruction and translation assistance. Jaime Chino Huanca and Julio Ninantay Loayza took me to various sites and offered important perspectives from a restoration and materials standpoint. Roman Flores Alvarado was a great friend and colleague during my stays in Cuzco and helped point me to new historical sources. I am grateful to Jean-­Jacques Decoster for his support of my projects and efforts to facilitate my research in Cuzco. I would also like to thank project director Mario Castillo Centeno, head architect Diana Castillo Cerf, Father Oscar Francisco Morelli, and the conservation staff at the church of Andahuaylillas for generously allowing me to photograph the murals there as well as at the nearby churches of Huaro and Canincunca. The staff at the Biblioteca Delran Cousy of the Centro Bartolomé de las Casas, the Archivo Arzobispal, and the Archivo Regional in Cuzco patiently fulfilled my numerous requests. In particular, I would like to thank Raúl Montero of the Archivo Arzobispal for his assistance in digitizing a number of archives consulted for this book. Pilar Rau was an amazing photographer and travel partner and, most importantly, helped me come up with the title of this book. I thank Father Francisco Puma in Acomayo for facilitating my travels to view Tadeo Escalante’s artworks throughout the area. I would also like to give special thanks to the ecónomos of the parishes of Acomayo, Catca, Checacupe, Chinchero, Maras, Ocongate, Oropesa, Pitumarca, and San Jerónimo, who opened the doors of their churches to me and graciously tolerated my incessant questions and photographs. Jesús Cangahuala Allain, Deyvi Saavedra, and Carlos Zegarra Moretti of the Instituto Pastoral Andina were instrumental in facilitating my research in Sicuani, for which I am very grateful. Finally, I would like to thank Rosanna Kuon as well as the staff at the Biblioteca Nacional, Archivo Arzobispal, and Archivo General de la Nación in Lima for their assistance. In Spain, I would like to thank Sílvia Carbonell of the Centre de Documentació i Museu Tèxtil in Barcelona, Amparo López at the Museo Lázaro Galdiano in Madrid, and Ana Cabrera at the Museo Nacional de Artes Decorativas, who all graciously allowed me to study and photograph their rich collections of Iberian textiles. I would also like to thank the staff of the Archivo de Indias in Seville for fulfilling my numerous requests on a tight schedule. Luly Feliciano, Cynthia

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Acknowledgments     xi Robinson, and Amanda Wunder were instrumental in acquainting me with these colleagues and institutions in Spain. I have been lucky to have the support of a wonderful community of scholars at Cornell, who provided critical feedback and guidance as the dissertation began to morph into a book. I am especially grateful to Ernesto Bassi, Durba Ghosh, Mostafa Minawi, and Natalia DiPietroantonio, who offered invaluable feedback on some of the chapters. Shorna Allred, Catherine Appert, Mary Pat Brady, Ella Diaz, María Fernández, Cheryl Finley, Ariana Kim, Verónica Martínez-­Matsuda, Jamila Michener, and Sofia Villenas have been incredible friends and mentors who provided much needed support at various stages of this process. My students have impacted me in ways that they may never know, and I give special thanks to Zoe Carlson, Yisoo Choi, Kevin Cruz, Maxwell Murphy, Hannah Ryan, and Keely Sarr for challenging my thinking and keeping me on my toes. A number of colleagues provided input on various drafts of this project and offered much appreciated expertise, including Carolyn Dean, Alcira Dueñas, Emily Engel, José Carlos de la Puente Luna, Gonzalo Lamana, Bruce Mannheim, Barbara Mundy, Stella Nair, Rachel O’Toole, Linda Rodriguez, Maya Stanfield-­ Mazzi, and Charles Walker. I am eternally grateful to Lauren Kilroy-­Ewbank for reading through the entire manuscript in record time and offering critical suggestions that have undoubtedly made this book better. Numerous institutions and grants supported research and travel for this project, including a Helen Watson Buckner Memorial Fellowship from the John Carter Brown Library, the Dean K. Harrison Award from the CUNY Graduate Center, a CUNY Graduate Center Sponsored Dissertation Fellowship, a Renaissance Society of America Research Grant, two Cornell Humanities Council Research Grants, and a Mario Einaudi Center for International Studies Small Grant. I owe my greatest thanks to my family, who have always believed in me and supported my educational endeavors. My grandmother, Vera (“Nana”) Cohen, passed away while I was finishing this book, but I would like to think that she would be proud of how it turned out. My parents, Arthur Cohen and Maria Suarez Cohen, have provided me with more unconditional love, support, affection, and confidence than I could ever attempt to put into writing. I thank both of them for instilling in me a lifelong love for reading and learning. I would also like to thank my siblings, John Semprit and Annette (“Kitty”) Semprit, as well as our growing extended family. They both served as my earliest and most important role models, and I cannot thank them enough for always looking out for their little sister. Finally, I would like to thank Rafael Aponte, the love of my life, for his constant support, patience, and encouragement. He has seen this project from seed to harvest, and I am grateful to have been able to watch it grow with him by my side.

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Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between

Figure 0.1 Church of San Juan Bautista de Huaro, founded in the early seventeenth century. © Pilar Rau.

Introduction

There is nothing remarkable about the exterior of San Juan Bautista de Huaro, a colonial church located in the Quispicanchi Province about twenty miles southeast of the city of Cuzco (fig. 0.1). The white adobe exterior and single bell tower suggest a humble, modest church of negligible significance when compared to the grandiose Spanish-­ style churches in the cosmopolitan city center. But upon entering this small, single-­nave church you are immediately enveloped in a blanket of color that pervades every paintable surface of its interior. To your right is a mural of mutilated bodies writhing in the flames of hell. To your left is a painting of the Last Judgment, replete with a roaring hell mouth swallowing up legions of sinners as the patient faithful await entry into the Heavenly Jerusalem. The mural paintings of this parish church shine even more brilliantly than the reflective surfaces of the mirror-­encrusted gilded altarpieces that line the nave (see plate 1). These murals date to 1802 and were painted by the artist Tadeo Escalante, an enigmatic figure in the history of colonial Andean painting. Completed toward the end of nearly three hundred years of Spanish colonial rule, these exuberant images narrate scenes of apocalypse and bodily violence, offering parishioners an ominous message of the dangers that await the unfaithful. What purpose did this type of imagery serve for a thoroughly Christianized community long after the days of mass conversion and the forcible induction of indigenous Andeans into the Catholic faith during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries? Were these murals communicating something beyond a purely religious message? What might they be able to reveal about colonial Andean society at the time they were painted? These are the questions that guided me as I began my research into the murals of colonial Peru, which led me on a journey

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2     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between to identify the pre-­Hispanic and early colonial roots of a dynamic visual tradition that furnished the historical conditions for Escalante’s 1802 magnum opus. We begin with the end point of our story—which serves as the final chapter of this book—in order to understand the development of a colonial mural tradition whose imagery fulfilled a variety of religious, social, and political agendas. Hundreds of churches across South America’s Andean landscape contain vestiges of mural paintings that filled their interiors with depictions of religious narratives, allegories, and devotional images of saints, Christ, and the Virgin Mary. These paintings often cover the entire space of the church, from floor to ceiling, and spread across the choir, nave, and presbytery. Colonial churches also boasted exterior murals painted along the entryway and balcony, although many have deteriorated due to environmental degradation. An artistic practice with deep historical roots in the Andes, mural painting served as one of the earliest forms of religious artistic expression during the period of Spanish colonialism (1532–1824). Murals painted along the walls of parish churches served as important tools in the evangelization of non-­literate Andean peoples. Didactic depictions of key doctrinal images facilitated the transmission of Christianity without recourse to the written word. Mural painting in urban centers began to lose traction by the late seventeenth century in favor of more expensive church decorations modeled on European examples. Oil paintings circumscribed within ostentatious gilded frames, elegantly carved retablos, and silver and gold-­plated altars became valued as the most desirable forms of church decoration. Their very materials connoted wealth and the ability to commission a highly specialized workforce. But in the more impoverished and geographically marginalized rural areas that were home to pueblos de indios (indigenous towns, also known as doctrinas), mural painting served as a favored medium for church adornment well into the nineteenth century. This book investigates the protracted popularity of mural painting in rural Peru and the spectrum of meanings that can be gleaned from these dynamic visual expressions on the walls of churches and chapels throughout the Cuzco region. Cuzco served as the capital of Tawantinsuyu, the Quechua term for the Inca Empire (ca. 1438–1532), and remained an important center of indigenous artistic and cultural production throughout the colonial and post-­Independence periods. The neighboring southern provinces of Quispicanchi, Canas y Canchis (also known as Tinta), and Acomayo are home to some of the most vibrant surviving mural cycles in the southern Andes. The churches of this region constitute the core sample of murals considered in this book, which is organized as a series of case studies spanning the mid-­seventeenth to the early nineteenth

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Introduction     3 centuries. This book does not purport to survey the entire mural tradition of colonial Cuzco, which has already been done in the foundational publications of Pablo Macera, José de Mesa and Teresa Gisbert, and Jorge Flores Ochoa, Elizabeth Kuon Arce, and Roberto Samanez Argumedo.1 These studies laid critical groundwork for the identification, documentation, and interpretation of colonial murals. Building on the important scholarly advances made by these authors, this book offers in-­depth analyses of individual mural programs to gain a better understanding of their embeddedness in Andean society and culture. The phrase “colonial Andes” refers to the area in and alongside the Andes mountain chain in western South America during the period of Spanish colonial rule. By the fifteenth century the Inca Empire had extended its territory across nearly the entire vertical expanse of the Andes, from the Ecuadorian city of Quito to the Maule River in Chile. This area became subsumed administratively into the Viceroyalty of Peru in 1542, which at its height encompassed all of Spanish-­ controlled South America. For the purposes of this book, I use the term “colonial Andes” when speaking generally about institutions and cultural practices that affected the region as a whole. Although it is admittedly anachronistic, I employ the term “Peru” as shorthand for the territory encompassed by the modern-­day nation. I differentiate use of the term “Cuzco” to refer to the city proper or to the Cuzco diocese, which also included a large swath of rural pueblos de indios. This book introduces new interpretations and archival documentation of colonial Andean mural paintings, some canonical and others which have never been published, in an effort to lay the groundwork for further scholarship on murals and their place within a broader history of artistic production. The emphasis here on murals located within pueblos de indios distributed throughout the Cuzqueñan countryside provides an important counterpoint to art historical narratives focused primarily on urban centers. In so doing, it calls for more nuanced scholarship on the interrelationships between urban and rural artistic practice and even challenges the implicit assumption that artistic innovation flowed from cities into the countryside. In fact, these case studies show us that the process of artistic dissemination and exchange was always multidirectional and idiosyncratic. This in-­depth analysis of select murals also affords the opportunity for future comparative studies. The current scholarship remains regionally specific despite the remarkable similarities that can be found in murals across the Andes. To take one example, murals of the Last Judgment in the churches of the Cuzco (Peru), La Paz (Bolivia), and Parinacota (Chile) regions contain strikingly similar motifs and stylistic features, suggesting a complicated set of networks through which

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4     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between artistic knowledge disseminated across geographic and bureaucratic boundaries.2 The case studies presented in this book, though confined to the Cuzco region, can serve as the basis for future research on the flows of artistic exchange along local, regional, and transatlantic circuits.3 Murals in colonial churches of the Andes are resolutely religious in content. Indeed, their relevance to evangelization projects and participation in the development of an “Andeanized” expression of Catholicism have received ample attention from scholars.4 This book, however, focuses on the cultural and political relevance of church murals as visual documents that articulated local histories and social memory through the strategic use of religious iconography. Colonial Andean murals embodied local identities and religiosities, encoding imported European visual sources with subtle reference to Andean cultural practice and communal knowledge. Murals thus communicated culturally specific ways of thinking and seeing through multivalent pictorial dialects. The murals evoked local sensibilities due to their physical rootedness within the architectural focal point of Peru’s pueblos de indios but at the same time were also embedded in complex networks of trade, commerce, and the exchange of ideas between the Andes and Europe. European tools and pigments came into contact with Andean mural painting techniques inherited from the pre-­Columbian era, while religious iconography and decorative motifs made their transatlantic and overland journey into the Andes in the form of paintings on canvas, prints, textiles, and books. Above all, this book centers mural paintings as critical forms of visual documentation of Andean life under Spanish colonialism. The murals featured here demonstrate the myriad ways in which artists and viewers represented and envisioned sacredness, thereby carving out a space for the Andes within “universal” histories in which they were never intended to participate. Scholars have struggled to root out the damaging trope of colonial Latin American artists (and indeed modern and contemporary artists as well) as slavish copyists capable only of provincial approximations of continental styles that arrived in the Americas primarily through the medium of print. Some have pointed to the creativity that Latin American artists exercised in the selection and modification of print sources, while also acknowledging the pervasiveness of copying and imitation in early modern European art.5 Moreover, as Joanne Rappaport and Tom Cummins have pointed out, the production of the copy in a new colonial context does not signify a simple replication of continental culture. Rather, we must understand the emulation of visual and textual models as a series of historically contingent engagements with foreign media that contributed to the development of new cultural forms.6

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Introduction     5 Despite these advances in the historiography of colonial Latin American art, a print-­dominant paradigm has remained central to the study of colonial Andean painting, with the implication that European prints served as the primary if not sole model from which Latin American artists drew in the creation of their compositions.7 While the importance of prints can hardly be overstated in the colonial Peruvian artistic context, this book also explores other types of media and expressive forms (textiles, liturgical drama, oral histories, literature, and sermons, to name a few) that informed murals of the colonial Andes. As we will see, colonial murals remain indelibly marked by the transformations that ensued with the Spanish invasion and colonization of the Americas, bringing new religions, ideologies, and goods to Andean soil. But the practice of colonial muralism did not emerge out of a vacuum. A consideration of the preconquest visual landscape can help us to discern the specific stylistic and conceptual trajectories of murals in the postconquest world.

Pre-­Columbian Antecedents and Questions of Continuity As an uninterrupted visual tradition for nearly three millennia before the Spanish invasion in 1532, mural painting was by no means a colonial “invention.” Some scholars have identified rock painting as the earliest manifestation of this artistic practice, thereby tracing muralism’s historical lineage back to at least 8000 BC.8 Duccio Bonavia, a leading scholar on preconquest murals of Peru, describes mural painting more specifically as “the decoration applied to building walls using several specific and specialized techniques.”9 Following his lead, I define mural painting in this book as the application of painted imagery and ornamentation to a treated wall surface. Rock painting and wall paintings devoid of decoration thus fall outside the scope of this study. While colonial murals have been found in a variety of contexts, from private residences to convents, all of the murals considered here are located in parish churches within a 100-­ mile radius of the city of Cuzco. These murals are firmly rooted within a colonial milieu. Nevertheless, they are linked to a much broader historical lineage of mural production, whose origins can be traced to the pre-­Hispanic cultures of Peru’s north coast. The earliest surviving mural paintings in pre-­Columbian Peru can be found at the recently excavated site of Ventarrón on the north coast, pushing back the date for the earliest wall paintings to around 2000 BC (fig. 0.2). This set off a rich and variegated Andean mural tradition that would endure for the next four centuries.10 From the polychrome friezes of warriors, deities, and sacrificial scenes

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6     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between

Figure 0.2 Mural of an ensnared deer, site of Ventarrón, Lambayeque, Peru, ca. 2000 BC. Photo by author.

lining the walls of palaces and ceremonial structures of the Moche civilization (ca. 100 BC–­AD 800) to the architectural reliefs at the Chimú (ca. 1000–1470) site of Chan Chan, which would have been brightly painted in their heyday, mural painting in the pre-­Columbian Andean world served as an important visual tool for disseminating religious and political ideologies within architectonic space. Often drawing from more portable artistic traditions such as ceramic and textile designs, pre-­Columbian murals amplified this small-­scale imagery into largerthan-life compositions fit for communal spectatorship. Any claims to a direct stylistic continuity between pre-­Columbian and colonial murals in the Andes remain uncorroborated by archaeological or documentary evidence. Unlike the sixteenth-­century murals of colonial Mexico, where symbols derived from a pre-­Hispanic manuscript painting tradition were incorporated into religious mural cycles within Franciscan and Augustinian mission

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Introduction     7 complexes, the murals of colonial Peru possess few direct visual connections to a pre-­Columbian painting tradition.11 To take one example, Nahua speech scrolls (used for depicting sacred speech in the pre-­Columbian period) appeared frequently in the paradise garden murals of Malinalco and could have communicated Christian notions of divine song in their new colonial context. Other symbols such as monkeys, as Jeanette Peterson has shown, held more ambivalent meanings that could have been interpreted differently by Spanish friars and Nahua parishioners.12 By contrast, the Incas’ preference for abstracted geometric motifs such as stepped crosses, quadripartite schemes, and checkerboard patterning had little utility in the conversion process. These motifs did not lend themselves to an evangelizing strategy of “expedient selection” in the visual translation of Catholic doctrine to indigenous congregations as we see in colonial Mexico.13 The stubborn opacity of abstract symbols resisted direct application to an evangelizing project that relied on naturalistic figural representation for illustrating Christian narratives and concepts. Moreover, the Spaniards’ inability to “read” Inca visual culture due to its insurmountable stylistic distance from contemporaneous European aesthetics made Inca artistic practice a less likely vehicle for conveying Christian concepts to Andean viewers. The widespread use of figural representation in Aztec art rendered it decipherable to Spaniards, who left behind a rich body of literature documenting their admiration for Nahua artists, marveling at their dexterity in featherwork and their uncanny ability to produce perfect “counterfeits” (contrahechas) of nearly any image or object presented to them.14 Aztec artistic practice, from the perspective of Spanish missionaries and conquistadors, possessed the flaw of being produced in the service of the devil. Yet it was nevertheless recognized for its intrinsic value as an aesthetic system, which was subsequently harnessed in the production of syncretic religious artworks within schools such as the Franciscan-­run San José de los Naturales in Mexico City. Andean aesthetics, in contrast, remained largely illegible to Spanish viewers, who derided Inca mural painting and other forms of representation for their supposed crudeness. Consider, for instance, Bernabé Cobo’s description of the murals at the oracle site of Pachacamac near Lima on the central coast: In these buildings there were many rooms, chambers, and cells, which were like chapels where the idols were kept and where the priests and attendants lived. Both the walls of these lodgings and the walls of the terraces, as well as the walls of the rest of the edifice that made up this com-

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8     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between plex, were plastered with earth and paint of several colors, including many fine works for their style, though these works seemed crude [toscas] to us. There were diverse figures of animals, though they were poorly formed like everything else these Indians painted.15 Unlike the commentaries of their peers in New Spain, Spanish chroniclers in the Andes employed a paradigm of crudeness as a means of explaining that which they could not identify or understand. The term tosca (rough, crude) also connotes an art in a primal, raw state awaiting improvement. The artworks’ crudeness bears direct correlation with the perceived shortcomings of indigenous creativity and, by extension, mental capabilities. Cobo attempted to relativize Andean painting traditions by noting that they were “fine works for their style [emphasis added]” but were unacceptable to a Spanish aesthetic sensibility. This inherent distrust of pre-­Hispanic painting traditions expressed by ecclesiastical officials like Cobo can help explain the lack of stylistic continuity with murals of the colonial period. Chapter 1 analyzes a variety of ethnohistorical references to pre-­Hispanic murals to gain a better sense of the tropes through which Andean art came to be understood within the European conquest and evangelizing literature. Colonial Andean painting—mural or otherwise—thus bears little resemblance to pre-­Hispanic artistic traditions, particularly when compared with the tremendous cross-­fertilization of Spanish and Nahua motifs found in Mexican painting traditions of the early colonial period. The majority of surviving Inca murals feature geometric motifs that resemble textile designs, leading some scholars to interpret them as visual symbols of an Inca imperial presence through reference to a clothed body.16 These motifs rarely appear in murals of the colonial period except in the depiction of figures wearing indigenous-­style clothing. But even there they have become recalibrated into the representation of clothing on an illusionistic body rather than utilizing the structure itself as the “body” onto which the textiles are painted. In other words, the use of pre-­ Hispanic motifs in colonial Andean murals involved a double decontextualization in which certain motifs are lifted out of the larger design field from which they derive and subsequently placed into a visual regime of figural representation and naturalism.17 This practice of simulating textile patterns through the technique of mural painting actually resurfaces in the late seventeenth century as a favored technique for decorating the interiors of rural churches throughout the Cuzco area and continues well into the early nineteenth century. These textile-­like murals of the colonial period, however, swap out Inca motifs for

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Introduction     9 European rosette, pomegranate, and rinceaux patterns. Chapter 3 delves into this phenomenon in greater detail, demonstrating the various ways in which the “textile primacy” of the pre-­Columbian period became renegotiated and reimagined within a colonial context.18 Despite iconographical differences between pre-­Columbian and colonial murals, their structural aspects as large-­scale paintings embedded into architectural space remained intact across the colonial divide. While scant examples of Inca murals survive in the Cuzco region due to poor preservation conditions, the few that remain grace the walls of palaces and religious temples. The palace of the Neo-­Inca ruler Sayri Tupac (r. 1545–1560) in the town of Yucay in the Urubamba Valley features a mural depicting the mascapaycha, a scarlet fringe worn across the forehead of the Sapa Inca (king).19 The coastal Inca site of Tambo Colorado contains murals depicting tocapu (geometric design schemes) found on the uncu (tunics) of rulers and other elite individuals (see plate 2). These examples exhibit an incontrovertible fusion of sacred architecture with emblems of imperial authority. The walls of both coastal and highland structures showcase self-­referential imagery legitimized by the Inca Empire that coalesced into a conflation of image and structure, representation and embodiment. During the colonial period, churches replace Inca temples and huacas (sacred shrines) as architectural markers of a new imperial order. Like their pre-­ Columbian analogues, churches offered self-­referential imagery legitimized by the Catholic Church in the form of religious murals, whose viewership was also activated through rituals of ceremony and worship. Colonial murals thus commanded a similar recognition of the systems of power that undergirded the depiction of their respective ideological tenets on the walls of the viceroyalty’s most sacred structures. In addition to their structural similarities as images that legitimize institutional power, colonial Andean murals are also connected to a pre-­Hispanic tradition through their materiality. Muralists of the colonial period continued to use tierras de colores (colored earths) and local minerals as pigments. Colonial murals were often treated with the sap from the San Pedro cactus (Trichocereus pachanoi) to give the paintings a glossy finish, like their pre-­Hispanic predecessors. A consideration of the manufacture of pre-­Columbian murals is indispensable in attaining a more holistic understanding of their colonial manifestations (see chapter 1). Unlike canvas paintings, for which no known precedent existed in the pre-­Columbian Andes, mural paintings of the colonial period can be understood best as reformulations of a preexisting medium and visual paradigm. Grounding this study in the pre-­Columbian period enables us to

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10     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between grasp the embeddedness of murals in an Andean context and consciousness more fully, offering a crucial point of departure for interpreting their colonial counterparts.20 The continuities that can be traced at the material level speak more broadly to the preservation of specialized knowledge by indigenous Andeans in the postconquest era. While we do know the names and identities of some of the muralists discussed in this study, we know far less about the numerous assistants who aided them, other than through their brushstrokes. But we can say with certainty that the case for considering colonial murals an extension of a pre-­ Columbian tradition becomes stronger when we consider that the majority of the artists who participated in the task of painting images onto the walls of rural Andean churches were of indigenous descent. Hence their level of access to pre-­Hispanic techniques and practices may have been much greater than that of Spaniards or criollos (Spaniards born in Latin America). We must also consider the largely indigenous audiences for these murals, who would have been able to draw more salient connections between painted or clothed huacas and the painted walls of the churches that became the new sacred focal points of the Andean landscape. The continued use of ancient materials and techniques in the production of colonial murals also points to a less visible yet equally important aspect of colonial Andean muralism that contributes to its cultural and aesthetic multivalency. As art historians Carolyn Dean and Dana Leibsohn have pointed out, by only privileging the most visibly apparent aspects of hybridity in the arts of colonial Spanish America we inevitably omit those aspects that escape the naked eye.21 Considerations of materiality or the specific historical contexts under which artists worked help to enrich our understanding of the tremendous cultural dynamism of colonial Andean painting. Gabriela Siracusano’s research, for instance, on the significance of pigments has demonstrated how locally defined concepts of color symbolism produced an additional layer of meaning to Andean paintings that otherwise appeared to adhere resolutely to imported European visual models.22 This book, while not exclusively focused on issues of materiality in colonial murals, urges us to scratch beyond the surface of the painted wall to discover the plethora of cultural, social, and political discourses within which they were embedded. In so doing, we can help to dismantle the politics of visibility and invisibility that Dean and Leibsohn have so aptly identified, while also situating murals beyond an internal lineage of image production to explore their inroads into the social worlds that their viewers inhabited.

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Introduction     11

Beyond the Frame: Murals in Architectonic Space In much of the current scholarly literature on painting in colonial Peru, murals are often indistinguishable from canvas paintings both in the way they are discussed and in their method of visual presentation. The material and scalar differences between the two media become collapsed in favor of discussions on the internal dynamics of their compositions with respect to iconography, painting styles, or subject matter. This extends into the methodological frameworks employed in the study of colonial Andean painting, whereby the visual similitude between murals and canvas paintings at the surface level becomes the primary justification for their categorical convergence. As a result, murals are often treated as epiphenomena of paintings on canvas rather than as unique artistic expressions in their own right. Print publications further exploit this artificial conflation through the strategic cropping of photographs of murals within their respective spatial environments into neat squares and rectangles that assign them artificial borders and frames. The limitations of print undoubtedly contribute to the production of false equivalences between canvas and mural paintings. In the absence of a zoom or panoramic function for illustrations within physical books, cropping becomes a necessary tool for the art historian to draw attention to a particular feature in a given painting. Nevertheless, these two practices—one methodological and one technical—contribute to the treatment of muralism as synonymous with paintings on canvas or panel. The danger of this approach is that murals are artificially distilled into flat, uniform images that become removed from their larger spatial contexts. Methodologically, murals of the colonial Andes have suffered the misfortune of being either completely isolated from or wholly subsumed into other related artistic traditions. The few survey texts that exist on the subject have been instrumental in identifying and documenting church murals throughout highland Peru, Bolivia, and Colombia. They provide readers with access to largely unknown artistic masterpieces in remote regions, where many churches run the risk of severe deterioration due to lack of funds for restoration projects.23 The survey format, however, precludes ample discussion of the place of muralism within a broader artistic landscape given its medium-­specific focus. Architectural surveys, where we might expect to find a discussion of murals, likewise tend to remain mute on the subject.24 Murals are generally treated as mere decoration rather than as integral to the structural or spatial properties of a building and therefore remain tangential to any kind of architectural analysis. Indeed,

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12     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between mural paintings lie within the interstices of painting and architecture in their ability to inhabit, delineate, and even dematerialize architectural space.25 In addition to their problematic absorption into an undifferentiated corpus of “painting” or their absence from art historical scholarship altogether, murals are invariably excluded from one of the primary vehicles for the dissemination of research on colonial Andean art to the general public: museums. Several recent blockbuster exhibitions of colonial Latin American art and their associated museum catalogues constitute some of the most important publications in the field.26 These seemingly encyclopedic catalogues offer an illusion of comprehensiveness but invariably omit an entire genre of colonial Latin American visual art, given their obvious emphasis on portable objects in museums and private collections. This is not the fault of the curators and catalogue contributors, of course, but is rather a by-­product of the inherent limitations of museums in displaying site-­specific work. Mural paintings of the colonial Andes, unlike their counterparts in Renaissance Italy or even twentieth-­century Mexico, have thus fallen through the cracks of art historical scholarship despite their ubiquity throughout the South American landscape. The omissions and conflations found in some of the scholarly literature only hold traction within the confines of the printed page, however. Murals are in no way secondary to the portable works of art located within the churches in which they were painted. Their large scale and exuberant colors immediately draw in the viewer even when large portions have been covered up by canvas paintings and retablos. Mural paintings demand a categorically different type of viewership and bodily interaction than their portable cousins. Their embeddedness within architectural space engenders a distinct viewing and interpretive experience that directly engages the body. Murals require both a kinesthetic reading (understanding an image through bodily movement) and a pictorial one (understanding an image’s compositional and symbolic value).27 These two types of readings could intersect and meld as the viewer transitions from the physical space of the church into the conceptual space carved out by the painted image through the act of viewing. The following chapters thus carefully examine issues of scale, the viewer’s bodily position with respect to a given mural program, and the lines of sight produced from a mural program’s spatial distribution across the interior of the church. Moreover, their site specificity gives way to a contextual understanding of murals as profoundly embedded within the physical and cultural spaces that they occupy; it is precisely because the murals survive today in the same places where they were created that we are able to draw so many local meanings out of them.28 While the spatial coordinates of a mural program remain indelibly rooted to a

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Introduction     13 local context, its content emerges out of complex local, regional, and transcontinental artistic exchanges across the Spanish Empire. The traffic of prints, religious texts, paintings, textiles, tools, pigments, and sacred objects from Spain, Italy, and Flanders as well as within the Viceroyalty of Peru all played a part in the creation of a distinct visual culture that made its way onto the walls of churches across the Andean landscape. The mural paintings under consideration here are characterized by what I call a “static mobility”: they serve as fixed manifestations of the mobile and ephemeral world of prints, artists, ideas, and belief systems that informed their creation. In other words, murals are situated within a local trajectory of artistic practice whose transatlantic roots are made manifest through their appearance and the circumstances of their production. Numerous studies have been conducted on the itinerant lives of objects and artworks in the early modern world. In particular, the burgeoning fields of early modern global art history and Global Renaissance studies have sought to trace the movement of objects across cultural and geographical boundaries in order to ascertain their continually shifting and unstable meanings within the context of an incipient globalization.29 Far less attention, however, has been paid to the tensions and generative interactions between objects that move and buildings, monuments, or artworks that do not. By treating the early modern world as one in which materials, people, and objects are in a constant state of flux, we invariably favor mobility over rootedness while simultaneously ignoring the privilege inherent in the ability for objects and people to move freely through space. We must also keep in mind that the circumstances under which people and objects moved varied dramatically in the early modern world: for example, forced migrations in the making of the transatlantic slave trade compared to the elective migration of Spaniards to the New World. This book complicates the arena of artistic production and viewership in a Spanish imperial context by examining the static mobility of murals as physically rooted artworks uniquely poised to receive and disseminate visual knowledge. Their fixity in architectonic space enables us to draw great insight into their local resonance. At the same time, these murals emerge as products of ongoing dialogue with a rapidly expanding globe articulated from an Andean perspective and positionality.

From Quillca to Pintura From their inception, colonial Andean murals quickly became subsumed into the European practice and discourse of pintura. Extant sixteenth- and early-­ seventeenth-­ century murals exhibit a preference for illusionistic religious

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14     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between imagery that resembled the work of Italian émigré artists Mateo Pérez de Alesio, Bernardo Bitti, and Angelino Medoro, all of whom spent time in Seville completing artistic commissions before embarking on their transatlantic voyage to the Americas. These artists brought fresco techniques from their home country to Peruvian soil, training legions of local artists in these artistic practices. Mateo Pérez de Alesio’s expertise in the techniques of both buon fresco (fresco on wet plaster) and fresco secco (fresco on dry plaster) is most thoroughly documented. He is perhaps best known for his work in the Sistine Chapel depicting St. Michael and Lucifer Struggle over the Body of Moses, completed in 1574.30 He had previously completed a mural cycle at the Palace of the Grand Masters in Valetta, Malta, in 1565, which depicted scenes from the Siege of Malta by the Ottoman Turks.31 During his time in Seville from 1583 to 1587, Pérez de Alesio painted an important fresco of Saint Christopher at the Seville Cathedral. He produced the mural in the span of about six months, using a technique that was popular in Spain at the time: he painted the mural al fresco but added lights and shadows in secco. This technique also allowed for the efficient retouching of errors committed in the original painting process.32 We can trace the continuation of Pérez de Alesio’s mural practice in Lima, where he or one of his disciples painted a series of cupola murals at the Church of La Merced, completed at some point before 1614 (fig. 0.3).33 They are located in the funerary chapel of Captain Bernardo Villegas, which is situated directly behind the main altar and presbytery of the main church.34 The reappearance of these same color palettes, themes, and techniques in the early seventeenth century murals of Cuzco brought by the likes of Pérez de Alesio and others highlights the complex routes of artistic dissemination into the Andean highlands facilitated by local artists. The classification of Andean murals as pinturas or pinturas en la pared (wall paintings) in the colonial period suggests an almost complete transformation of pre-­Hispanic painting techniques into a new idiom and technical practice. But can we read these murals through other cultural codes? A consideration of the concept of quillca can help to flesh out the potential connections between colonial murals and Andean modes of visual and sensory experience.35 Quillca (from the verb quellcani), a Quechua neologism, simultaneously means both writing and painting. Domingo de Santo Tomás’s 1560 Lexicon o vocabulario de la lengua general del Peru defines quillca as book, letter (carta), or letter of the alphabet, but defines quellcani as “to write,” “to draw,” and “to embroider with colors.” Antonio Ricardo’s 1586 dictionary also includes references to painting as well as sculpting, while Diego González Holguín’s 1608 Vocabulario provides secondary definitions of “quilca” that also refer to drawing and painting. González Holguín

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Introduction     15

Figure 0.3 Cupola murals in the Funerary Chapel of Captain Bernardo Villegas by Mateo Pérez de Alesio or disciple. Church of La Merced, Lima, before 1614. Photo by author.

defines quellcanacuna as “the instruments of writing or painting,” suggesting a mutual affinity between the two practices that originates from use of the quill and brush.36 Given the absence of an alphabetic writing system in the Andes prior to the Spanish invasion, the concept of quillca was modified in the colonial period to encompass writing in the European sense of the term. Nevertheless, linking alphabetic writing to quillca’s original association with the practice of etching, painting, or stitching an image onto a surface suggests that writing was conceived within a broader discourse of visual and tactile communication during the colonial period. The quipu, a mnemonic device consisting of knotted strings, involved both looking and touching as a means of extracting its encoded messages. The prevalence of the quipu as a tool of Inca administration and its continued use in the colonial period endowed the terrain of literacy with a sensorial dimension that went far beyond the act of reading alphabetic script on a piece of paper. Even if colonial-­period writing “appeared” resolutely Spanish in linguistic form, it inhabited a conceptual space that also granted explicit attention to the material and visual dimensions of knowledge transmission.

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16     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between As noted, the Spanish-­Quechua dictionaries of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries reveal a general lack of consensus on the precise definition of quillca, which undoubtedly transformed over the course of the sixteenth century as “writing” came to acquire new meanings. One aspect of quillca that remained constant, however, was its association with color. In the Spanish to Quechua section of Domingo de Santo Tomás’s 1560 Lexicon, “bordar con colores” (to embroider with colors) is defined as quillca, while in the Quechua to Spanish section the first definition of quillcani is “pintar o escribir” (to paint or write), and the secondary definition roughly translates as “to style a work with colors.”37 Diego González Holguín defines quellccani as “write[,] draw[,] paint.”38 Galen Brokaw thus concludes that “quilca may have referred both metonymically to specific media employing visual conventions of color and to a more general notion or principle of semiosis and aesthetics.”39 This conception of the term enables us to place mural painting within a rubric of visual communication that marries color with aesthetics as a means of transmitting knowledge. Other Quechua terms for describing the art of painting can be found in early colonial dictionaries and narratives. For example, in his discussion of the ordenanzas (ordinances) established for different professions by the penultimate Inca ruler Atahualpa, the indigenous chronicler Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala makes reference to “artisans, painters, who paint on walls and on quero [a wooden drinking vessel] and on mate [a dried gourd], called cuscoc [painter], llinpec [varnisher, lacquer painter].”40 The terms cuscoc and llinpec (likely misspelled and referring to llimpec) and their variants were often employed interchangeably as a means of referring to the application of color to a surface. González Holguín places the terms cuzcuni and llimpini together in the same entry, defining them as “to tint something, or add color [labrar de colores], or varnish.”41 While the terms quillca, cuscoc, and llimpec generally refer to the act of adorning a surface with paint or some other material, ricchay refers to the actual image applied to a surface. Ricchay, defined by Santo Tomás as “color, or figure,”42 by González Holguín as “color, or to make any thing, face, image, or figure,”43 and by Diego de Torres Rubio as “face, image,”44 constitutes the subject of the image or design produced by the quillcacamayoc, translated as either “writer” or “painter.” Notable here is the consistent reference to corporeality or likeness: each of the definitions mentions a figure or face. Given the relative absence of figural representation in Inca visual culture, this suggests that the definition corresponded to the early colonial context in which European systems of representation began to transform Andean artistic practice. Returning to Guaman Poma de Ayala’s passage, note that muralists, quero

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Introduction     17 painters, and mate painters are all classified under the same category of cuscoc and llimpec. These categories also likely reveal the ways in which artistic workshops were organized in the pre-­Columbian period and their potential reverberations well into the colonial era. While European classificatory schemas would normally separate mural paintings, gourd paintings, and painted vessels into dichotomies of painting and the decorative arts, in an Andean context the act of applying pigments to a surface constituted a category unto itself. Certain motifs easily crossed surfaces in the Inca period: for instance, the chakana (stepped cross motif ) can be found in stone carvings, textiles, keros (ritual wooden drinking vessels), and wall paintings alike. This continued to hold true in the colonial period. The colonial murals under consideration in this book show evidence of textile designs, ceramic motifs, and iconography gleaned from prints and canvas paintings. They also urge us to think more broadly about how Andean visual systems, encapsulated in the terminology discussed above, added interpretive texture to the concept of pintura during the colonial period. A consideration of the various Quechua terms utilized to describe artistic practice, some neologisms and others with significant continuities with a pre-­Hispanic usage, enables us to broaden our understanding of how the art-­making process was organized and conceptualized in the Andes. While the majority of the archival documentation that I have consulted resorts to Spanish-­language terminology for describing colonial murals, these other terms can nevertheless help us to place colonial murals within a spectrum of overlapping aesthetic discourses in which quillca, pintura, ricchay, imagen, cuscoc, and llimpec can each reveal a different aspect of the images. Cuscoc and llimpec, for instance, can help us to elucidate the resonances between murals and other types of portable artistic media, while ricchay conveys the act of granting bodily form onto a surface. Perhaps most central to the argument of this book, an application of the concept of quillca to murals can allow us to identify them as sites of visual learning whose compositions hover at the interface of art and writing. The mural paintings discussed here engaged in acts of visual code switching that relied on viewers’ fluency in reading both Christian iconography and the subtle references to local places and concepts with which they were infused. The notion of quillca not only exposes the material and visual dimensions of writing, but also locates the marking of all surfaces within the domain of knowledge. Mural painting adhered both to newly introduced European discourses about illusionistic painted surfaces and to Andean notions of the marked surface as a vehicle for transmitting knowledge. In this respect, colonial murals fundamentally reroute the course of Andean and European mural painting alike. As

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18     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between Alessandra Russo aptly states, “With the Spanish conquest, pre-­Hispanic art was transformed forever. But on American land, European art also became something other than itself.”45 And these transformations occurred not only at the surface level but on an epistemological level as well. Their reclassification into pinturas en la pared does not necessarily signify a seamless transition from one aesthetic state of being to another with the rupture of the conquest but one in which the residues of each category retain legibility in this new pictorial dialect. The principal function of religious murals was indeed to transmit doctrinal knowledge to indigenous parishioners through didactic imagery. This practice did not originate in colonial Latin America but had been codified in European religious texts since the Second Council of Nicea in the sixth century, which established the ability of images to instruct the illiterate in the tenets of Christianity, insofar as they understood that the images are mere representations of divinity and not constitutive of it.46 In their capacity as visual embodiments of Christian knowledge otherwise accessible only through texts or oral transmission, colonial murals would seem to correspond neatly to both the evangelizing imperatives of Peru’s ecclesiastical authorities and the multifaceted concept of quillca. But as the following chapters show, religious murals were often replete with other forms of knowledge encoded in their spatial layout, in the use of local iconography, and in references to collective memory. Murals do not signify a simple translation of the notion of quillca to the religious information transmitted to viewers via a marked surface. Instead, a much more complicated picture emerges in which painted walls could also communicate alternative messages grounded in local knowledge, predicated on the spectators’ ability to read images in a variety of ways. Priests advocated for one particular type of visual literacy in the Andes: the ability to interpret religious iconography as a stand-­in for that which could not be seen. Through pictorial illusionism, mural painting held the ability to give form to hitherto unknown spaces, concepts, and individuals as a means of indoctrinating indigenous people into a religion that could now be fully visualized. I would argue, however, that the conceptual richness of these murals lies in their ability to articulate a variety of ideas and concepts due to the prevalence of Andean ways of seeing, perceiving, and sensing the sacred that existed alongside and came into contact with imported European ones. We can imagine the murals considered here as continuously vacillating between pintura and quillca not in terms of any kind of literal linguistic designation but in light of their rootedness in both systems of visual practice and perception. As the following case studies reveal, muralists capitalized on the ability of their audience to read images with a sharp-

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Introduction     19 ened eye that searched not only for religious instruction but engaged in visual contemplations on the tensions between the universalizing aims of Catholicism and the particularities of culture and place with which their viewers contended.

The Problems of Palimpsest The mural programs that we encounter today are often the product of several hundred years of retouching, repainting, and conservation enacted by both colonial artists and modern-­day conservators. The task of periodizing the messy palimpsest of colonial mural paintings into any kind of systematic sequence hovers at the precipice of impossibility. The purpose of this book is not to offer a scientific reconstruction of each mural painting under consideration—a task that would require close collaboration among historians, art historians and restorers in order to obtain an accurate record of the sequence of artistic interventions undertaken on a given church throughout its 400-­odd year history. Throughout this book I take great care to highlight the process of restoration as well as areas that have been substantially repainted in each mural program based on consultation of available conservation reports.47 Nevertheless, an in-­depth consideration of the various phases of each mural and the areas that have been retouched in colonial or in modern times remains beyond the scope of this book. In some cases, it is impossible even to date certain murals precisely. Muralists often go unnamed, and their masterpieces rarely receive mention in church inventories (see chapter 1). Stylistic evidence enables us to estimate the date of a mural program within a range of about fifty to seventy-­five years. But given the absence of secure archival data that provide the dates and artists’ names for many of the murals discussed in this book, we must rely on educated guesses and conservative estimates, with the awareness that these dates are tentative until corroborated by further documentary or scientific evidence. While these issues certainly present hindrances to an art historical analysis of colonial Andean murals, we can also see the reality of palimpsest as a material analogue to the fragmented histories from which the murals come. The multilayered, idiosyncratic means by which these murals interface with a contemporary public stand as a testament both to their longevity and to the complicated routes along which colonial histories intervene in the present moment. Our encounters with the past, whether through a historic monument or a work of art housed in a museum, are mediated by multiple layers of interpersonal, economic, and institutional exchanges made possible by the work’s existence and persistence into the present moment. The murals examined here, however, make visible all of the

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20     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between

Figure 0.4  Nave murals in the Church of San Pedro de Andahuaylillas, ca. 1620s. © Raúl Montero.

“in betweens” that stitch together a series of moments to connect the enormous temporal gulf that separates us from the colonial past. For instance, at the church of Andahuaylillas (discussed at length in chapter 2) nineteenth-­century murals line the walls of the presbytery that imitate the subject matter of the church’s nave murals from the 1620s (see figs. 0.4 and 0.5).48 These post-­Independence iterations of a mid-­colonial artwork introduce a new color palette and a stylistic flair that brings the past into dynamic dialogue with its own contemporary moment. They also facilitate a temporal-­spatial synergy whereby visitors move through time as they pass through the space of the church, from the entrance and nave covered in seventeenth-­century murals into the nineteenth century at the altar. The presbytery murals attempt to establish visual continuity with the nave images while also responding to the vicissitudes of nineteenth-­century visual practice. In their own time, they mediated the viewers’ encounter with the past by emulating earlier visual models found within the very same church. With the help of a team of world-­class restorers from both Peru and abroad working under the auspices of the World Monuments Fund, these murals have been brought back to their former luster and vividness. In the twenty-­first century we stand at the triangulation of colonial, post-­ Independence, and contemporary histories whose vestiges and points of intersection can literally be traced along the walls of the church. Because of their multitemporal nature, the application of European stylistic

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Introduction     21

Figure 0.5 Murals in the presbytery of the Church of San Pedro de Andahuaylillas, nineteenth century. © Raúl Montero.

categories such as Renaissance, Baroque, or Neoclassical to classify and periodize colonial Andean murals becomes a nearly futile task. The overreliance on European stylistic categories in the existing scholarly literature forces Andean mural traditions into a set of terms and practices that do not adequately represent their pictorial characteristics or the historical contexts within which they were conceived.49 It also imposes a Eurocentric model onto colonial Andean image production that evaluates it on the basis of its conformity to continental traditions, regardless of whether contemporary muralists were aware of or even concerned with them. Terms such as “mestizo baroque” and “Andean baroque” have succeeded in breaking down the nationalistic boundaries that pervaded European art history and providing a cultural relativism that posits the existence of a multiplicity of Renaissances and Baroques. But their temporal implications remain intact; there is no escaping the teleological hegemony embedded in this terminology, which implies that European art “came first.” By breaking away from this arguably inhibiting and deterministic vocabulary to describe colonial artistic production, we can focus more on the trajectories that Andean mural painting took in its own right, with a closer attention to the changing historical contexts that guided these transformations. Murals of the colonial Andes underwent enormous stylistic and iconographical shifts throughout nearly three hundred years of colonial rule. But despite

Map 0.1 Cornell University Library Map Collection, map of southern Peru with locations of the churches discussed in the book (scale: 1:3,500,000). The inset features the provinces that make up the Department of Cuzco (scale: 1:2,000,000). Generated by Boris Michev and Martin Ziech, using ArcView GIS 10 [GIS software].

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Introduction     23 their wide-­ranging differences, we can see that they retained intimate and brilliantly conceived connections to their respective sociohistorical environments. Whether through iconography and its infinite manipulations, the spatialization of mural imagery, or the strategic use of ambiguous allegorical imagery to reflect both religious and contemporary concerns, artists sought to make murals culturally meaningful and relevant to local congregations. The mere act of artistic improvisation, however slight, could signify much larger acts of self-­determination. The case studies offered in the following chapters illuminate these shifts and the myriad cultural and historical forces behind them with greater specificity. By reorienting our understanding of murals as social documents equipped to communicate ideas about religion, local society, and their interrelationships, we can move away from current models that merely categorize them into European stylistic lineages that tend to obscure their material and iconographical hybridity. In so doing, we can appreciate the immense capacities of mural paintings to function in multiple spheres of human experience: as religious primers, theatrical backdrops, architectonic avatars, or visual chambers of collective memory.

Overview of the Book This book examines murals from the churches located in the towns of Andahuaylillas (1620s), Urcos (early seventeenth century), Checacupe (mid- to late seventeenth century), Oropesa (late seventeenth century), Pitumarca (late eighteenth century), Ocongate (late eighteenth century), and Huaro (1802) (map 0.1). The Cuzco region boasts dozens of surviving mural cycles found in diocesan churches as well as those of religious orders distributed throughout the thirteen provinces that make up the Department of Cuzco. I have carefully selected a sample of well-­preserved murals that evenly span the 200-­year expanse that this book covers. When taken together, they tell a rich story of the transformation of an artistic medium that originated as a tool of evangelization and culminated into an instrument of social critique. But in all of their permutations throughout the course of the colonial era, they remained resolutely embedded in the local fabric of their respective communities. The selection of murals affords a nuanced understanding of the ways that the medium changed over the course of the colonial period while also allowing for in-­depth analysis of murals that have received cursory (if any) scholarly attention. Chapter 1 surveys the development of mural painting in the Andes, from the pre-­Columbian period to the early nineteenth century. Drawing from secondary

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24     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between art historical and anthropological literature, archaeological remains, and colonial descriptions of Inca murals, it tracks the broad stylistic and iconographical transformations that murals underwent during this extended period. This chapter supplements the visual record with archival evidence of murals referenced in account books and church inventories. This multimodal approach offers alternative avenues for reconstructing histories of Andean muralism in the face of fragmentary and incomplete documentary evidence. Chapter 2 focuses on the entrance wall mural of the Church of San Pedro Apóstol de Andahuaylillas, which features the wide and narrow roads to heaven and hell. It offers new interpretations of the mural based on consultation of seventeenth-­century religious manuals for priests, the Netherlandish print on which it is based, and a Spanish auto sacramental (one-­act allegorical play). A close examination of the life and writings of Juan Pérez Bocanegra, the parish priest installed at Andahuaylillas at the time when the murals were executed, allows us to draw significant associations between the entrance wall mural and the contemporaneous concerns of ecclesiastical officials in Peru. This interdisciplinary exploration reveals the symbolic complexity of colonial Andean murals and their potential to communicate different messages depending on the viewer’s subject position and cultural vocabulary. Examination of the mural’s subtle compositional adjustments and iconographical departures from its source print opens up new pathways of interpretation that reveal its embeddedness in the religious, theatrical, and cultural life of mid-­colonial Cuzco. While chapter 2 provides a focused analysis of one specific mural, chapter 3 takes a comparative look at one particular mural technique (the “textile mural”) that proliferated across the Cuzco region and beyond during the late seventeenth century in tandem with the appointment of Manuel de Mollinedo y Angulo as bishop of Cuzco in the aftermath of the devastating 1650 earthquake that nearly leveled the entire city. During Mollinedo’s tenure from 1673 to 1699, he embarked on a major reconnaissance and reconstruction campaign to help restore destroyed churches to their former glory. The textile murals produced under Mollinedo’s aegis provided a decorative backdrop for canvas paintings and retablos, serving a primarily decorative function to imitate the appearance of sumptuous velvets, silks, and damasks hanging from the walls. The practice of adorning structures and sacred shrines with fine cloths has great historical depth in the Andes. Indeed, textile murals have a firm presence in the pre-­Columbian world, with compelling examples of painted chullpas (funerary towers) bearing tocapu designs. Muralists of the colonial period transformed churches into intimate spaces through analogy to the

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Introduction     25 human body. These permanent architectonic bodies were ritually draped and clothed in ways that recall pre-­Columbian Inca practices of adorning shrines with textile offerings while also corresponding with Catholic notions of the church as the body of Christ. Chapter 4 looks at the transformation of one genre of religious imagery over time: Christ’s baptism. It delves into the world of early modern print culture in order to place Andean murals depicting the baptism of Christ within a larger network of circulating imagery. This chapter also considers the ways in which muralists grounded these compositions within local geographies through the conflation of the Jordan River with local lakes of origin (pacarinas). The chapter begins with analysis of the church of Urcos, where the indigenous muralist Diego Cusi Guaman fashioned his seventeenth-­century composition from both a European print and a canvas painting of the same subject by Luis de Riaño at the church of Andahuaylillas. This chapter also examines a series of similar murals executed at the churches of Catca and Ocongate and culminates in a discussion of a late-­eighteenth-­century mural of Christ’s baptism at the church of Pitumarca. It considers the shifting visual toolkit that artists utilized over the course of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries to recenter biblical stories within Andean landscapes through the use of color, symbolism, and compositional organization. These subtle visual maneuvers, in turn, held resonant symbolic implications, as Christ’s baptism became increasingly calibrated with Andean origin stories during a period of widespread societal unrest in the years leading up to the Tupac Amaru Rebellion (1780–1783). Chapter 5 focuses on depictions of political violence in a late colonial mural program at the church of San Juan Bautista de Huaro completed by the artist Tadeo Escalante in 1802. The chapter uses Escalante’s murals as a case study through which to understand the transformation of Cuzco’s artistic and devotional landscape in the aftermath of the Tupac Amaru Rebellion, the largest and most violent anticolonial uprising in the history of colonial Latin America. This chapter explores the strategic deployment of an eschatological imaginary in visual and written discourse by both insurgents and loyalists alike as a means of couching the rebellion’s moral transgressions within an apocalyptic framework. It examines the role of churches as sites of counterindoctrination during Tupac Amaru’s campaigns and thus questions the objectives that they were expected to fulfill in the years immediately following the rebellion amid a tattered ecclesiastical infrastructure and a deeply divided society. A new social climate of censorship and repression required artists to devise new ways to depict political violence through the repurposing of religious iconography to convey new mean-

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26     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between ings. This chapter looks at Escalante’s murals in light of the complex historical conditions with which his work intersected. Through these case studies, this book highlights mural painting as a flexible medium for articulating active visual responses to religious and cultural ideologies imposed on colonial Andean societies. It interrogates Spanish colonial policies from a “bottom up” approach through a consideration of how artists modified Christian iconography for local purposes, and, in turn, how indigenous communities received and interpreted these modifications. As I hope to show, murals of the colonial Andes urge us to expand our research parameters and work across disciplines to see these images not merely as decoration or as tools of evangelization but as visual archives that reveal the complex ways in which artists and viewers negotiated a conceptual space in the world of the Andes, the Spanish Empire, and beyond.

C h ap t e r 1

The Painted Walls of the Andes Chronology, Techniques, and Meanings

This chapter offers a brief overview of Andean mural painting from the pre-­ Columbian period to the nineteenth century. A closer examination of the technical and structural affinities between pre-­Columbian and colonial murals allows us to place Andean muralism within an art historical continuum rather than merely viewing it as a visual practice that was destroyed and reinvented with the rupture of conquest. Given the paucity of extant murals from the Inca period, this chapter also provides a selection of ethnohistorical references to Andean murals. A comparative reading of both the archaeological and historical record can facilitate a more comprehensive understanding of Inca muralism and its subsequent transformation in the postconquest era. This chapter also charts the appearance of colonial murals in the archival record through analysis of church inventories and account books. While murals tend to make only a brief and elusive appearance in these sources, they enable us to calibrate the ways in which mural paintings were described and understood by contemporaries. Moreover, analysis of archival references to their monetary value offers a clearer picture of the place of murals and their makers within a broader socioeconomic panorama.

Pre-­Columbian Murals: Archaeological Evidence Some of the most impressive pre-­Columbian murals were produced by the Moche civilization at the temples of Pañamarca, Huaca de la Luna, Huaca Cao Viejo, Huaca El Brujo, and others. Murals typically consisted of polychromed adobe relief carvings that stretched across the walls of temples, although in some cases we also have evidence of murals painted along flat, unsculpted walls. Moche murals tended to resemble the narrative pictorial traditions found in

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28     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between

Figure 1.1  Adobe friezes at Chan Chan, Chimú culture, AD 1000–1470. Photo by author.

fine-­line ceramics, offering large-­scale representations of religious ceremonies, ritual sacrifice, and lively mythological scenes.1 North coast societies dominated by the Chimú Empire began to produce more geometric, patterned wall decorations that would anticipate the abstracted mural programs of the Incas.2 The once-­painted relief carvings along the interior walls of the Chimú city of Chan Chan consist of tightly controlled registers of repeating motifs, forming what Joanne Pillsbury calls “adobe tapestries” (fig. 1.1). The resultant effect was a kind of “dressed” architecture that honored one of the most revered art forms in the Andes: textiles whose value often surpassed the value of precious metals.3 Following the Inca conquest of the north coast in 1470, Chimú ceramicists and metallurgists were brought to the Inca capital of Cuzco to produce wares for the new imperial state. The abstracted aesthetic of Inca murals, which also closely corresponded with textile designs, suggests that Chimú mural painters may have been transported to the highland capital as well. Mural painting traditions continued under the Inca Empire, but little archaeological evidence exists of mural paintings adorning Inca structures in the Cuzco heartland. Several factors account for this lack of evidence. First, preservation conditions in the highlands are not ideal for murals, given the heavy rains

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The Painted Walls of the Andes     29 that occur from October to March of each year. Second, the majority of extant Inca murals were painted on the exteriors of buildings, which would have made them particularly susceptible to environmental damage. Finally, a great number of Inca murals were likely defaced or destroyed, because their religious and political content would have posed an immediate threat to the Spanish colonial administration. Nevertheless, some highland murals survive today, as discussed below.4 The most well-­preserved Inca murals can be found at coastal sites, where adobe remained the preferred building material. This provided an ideal surface for Inca-­style murals featuring geometric designs often found in tunics and other fine textiles. The following discussion presents an overview of key Inca murals, notable either for their present significance as archaeological remains or for their references within nineteenth-­century travel and archaeological texts.

Coastal Inca Murals A number of administrative centers along the southern coast of Peru boast mural paintings featuring an array of Inca motifs. Scholars have explored the role of abstraction and geometricism as an Inca imperial strategy manifested in portable goods, such as keros (wooden ritual drinking vessels), aquillas (drinking vessels crafted of gold or silver), and textiles.5 Mural painting also played an integral role in disseminating Inca symbols along the walls of architectural structures that commanded a large and sustained viewership. Murals thus formed part of a broader visual language that metaphorically echoed more well-­documented aesthetic systems found in Inca material culture. The imperial geometric style developed by the Incas became a form of “branding”: such designs attained legibility across the entire expanse of the 2,500-­mile-­long empire as signifiers of the new political order. The abstract forms adorning the walls of building complexes would have evoked an Inca presence to the local coastal population without recourse to more conventional strategies of imperial rule, such as emphasis on the cult of the ruler. One of the most significant Inca mural programs can be found at Huaca la Centinela, located in the Chincha Valley on the south coast of Peru. Huaca la Centinela was first constructed around 1100–1350, with subsequent modifications made in the 1470s under the Incas, who conquered the site. It served as an Inca administrative center and featured extensive murals in its southern sector.6 The murals of Huaca la Centinela blend coastal step-­fret motifs with highland Inca styles of repeating rhomboid and triangular patterns to give the appearance of tocapu lining the walls of a giant architectonic tunic (fig. 1.2). Tocapu generally

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30     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between

Figure 1.2 Reconstruction of mural found at Huaca la Centinela based on descriptions by John Rowe, Inca culture, fourteenth–­fifteenth century. Drawing by Dwight T. Wallace from “The Inca Compound at La Centinela,” Andean Past 5 (1998), fig. 10.

appear in the garments of Inca elites and of the Sapa Inca himself, whose tunics consisted entirely of tocapu, as corroborated by illustrations in Guaman Poma de Ayala’s El primer nueva corónica and the famous all-­tocapu tunic housed at the Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Museum. These geometric designs may represent different territories, professions, and ethnic groups. Wearing them on clothing implies an assertion of ownership or dominion over them. To paint such designs in mural format, then, both confers the corporeal presence of the Inca sovereign on an architectural structure and broadcasts Inca imperial power to those who visit or inhabit the building. As Adam Herring argues, The mural program at La Centinela subsumed the space and its occupants within the larger pattern of the Incas’ comprehensive hegemony. Those patterns enabled Centinela’s Inca to see, to dwell among, and to culturally inhabit the visual terms of their social identity. Seated beneath their identifying t’oqapu, wearing that design on their garments, La Centinela’s leaders saw themselves within the Incas’ imperial scheme.7 Tambo Colorado, also known as Pucallacta or Pucahuasi, also contains remains of mural paintings of repeating tocapu that corresponded with Inca tunic de-

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The Painted Walls of the Andes     31

Figure 1.3  Man’s Tunic, 1470–1532, Inca culture. Camelid fiber and cotton tapestry weave, 341/2 × 30 in. (87.63 × 76.2 cm). Los Angeles County Museum of Art, Costume Council Fund (M.76.45.8).

signs, as discussed in the introduction (see plate 2). The site served as an important coastal administrative center in the Pisco Valley, likely constructed during the reign of Pachacuti Inca Yupanqui (1438–1471).8 Coastal Inca fortresses contained extensive murals similar to the ones found at the administrative sites of Centinela and Tambo Colorado. Paramonga is located in the Fortaleza Valley in the province of Chancay on Peru’s central coast. It was built in the Late Intermediate period (AD 1200–1400) when the region was under the control of the Chimú Empire, and was subsequently modified under the Inca occupation.9 Although the murals are badly deteriorated today, descriptions from early Spanish chroniclers enhance our understanding of their original form. According to Bonavia, this was among the first major pre-­Columbian monuments that the Spanish invaders witnessed and referenced during their initial incursions in coastal South America. Pedro Cieza de León reports: “The rooms and halls were very fine and have painted on the walls many wild animals and birds, everything enclosed by strong walls and well fashioned.”10 The high walls of Paramonga were covered in a checkerboard pattern of red, white, and yellow. The checkerboard design closely parallels the pattern of the traditional Inca military uniforms, which consisted of a tunic covered in black and white checkerboard squares (fig. 1.3).11 While the royal tunic is visible to the public

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32     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between only when graced with the mobile body of the Inca sovereign, these tunic-­style murals serve as concrete monuments that underscore the omnipresence of the state.12

Highland Inca Murals It remains unclear whether highland mural painting developed after the Inca occupation of the coast or if these mural traditions occurred independently of one another. Nevertheless, we can determine a shared symbol set that extended from the coast to the highlands, whose specific interconnections can be further established with future research.13 The fifteenth-­century site of Raqchi, also known as the Temple of Viracocha, is located within the town of San Pedro de Cacha in the Vilcanota Valley. The central wall of the Temple of Viracocha consists of a stone base topped with an adobe wall that towers at a height of over eighty feet and was likely even taller in Inca times. Ephraim George Squier provides testimony of mural decorations at the site of Raqchi in his nineteenth-­century travel narrative, noting that “the fronts had two entrances, and the interior of every apartment was ornamented with niches—within some of which the fine stucco is still perfect—brilliant with the purple color with which they had been painted.”14 Graziano Gasparini and Luise Margolies also note traces of mud plaster covered with red paint on the stone dividing wall, indicating that the entire structure was originally painted, not just the adobe gabled walls.15 A design consisting of red inverted triangles can still be detected on the lower portion of the central wall.16 Indeed, the designs at Raqchi, like its coastal counterparts, are made to resemble an uncu, with the stepped triangle at the neck extending around each of the windows (see plate 3). Although Raqchi is one of the few documented highland sites adorned with mural painting, Ann Kendall and Susan Niles note that structures such at the sites of Quispiguanca, Huch’uy Qozqo, and Callachaca also contain vestiges of paint, suggesting that they had extensive mural decorations in their heyday.17 Descriptions by Spanish chroniclers and evidence at sites like Raqchi suggest that a number of Inca structures were stone and adobe composites; the stone served as the foundational base, supported by adobe walls to provide added height. For instance, the curved stone wall of the Coricancha, the main Inca religious temple of Cuzco, originally supported an adobe wall.18 Based on coastal traditions, many of these walls presumably were not left plain but were brightly decorated with murals. Another line of inquiry into the history of Late Horizon highland mural

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The Painted Walls of the Andes     33 painting lies in the painted chullpas constructed by the Aymara peoples of southern Peru and Bolivia. Chullpas (also known as pucullos) are funerary towers that contained the bodies and grave goods of the deceased. They could be circular, rectangular, or square depending on the region, with vaulted or flat roofs. They were often located on the outskirts of urban settlements and varied in size from small human-­sized structures to thirty-­foot-­tall monuments.19 The chullpas of the Cuzco region tend to be made of stone and as Guaman Poma notes, they were often painted.20 The archaeological remains of adobe chullpas in the Collasuyu region provide material documentation of a rich funerary mural tradition in the Andes.21 Kendall has noted that the Inca conquest of the Collas (ethnic Aymaras of the Collasuyu region) resulted in the increased presence of painted adobe architecture in the highlands.22 Chullpas were frequently painted with checkerboard patterns, rhomboid shapes, triangles, and stepped diamonds.23 Teresa Gisbert, Juan Carlos Jemio, and Roberto Montero’s fieldwork in the Carangas region of Bolivia offers exceptional insights into the chullpa tradition and their painted decorations.24 Carangas was conquered under the reign of Topa Inca Yupanqui, who established it as a base for subsequent conquests of the Aymara territory. In a survey of sixty chullpas located near the Lauca River, thirty-­six contained decorations. The prevailing color palette, in keeping with other Late Horizon murals of the Andes, is red, black, white, and green. The checkerboard designs of the chullpas parallel the designs of the textiles with which members of Inca royalty were entombed.25 A rectangular chullpa at the site of Wila-­Kollu features a frieze of four black diamonds surrounded by small white jutting triangles set on a red background (see plate 4). This design closely resembles stepped diamond designs found on Inca tunics from the same period. The adjacent chullpa contains an X-­shaped design consisting of red and white triangles that bears remarkable correspondence to an Inca tunic at the Textile Museum.26 In her essay on the relationship between textiles and Inca cosmological principles, Marianne Hogue references a Late Horizon woven waistband that bears a design similar to the chullpa, arguing that the design scheme incorporates the three fundamental building blocks of the Inca visual system—step, rectangle, and zigzag—resulting in a snake-­like undulating design that recalls carved Inca stone monuments used for water rituals.27 Such serpentine patterning may subtly reference the transformative properties of water (or serpents themselves) as a parallel to the deceased’s transition from the world of the living to the world of the dead. As in the case of Paramonga, the Wila-­Kollu chullpa designs and many others possessed clear ties to Inca textiles and, by extension, to stone carvings. They were entrenched in an

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34     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between Inca system of imperial signs and symbols that freely crossed the boundaries of medium and geography. The few extant Inca murals of the highland region are likely representative of a much more widespread artistic practice than the current archaeological data suggest. The many ethnohistorical references to Inca wall painting (discussed below) further support this point. Murals of the Late Horizon period, both on the coast and in the highlands, conform to Inca design principles and color schemes. Geometric designs derived from the basic building blocks of the imperial Inca visual repertoire—triangles, squares, rhombuses, diamonds, and zigzags (rarely circles, which coincidentally, are difficult to achieve through weaving)—were typically laid out in bipartite or quadripartite schemes that held deep cosmological and political associations. We have also established that Inca murals bear great visual affinity to other more well-­researched art forms such as textiles, keros, and ceramics. Such equivalences beg further exploration that I hope will be taken up in future scholarship.28 Bound up most perceptibly in the visual and material language of textiles, Inca mural paintings transmitted imperial ideologies and religious and symbolic concepts through their profusion on the surfaces of key structures throughout the empire.

Inca Ceramics In addition to archaeological remains of the sites themselves, other examples of Inca material culture may provide a point of entry for reconstructing mural traditions of that era.29 To take but one example, a coastal Inca double spout and bridge vessel features a pair of houses that function as twin containers (fig. 1.4). Two spouts emerge from the center of their roofs, connected by a bridge. The houses are painted in a cream slip, while their triple-­tiered roofs are cream, red, and brown. Thin lines delineate the double-­jambed doorways, and a thick red line runs all the way around both of these circular-­shaped houses, just below the roof. Similarly, a ceramic model of an Inca cancha (a group of four buildings centered around a plaza) housed at the Museo Inka in Cuzco is decorated with criss-­crossed designs along the façade, suggesting that structures of its kind may have contained similar mural adornments. The repeating rhomboid motif on the exterior of the cancha, a common Inca design scheme, further suggests that it could have represented a mural. The Jesuit chronicler Bernabé Cobo mentioned that the Incas “were not in the habit of whitewashing them [the houses] as we do. However, the main houses of the caciques usually had the walls painted with a variety of colors and crude draw-

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The Painted Walls of the Andes     35

Figure 1.4  Whistling ceramic vessel with roofed structures, Chimú/Inca, ca. fourteenth–­fifteenth century, north coast of Peru. Accession Number ML040325. © Museo Larco, Lima, Peru.

ings.”30 Squier’s observations of Inca domestic architectural remains corroborate Cobo’s description as well as the ceramic examples: “The residences of the people, built of rough stones laid in clay, were probably stuccoed and painted yellow and red.”31 Thus wall painting penetrated both the imperial and domestic spheres, suggesting that the designs painted on the ceramic architectural vessels may not have been merely incidental. The archaeological and textual evidence suggests that Andean villagers encountered murals in their everyday lives, constituting a larger visual vocabulary with which both commoners and elites would have been conversant.

Inca and Early Colonial Murals: Ethnohistorical Evidence Conquest narratives of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries also provide crucial descriptions of Andean murals that no longer survive. Such testimony substantially enhances our understanding of Inca and early colonial mural practices.32 Cieza de León unceremoniously describes the temples at the Isla de la

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36     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between Puna near Tumbes as located in “hidden and dark places,” whose “carved walls contained horrible paintings.”33 In his Historia general del Piru (1616), Martín de Murúa mentions that Coya Chuqui Huipa, the wife of Huascar, “had the walls of her palace painted with different types of paintings, because she was strangely fond of them.”34 The Spanish naturalist and historian Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo compares the palaces of Cuzco with those of Europe: As in the sacred temples of the Christians, and in the Apostolic Palace of the Pope of Rome, the royal or imperial palaces were commonly whitewashed with gesso or lime, and during solemn festivals they were accustomed to adorning them with beautiful and rich tapestries, and for those of the greatest solemnity they would add brocades and fabrics of gold.35 Murúa similarly describes Inca royal palaces as “adorned with a lot of gold and images [estamperías] of figures and the feats of their ancestors, and the skylights and windows trimmed with gold and silver and other precious stones.”36 Such testimonies call into question the common assumption that Inca stone buildings were the pristine, unadorned constructions that we see today. Perhaps the most convincing evidence comes from Viceroy Francisco de Toledo’s widely cited reference to Inca murals in his 1572 Ordenanzas: Because of the ancient custom the Indians have of painting idols and figures of demons and animals to which they have been accustomed to worship on their stools, seats, cups, staffs, walls and buildings, mantles, tunics, spades, and on almost everything they need, it seems that they somehow preserve their ancient idolatry, you will see to it, on entering each tax district, that from this time on no craftsman will carve or paint said figures, under [pain of ] severe penalties, which you will carry out on their persons and goods should the contrary occur. And the paintings and figures that they may have on their houses and buildings, and on the other implements that may be removed reasonably and without much harm and you will order them to place crosses and other insignia of Christians on their houses and buildings (emphasis mine).37 Toledo grouped Inca mural painting into a larger corpus of “idolatrous” art that possessed the ability to undermine the aims of the Spanish evangelizing enterprise. But despite the passage’s obvious inherent biases against Andean art and symbolism, it also confirms the prevalence of Inca motifs across an array of surfaces, from mantles, stools, and cups to walls and tunics. This corroborates with Guaman Poma’s testimony discussed in the introduction regarding the fluid workshop structures of Inca Cuzco, whereby artists painted indiscriminately on

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The Painted Walls of the Andes     37 the surfaces of walls, keros, and mates. The Franciscan Laureano de la Cruz observed similar practices in the modern-­day Colombian districts of Popayán and Antioquía where “some caciques used to have tablets on their doors, with sculpted or painted animal figures, so that the town could venerate them.”38 Perhaps both paradoxically and strategically, the Spaniards promoted an artistic medium with explicit ties to Inca “idolatry” as one of the earliest tools for the conversion of indigenous Andeans to Christianity. The testimony of Spanish chroniclers and administrators cited above suggests that they recognized the import of Inca murals as visual expressions that inspired ritual and religious devotion. Indeed, Toledo himself can be credited in part for the proliferation of religious murals in the early colonial period. His establishment of the system of reducciones (reductions) during the late sixteenth century led to the rapid construction of hundreds of churches throughout the Andean countryside.39 Their expansive adobe walls necessitated quick and inexpensive decoration that facilitated doctrinal education through a medium that commanded power and recognition among their indigenous viewers.40 Having recognized the ubiquity of murals on Andean houses and buildings, Toledo may also have promoted murals because local artists could draw on substantial preexisting technical knowledge of the art of muralism in the execution of evangelizing images. Colonial officials were keen on the capacity of murals both to inspire religiosity and to espouse false doctrine. As such, murals remained among the most actively policed artistic expressions throughout the colonial period, perhaps due to their prominent location on the walls of churches and their relative sense of permanence. The seventeenth-­century Dominican chronicler Fray Juan Meléndez proclaimed that it is mandated, that not only in the Churches, but in no place, neither public nor hidden, in Indian towns neither the sun, the moon, nor the stars be painted; nor [should there be painted] terrestrial, avian, or marine animals, especially of some species, in order to avoid the chance of returning (as is said) to their former delusions and follies.41 It is almost certain that Meléndez is referring here to mural painting because of the way in which the statement is phrased: he states specifically that such images are not to be painted in churches.42 What is revealing in this statement is the disconnect between prescription and practice. Religious officials called for the elimination of any pictorial element that could be falsely interpreted and worshiped by indigenous congregations. Yet a number of churches throughout the southern Andes contain depictions of the sun, moon, and stars in the form of in-

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38     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between

Figure 1.5  Murals of the sun and moon, Church of San Juan Bautista de Huaro, ca. late eighteenth century. Photo by author.

terior murals and exterior stone carvings.43 While an example from the church of Huaro likely dates to the eighteenth century, it draws on precedents that would have been established in the mid-­colonial period (fig. 1.5). When we look at the history of mural painting in the colonial Andes, we must keep in mind the ideological tensions that existed between artists and colonial officials, and perhaps even among members of a painting team in charge of different aspects of a given mural program.

Materials and Techniques Pigments in the pre-­Hispanic period derived primarily from mineral sources, including malachite (green), argentite and azurite (blue), calcite (white), hematite (red), yellow ochre (yellow), and graphite (black).44 These minerals were appar-

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The Painted Walls of the Andes     39 ently so highly valued that Murúa notes the selection of special territories within the Inca Empire used exclusively for the mining of pigments for painting.45 In addition to their aesthetic utility, minerals played an integral role in Andean ritual practice. Pedro de Villagómez, for instance, lists different types of polvos (powders) that were blown into the air at sacrificial sites: binzo, a fine blue powder (most likely azurite); paria, a vermillion powder that came from the mines of Huancavelica; and llacsa, a green powder.46 Artists also frequently utilized tierras de colores (colored earth). Fernández de Oviedo noted that the Andean landscape contained “veins of earth of all colors, and especially yellow, green, red and a very fine blue: the green is [from a] plant and the others, as noted, are earths.”47 These can easily be witnessed today when traveling along mountain passes that have been bulldozed to make room for the highway. The soil profiles reveal layers of green, red, and yellow tones that closely resemble the color schemes of pre-­ Columbian and colonial murals. Pre-­Inca coastal cultures produced murals through the application of a thin clay mortar over an adobe wall. Artists would then cover the wall with a layer of white, calcium-­rich paint. While the paint was still wet, incised outlines were made using a sharp wooden tool, and the outlined images were subsequently filled in with pigment.48 In some cases the incised outlines themselves would be filled in with black paint for greater emphasis. Zapote (Capparis angulata), huarango gum (Acacia macracantha), and the juice of the hallucinogenic San Pedro cactus (Trichocereus pachanoi) served as the primary binding agents for adhering ground pigments to the wall during the pre-­Columbian period.49 Common minerals for pigments included limonite, hematite, carbonated calcium, and ferrous oxide.50 Highland Inca muralists employed similar techniques using locally accessible materials. They first treated the adobe wall with ccontay (white clay). In order to prevent cracking, artisans would coat the ccontay-­covered wall with a special cactus sap derived from the San Pedro cactus, known locally as gigantón (Spanish) or aguacollay (Quechua). The gigantón coating was created by soaking the cactus in water for several hours so that the sap would get released from the leaves to create a viscous fluid.51 Once the coating was dry, artists could apply painted designs to the wall. Muralists in the colonial period maintained similar techniques in the execution of murals, indicating the preservation of pre-­Hispanic technical knowledge well into the postconquest era. Roberto Samanez Argumedo describes the preparation of the wall surface for colonial murals: A plaster of fine mud with vegetable fibres added was prepared and allowed to stand for four or five days before its application to the wall. The

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40     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between layer of plaster spread on the adobe wall is generally 2–3 cm thick. On top of this plaster was spread a layer of pre-­screened mud with clay mixed 50:50 with hydrated lime. Then a layer of hydrated lime was spread on the surface and used as a primer. Cactus juice [gigantón] was again used as binder for the hydrated lime.52 In addition to vegetable fibers derived from local plants, evidence suggests that artists mixed mud plaster with human or animal hair.53 Once the wall surface was fully treated, artists would produce an outline of the mural composition with charcoal and then fill it in with tempera paint. Almost all colonial Andean muralists employed the fresco secco technique, which served the needs of ecclesiastical authorities to promote quick execution of murals for the education and indoctrination of indigenous congregations.54 Tempera dried quickly and could be applied in several layers to add additional details or to correct mistakes. Muralists continued to use tierras de colores and local minerals as their base pigments but added European agglutinates such as egg whites or yolks, casein, and animal gum.55 New pigments imported from the Middle East and Europe by way of Seville also began to be incorporated into Andean canvas and mural painting, including lapis lazuli, carmine, vermillion, and Prussian blue.56

Authorship and the Organization of Labor Little is known about the largely anonymous mural painters who decorated the walls of Cuzco’s churches. Even less is known about the organizational structure of the workforce. The principal reason for this lack of knowledge on colonial muralists is because the vast majority of them did not sign their works. The only known signed murals in the Cuzco region are those of Diego Cusi Guaman at the church of Urcos (early seventeenth century) and Tadeo Escalante at the church of San Juan Bautista de Huaro (1802) and the chapel of Nuestra Señora de Belén in Acomayo (1830).57 Several mural programs have been attributed to named artists based on stylistic similarities to signed works in other media. For example, the murals at the church of Andahuaylillas (discussed in chapter 2) are commonly attributed to the Lima-­born painter Luis de Riaño, a student of the Italian émigré painter Angelino Medoro, based on their stylistic affinities to a painting on canvas signed and dated by him in the baptistery of the same church.58 Aside from these isolated incidents of attribution, the majority of colonial Andean muralists remain anonymous, as were their pre-­Columbian counterparts.59 The absence of names, however, sheds light on the communal nature of

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The Painted Walls of the Andes     41

Figure 1.6  Detail: vignette featuring uncu-­clad Andeans, The Path to Hell. Church of San Pedro Apóstol de Andahuaylillas, ca. 1620s. © Pilar Rau.

colonial mural production. Murals were usually executed by a team of artisans led by a master painter who directed the design and composition of the general program.60 Despite the limited amount of archival documentation on the organization of painting guilds in the colonial Andes, the works themselves reveal a stylistic diversity that indicates the presence of multiple hands. To return to the Andahuaylillas example, the church’s seventeenth-­century murals were likely executed by several hands under the direction of Riaño. As José de Mesa and Teresa Gisbert have demonstrated, his hallmark style of flattened, angular figures with oval faces and sharply pointed chins remains consistent across his oeuvre.61 Other aspects of the mural, however, indicate the intervention of assistants with varying levels of skill. The small details in the Camino del infierno of individuals falling off the paths leading to hell and the Heavenly Jerusalem appear less detailed and lack the sophistication of the larger compositional elements. The smaller, less visible, and less finely executed elements of the composition likely painted by assistants are precisely those that include references to local indigenous life, as can be seen in a vignette featuring uncu-­clad indigenous peoples traversing the waters of hell (see fig. 1.6; discussed in greater detail in chapter 2). Thus it seems inaccurate to attribute sole authorship to Luis de Riaño, as this does an injustice to the contributions of the anonymous and most likely indigenous painters who worked alongside him. This stylistic diversity across a single mural program is by no means context-­specific to Andahuaylillas. Al-

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42     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between most every mural painting that I observed in the Cuzco region (more than forty churches and private residences) shows evidence of the presence of multiple artists. Knowing the name of the muralist can actually serve as an obstacle for understanding the nuances of mural production in the colonial Andes, which was almost always a communal affair. Murals exhibit unique iconographical and technical features that are rarely, if ever, found in portable paintings. Ornamental friezes of undulating vines interspersed with a breathtaking array of grotteschi (grotesques) are found exclusively in the domain of wall decoration. These designs were likely inspired by the decorations along the margins of printed books. Artists in the early colonial period even executed the designs in black and white, mimicking the original printed format from which they derived.62 Another common medium-­specific convention is trompe l’oeil architecture intended to give the appearance of elaborate architectonic spaces. Most rural Andean churches lack the architectural complexity of churches and cathedrals found in major cities. Perhaps in an effort to compensate for their spatial simplicity, artists would adorn churches with painted Solomonic columns, coffered ceilings, pillars, and volutes. These faux architectural adornments endowed humble interior spaces with a sense of dynamism and sumptuousness that could otherwise not be achieved, especially in impoverished rural areas where the majority of the churches under consideration are located. Wall painting also necessitated a distinct skill set. Muralists attained virtuosity in the application of tempera paint across expansive wall surfaces. The treatment of the adobe wall, the preparation of pigments, and the application of paint differed significantly from the technical skills of an artist using oil paints, glazes, and varnishes on a treated canvas. These categorical differences between the two media and the type of technical training that they required suggest that muralists may have formed a distinct subspecialty within the painters’ guild. Training within the painters’ guild in Cuzco took four years.63 While no known documentation exists on the training of mural painters, we can surmise that muralists may have acquired specialized expertise during a portion of the four-­year period. We do know that the development of subspecialties occurred within other artistic media. For example, tinsmiths formed a workshop within the larger silversmith guild.64 Furthermore, the lines between artistic professions were never clear-­cut; sculptors and painters belonged to the same cofradía (confraternity) in Cuzco during the eighteenth century. And at times carpenters appear in the archival record as part of the sculptors’ guild.65 The works themselves also suggest that muralists acquired a unique regional style that can be traced along different routes throughout the southern Andes.

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The Painted Walls of the Andes     43 Painters who worked in portable media would develop their technical expertise and signature style through collaboration with other artists working in the same physical space. As many scholars have demonstrated, the “Cuzco School” aesthetic became distinctive and recognizable by the late seventeenth century as the most celebrated regional style. The stylistic uniformity of many Cuzco School paintings was achieved by virtue of artists working together within large workshops in the rapid execution of hundreds of canvases for patrons across the viceroyalty.66 Muralists, in contrast, assumed a peripatetic existence that brought them from one church to another to execute commissions that could easily take several months to complete, if not more. Their workshop was the space of the church itself. As noted in the introduction, murals across far-­flung regions often exhibit strikingly similar styles, color palettes, and motifs. While reliance on the same kinds of European source prints can account in part for iconographical or compositional similarities, the movement of muralists along regional circuits resulted in the development of a cohesive mural style in the southern Andes by the eighteenth century, characterized by a vibrant color palette, heavily outlined figures, and an anecdotal treatment of space. Scholars in South America are at the forefront of critical efforts to trace the routes along which artists and artworks traveled across the southern Andes. Colonial churches and their respective mural programs form the core of this research, which has discovered tangible and rooted manifestations of itinerant artists who worked in the rural pueblos de indios. One route, popularly termed the ruta del barroco cusqueño (route of the Cusqueñan baroque), has been transformed into a touristic circuit that includes visits to the churches of Andahuaylillas and Huaro as well as the chapel of Canincunca.67 All of the murals discussed in this book are situated along this route, which extends from Cuzco to Lake Titicaca. The case studies presented here are intended to provide a better understanding of this particular circuit along which artists and iconography traveled in the forging of a codified mural practice.68 The ruta de la plata extends from Potosí, Bolivia, to Arica, Chile.69 This commercial route brought silver from the Potosí mines to the coastal port of Arica. Scholars Paola Corti, Fernando Guzmán, and Magdalena Pereira have been instrumental in carrying out important research on the murals of this region, demonstrating that this thoroughfare also facilitated the spread of a distinct mural aesthetic.70 Yet another route in Alto Perú, as it was known in the colonial period, runs from La Paz to Oruro.71 Further on-­site and archival research will help to flesh out the precise peregrinations of muralists in the colonial period as well as the dissemination of mural styles and iconography across vast distances.

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44     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between In spite of the unique conditions under which muralists worked, painters almost always remained undifferentiated in status or specialty in the colonial documentation. One entry in a church account book may say that the priest paid the painter to paint five lienzos (canvases) depicting scenes from the life of Christ and another may state that the priest paid the painter to paint the baptistery. No term such as muralist (muralista) existed in the colonial period. The two primary rankings within the profession were maestro pintor (master painter) and pintor (painter). One fact, however, remains clear: mural painting was not nearly as lucrative an enterprise as other artistic trades. Perhaps to the surprise of the art historian, painting in any form carried less prestige in the colonial Andes than textiles and works of precious metals because of the relatively low value of pigments and canvases.72 Silversmiths and goldsmiths occupied the upper echelons of the artistic hierarchy. Their training often lasted five to six years, with an additional two years of training to ascend to the rank of master.73 Sculptors and assemblers who worked on retablos for churches were also highly regarded within the guild system.74 Mural painting, as the archival record suggests, appears to have been a thankless job, garnering low wages and possessing negligible economic value as an enterprise that resisted monetization by virtue of its fixity in architectonic space. But the abundance of murals in colonial churches and residences throughout the Andes demonstrates that, despite its lack of economic prestige, mural painting clearly held tremendous social, cultural, and religious value for its viewers and patrons.

Archival Documentation of Colonial Andean Murals To date, very little archival work has been undertaken on Andean mural painting.75 References to murals in the archival record are disproportionate to the frequency with which they appear in churches, even after taking into account that many mural programs have not survived into the present. Nevertheless, a careful combing of colonial archives sheds light on mural patronage and the terms under which they were conceived and categorized with respect to church decoration as a whole. The Archivo Arzobispal and the Archivo Regional of Cuzco serve as the primary repositories containing information on mural painting in colonial Cuzco and its outlying regions. The libros de fábrica (books documenting purchases and renovations) and inventarios (inventories) of parish churches contain detailed information on the material conditions of parish churches. The libros de fábrica document the yearly expenditures of the parish, often in minute detail, even in-

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The Painted Walls of the Andes     45

Figure 1.7 Murals of the apostles, Church of Nuestra Señora de Montserrat de Chinchero. Originally painted in the seventeenth century and retouched in 1756. Photo by author.

cluding information such as the amount spent on wax for candles or the amount paid to the woman who washed the clothes of the clergy. Slipped into these lists of expenditures are occasional references to mural paintings, although in many cases the entries are fraught with ambiguity. For instance, one of the entries in the 1758 account book for the Church of Catca reads: “I record fifteen pesos that I paid to the painter who painted the two chapels, and who will return to renovate the entire church.”76 It is unclear, however, whether the painter was contracted simply to apply a layer of paint to the wall or to adorn the wall with decorations. For the purposes of accounting, such details were unnecessary—what mattered most was keeping a running (and ostensibly accurate) list of church expenses. Despite the opacity of the archival record, cross-­referencing archival documents with relative dates of murals based on stylistic evidence or historical content can enable a more accurate interpretation of otherwise ambiguous entries. The mural paintings that survive in the present day typically correspond to the final phase of mural decoration of the church, thereby effacing earlier manifestations.77 Account books and inventories, however, allow us to recapture this lost sense of continual repaints, touch-­ups, and renovations that characterized most colonial Andean mural decoration. These archives reveal the continually shifting biography of murals. At the church of Chinchero, for instance, the priest recorded that in 1756 he “ordered the Apostles and other paintings of the church

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46     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between to be retouched, and paid the Master Painter 18 pesos.”78 We know here that he is referring to the seventeenth-­century murals of the twelve apostles located in the presbytery (fig. 1.7). While we typically think of conservation as a modern enterprise, we can see that great care was taken to preserve murals even within the colonial period itself. The libros de fábrica can give us important timelines for the execution of murals in a church. In a later entry at the church of Chinchero, the priest recorded among his expenditures in 1767 that “the Official Painter [Oficial Pintor], who painted the Chapel with his colors, was paid thirty-­five pesos.”79 At the church of Marcapata, the priest noted in his expenditures for the year 1798 that in the baptistery “the [baptismal] font was painted and cleaned, with fine paintings, as well as the walls and door, which cost 10 pesos.”80 In that same year he ordered the painter to “paint the walls and doors of the church, which cost 25 pesos.”81 Indeed, the church of Marcapata to this day boasts an exuberant mural program that was restored in 2013.82 In 1795 the priest of the church of Anta “paid for the painting in the lower choir with all of the arches, and paid the painter 12 pesos.”83 In 1793 Pedro de Santistevan y Cano, cura of the Church of Urcos, noted “7 pesos that I spent in ordering the painting of the walls of the triumphal arch and presbytery.”84 The painters obviously did not do a flawless job, because three years later he recorded “2 pesos that I paid to the painter, who repaired a piece that broke off of the triumphal arch near the pulpit, for his work and the cost of the colors.”85 In most of the entries, the person logging the expenditures only refers to the master painter, although in an 1802 entry for the Church of Huaro the priest notes: “for 56 [pesos] and 7 [reales] I paid for the roof to be plastered and whitewashed of the church of the viceparish of Guaroc [Huaro]; twenty-­ six days were occupied in this job, each day there were three masons, and ten laborers [peones] who received one real each day.”86 The account books reveal little or no information about the appearance of the murals, but they do give a sense of the conditions under which muralists worked. In the twenty-­six libros de fábrica consulted for this study, the vast majority of painters mentioned in the accounts were paid low wages and commissioned to paint large spaces that far exceeded the size of canvases or panels. This was not limited to the Cuzco region: Hiroshige Okada cites the inscription accompanying an early-­nineteenth-­century mural program at the church of Belén de Huachacalla in Oruro that notes the four pesos donated by local residents to support its completion.87 As a point of comparison, a large painting with a gilded frame produced in eighteenth-­century Cuzco would have been worth between twelve and seventy pesos.88 Mural painters received equivalent or lower

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The Painted Walls of the Andes     47 pay for larger compositions than their contemporaries producing freestanding paintings. In all of the examples listed, the painter was given between ten and twenty-­five pesos to complete substantial painting jobs that covered an entire room or section of the church. Church inventarios (inventories) shed further light on the history of mural production in a given parish. Churches generally produced annual inventories at about the same time every year and followed a relatively standardized formula.89 The first items listed are always those made of silver (likely because they were of the greatest monetary value), followed by white, red, green, and black ornaments,90 sacred vestments, images,91 books, and, usually close to the end of the list, an optional section entitled cuerpo de la iglesia (body of the church). It is in this section, which is not included in every inventory, that we tend to find information on mural painting. The term pintura mural was not employed in the colonial period. Instead murals were usually referred to as pinturas en la pared (wall paintings). Descriptions of murals in church inventories, while often vague, are instrumental in helping us to gain a clearer understanding of the ways in which murals were conceived and categorized. The inventory of the chapel of Canincunca, located in the Quispicanchi Province between the towns of Huaro and Urcos, provides one revealing example of the appearance of mural paintings in church records. The previously mentioned cura Pedro de Santiestevan y Cano records in the “cuerpo de la iglesia” section of a 1788 inventory that “the chapel is painted in the form of hangings [colgaduras].”92 Indeed the entire interior of the church is adorned with mural decorations that imitate the appearance of textiles hanging on the walls. Scholars have assigned the murals of Canincunca to the eighteenth century, but with this new archival information we can more securely date the murals to before 1788 (unfortunately, an earlier inventory does not exist). Additional historical data can help to establish more secure parameters for the popularity of textile murals. Other entries help us to reconstruct the original appearance of churches whose murals no longer exist. For instance, in the 1792 inventory of the church of Urcos, the cura Tomás Collado mentions that “the entire interior of the church is painted; on the ceiling with a gilded overlay and on the body [of the church] in the form of wall hangings.”93 These paintings have since disappeared, but the description from the inventory provides us with a sense of how the church would have appeared in its heyday. Artists’ contracts would seem to be an ideal source of documentation for understanding the patronage of murals in the colonial period. Referred to as conciertos or contratos, they typically stipulated the time frame, pay, and content of the

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48     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between work of art. Such documentation can be found in the notarial archives, nestled within an array of legal proceedings, from wills to house sales to the apportioning of loans. Contracts for works of art abound in the late seventeenth century during the frenzy of reconstruction after the earthquake of 1650; nevertheless, I have not located a single contract for any of the murals under consideration in this book. As mural painting gained greater popularity in the eighteenth century, artists’ contracts became even less common as a vehicle for artistic patronage. This may suggest that muralists and painters alike undertook more informal verbal agreements with their patrons that did not involve a notary.94 Nevertheless, careful corroboration of inventories and account books with extant mural paintings enables a more secure mapping of attribution and the temporal parameters under which the murals considered in this study were produced.

Models and Iconography Muralists in the colonial Andes drew from a wealth of iconographical sources to create their compositions. The most well documented and direct sources for murals throughout the colonial period were Flemish, Italian, and Spanish prints, which were imported to the Americas in large quantities. By the mid-­eighteenth century, French prints had also begun to play an important role in Andean artistic production with the transition to the Bourbon monarchy (1713–1821).95 Inexpensive, lightweight, and easily portable, prints could be used as didactic primers or as devotional images to be tacked onto the wall. But perhaps most significant is the role that they played as models for paintings, in both portable and mural form. The relationship between colonial Andean paintings and European prints has received ample scholarly attention.96 The most widely utilized prints for Andean painting were those by Antwerp master engravers Maarten de Vos, the Wierix brothers, Raphael Sadeler, and the Galle brothers.97 Art historians have begun to consider the agency that artists exercised in the production of colonial paintings despite the constraints of printed models. For instance, Clara Bargellini argues that practices of imitation and transfer that characterized image-­creation in colonial Mexico did not greatly differ from what Spanish artists were doing in the Iberian Peninsula. The only difference was the geographical limitation faced by New World artists; they could not easily travel to Rome or other major artistic centers for training and exposure to original Greco-­Roman and classicizing Renaissance sculptural models.98 In a different vein, Gabriela Siracusano posits that the relative standardization of colonial Andean paintings according to the

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The Painted Walls of the Andes     49 dictates of predetermined monochromatic print sources opened up spaces of creativity for artists to invent a complex color symbolism that imbued paintings with a culturally specific sacredness at the material level.99 Examples abound of muralists faithfully copying printed models in the execution of large-­scale religious compositions. For floral and vegetal ornamentation, it appears that artists followed printed models more loosely. Such models likely did not come from single-­sheet prints but rather from the frontispieces and marginalia of printed books. Artists in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries drew from an increasingly diverse array of printed sources. Muralists of the late colonial period had the added benefit of choosing image sources across a wider temporal expanse.100 For example, Tadeo Escalante utilized seventeenth-­ century prints by the Wierix brothers as source images for his 1802 mural program at the church of Huaro (see chapter 5). As stated in the introduction, prints did not serve as the only models for colonial Andean murals. While it is tempting to assume that Andean image creation followed a linear and uncomplicated trajectory from print to painting, murals present us with a much more complicated story. In addition to prints, muralists also drew from material culture such as textiles, ceramics, and silverwork. Inca histories preserved in texts such as Garcilaso de la Vega’s Comentarios reales (1609) and seventeenth-­century autos sacramentales from Spain make their way into the subject matter of Andean murals in subtle and unexpected ways. Artists also relied on preexisting paintings on canvas and other murals for compositional and iconographical inspiration, as chapter 4 demonstrates in its analysis of murals depicting the baptism of Christ. Nor can we discount the power of imagination and local knowledge that manifested itself on the picture plane. Muralists across the colonial period manipulated religious imagery as a means of commenting on contemporaneous social conditions that could not be expressed through direct representation. Through analysis of their specific visual departures from the original sources, whether they be visual, textual, or material in nature, the artists’ creative maneuvers to layer their compositions with social and cultural meaning begin to emerge.

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Plate 1 Murals in the sotacoro of the Church of Huaro by Tadeo Escalante, completed in 1802. © Pilar Rau.

Plate 2 Mural decoration with tocapu designs, site of Tambo Colorado, ca. fourteenth– fifteenth century. © Projet de Recherche Tambo Colorado.

Plate 3  Vestiges of mural decoration with stepped yoke patterns around the windows, site of Raqchi, Inca culture, ca. fifteenth century.

Plate 4  Painted adobe chullpas from the site of WilaKollu, Río Lauca region, Bolivia, fifteenth century. © Claude Roulin–Switzerland.

Plate 5  The Path to Heaven and Hell, Church of San Pedro Apóstol de Andahuaylillas, ca. 1620s. © Pilar Rau.

Plate 6  The Path to Heaven, Church of San Pedro Apóstol de Andahuaylillas, ca. 1620s. © Pilar Rau.

Plate 7  The Path to Hell, Church of San Pedro Apóstol de Andahuaylillas, ca. 1620s. © Pilar Rau.

Plate 8 Anonymous Peruvian artist, Saint Anthony of Padua Preaching before Pope Gregory IX. Oil on canvas, 39 3⁄8 × 64 15⁄16 in. (100 × 165 cm), eighteenth century. Accession #2012-139-3. Philadelphia Museum of Art: Gift of Roberta and Richard Huber, 2012.

Plate 9  T extile murals in the sotacoro of the Church of La Virgen Inmaculada de Checacupe. © Raúl Montero.

Plate 10 Mural painting of Saint Rose of Lima surrounded by textiles in the sotacoro of the Church of San Salvador de Oropesa, 1685. Photo by author.

Plate 11 Interior view of the Chapel of Nuestra Señora de la Candelaria de Canincunca, late seventeenth century. © Pilar Rau.

Plate 12  Detail of textile murals, Chapel of Nuestra Señora de la Candelaria de Canincunca, late seventeenth century. © Pilar Rau.

Plate 13  Textile murals, Church of Cay-Cay, seventeenth century. © Raúl Montero.

Plate 14  Textile murals, Church of Nuestra Señora de Montserrat de Chinchero, eighteenth century. Photo by author.

Plate 15 Spanish chasuble, 1650–1700, embroidered mainly in laid and couched silk, accession number T.43&A-1946. © Victoria and Albert Museum, London.

Plate 16 Detail: textile murals, Church of San Pablo Apóstol de Ocongate, late eighteenth century. Photo by author.

Plate 17 Baptism of Christ, oil painting on canvas, Church of San Nicolás de Bari de Zurite, eighteenth century. © Raúl Montero.

Plate 18 Diego Cusi Guaman, Baptism of Christ, mural painting, Church of Santiago Apóstol de Urcos, mid-seventeenth century. © Jaime Chino Huanca.

Plate 19 Baptism of Christ, mural painting, Church of San Miguel de Pitumarca, late eighteenth century. Photo by author.

Plate 20 View of murals in the sotacoro of the Church of San Pablo de Cacha, late eighteenth century. © Rodrigo Rodrich.

Plate 21 The Path to Heaven and Hell, basement mural in the Celda Salamanca of the Convento de La Merced, Cuzco, eighteenth century. Photo by author.

Plate 22 View of the nave and sotacoro with murals by Tadeo Escalante, Church of San Juan Bautista de Huaro, 1802. © Pilar Rau.

Plate 23  Tadeo Escalante, Hell, mural painting, Church of San Juan Bautista de Huaro, 1802. © Pilar Rau.

Plate 24 Tadeo Escalante, Death in the House of the Rich and Poor, mural painting, Church of San Juan Bautista de Huaro, 1802. © Pilar Rau.

Plate 25 Tadeo Escalante, The Last Judgment, mural painting, Church of San Juan Bautista de Huaro, 1802. © Pilar Rau.

C h ap t e r 2

The Road to Hell Is Paved with Flowers Journeys to the Afterlife at the Church of Andahuaylillas

The earliest murals of the colonial Andes fulfilled an evangelizing imperative of instructing indigenous parishioners in the tenets of Catholicism. Colonial chroniclers describe scenes of the Last Judgment painted on the walls of Cuzco’s churches and the great fright that this caused among indigenous Andeans. Priests capitalized on the visceral impact of violent images to warn viewers of the imminent suffering that awaited the unfaithful in the afterlife. Antonio de la Vega describes some of the earliest now-­vanished murals produced in colonial Cuzco: and there have been remarkable changes and conversions among the Indians on account of the [paintings of the] Judgment, and [heaven’s] Glory and the pains suffered by the condemned, all of which are painted on the walls of this church and chapel [the Capilla de Indios next to the Compañía de Jesús in Cuzco], and particularly the sorrows and punishments in hell caused by the Indians’ vices and sins, which are all well drawn there; everything is clearly depicted by its types [of punishment] and [in its] details because the Indians are better persuaded by paintings, much more than by many sermons.1 Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala makes similar mention of images of the Postrimerías (the Four Last Things) displayed in churches of the early colonial period, although it is not clear whether he is referring to paintings on canvas, murals, or both: “and in each church there is a painted image of the [Last] Judgment, showing the arrival of the Lord to Judgment, the heavens and earth, and the pains of hell.”2 These early descriptions of colonial murals underscore their utility in inducing fear of eternal punishment among indigenous viewers.

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52     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between The church of San Pedro Apóstol de Andahuaylillas provides us with a snapshot of the types of images with which Antonio de la Vega’s and Guaman Poma’s contemporaries would have been confronted.3 But what sets the murals at Andahuaylillas apart from the violent, grotesque images of hell’s punishments described above is that they inspire both fear and reflection, engaging viewers in a more nuanced message that echoed the evangelizing methods employed by Juan Pérez Bocanegra, the church’s resident párroco (parish priest) in the early seventeenth century and likely patron of the mural program. The church’s recently restored murals are among the few of their kind in the Cuzco region due to the massive rebuilding campaigns that took place in the aftermath of the 1650 earthquake. Beyond their art historical value as a unique example of a pre-­ 1650 mural tradition, the murals of Andahuaylillas also cue us into the broader ecclesiastical, social, and political landscape out of which they were conceived. A multipronged analysis of the iconography and sources that informed these murals offers insight into the diverse meanings that they held for contemporary viewers. Celebrated as the “Sistine Chapel of the Americas” as early as 1917, the church of Andahuaylillas contains an array of murals, canvas paintings, polychrome statues of saints, and gilded retablos that cover nearly every interior surface of the church (see figs. 2.1 and 2.2).4 This chapter focuses on one of the most well known yet poorly understood murals of the colonial Andes: El camino del cielo e infierno (hereafter referred to as The Path to Heaven and Hell, ca. 1620s: plate 5). Painted along the interior entrance wall, the mural depicts a complex allegory of good and bad faith. The road to hell to the left of the entrance portal features sinners walking along a flower-­strewn plank leading to a flaming castle, while the road to heaven to the right is depicted as a narrow path covered in thorns that leads to the resplendent Heavenly Jerusalem. As discussed in chapter 1, Luis de Riaño likely served as the master painter for the mural and was aided by assistants. The mural is the final image that parishioners would have viewed as they exited the church. As this chapter demonstrates, The Path to Heaven and Hell features liminal acts of boundary crossings, pilgrimage, and performance that would have been meaningful to Spanish-­descended ecclesiastics and indigenous parishioners alike. Introducing critical primary sources associated with the image, including the original print on which it was based by Flemish engraver Hieronymus Wierix, seventeenth-­century religious writings, and a Spanish auto sacramental, these images and texts provide invaluable context for understanding the mural’s participation in contemporary debates on the nature of indigenous religious

Figure 2.1  Interior view of the Church of San Pedro Apóstol de Andahuaylillas, looking toward the altar. © Raúl Montero.

Figure 2.2  Interior view of the Church of San Pedro Apóstol de Andahuaylillas, looking toward the entrance. © Pilar Rau.

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54     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between practice. In particular, subtle compositional adjustments made by Riaño and his assistants open up new pathways of interpretation that reveal the mural’s embeddedness in the religious, theatrical, and cultural milieu of seventeenth-­ century Cuzco.

Overview of Andahuaylillas and Description of the Mural Program The town of Andahuaylillas was founded in accordance with viceroy Francisco de Toledo’s 1572 decree that indigenous populations were to be organized into reducciones (also known as pueblos de indios and doctrinas), which were small villages laid out on a centralized grid plan. Indigenous populations were redistributed as a means of facilitating their conversion to Christianity and exacting tribute through organized labor regimes.5 Reducciones fundamentally altered and eroded indigenous social organization by disrupting extended kin group networks and dislocating communities from their ancestral lands.6 At the center of each reducción was a small plaza surrounded by the priest’s house, a prison, a hospital, and a church. Situated at a slight incline, the church of Andahuaylillas looms large over the town’s plaza and surrounding countryside. The town was established as a farming district, specializing in the cultivation of maize and wheat.7 By the late seventeenth century Andahuaylillas boasted a population of roughly four hundred, which included Cañari peoples from Ecuador who were brought with the conquistadors, forasteros (indigenous migrants), and indigenous peoples from the region. About one-­third of the town’s residents were tribute-­paying Indians, who worked as farmers or laborers in local mills and haciendas.8 Andahuaylillas originally had only a small chapel that was constructed in the 1570s under Toledo’s campaign and founded in 1580. It remained in use until about 1606.9 The church that survives today was founded in the early seventeenth century (fig. 2.3).10 The church of San Pedro Apóstol de Andahuaylillas is of adobe construction and consists of a single nave, four subsidiary chapels, a separate baptistery, and an elevated choir loft.11 The church has a triumphal arch façade with lateral niches flanking the doorway, sandwiched between two large pilasters. The façade extends upward into a balcony from which the priest could deliver sermons to congregations stationed in the atrium. The balcony served as a mediating space that enabled unbaptized villagers whose entry to the church was restricted to attend mass. This type of church is known as an open chapel (capilla abierta), an architectural phenomenon specific to the colonial Americas intended to accommodate large crowds of indigenous parishioners. The niches

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The Road to Hell Is Paved with Flowers     55

Figure 2.3  Exterior view of the Church of San Pedro Apóstol de Andahuaylillas. © Pilar Rau.

flanking the doorway are decorated with murals depicting Saint Paul and Saint Peter, the patron saint of the church. The martyrdom of Saint Peter is depicted at the balcony level of the façade. This tradition of adorning the triumphal arch and balcony with mural painting was common throughout Indian parishes in the Cuzco region, with representative examples found at churches located in the southern Peruvian towns of San Jerónimo (a neighborhood of Cuzco), Oropesa, Urcos, Huasac, and Cay-­Cay.12 Friezes along both nave walls depict saints flanked by cornucopias filled with grapes and pomegranates (see fig. 0.4). The nave murals celebrate a variety of prominent female saints, including Cecilia, Barbara, Lucy, and Apollonia. Alternating between the saint portraits are images of mermaid-­like figures with torsos culminating in splayed acanthus leaves. These composite figures also take on the guise of angels with outstretched wings hoisting baskets of fruit on their heads. Lining the top of the frieze are painted spikes of alternating color and height, giving the appearance of a wrought-­iron fence or similar type of protective barrier. The nave decorations extend all the way to the presbytery, which features nineteenth-­ century decorative images that visually echo the earlier mural program. One of the most notable aspects of the church’s mural program are two painted doorways bearing inscriptions: one leading to the baptistery and the

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56     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between

Figure 2.4 Pentalingual painted doorway leading to the baptistery, Church of San Pedro Apóstol de Andahuaylillas, ca. 1620s. Photo by author.

Figure 2.5  Painted doorway leading to the choir loft, Church of San Pedro Apóstol de Andahuaylillas, ca. 1620s. Photo by author.

other leading to the stairs of the choir loft (see figs. 2.4 and 2.5). Identical in design, the arches are differentiated only by the inscriptions painted along the perimeter of the doorway and the trompe l’oeil lintel. Cherub heads decorate the spandrels, and at the top of each arch are two candlestick-­wielding putti flanking a medallion. The painted entranceway to the baptistery is more widely discussed because of the significance of its inscription.13 Written along the lintel is the baptismal formula in Spanish, “Te bautizo en el nombre del padre y del hijo y del espíritu santo, amen” (I baptize you in the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit, amen). The phrase is then repeated in Latin, Quechua, Aymara, and Puquina, earning it the title of “pentalingual doorway.” The decision to render the baptistery doorway with quotations in five languages has been attributed to parish priest Juan Pérez Bocanegra, a master linguist who was fluent in all of these languages with the exception of Puquina.14 An inscription in Latin decorates the doorway leading to the choir loft, which translates to “Let us bless the Father and the Son with the Holy Spirit. Let them praise the name of the Lord in the choir.”15 This doorway opens onto a stairway that leads to the brilliantly painted choir

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The Road to Hell Is Paved with Flowers     57

Figure 2.6 Murals in the choir loft, Church of San Pedro Apóstol de Andahuaylillas, ca. 1620s. © Raúl Montero.

loft, which has likewise received considerable scholarly attention for its unconventional combination of mural painting, windows, and natural light (fig. 2.6). The northeast wall (the interior pediment) features a mural of the Annunciation, with the Virgin Mary seated to the right and the Angel Gabriel to the left. Situated between the two figures is an oculus surrounded by seven roundels. Each roundel contains a different word, which when read together state “[S]an[ctus] Adonai Radix Emanuel Clavis Rex Oriens” (Holy, Adonai, Root, Emmanuel, Key, King, The One Who Rises). Each of these words is an invocation of the persons of the Trinity. Sabine MacCormack explains that “subsuming the cluster of inscriptions in and around the skylight into a single whole, they describe the Trinity: The Holy Ghost by whom Mary conceived; God the Father referred to by the Old Testament title of Adonai; and Jesus, referred to as Emmanuel and as ‘He who rises’ like the sun at his nativity.”16 Adonai, the Hebrew word for God, was rarely used in colonial Latin America. References to Judaism or other religions were strictly prohibited in order to avoid any heretical interpretations of Christian doctrine. Moreover, the bibles used in sixteenth and seventeenth-­century Spanish America never employed the term Adonai, raising the question of the source from which this text could have derived.17

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58     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between In fact, the most likely explanation for its inclusion at Andahuaylillas can be found in northern European print culture. A 1610 print by Hendrick Goltzius entitled Mercy Conducting the Sinner to Penitence, for instance, depicts Penitence under a ray of light. At the center of the sun are the Hebrew letters spelling out Adonai.18 Situating the oculus between the Virgin and Gabriel is also unusual due to its compositional importance to the scene.19 Rather than rendering God the father in paint, the rays of light streaming in through the window serve as a stand-­in for him. Again a Netherlandish precedent exists: several sixteenth-­ century prints indicate the presence of God through a beam of light falling from Heaven.20 The difference at Andahuaylillas is that the muralists chose to integrate natural sunlight into the composition, providing a creative interpenetration of architecture, painting, and the natural environment. Such achievements mirrored the dazzling multimedia effects produced by baroque masters working an ocean away in Italy and Spain. The imposing entrance wall mural transmits an important culminating message to parishioners as they exit the church, serving as a final reminder of the moral decisions with which they will be confronted on their spiritual journey (see plate 6). The two paths refer to a passage from Matthew 7:13–14: “Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it / But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it.” A nude figure with only a white sheet around his waist walks cautiously up the narrow and thorny path to the Heavenly Jerusalem; emanating from his head are three lines that lead to the Holy Trinity depicted as three identical males. A thick rope connects the seminude figure back to the composition on the left of the doorway, where the devil attempts to pull him over to his side. To the left of the entrance portal the path to hell is filled with flowers and populated by richly clad individuals and demons (see plate 7). A roaring hell mouth rears its head to the left of the path as a naked sinner falls into its maw. In the foreground of the same scene, an allegorical female figure guides a young man standing directly below the rope held by the devil. At the end of the path to hell, flames engulf a castle guarded by deer armed with bows and arrows. The paths to heaven and hell were familiar tropes in medieval Christianity. Representations of the paths abound in paintings, manuscript illuminations, and stage sets.21 Despite its decline in popularity in Europe by the Renaissance, this type of allegorical imagery carried great import in the colonial Andes.22 The didactic iconography, painstakingly labeled with relevant biblical passages located in cartouches along the bottom of each scene, was ideal for educating

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The Road to Hell Is Paved with Flowers     59 Andean parishioners in the central tenets of the Catholic faith. Each tableau in the composition illustrates its corresponding biblical passage in Latin. The letters are intended to guide the reader as an ars memoria (memory house). The erratic placement of the letters requires the reader’s eye to spiral around the composition, engendering a unique viewing practice that requires constant alternation between text and image. But the majority of the parishioners at Andahuaylillas would have been unable to read Spanish, let alone Latin, so the mural would have likely been the focal point of dynamic, interactive sermons involving the priest reading and perhaps translating the Latin passages into Spanish or Quechua as a means of guiding the viewers through the image. Ramón Mujica Pinilla notes the impact of Ignatian spirituality on images like this one, which in their original form as hand-­held prints would have inspired individual devotion and contemplation. But as was often the case in colonial Latin America, small monochromatic prints became amplified into large-­scale, full color paintings, thereby fundamentally altering the image’s mode of visual engagement with its viewer.23 At Andahuaylillas, the larger-­than-­life Path to Heaven and Hell would have allowed the orator to “exploit the direct interaction between image and beholder, using the moralizing power of visual aids as a tool of both persuasion and dissuasion and as a means of engaging the attention of their congregations.”24 Indeed, Juan Pérez Bocanegra directly references the path to heaven in his religious manual Ritual formulario (discussed at greater length below): “Defend yourselves from the temptations of the Devil, World[ly pleasures], and the flesh. Have strength to come forward on the path of virtue, until entering in [Heaven’s] Glory; for that reason the Church says mens impletur, gratia & futureae gloriae, nobis pignus datur [the mind is filled with grace, and a pledge of future glory to us is given].”25 We can envision Pérez Bocanegra gesturing toward the entrance wall mural while reading this portion of the catechism as a means of emphasizing the path of virtue to which he refers, thereby solidifying the relationships of textual, oral, and visual invocations of the path to heaven. With the mural’s placement directly beneath the choir loft, we can even imagine the booming sounds of the organ above emanating through the church, aurally activating the image into a multimedia spectacle. We know that Juan Pérez Bocanegra advocated the use of song as a pathway for accessing the divine, composing the Quechua-­language Hanacpachap Cussicuinin (The Joy of the Heavens), the first published example of vocal polyphony in the Americas.26 The relationships between this mural and the evangelizing agenda of Pérez Bocanegra be-

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60     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between come clearer as we delve into the details of his ecclesiastical career in the Cuzco region.

Juan Pérez Bocanegra and His Ritual formulario Little is known about the details of Juan Pérez Bocanegra’s life, but his name appears in the Andean historical record throughout the seventeenth century. A third-­order Franciscan, he spent over forty years in Cuzco working with indigenous populations in several different capacities. He began his career in Lima as professor of Latin grammar at the Universidad de San Marcos.27 He was living in Cuzco as early as January 27, 1617, when he was named examinador general (general examiner) of Quechua and Aymara.28 Before beginning his post at Andahuaylillas, he served as a choir book corrector, choirmaster at the Cuzco Cathedral, and cura of the church of Our Lady of Bethlehem in Cuzco.29 A noted humanist and linguist, Pérez Bocanegra is perhaps best known for his bilingual (Spanish and Quechua) manual for priests entitled Ritual formulario, published in Lima in 1631. He completed the book in 1622, but it was not published for another nine years for reasons not fully understood.30 Ritual formulario is a 720-­page instruction manual for administering the seven sacraments to indigenous Andeans. As Pérez Bocanegra mentions in the epístola (epistle), he follows the rubrics laid out in the Tridentine Office Book for parish priests, published in Antwerp in 1620.31 Pérez Bocanegra was assigned as párroco of Andahuaylillas by the diocese at some point before 1621 and remained there until the brief Jesuit takeover of the parish in 1628.32 The church was passed back into the hands of the secular clergy on April 4, 1636, and Pérez Bocanegra was reinstated until his death in 1645. A skirmish between the Jesuits and the secular clergy regarding jurisdictional rights over Andahuaylillas explains Pérez Bocanegra’s unstable position there in the 1620s–­1630s. In 1621 the king of Spain, at the suggestion of viceroy Francisco de Borja, ordered the Jesuits to take over Andahuaylillas under the presumption that they would convert it into a language training center for the teaching of Quechua to missionaries. It was also believed that the Jesuits would use it as a rest stop during trips between the towns of Quiquijana and Cuzco because of its favorable location. The secular cabildo (city council) of Cuzco intervened on Pérez Bocanegra’s behalf, arguing that the Jesuits were only interested in taking over the parish so that they could use the Indians of Andahuaylillas to work their haciendas in Quiquijana. Pérez Bocanegra managed to delay the Jesuit presence for a few years, but on December 31, 1628, Andahuaylillas was placed under Jesuit

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The Road to Hell Is Paved with Flowers     61 control by royal decree. Alan Durston, however, calls into question whether the Jesuits actually succeeded in taking over the parish, because the royal decree depended on Pérez Bocanegra’s acceptance of the terms.33 It was during his years of exile from Andahuaylillas that Pérez Bocanegra published his manual, officially entitled Ritual formulario, e institucion de curas, para administrar a los naturales de este Reyno los santos sacramentos del baptismo, confirmacion, eucaristia, y viatico, penitencia, extremauncion, y matrimonio, con aduertencias muy necessarias (Ritual Formulary and Institution of Priests, to Administer to the Indians of This Kingdom the Holy Sacraments of Baptism, Confirmation, Eucharist and Viaticum, Penitence, Extreme Unction, and Marriage, with Very Necessary Warnings; hereafter referred to as Ritual formulario). Unlike most seventeenth-­ century bilingual texts published in Peru in which the Spanish and Quechua sections are printed side by side in double columns, Pérez Bocanegra structures his text differently. The Spanish passages appear first, followed by a full Quechua version of the section. Although it is made to look as though the Quechua passages are faithful translations of the Spanish, Bruce Mannheim has noted that the primary language of the text is actually Quechua, with basic interpretive glosses in Spanish. Pérez Bocanegra may have structured his text in this way in order to escape suspicion among censors.34 This interpretation is consistent with the subtle accommodation of Andean value systems in the church’s mural paintings. Pérez Bocanegra’s text begins with a short introduction to the meaning and importance of the seven sacraments and continues with separate sections on each one. His section on confession is by far the most extensive, laying out the necessary types of questions, organized by their relevance to each of the Ten Commandments. A number of the questions relate to practices of idolatry, described with a level of detail unparalleled in other confessionarios of the period.35 For instance, the 1585 Tercero cathecismo y exposicion de la doctrina christiana por sermones, a trilingual catechism printed in Spanish, Quechua, and Aymara (and the first book published in Peru), provides only three admonitions to be delivered to confessors: against idolatry and superstition, drunkenness, and dishonesty.36 Pérez Bocanegra, however, provides a total of twenty-­nine admonitions, including those against idolatry, witchcraft, dream interpretation, rancor, drunkenness, sodomy, and bestiality.37 These admonitions are of particular interest to Andahuaylillas because they give us a sense of the frameworks through which local Andean beliefs and practices were understood by religious authorities. For example, one passage asks, “Have you worshiped certain huacas because you believe that they will make you

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62     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between a good spinner or weaver?” This admonition reveals Pérez Bocanegra’s familiarity with huacas (sacred shrines or sites) as well as with the primacy of textiles in the Andean world. Explicit reference is also made to the Inca past: “In the Capac Raimi, Inca Raimi, and the other festivals of your past, have you performed dances, adoring the huacas, that in the time of the Incas you used to adore? Or in these celebrations have you drunk until inebriation, in honor of the huacas, with the other Indians?” He also makes more general references to local ritual practices, such as: “Do you cure using herbs, seeds, or powders, first invoking the Devil, or saying some words that your ancestors taught you without your understanding them, thinking that you could cure the sick with them?”38 The text continues with a discussion of the remaining four sacraments and concludes with selections from the Doctrina christiana. The final sections of the book are considerably shorter, given its primary purpose as a confession manual. Economic considerations may also explain why the sacrament of confession is so much longer than the subsequent sections. The Franciscan chronicler Diego de Mendoza mentions that Pérez Bocanegra wrote a total of six volumes on the administering of the sacraments, but only the confessionario was published because of the high costs of printing.39 Scholars have remained divided over whether it was Pérez Bocanegra who was responsible for the patronage of the church’s mural program or the Jesuits who took over the parish between 1628 and 1636. The pentalingual doorway already provides ample support for Pérez Bocanegra’s involvement in the patronage of the mural program, given his avid interest in languages. Moreover, this mural’s stylistic conformity to the rest of the murals in the church suggests that the entire program was painted at one time under the guidance of the aforementioned master painter Luis de Riaño. An upper nave mural previously covered by a canvas painting until the recent World Monuments Fund restoration campaign of 2010–2012 provides crucial new evidence of Pérez Bocanegra’s patronage of the mural program.40 It contains a decorative scheme similar to those of the lower nave murals, differing only in pigmentation; it retains its original bright color palette as the result of being covered up for centuries, offering a glimmer of the mural program’s original splendor. Elaborate strapwork encircles two areas of text that read like a rebus. The first circle contains the letters “edi” and “fi” when read from bottom to top, likely an abbreviation for “edificó” (built). The next circle to the right of it contains the inscription “boca” (mouth). An image to the right of this decorative frieze offers a visual analogy, featuring an archangel protecting a young boy from the gaping jaws of a dark greenish-­black hell mouth, which bears a striking resemblance to

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The Road to Hell Is Paved with Flowers     63

Figure 2.7  Detail of mural discovered beneath a canvas painting along the upper nave wall, Church of San Pedro Apóstol de Andahuaylillas, ca. 1620s. © Pilar Rau.

the one painted alongside the Camino del infierno. The stylistic and iconographical similarities between this nave mural and its entrance wall counterpart suggest that the entire program was painted and commissioned under Pérez Bocanegra’s tutelage before his brief departure in 1628.41 While the appearance of “edi,” “fi,” and “boca” may seem like a tenuous reference to Pérez Bocanegra’s patronage, we must consider this rebus within the context of other contemporary writings that reference his name. A poem written by Dominican priest Adrián de Alesio (the son of Italian émigré artist Mateo Pérez de Alesio) in the opening pages of Ritual formulario provides further evidence of Pérez Bocanegra’s unique maternal last name as fodder for witty wordplay. The last lines of the poem read: “Pues tu pluma le dà lengua / Y tu nombre le dà boca” (For your quill endows it with tongue / And your name gives it a mouth). Alesio’s poem is followed by an anonymous sonnet that continues this theme. The first four lines read: “Boca de oro esmaltada [h]a de llamarse / Trocando Bocanegra a su apellido / Qu’ el oro de quilates mas subido / De esmaltes negros puede perfilarse” (Enameled mouth of gold he has to be called / Exchanging Bocanegra for his surname / That gold with the most carats / And black enamels could appear).42 The sonnet suggests that Bocanegra, whose name literally translates to “black mouth,” should instead be considered to have a mouth of gold (“boca de oro esmaltada”), given his fame as a linguist and preacher.

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64     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between The painted rebus attains greater meaning when considered in light of the opening poem of his Ritual formulario. These plays on “boca” suggest an intertextual connection between the works that would support Pérez Bocanegra’s role in the selection and patronage of the Andahuaylillas murals. But to understand the broader context within which these murals operated, let us also consider Peru’s religious landscape during the mid-­colonial period.

The Religious Panorama of Mid-­Seventeenth-­Century Peru Conversion efforts in Peru during the mid-­seventeenth century differed significantly from those in earlier decades. In the early years of evangelization priests had consciously incorporated aspects of Andean religious practice and belief into their sermons as a means of attracting the greatest numbers of converts. Inca deities were often conflated with Christian ones. Illapa, the Inca god of lightning, fused with Santiago, the patron saint of Spain. The Virgin Mary was frequently associated with Pachamama, the Andean earth goddess.43 Incaic cults thus lived on but were often replaced by or intertwined with new Christian representatives. In the earliest years of evangelization the primary goal was mass conversion. In fact, several priests’ accounts from the mid-­sixteenth century boast of the thousands of baptisms conducted within a year, whose triumphalist tone gave the impression of an unqualified victory in the spiritual conquest over Andean souls.44 Several developments in the intervening decades, however, began to erode the crown’s confidence in the church’s success in the Andes. The taki onqoy movement or “dancing sickness” took hold of several indigenous communities in the 1560s and 1570s. Indigenous Andeans fell into trance-­like dancing states, believing that they could summon the huacas of their Inca ancestors to overthrow Christianity and Spanish rule.45 Viceroy Francisco de Toledo’s arrival in 1572 to depose Tupac Amaru, the leader of the rebel Neo-­Inca state (1535–1572), precipitated an aggressive policy of missionization. In addition to his implementation of the reducción system, Toledo supported the destruction of Andean shrines in order to further disassociate indigenous peoples from their ancestral religions. It was within this context that the seventeenth-­century extirpation of idolatry campaigns emerged.46 Campaigns against indigenous idolatry known as visitas de idolatrías or extirpaciones de idolatrías were conducted primarily in the archdiocese of Lima, leaving behind a rich documentary record in the form of published reports. The Jesuits were the principal agents of the extirpation campaigns. Some of the most well-­

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The Road to Hell Is Paved with Flowers     65 known texts on idolatry include Pablo José de Arriaga’s Extirpacion de la idolatria del piru (1621), Francisco de Ávila’s Tratado de los euangelios (1648), Fernando de Avendaño’s Sermones de los misterios de nuestra santa fe catolica (1648), and Pedro de Villagómez’s Carta pastoral (1649).47 In these texts the authors offer lengthy expositions on the nature of Andean idolatry, accompanied by lists and descriptions of deities and the types of offerings provided to huacas. The level of detail is overwhelming. For instance, Arriaga states that during his investigations (1617– 1618), 5,694 people confessed to idolatry, and 679 to being “ministers of idolatry.” He claims to have destroyed 653 huacas, 3,418 conopas (ritual figurines), 617 mallquis (mummified human remains), and 477 bodies that had been stolen from church cemeteries.48 In addition to the extirpators of idolatry, one of the most influential figures in Juan Pérez Bocanegra’s life was the Franciscan Luis Geronymo (Jerónimo) de Oré, bishop of Concepción, Chile, and author of several multilingual religious tracts. Oré’s Symbolo catholico indiano (1598) heavily impacted Pérez Bocanegra’s writings, as he himself acknowledges in his text.49 Born in Huamanga (present-­ day Ayacucho) in 1554 to a prominent creole family, Oré was a central figure in late-­sixteenth-­century evangelization efforts. A great linguist like Pérez Bocanegra, Oré was fluent in Spanish, Quechua, Aymara, and Latin. For the Third Council of Lima (1582–1583), he was given the task of translating key religious texts into Quechua and Aymara.50 In addition to Symbolo catholico indiano, Oré also published Ritvale, sev Manvale Pervanum in Naples in 1607. Both Oré and Pérez Bocanegra were committed to the notion of appealing to indigenous congregations through the aural and visual arts. In his twelfth chapter on the ornamentation of churches and altars, Oré states: it is very necessary that in the Indian towns and churches there be pulpits in order to preach the word of God, and to preach from them [Catholic] doctrine and catechism, since the Indians set their eyes on these exterior things, allowing them to achieve greater reflection. And having gained the appropriate decency, this will make them more useful, edified, and devoted.51 The use of images, sculpture, and other ornamentation as vehicles for enlivening faith was an important element of the Council of Trent (1545–1563) as well as the Third Council of Lima (1581–1583), which urged priests to appeal to indigenous audiences with emotional sermons and visual images.52 The mural program at Andahuaylillas, with its manifold possibilities for facilitating an educational experience through interactive sermons, song, and memory-­based visual

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66     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between learning, would have served as an ideal model for inspiring indigenous religiosity. Although Pérez Bocanegra does not write explicitly on the visual arts, it is clear from the magnitude of the church’s decorative program that he modeled his parish on the dictates furnished by Oré and the Third Lima Council. Aside from their shared linguistic talents and humanistic perspectives on indigenous evangelization, Oré and Pérez Bocanegra may have known each other personally when Oré was an elderly man. Oré was intimately acquainted with ecclesiastical officials in the Cuzco region, having represented the bishop of Cuzco, Antonio de la Raya, at the Council of the Indies in Lima regarding the drawing of jurisdictional limits for the Cuzco and Charcas dioceses. Although no known documentary evidence confirms a personal relationship, we know that Pérez Bocanegra revised parts of Oré’s Ritvale, sev Manvale Pervanum in Quechua and Aymara in 1601.53 Moreover, Fray Luis Cornejo, in his aprobación (endorsement) printed in the preliminary pages of Ritual formulario, mentions that the same Antonio de la Raya played a role in the formation of Pérez Bocanegra’s text. Oré’s wide-­ranging influence was acknowledged in the work of other great colonial Andean authors, including Guaman Poma and Garcilaso de la Vega. While Pérez Bocanegra’s relationship with Oré was one of mentorship and mutual admiration, it appears that he had a rather complicated relationship with several Jesuit extirpators of idolatry.54 In the opening of Pablo José de Arriaga’s 1621 treatise on the extirpation of idolatry, the author criticizes the ignorance of priests in recognizing the rampant idolatry right in front of their eyes: “to satisfy serious and erudite people . . . not only did they doubt what they clearly saw, but contradicted in many cases, the fact that there are idolatries among Indians, claiming that they are all good Christians.”55 Keeping in mind that Arriaga’s text was published in 1621, precisely one year before Pérez Bocanegra completed his manuscript, note the following statement in Ritual formulario: The First Commandment of the law of God states: Love God above all things. The following [confessional] questions include all of the rites, ceremonies, and devotions that the Indians had. Along with their auguries and witchcraft, although now through the mercy of God there is not much of this in this city of Cuzco. There are those who deceive our lord and Majesty King Don Felipe with falsehoods that there are idolatries, they say so out of their own interests and ambitions and not because there are, or at the least, publicly none of this or anything outside of it [Cuzco], and only rarely.56

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The Road to Hell Is Paved with Flowers     67 These passages almost seem to be speaking directly to one another, pitting secular and Jesuit struggles through the disseminated world of print. What is most interesting about Pérez Bocanegra’s statement is that, although he denies the existence of idolatry in and around Cuzco, he dedicates a considerable portion of the book to confessional questions and reprehensions associated with so-­called idolatrous practices. This suggests that his denial of the existence of idolatry in Cuzco has more to do with his bitterness over the Jesuit takeover of his parish, which occurred three years before the publication of Ritual formulario, than with a genuine belief that Andean ritual practice had truly ceased to exist. Pérez Bocanegra’s defiant rejection of claims made by Arriaga and his contemporaries thus emerges out of a larger struggle between Jesuits and secular authorities in the seventeenth-­century Andes, exacerbated by the circumstances of his departure from Andahuaylillas between 1628 and 1636. According to historian Rubén Vargas Ugarte, the poor instruction accorded to indigenous congregations in the tenets of the faith led to comprehensive action undertaken by viceroy Francisco de Borja (in office 1615–1621). He was guided by the belief that the secular clergy lacked adequate language skills to preach to their constituents, resulting in a failure to control rampant idolatrous practice among indigenous Andeans. Borja received approval from Madrid in 1618 to dispatch the Jesuits to parishes in the Lambayeque region of the north coast, where indigenous communities were allegedly in dire need of religious instruction. The persuasive missionization practices of the Jesuits enabled them to extend their sphere of influence even beyond their original marginal outposts in the Lake Titicaca region. The objective of language instruction also guided Jesuit interests in Andahuaylillas, though their true intent was justifiably questioned by secular authorities, especially given Pérez Bocanegra’s linguistic talents.57 An examination of shared sources and personal connections among the Jesuits and Pérez Bocanegra reveals that he was well acquainted with extirpation activities undertaken by his colleagues. Although the Jesuit extirpators worked primarily in the Lima diocese, Pérez Bocanegra likely became exposed to their work in the capital city while attempting to publish his own manuscript. At the very least, it is evident that they operated within the same religious circles. For instance, Francisco de Contreras, the rector of the colegio of the Compañía de Jesús in Cuzco, provided an aprobación for Bocanegra’s Ritual formulario in 1627, for Francisco de Ávila’s Tratado de los euangelios in 1646, and for Fernando de Avendaño’s Sermones de los misterios de nuestra santa fé in 1648. Avendaño himself also provided an aprobación for Bocanegra’s work, but for reasons still unknown that particular leaf is missing in nine of the thirteen known copies of the book located

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68     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between in public libraries in the United States and Europe.58 In addition, Geronymo de Contreras, a prominent printer in Lima, was responsible for the printing of both Arriaga’s and Pérez Bocanegra’s texts, published within a decade of one another. We can thus begin to gain a sense of the interconnectedness of mid-­seventeenth-­ century religious circles, revealing the ways in which religious authorities were placed at odds with one another, fueled in large part by print culture.

Stairways to Heaven: The Camino del Cielo Meets the Capac Ñan Having established Pérez Bocanegra’s position within the larger context of seventeenth-­century religious activity in Cuzco and Lima, we can now analyze the historical specificities that guided his choice of subject matter for the entrance wall mural. A number of his contemporaries working throughout the viceroyalty evoked the trope of the roads to heaven and hell in their sermons to indigenous congregations.59 For instance, Francisco de Ávila published a sermon on this very theme in his Tratado de los euangelios: Christ our Lord came, my children, to this world for no other reason than his immense piety, and compassion, and being God he tried to be Man at the same time in order to show us the path toward heaven, and how we can arrive there. And this he did with his works and his words. But look, first you have to know that the True path which goes right toward heaven is only one path, just as long ago in this land there was a Royal road, which allowed the Incas to travel from one town to the other. Well, the path to heaven is to love God above all things, and to love others as we love ourselves (emphasis mine).60 Of particular interest is the way in which the Christian path to heaven became superimposed onto Andean histories and landscapes. Instead of rendering the Inca past as a dangerous space to be deposited into the all-­encompassing arena of sin and diabolism, Avila actually conflates the path to heaven, the camino del cielo, with the capac ñan, the Quechua term for the royal Inca road. The capac ñan was a major feat of engineering and imperial organization, linking up the entire empire though a total of 15,000–20,000 miles of roadway. The highland road ran from Quito, Ecuador, to Mendoza, Argentina, while the coastal road ran from the Inca outpost of Tumbes in Ecuador all the way south to Santiago, Chile. Perhaps recognizing the magnitude and utility of the Inca road system (which was modified in the colonial period to accommodate horses brought by the Spaniards), Ávila simply urges indigenous congregations to reorient their under-

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The Road to Hell Is Paved with Flowers     69 standings of the paths along which they travel and make pilgrimages. The capac ñan thus becomes a template for envisioning the divine path leading to heaven. Ávila’s colleague Fernando de Avendaño goes even further to include tambos (way stations on the Inca road to provide respite for travelers) in his sermon on the roads to heaven and hell published in his 1648 Sermones de los misterios: Haven’t you seen on many occasions, when a Spaniard [chapetón] travels from here to Cuzco, or to Potosí, that he asks at the tambo for an Indian to guide him and show him the path until he gets to the next tambo, so that he doesn’t get lost and take the wrong path, end up down a precipice, fall off a cliff, and become smashed into pieces? Well in the same way that God’s [divine] providence bestowed on man [the ability] to walk from the tambo in this mortal life to the other tambo of the immortal life, we never should never let go of this guide, whom we call Faith, because this is how God showed us the true way for the good of our souls, who teaches us the truth without deceiving us and committing errors; because God knows a lot and speaks the truth; therefore, he advises men that if they break away from the path they will go to hell, which is a twisted path, and that they must go on the right path of the Commandments of God.61 Ávila reclassifies tambos for insertion into a Christian framework while also appealing to his congregations’ knowledge of a shared Inca past. Tambos transform from secular sites of respite into sacred dualities that house the world of the living and the world of the dead. The practice of pilgrimage as a means of linking and commemorating sacred spaces was an important component of Inca religious practice, a point that would not have been lost on Avendaño. Pilgrimage was also central to the Inca notion of the afterlife. For instance, the deceased were believed to cross a treacherous bridge called achacaca made entirely of prickly human hair in order to enter into ucu pacha (the underworld).62 Other versions reference a bridge of braided hair over a fast-­flowing river.63 Sabine MacCormack draws a parallel between the bridge to the underworld and actual Inca bridges made of ichu grass, which creates a tight association between the Inca royal road and the metaphysical pathways of the afterlife. Moreover, the path along which the Inca king made his royal entry into the city of Cuzco was strewn with flowers, coca leaves, and feathers, not unlike the path to hell featured in the mural.64 The paths to heaven and hell in the mural likewise serve as bridges constructed over treacherous bodies of water. The pictorial emphasis on the braid-­like, undulating vines in the camino del cielo mural as well as the vividly

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70     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between rendered waters below could have recalled long-­standing beliefs about the journey to new realms after death. This convergence of Christian and Inca paths of pilgrimage is also reflected in the way that seventeenth-­century priests translated camino del cielo into Quechua. The term hanaccpachaman ñan compresses concepts of hanan, the dominant upper cosmological component; pacha, the world; and capac ñan, the Inca royal road.65 In other words, these pictorial references were embedded in the very language employed in the evangelization process, creating a productive tension of language, image, and collective constructed memories of the Inca past. The painting’s subject matter thus held unique significance in the Andes, where parallels to Inca practice were utilized by contemporary ecclesiastical authorities for the creation of culturally relevant sermons to Andean congregations.66

Wierix in the Andes Like most Andean paintings of the seventeenth century, the basic compositional and iconographical features of the Camino del cielo e infierno were inspired by northern European print culture.67 The primary visual source for the mural likely comes from an engraving by the Flemish printmaker Hieronymus Wierix entitled The Wide and Narrow Road (also known more popularly as The Broad and Narrow Way). The copperplate engraving dates to around 1600 and measures 7.2 inches in height and 4.29 inches in width (fig. 2.8).68 The striking resemblance between the print and the mural leaves little doubt that Riaño and his assistants would have had some variation of this image on hand when creating the Andahuaylillas entrance wall mural. The painted figures maintain the same positioning as in the print, although they are rendered with a greater degree of flatness and angularity in contrast to the finely modulated bodies found in the original. They retain the same Flemish style of dress, lending the Andahuaylillas murals a sense of archaism in the disjuncture between the costumed characters of the entrance wall mural and the kind of clothing Spanish or criollo (American-­born Spanish) contemporaries would have worn in the seventeenth century. Some aspects of the print are copied with painstaking fidelity to the original, such as in the flaming palace of hell, surmounted by deer bearing bows and arrows, as well as in the depiction of Caro, the personification of flesh, leading a young boy astray in his spiritual journey. A few key modifications of the original source, however, reveal interesting strategies of localization undertaken by the Andahuaylillas muralists. One significant deviation from the print can be found in the mural’s depiction of the

Figure 2.8  Hieronymus Wierix, The Wide and Narrow Road, ca. 1563 to before 1619, 183 × 109 mm. Accession number RP-­P-­1898-­A-­19872. Courtesy of Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

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72     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between entry portal to the Heavenly Jerusalem. The arched entranceway in the print is tall and wide, depicted as a rusticated arch under which a group of angels stand, bathed in rays of sunlight. The entry portal in the mural version appears quite different. In proportion to the rest of the façade, the actual arch is small. While the arch in the print appears open, the mural entryway is depicted with a closed door. In fact, the portal bears a close resemblance to the painted portals leading to the baptistery and choir loft: both consist of an arched doorway flanked by pilasters and topped with a heavy entablature. But perhaps the closest visual source for the doorway depicted in the mural can be found in the entry portal to the church of Andahuaylillas itself (fig. 2.9). The white pilasters and entablature represented in the mural echo the white paint encasing the entrance, which itself is decorated with mural painting. The clever self-­referentiality at play is heightened by the close correspondence between the wooden door of the mural and that of the church. The depiction of a firmly shut or impossibly small door at the end of the path to salvation should not be seen as a mere compositional idiosyncrasy. On the contrary, references to such iconography abounded in the seventeenth-­century religious literature of the Andean region. For instance, in the opening lines of his sermon for the first Friday of Lent, Ávila states: The door to Heaven, its entry is straight, and narrow, and the path leading to that life is the same, and very few make it. Do you know how narrow it is? Listen. If you came to this Church now, and you saw that its doorway wasn’t big enough for even a small child to enter, and that the path to get to it was scattered with thorns, wouldn’t you be afraid to arrive there? And although you see this so, you are motivated, and you say, I will arrive there anyway: How do you do it? By having strength, continuing on, finding the thorns although they puncture you, stripping yourself of your clothes so that they don’t impede your entry through such a small door so that you will be able to enter inside; this is what you must do before, and without doing it, you won’t enter.69 Indigenous Andeans were warned of the possibility of being refused entry to heaven if they failed to follow the example of Christ’s faith and virtue. In light of seventeenth-­century anxieties about the effectiveness of early evangelization efforts, a greater sense of urgency accompanied the use of forceful iconography detailing the arduous journey to become a true Christian. Moreover, the artists added an additional individual not featured in the print: standing at the doorway with a key in his right hand is none other than Saint Peter the Apostle, the patron

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The Road to Hell Is Paved with Flowers     73

Figure 2.9  Entrance portal, Church of San Pedro Apóstol de Andahuaylillas. © Pilar Rau.

saint of Andahuaylillas. This underscores the efforts taken to imbue the image with recognizable local elements. As the universal head of the church, Saint Peter held the keys to the kingdom of heaven, as expressed in the passage from Matthew 16:18–19: “And I tell you that you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not overcome it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven; whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.” This conflation of Andahuaylillas with the kingdom of Heaven provides parishioners with the implicit message that the church of their very community constituted a New Jerusalem on Andean soil. Indeed, the act of entering and exiting the church left congregations with a palpable reminder of the spiritual pilgrimage necessary for attaining salvation—and one that could be understood within the immediate parameters of their existence rather than as a place only to be imagined and visualized. Certain incongruities between the print and the mural elucidated above indicate that the mural painters adapted the composition to meet the needs of their local constituency. Other discontinuities between the print and mural, however, may reveal additional sources that played a role in its inception. The feasting scene featured below the path to heaven features a strikingly different configu-

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74     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between ration of characters and foodstuffs than is depicted in the print. In the mural the table is tipped forward to reveal the vast array of culinary items enjoyed by the participants in the feast. Bearing little resemblance to the square table featured in the print, the table in the mural takes on an amorphous shape in order to reveal each individual item of food, drink, and utensil. We can easily identify apples, a plate of fish, a round cake or piece of bread, and what appears to be a fruit tart, interspersed with a fine drinking glass, forks, and knives. And perhaps of greatest interest, a closer look at the Path to Hell reveals a colonial curaca (local ruler) bedecked in Inca-­style garb traversing the waters of hell, surrounded by other indigenous figures (see fig. 1.6). These vignettes do not appear in the original print. How, then, do we account for these seemingly extraneous compositional details? Furthermore, what was so significant about this particular image that it occupied such a prominent place in the church of Andahuaylillas?

The Auto Sacramental in the Andes An examination of the role of religious theater in the colonial Andes may help to answer some of these questions, serving as another important point of access for interpreting the Andahuaylillas murals. The dramatic arts developed quickly in viceregal Peru; documentation of dramaturgical activity appears within the first fifteen years of the Spanish conquest. One of the earliest documented theatrical performances in the Andes was a medieval mystery play that took place on January 6, 1548, at the Cuzco Cathedral. Comedias and autos were the most popular forms of early theater in colonial Peru. The institutionalization of the theater is evidenced by the founding of theaters dedicated to the performance of comedias as well as the development of theater guilds. The arrival of the Jesuits in 1568 also helped to stimulate theatrical activity in the viceroyalty. According to Guillermo Lohmann Villena, the Jesuits promoted a scholastic form of theater promulgated by the colegios associated with the Compañía de Jesús, in which students acted out scripture in the form of tragedies or dialogues as a means of bringing their studies to life.70 Dances, processionals, and ritual pilgrimage were also vital modes of Inca performance that retained critical importance in colonial displays of civic identity. Such performances enabled individuals to preserve and propagate histories and foundational myths. Pre-­Hispanic forms of public performance came into contact with Spanish dramatic expression to produce a wide variety of colonial theatrical manifestations. European plays were often translated and performed in Quechua or Aymara in order to foment indigenous participation in religious drama.71 Members of the indigenous elite masqueraded as royal Inca ancestors

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The Road to Hell Is Paved with Flowers     75 during Corpus Christi performances. In some cases, hints of cultural resistance and subversion can be found in the dramatic texts of the colonial period.72 Like murals and other forms of visual art, Spanish religious theater, often translated and modified for local populations, served as an important tool in the evangelization of indigenous Andeans.73 One form of Spanish theatrical practice held particular significance in the Andes. The auto sacramental is a one-­act allegorical play performed in conjunction with Corpus Christi to celebrate the sacrament of the Eucharist. Autos often dealt with the human struggle to forego worldly pleasures in order to attain a higher spiritual awareness. The tradition enjoyed a lengthy career in Spain, reaching its peak of popularity in the mid-­seventeenth century with the rise of the great Spanish Golden Age playwrights Félix Lope de Vega y Carpio and Pedro Calderón de la Barca.74 Autos reached Peru through a number of different channels in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Printed copies of plays arrived en masse from Seville, included in large-­scale shipments of books to the colonial Americas. Documentation of these commercial exchanges is available in the form of library inventories and shipping manifests.75 Plays also reached the Andes through human agents; newly arrived missionaries and bureaucratic officials brought copies of important texts from Spain with them for personal use or to aid in conversion efforts. The auto sacramental genre of theater was widely disseminated in Peru, serving as an important component in the celebration of Corpus Christi. As early as 1563 autos were incorporated into Corpus Christi festivities in Lima and had became part of Cuzco celebrations by the seventeenth century.76 Autos were performed outdoors in the atria of churches to allow for mass spectatorship on the adjoining plaza. Moreover, their performance in outdoor spaces resonated with indigenous forms of spectacle, which were held outdoors in the pre-­Columbian era.77 In Cuzco autos and comedias were infused with a renewed vigor with the appointment of Don Nicolás de Mendoza Carvajal as corregidor (magistrate) in 1620.78 Mendoza, dubbed the “corregidor de las comedias,” found that the quality of Corpus Christi celebrations in Cuzco had deteriorated and called for mandatory participation in the festivities by all parishes.79

José de Valdivielso’s El peregrino In this context of renewed theatrical fervor the auto relevant to our story entered the colonial Andean scene. José de Valdivielso (1560?–­1638), a playwright who hailed from Toledo, Spain, enjoyed a prolific career writing autos and comedias

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76     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between throughout the first third of the seventeenth century.80 He wrote seventeen surviving autos, some of which traveled far beyond the borders of Toledo and Madrid, where he spent the bulk of his career. One of his lesser-­studied autos entitled El peregrino was published in Toledo in 1622 and made it to Peru the following year. It was performed to inaugurate the newly consecrated sanctuary of Our Lady of Cocharcas, an important Marian devotion located in the Apurímac region of the southern Andes.81 The auto was performed in the atrium of the sanctuary of Cocharcas on September 10, 1623, and was attended by twelve priests of the surrounding areas, along with the corregidores of Andahuaylas and Vilcashuamán, not to mention the thousands of pilgrims who trekked to Cocharcas from far-­flung towns to pay their respects. A number of Cuzco school paintings illustrate the pilgrimage undertaken to Cocharcas on this auspicious day, and all of them feature a clear illustration of the sanctuary and the atrium surrounding it on the right side of the composition (see fig. 2.10).82 We can thus imagine the actual site where El peregrino was performed within the context of the church and its surrounding landscape. El peregrino is an allegory of the human struggle to forego worldly pleasures and choose the path of God. In its first scene, the pilgrim tries to break away from the grasp of the personification of Mother Earth, in her traditional form as an elderly woman bedecked in a garland of flowers and foliage. He tells her that he wishes to leave her so that he can find the sacred land of heaven. In a spirited exchange Mother Earth pleads with the pilgrim: “Son, can I not give you life?” He responds: “Mother, toward eternity I go.” In a later passage he continues: “All that you have lent to me, I must return to you. Give me bread of pain among thorns and thistles, purchased at the price of anger and drops of my sweat.”83 Although Mother Earth is reluctant to part with the pilgrim, she wishes him well on his journey. After he finally gets away, the pilgrim falls into a deep slumber. In his dream he encounters two paths: one that leads to the Heavenly Jerusalem and the other that leads to hell. He is guided by the personification of Truth but encounters Delight, Falsehood, and Lucifer, who attempt to lure him from his journey toward righteousness and bring him into the realm of vice. When we consider the description of the stage set included in the original playbill, the similarities to the Andahuaylillas entrance wall mural are remarkable. The opening scene of the play contains the following stage directions: Two paths will descend from the two carts, like raised bridges. One will be wide and full of flowers and herbs and festivities: and above will be music and a mouth of hell. The other path will be very narrow and full of

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The Road to Hell Is Paved with Flowers     77

Figure 2.10  Cuzco School, Our Lady of Cocharcas under the Baldachin, 1765. Oil on canvas, 78 1/4 × 56 1/2 in. (198.8 × 143.5 cm). Brooklyn Museum, Bequest of Mary T. Cockcroft, by exchange, 57.144.

brambles, thistles, and spines, crosses, skulls, etc. And above will sound music.84 The palaces of heaven and hell that we see in the entrance wall mural could thus also represent stage sets or carros (carts) from which the two paths unfold. The detailed description of the narrow path of virtue as “full of brambles, thistles, and spines” recalls the ornate decoration of the path to heaven in the mural. On several occasions throughout the play the pilgrim complains of the thorns puncturing his feet. In a scene in which he is accompanied by Truth, he says: “Ay! A strong thorn has entered my foot.” Truth replies that “the thorn of death was always profitable.”85 Theater historian Ricardo Arias interprets the prick of a spine that the pilgrim suffers as a symbol of sin and death, highlighting the depravity of earthly desires.86 The prominent presence of thorns in the Andahuaylillas mural could thus also relate to the original stage set of El peregrino and frequent allusions to it in the play. Taken as a whole, the play touches on themes that were of central concern to seventeenth-­century religious officials working with Andean communities. In a Peruvian context the pilgrim’s rejection of the earthly realm could be in-

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78     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between terpreted as a rejection of Pachamama, the Andean earth mother to whom indigenous peoples provided offerings and respects. The European pagan concept of Mother Earth in many ways paralleled Pachamama as a feminized terrestrial deity. She traditionally holds a staff with stars at each end, symbolizing the axis mundi. Pre-­Columbian Andean religions similarly perceived the earth as imbued with divinity and as the access point from which to communicate with ancestors and the supernatural world. Andeans worshiped earth-­based deities such as mountains, stones, hills, and other features of the natural landscape. In both their sermons and religious texts priests often reproached indigenous Andeans for worshipping Pachamama. Indeed, Pérez Bocanegra includes a chant in his Ritual formulario dedicated to the worship of land: “Are you accustomed to worshipping the land where you live, saying ‘O Mother Earth, great and widespread Mother Earth, carry me on your shoulders, or in your arms, for my good?’”87 Pagan European and indigenous Andean conceptions of Mother Earth share the same discursive space as beliefs of the “past” that the pilgrim must disavow as he embarks on the pilgrimage to become a true Christian.88 Moreover, the pilgrim’s act of falling into a dream state would not have been lost on both the indigenous parishioners and seventeenth-­century ecclesiastics in the region. Dreams and the kind of prophesying they inspired were a major preoccupation among priests working with Andean communities because of their potential associations with idolatry.89 At the forefront of these debates was Juan Pérez Bocanegra himself, who wrote extensively about dreams in Ritual formulario. He devotes a significant portion of the manual to confessional questions aimed at deterring Andeans from practices of dream divination. He went above and beyond earlier manuals, which had only briefly touched on the subject.90 Pérez Bocanegra’s questions concerning dreams demonstrate a keen awareness of the specificities of Andean dream worlds. He produced a total of 128 confessional questions relating to dreams, a few of which follow: When you are dreaming do you cross a bridge in order to escape from a certain person? When you see falcons, or vultures, do you say that you’re going to have a son? Or (if you are a woman) that you have to give birth to a son? If in your dreams you see the sun or moon, do you say that a relative is going to die? If you see in your dreams a person covered up with a cloth, do you say that it is a sign that you are going to die?

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The Road to Hell Is Paved with Flowers     79 Everything that is dreamed, and that you dream, are you accustomed to believing it and saying that it has to be the truth? Tell me, what do you say about your dreams when you wake up?91 Pérez Bocanegra’s first question about crossing a bridge may refer to the aforementioned notion of achacaca, the bridge made of human hair that Andeans considered to be the threshold that a person must cross upon death. Alonso de la Peña y Montenegro, who served as archbishop of Quito from 1653 to 1687, wrote a manual for priests working in indigenous parishes in which he identifies three types of dreams: It is very ordinary among Indians to believe in dreams and to divine using them, a type of divination that they use commonly . . . some dreams come naturally, or are caused by some previous thought, or by the disposition of the body, and in this case it is lawful to give credit to dreams, in order to conserve the health of the body, or to fear an illness, for if someone dreamed that he saw fire, it can be conjectured that he has a lot of choleric humor. . . . Other dreams are those which come from God, like those of Gideon, Daniel, Jacob, Nebuchadnezzar, Joseph, and others; and these dreams, when they clearly show a certain thing, concurring circumstances are enough to believe that they are dreams caused by God. . . . The last are the dreams that come from the devil, exciting the fantasy of men . . . it is a grave sin in itself, and belongs to the superstition of divination.92 Drawing on the work of José de Acosta in his Historia natural y moral de las Indias (1590), both Peña y Montenegro and Pérez Bocanegra recognized the importance of directing Indians away from the third type of dream inspired by the devil. While not eradicating dream interpretation altogether, these religious authorities advocated for the divine dream, which could serve as a vehicle through which to get closer to God. The theme of the divine dream introduced by El peregrino would have been particularly appropriate for audiences at Andahuaylillas, whose alleged rampant practices of dream divination were seen as a threat that would compromise their commitment to the Catholic faith. The mural’s ornate banquet scene can also be better understood when considered in light of Valdivielso’s auto, in which the trope of the feast serves as a critical framing device. The play contains two feasting scenes: in the first, the pilgrim attends a banquet hosted by Delight and Falsehood celebrating a false Eucharist; in the second, he celebrates the True feast on the day of Corpus, attended by Saint Peter, Saint John the Evangelist, and Saint James. Indeed, El peregrino can

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80     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between

Figure 2.11  Detail: vignette featuring a man consuming chicha from an urpu, The Path to Hell, Church of San Pedro Apóstol de Andahuaylillas, ca. 1620s. © Pilar Rau.

help resolve the disjuncture between the unadorned banquet scene depicted in Hieronymus Wierix’s print and its festive painted counterpart. The banquet in the mural features an ornate glass cup on the table, which could represent the sacred wine-­filled chalice of Corpus Christi representing the blood of Christ. The bread on the table completes the miracle of transubstantiation, by which the wine and bread become the blood and body of Christ. The ornamentation of the banquet scene can therefore be interpreted not solely as an assertion of artistic license but as a visual accommodation to the play’s theme. In light of Nicolás de Mendoza Carvajal’s reforms of 1620, the performance of Corpus Christi autos and their glorification in painted form would have marked Andahuaylillas as a commendable parish within the Cuzco diocese. Small vignettes of the Andean idolaters traversing the waters of hell also speak to the mural’s themes of performativity. Three barely visible figures are seated in a devil-­driven canoe beneath the mouth of hell (see fig. 1.6). The central figure wears an Inca-­style uncu (tunic) with a checkerboard pattern around the collar. Such regalia would have been worn in the colonial period by curacas (local indigenous leaders) on ceremonial occasions. Another nearby indigenous figure ingests liquid from an Inca-­style aryballos vessel called an urpu, probably filled with chicha, a type of corn beer used in Inca religious rituals (fig. 2.11). The visual trope of Indian drunkenness was common in colonial Latin Ameri-

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The Road to Hell Is Paved with Flowers     81 can visual culture. For instance, an eighteenth-­century biombo (folding screen) from New Spain features Nahuas consuming pulque, identified by the presence of a nearby agave plant and special instruments used in the extraction and consumption of this alcoholic beverage.93 Closer to the Andahuaylillas context, a seventeenth-­century religious mural painting at the church of Sutatausa in Colombia shows an indigenous man drinking out of a totuma, the typical vessel used for chicha.94 The conflation of alcoholic consumption with idolatry appeared widely in the ecclesiastical literature as a practice in desperate need of eradication.95 Although such characters would obviously not have been featured in this Spanish auto, these individuals could certainly have represented ancillary actors in the performance of El peregrino in an Andean context, serving as culturally specific stand-­ins for evil and idolatry. Corpus Christi processions and theatrical performances in the Andes frequently incorporated performers dressed in Inca garb, taking the place of the infidel “Other” usually occupied by the Moor in Iberian settings. Finally, the conflation of the portal to Heavenly Jerusalem with the entrance to Andahuaylillas itself gains greater significance when considered in a theatrical context. Performances of autos and comedias were conducted in the atria of churches throughout the colonial period; for instance, the specific staging of autos in the atrium of the church of San Francisco in Lima is extensively documented.96 The performance of El peregrino at Cocharcas in 1623 was likewise staged in the atrium of the newly consecrated sanctuary to allow for mass spectatorship among the hordes of pilgrims gathered at the site to honor the Virgin. The mural may thus represent not just Hieronymus Wierix’s original print but the staging and performance of El peregrino right outside of the doors of the church. While no known documentation exists of a performance of El peregrino at Andahuaylillas, autos were often performed by traveling theatrical troupes. If this is the case, a route for El peregrino’s performance can be traced that may have begun at Andahuaylillas and moved westward to Cuzco, Abancay, Andahuaylas, and finally Cocharcas. The mural’s connection to Juan Pérez Bocanegra’s manual, Wierix’s print, and Valdivielso’s play firmly anchors it within overlapping and mutually reinforcing spheres of evangelization in the colonial Andes, demonstrating the unexpected ways in which visual culture and performance become mutually entangled in the production of new colonial tactics for communicating the sacred. The entrance wall mural at Andahuaylillas serves as one of the earliest surviving examples of the role that colonial Andean murals played in the localization of Catholic doctrine. The Path to Heaven in Hell evinces a dynamic interplay of the mobile and the

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82     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between immobile, of liminality and permanence. The ephemeral nature of engravings and texts becomes reconstituted into a larger-­than-­life indelible image fused into sacred architectonic space. Unlike canvas paintings and other mobile artistic media, mural paintings carry an undeniable “weightiness,” as images that are indissolubly bound to the walls of churches. As such, the Andahuaylillas mural commanded sustained viewership among community members who engaged with it both visually and physically each time they exited the church. The Camino del cielo e infierno signified far more than a purely formal reading would suggest. Spanish and Andean notions of pilgrimage and divinity crossed, converged, and clashed, loading the entrance wall mural with a plurality of meanings. From their conflation with the capac ñan and Inca tambos to their performative dimension as a backdrop to the spiritual peregrinations of a young pilgrim, the roads to heaven and hell were transformed into palpable pathways whose meanings extended beyond the physical parameters of the image. As an image that crystallizes fluid concepts of movement and passage, the Andahuaylillas mural serves as an important vehicle for envisioning the body’s subsequent metaphysical movements in the afterlife. This case study also indicates the role of mural painting in the articulation of history itself, serving not simply as a passive imitation of a European print but as a sophisticated visual document poised to communicate ideas about liminality, death, and the ongoing tensions between Catholic and Andean belief systems during the tumultuous historical moment of its inception.

C h ap t e r 3

Clothing the Architectonic Body Textile Murals of the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries

The year 1650 serves as a crucial date for colonial Cuzco, dividing the city’s history along the fault lines of the most devastating earthquake to hit the region during the colonial period. The tremendous amount of destruction wrought by this seismic disaster necessitated an organized and systematic building campaign. Bishop Manuel de Mollinedo y Angulo offered a silver lining to the dark cloud that hovered over post-­1650 Cuzco. Appointed in 1673, Mollinedo worked tirelessly to help restore and rebuild churches, convents, and monasteries throughout the Cuzco diocese until his death in 1699. His role as one of Cuzco’s greatest and most prolific artistic patrons cannot be overstated.1 Harold Wethey notes that at the time of his death, Mollinedo had donated “fourteen churches of brick, thirty-­six of adobe, fourteen pulpits, eight-­two custodias, and twenty frontals of silver.”2 Mollinedo also seized upon the opportunity to infuse the religious art of Cuzco with his own aesthetic preferences inspired by artistic traditions of his native Spain, while simultaneously eradicating what he deemed as inappropriate “Andeanisms” that had taken hold in the development of an increasingly syncretic religious visual culture. His reforms were especially welcome amid growing suspicions that the earthquake occurred because of the unorthodox religiosity of Cuzco’s indigenous inhabitants.3 While the era of extirpation of idolatries campaigns during the early and mid-­seventeenth century had come to a close by the time Mollinedo entered the scene, ecclesiastical authorities remained preoccupied by the persistence of Andean religious beliefs nearly a century and a half after the conquest of the Inca Empire in 1532. Indigenous notions of sacredness and the divine culled from both pre-­Hispanic antecedents and

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84     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between contemporary local customs became so thoroughly entrenched in Catholic devotional practice that priests had to devise increasingly detailed agendas for imposing doctrinal orthodoxy on an overwhelmingly heterogeneous cultural and religious landscape. Among the most prolific artistic practices to emerge under Mollinedo’s reforms were “textile murals,” which graced the walls of dozens of churches across the diocese. Textile murals are wall paintings that simulate the appearance of cloth hangings of different colors and materials, including lace, silk, and velvet. Mollinedo’s correspondence with parish priests and other ecclesiastical officials reveals a keen interest in deploying mural painting to imitate rich cloths and tapestries during his renovation campaigns of the 1680s, particularly in rural parishes. In Bishop Manuel de Mollinedo’s 1687 mandate for the church of Laca in the town of Aiapata, he states that “all of the church, with its chapels and baptistery, is to be painted with cenefas [friezes or borders] and wall hangings [colgaduras].”4 This type of mandate for textile murals appears throughout the archival record.5 The murals would presumably offer the appearance of textiles but with one degree of separation from their original referent. They provided low-­cost alternatives to actual wall hangings and tapestries. And perhaps most significantly their nonfigural design would circumvent idolatrous worship of graven images, instead signifying divinity through visual abstraction. Textile murals provided a template through which artists and local congregations could envision the corporeality of sacred architecture, whose painted walls offered an aniconic analogue to the vestments painted on the bodies of sculpted saints or worn on the bodies of priests and other members of the clergy. This practice speaks to the tangible ways in which architecture and the human body became conflated in order to heighten the intimacy of sacred spaces. As Gabriela Siracusano has demonstrated, viewing Christian art in a European context required a “mechanics of substitution” whereby precious materials provide earthly approximations of an unseeable divinity. This contrasts fundamentally with Andean aesthetics of essence in which the material itself captures the divine in the very act of creation.6 These tensions between representation, materiality, and embodiment reside at the heart of both the production and viewership of textile murals. They also appealed to local notions of taste and beauty (as discussed below), revealing a growing consciousness around aesthetic issues. Textile murals ultimately show us how new modes of seeing are produced both because of and in spite of a colonial policy designed precisely for the purposes of eliminating indigenous forms of worship, crudely dubbed “idolatry” by religious officials. In other words, the attempt to eliminate Andean subjectivities became

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Clothing the Architectonic Body     85 the very grounds from which they became reenunciated, using the tools of tempera and textiles provided by Mollinedo and his associates. The practice of invoking textiles through architectural ornament can be found throughout the European and Islamic worlds.7 The geometric designs that appear on the stuccoed walls of the Alhambra, for instance, demonstrate the confluence of textiles, ornament, and architecture. Patterned Italian frescoes consisting of stripes, shields, floral motifs, and lozenges decorated the interiors of sixteenth-­century residences.8 But the most immediate references to which Mollinedo would have had access were the churches of Burgos and Madrid, where he spent the first half of his life before embarking on an ecclesiastical career in the Peruvian viceroyalty.9 The Toledo Cathedral, for instance, features textile murals within chapels dedicated to various saints, serving a primarily decorative function as a sumptuous backdrop of simulated burgundy, blue, and gold damasks. In addition to the genre’s rich tradition in Europe, there was a long-­standing practice of adorning structures with textiles and their painted iterations in the pre-­Columbian Andes. Huacas were often “dressed” with cumbi (fine cloth woven from alpaca and vicuña fibers), while Inca funerary towers (chullpas) boast painted designs that resemble tocapu found in Andean tunics. Those that were not painted often featured actual textiles; Martín de Murúa and Francisco López de Gomara describe Inca burial sites that were draped with tunics.10 Chullpas signified the deceased body contained within them through the draping or material simulation of its most intimate adornments. Thomas Abercrombie sees them as architectonic personifications of the deceased that encoded social memory, enabling mourners to recall “their common links to a shared past and destiny.”11 The notion of “clothing” a building or sacred shrine thus possessed both European and Andean antecedents whose resonances intervened in the viewing experience of colonial images. This chapter traces the intersecting meanings of textile murals in both Spanish and Andean cultural frameworks, demonstrating the capacity of colonial visual culture to articulate a wealth of attitudes toward the sacred that simultaneously overlap, contradict, and redefine one another.

Textiles, Huacas, and Architecture: Inca Antecedents Textiles carried great cultural and religious currency in the Andes throughout the pre-­Hispanic period. The oft-­cited “textile primacy” that guided Andean aesthetic practice involved not only the proliferation of woven cloths but their carved and painted manifestations across an array of media.12 Tiwanaku stones

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Figure 3.1  Inca polygonal stonemasonry, Cuzco, Peru. Photo by author.

carved with chakana (stepped cross) motifs echoed the same designs found on tunics, while textile designs decorate the exteriors of Nazca and Wari ceramic vessels.13 Drawing from centuries of cross-­pollination between textiles and their stone, adobe, and ceramic cousins, the Incas devised a remarkably sophisticated visual system that drew its power from the proliferation of formulaic motifs across infinite surfaces.14 Fine cumbi cloths made their way into nearly every facet of Inca imperial life, serving as clothing, diplomatic gifts, and offerings to the sun.15 For the purposes of this discussion, however, I specifically highlight the interpenetration of textiles and architecture during the Inca period. We could argue, for instance, that the “puffed” appearance of Inca polygonal stonemasonry lends itself to an association with billowing fabrics exhaling from their labyrinthine constellation of seams (fig. 3.1).16 Rebecca Stone-­Miller and Gordon McEwan draw similar connections in their analysis of the structural principles that underlie weaving and architecture: Both [architecture and tunics] structure space (whether in three dimensions or two, whether in relation to the movement of the person or the eye alone); both enclose and shelter (in the practical and the religious senses);

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Clothing the Architectonic Body     87

Figure 3.2  “The eighth quya, Mama Yunto Cayan,” from Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala, El primer nueva corónica i buen gobierno (1615), 134 [134]. © Det Kongelige Bibliotek, Copenhagen, Denmark.

both ultimately create distinctions (between inner and outer, included and excluded). Each has a mundane aspect, of housing and clothing respectively, yet both figure prominently in ritual acts and often in tandem: in ceremonies, ritually costumed elite personages tend to move through specialized architectural spaces. Together the clothing and the context work to form a nested series of representations of the individual in a rarefied environment.17 Although the authors are referencing the Wari site of Pikillacta here, this statement on tunics and architecture has great applicability to the Inca context. Their triple ability to protect, to control, and to demarcate human identities and movement offers possibilities for understanding their metaphorical entanglement. Indeed, Inca clothing was often represented as retaining its structural integrity irrespective of the contours of the body it encased. In the illustrations of Guaman Poma, for instance, the king’s uncu takes on a perfectly rectangular shape. Likewise, elite women are depicted wearing perfectly conical anacus, even though in reality the garment would have been wrapped around the body (fig. 3.2).

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88     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between Spaniards and commoners, by contrast, are typically depicted in his illustra‑ tions with clothing that more closely follows the contours of the body. This mode of representing Inca royal garments as a type of architecture that protected and “housed” the hidden elite body may relate to broader beliefs about the enduring relationship between cloth and stone (and, by extension, buildings and huacas). As noted in chapter 1, the pristine stone masonry of the Inca buildings that survive today does not necessarily reflect how they originally appeared to contemporary audiences. In addition to painting stone walls and overlaying them with cloth, bodily effluvia also became transferred onto the walls of temples as a type of sacrificial offering. In his 1552 conquest narrative, Juan de Betanzos describes the dedication of the Coricancha, in which ritual specialists confer corporeality on the very walls of the temple: With the blood which had been taken from the lambs and sheep [llamas], he ordered certain lines drawn on the walls of this temple. All of this was done by Inca Yupanque and his three friends along with others. All of this signified a way of blessing and consecrating the temple. . . . With the same blood, Inca Yupanque also drew certain lines on the face of this man who was designated as caretaker of this temple, and he did the same to those three lords his friends and to the mamaconas, nuns in the service of the Sun.18 The stone walls of the temple serve as intercessors in the transmission of sacrificial blood to Inti, the sun god. Their metaphorical relationship with human skin is underscored by the use of the same blood to paint the faces of ritual specialists entrusted with the maintenance of the temple. Finally, ritual practices of “clothing” stone huacas with offerings of textiles had tremendous historical depth that originated in the pre-­Columbian era and continued to be practiced throughout the colonial period. Worshipers often wrapped sacred shrines and objects with fine cloth as a means of protecting and adorning them.19 As Elena Phipps notes, “The garments that clothed these sacred, inanimate objects of worship also served to humanize them. Huaca garments would have reproduced the striping and patterning common to a particular region, making the sacred object a miniature representation of the worshipers themselves, albeit clad in the most precious of materials reserved exclusively for such uses.”20 A Jesuit extirpation of idolatry campaign conducted in the 1660s in the Cajatambo region of Peru encountered a pitcher-­shaped object dressed with

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Figure 3.3  Stone cross covered with textiles, Chapel of Nuestra Señora de la Candelaria de Canincunca. Photo by author.

high- ­quality cumbi and garment pins. Some huacas and conopas were carved to resemble human bodies and faces, while others simply consisted of unmodulated stones wrapped in cloth. This was the case with a certain Diego Guaman Poma, whose conopa, according to the extirpators, was named Mayguanco, wrapped in white and black wool, and tied with a white string.21 Just as the chullpas personify the deceased buried inside through the conflation of their architectural structure with a clothed human body, huacas dressed in cloth also encode corporeality. The physical contact made between the huaca and textile resulted in the transference of essences: the cloth would retain metaphysical traces of the divinity embodied in the huaca, even if the actual shrine was destroyed, and could subsequently be transferred to a new huaca. Seventeenth-­century extirpators of idolatry such as Cristóbal de Albornoz reached the frustrating conclusion that Andean ritual items nearly defied destruction due to the seeming indivisibility of sacred residues.22 For every huaca destroyed, meaning was found in its fragments; for every object burned, its ashes would be collected. The distinction between representation, presentation, and embodiment held little weight in the seventeenth-­century Andes, much to the dismay of the extirpators.23 Indeed, many of these practices continue to resonate into the present day. Offerings of textiles, coca, alcohol, and food to Pachamama and to designated sacred sites remain an important aspect of highland ritual life to ensure agricultural and personal success.24 Even within specifically Catholic arenas it is not uncommon to find atrial crosses draped with traditional handwoven textiles, such as an example at the chapel of Nuestra Señora de la Candelaria de Canincunca (fig. 3.3).

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90     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between Perhaps one of the most prominent examples of the interpenetration of textiles and architecture can be found in the Jesuit churches of Arequipa and Bolivia, with elaborately carved stone façades that emulate both silverwork and textile designs.25 Clothed stone crosses and churches compete with huacas as the new icons of a deified landscape. Nevertheless, the enduring relationship between sacred monument and cloth remains intact, transmitting a wealth of meanings: Spanish and indigenous; local and imported; but most of all unequivocally Andean. With these lingering resonances in mind, let us consider the broad transformations that occurred in the seventeenth century with respect to the textile trade. What were the economic and social conditions under which European cloths reached the Pacific shores of Lima, made their way into Cuzco, and found themselves imitated on the walls of parish churches throughout the diocese?

The Traffic of Textiles in the Seventeenth-­Century Iberian World The simple question of how painted iterations of Spanish and Italian liturgical textiles appeared on the walls of Cuzqueñan parish churches can take us through circuitous pathways of commerce, trade, and transmission across oceans and disparate landscapes. To begin, the use of textile hangings on the walls of European churches and domestic interiors remained commonplace throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Wall hangings could be used to demarcate domestic spaces, to prevent drafts, or to serve as backdrops for processions when hung from the balconies of buildings.26 In seventeenth-­century Spain in particular, domestic interiors became increasingly luxurious, filled with every variety of cloth, from laces and velvets to rich brocades. In 1611, taking note of the supposed uncontrolled extravagance of middle and upper-­class Spaniards, King Philip III issued an edict specifically prohibiting the use of certain fabrics and jewels in house decorations (gold, silver, and brocaded hangings). The only appropriate fabrics, he stipulated, were velvet, damask, satin, and silk. He even went so far as to state that gold and silver were permitted only when used to fill in holes of ripped fabrics.27 These sumptuary laws were intended to curb Spaniards’ excessive spending and guide them toward more practical uses of their salaries.28 Edicts such as this one were to be promulgated across the entirety of the Spanish Habsburg dominion (Latin America included), although royal prescription did not always translate into actual practice. Furthermore, a revision to the original premática in 1622 stipulated that King Philip IV granted residents an additional eight years to dispose of all the luxurious hangings and other sumptuous cloths that had been banned in light of the difficulties of selling them off.29

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Clothing the Architectonic Body     91 In the decades before these measures were undertaken to curb the widespread consumption of luxury fabrics on the Iberian Peninsula, the Spanish crown had begun to deincentivize the production of high-­quality cloth in the obrajes (textile mills) of New Spain and Peru.30 Philip II even went so far as to prohibit local production of cloth in the Viceroyalty of Peru to boost the sale of Spanish textiles. This short-­lived plan was overturned in 1595, when he issued a real cédula stating that indigenous weavers could only work in obrajes if they worked in isolation, without the assistance of Spanish or Afro-­Peruvian weavers.31 These measures, together with Spain and Italy’s dominance over the sixteenth-­century silk industry, translated into the large-­scale exportation of Iberian and Mediterranean silks to the viceroyalties.32 Consulados (merchant guilds) mediated the transatlantic textile trade by purchasing European textiles in bulk and bringing them to warehouses in major colonial centers, from which they would be distributed to local retailers.33 Nevertheless, the Peruvian obrajes and chorrillos retained a strong presence in local and regional trade of domestic cloth for everyday consumption during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.34 The year 1674, shortly after Mollinedo’s arrival in Peru, marked another important milestone in the curtailment of the sale and use of luxury goods in Spain with the publication of the Pragmatica . . . sobre la reformacion en el Excesso de Traxes, Lacayos, y coches.35 This decree called for the prohibition of luxurious clothing and textiles within the home as well as in the interiors of horse-­drawn carriages. Of particular interest for the Latin American context is the thirteenth decree, which stipulates that merchants had a grace period of six months to sell or dispose of their prohibited goods. Merchants were required to make records of all of their prohibited fabrics so that they could be removed from Spain and to take the necessary bureaucratic steps to ensure that they were sent off in fleets or galleons, should he choose to transport them to the Indies.36 At around the same time that the Spanish crown sought to limit the consumption of fine cloth by its citizens, the major cities of the American viceroyalties became the recipients of enormous quantities of textiles. Martín de Murúa, writing in the early seventeenth century, describes the cosmopolitan selection of textiles in Lima that could be found right off of the plaza de Mercaderes at the center of the city: And from the corner of the main square called the [street of the] Merchants are two blocks, the richest streets in all of the Indies, for in them are the shops of merchants, which sell the most beautiful and esteemed things produced in England, Flanders, France, Germany, Italy and Spain . . . be-

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92     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between cause all are sent to and end up in this city, from whence they are distributed throughout the Kingdom, so that when a man would want fabrics, brocades, velvets, fine cloth, rajas [thick cloths], damasks, satins, silks, handrails, fringes, everything can be found there at will, as if he were in the very rich and highly frequented fairs of Antwerp, London, Leon (in France), Medina del Campo, Seville, and Lisbon. . . . Here you will find goods from all of the nations of Europe and the Indies, from Mexico and China.37 From Lima such cloths would be transported along overland routes to Cuzco, Potosí, Arequipa, and other major centers of the southern Andes. Within this context of Spanish austerity campaigns, however successful they might have been, the New World market became inundated with sumptuous textiles that even‑ tually found their way onto the bodies of colonial subjects, into civic space, and into the interiors of cathedrals, churches, sanctuaries, and chapels. The burgeon‑ ing global textile trade brought the Peruvian viceroyalty into a robust commercial relationship with cities throughout Europe and Asia. Cities like Lima and Cuzco could thus participate in imagined relationships with cosmopolitan centers located an ocean away through strategic consumption of commercial goods. The Catholic Church in particular became a key player in the traffic of luxury textiles, requiring copious amounts of cloth for liturgical vestments, altar cloths, and hangings.38 The splendor of colonial Andean churches reached its fullest realization in the staging of religious processions, during which their lush interiors spilled onto the urban cityscape. Extant paintings and descriptions of Cuzco’s processions show the dynamic relationships forged between cloth and the built environment. This continuity in the material expression of Inca and colonial pageantry can, in turn, provide a framework for understanding the special resonance that textile murals would have held for local audiences.

Draped, Wrapped, and Clothed: Textiles in Colonial Cuzco’s Urban Landscape Textiles featured prominently in Cuzco’s public festivities. Paintings depicting important moments in Cuzco’s active civic life help us to reconstruct some of the multisensory spectacles that graced the city’s walls, streets, and plazas. Perhaps the best-­known paintings depicting Cuzco’s exuberant urban landscape are the Corpus Christi series (ca. 1675–1680), consisting of sixteen canvases depicting the procession of various saints by their respective cofradías (confraternities) or local parishes.39 The richly decorated litters, stands, and ephemeral arches de-

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Figure 3.4 Anonymous, The Confraternities of Saint Rose and La Linda, oil on canvas, 82.2 × 136.2 in. Corpus Christi series, ca. 1680s. Arzobispado del Cusco. Photograph by Raúl Montero.

picted in the series were outfitted with mirrors, silver candlesticks, feathers, flowers, and ribbons, along with all varieties of cloth: flags, curtains, drapes, and the luxurious clothing that adorned the processional statues. In the canvas entitled Confraternities of Saint Rose and La Linda, textiles in their many varieties occupy nearly every inch of the canvas, from the cloaks, tunics, and hats worn by the participants and onlookers to the fringed rug on which the procession-­ bearers stand (fig. 3.4). Red bows topped with white feathers adorn Saint Rose’s platform, which is framed by red and gold, green, cream, and blue cloths billowing off windows and balconies. Interestingly, a red cloth hangs from the bottom of La Linda’s silver platform, while Saint Rose’s remains bare. We could perhaps read this as a subtle plug for the superiority of La Linda—and by extension Cuzco—over the Lima-­centered Saint Rose through her lavish adornment with a material that carried unparalleled social and cultural capital in the highland region.40 In the Carriage of Saint Christopher canvas, the background also reveals luxurious fabrics affixed to the façades of buildings and hanging out of upper story windows (fig. 3.5). Elena Phipps refers to these as paños de lipi (high-­quality fabrics made of delicate materials such as silk or vicuña fiber), from the Quechua term llipiyak. Diego González Holguín defines this in his 1608 dictionary as “a

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Figure 3.5  Anonymous, The Carriage of St. Christopher, oil on canvas, 49.6 × 86.6 in. Corpus Christi series, ca. 1680s. Arzobispado del Cusco. Photograph by Raúl Montero.

new thing, or that which has luster . . . things of silk or that have lusters.”41 In an earlier entry he includes the Quechua phrase “llipipi pinmi cay yglesia ccorihuan collque huan lipipipicppachaman,” which translates to “the church is very gallantly adorned [and] very splendid.”42 This also suggests the frequent presence of luminous, brightly colored cloth in religious spaces. While the fabrics are now being employed in new colonial contexts, the term’s Quechua root implies a permeable discursive space within which these hybridized cloths could be situated. Indeed, their very luster and luxuriousness take center stage in many of the Corpus Christi paintings. The artist of the Carriage of Saint Christopher reserves indications of movement, paradoxically, not by the processing confraternities or the processional carriage situated at front and center of the composition. Instead movement manifests itself in the wind that fills Saint Christopher’s red cloak with billowing voluminosity and the small children who open up the curtains to sneak a peek at the festivities. Individuals crowd around open windows along the upper level of the building, from which spill diaphanous cloths of pink, yellow, and blue, swaying in tandem with the red and gold curtain. The planar uniformity of the adobe buildings thus becomes interrupted by amorphous hangings of all colors and textures, enveloping the structures while also providing a theatrical backdrop for the processions taking place on the adjacent street. As Carolyn Dean warns, we cannot take these images at face value as examples of unmediated visual reportage; indeed her research on the processional carts that appear in a number of the compositions reveals that their enticing verism ultimately signified nothing more than pure artifice. These carts were painstakingly copied from a set of engravings depicting Corpus Christi celebrations in Spain.43 While the design and positioning of the cloths may not fully correspond with lived reality, they certainly made reference to a common practice of drap-

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Figure 3.6  Schelte à Bolswert, Baptism of Saint Augustine, engraving, 1624. From Jeanne Courcelle and Pierre Courcelle, Icono­ graphie de Saint Augustin, vol. 3: Les cycles du XVIe et du XVIIe siècle. Paris: Études Agustiniennes, 1972.

ing cloths over architectural façades with precedents in both the pre-­Columbian Andes and early modern Europe. To take yet another visual example, Melchor Pérez de Holguín’s famous 1716 painting Entrance of Viceroy Archbishop Morcillo into Potosí (currently housed at the Museo de América) features indigenous women hanging llicllas (shoulder mantles) off the balconies of buildings.44 These cloths were not just limited to exterior, public spaces. Numerous paintings depict church interiors and domestic devotional scenes set against panels of multicolored textiles.45 For instance, the eighteenth-­century Saint Anthony of Padua Preaching before Pope Gregory IX sets this pivotal scene from the life of Saint Anthony within a typical Cuzqueño-­style interior (see plate 8). Panels of red and green brocade curtains adorned with S-­shaped vines and repeating floral designs provide a pop of color to the subdued, monochromatic robes worn by the Franciscan friars. Paintings like these are often informed by European prints, which typically lack the decorative backdrops of lush fabrics. For instance, a 1745 painting of the Baptism of Saint Augustine housed in the Augustinian convent in Lima has compositional features that are strikingly similar to those of Saint Anthony of Padua. It also has an interior of brocades with floral designs hanging down the walls of the baptistery, separated by thin vertical strips of lace. The inclusion of floral panels in the background of these paintings signified a deliberate act of artistic license on the part of the painting workshop. This is further evidenced by the source print for Baptism of Saint Augustine by Schelte à Bolswert, which features a bare architectural backdrop devoid of hangings or ornamentation (fig. 3.6). These canvas paintings all point to the special care

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96     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between taken by Andean artists to depict cloth as an active agent in the materialization of the divine. With these images in mind, we can now consider the creative means by which artists simulated these effects in mural form on the interiors of rural churches spread across the Cuzco diocese.

Textile Murals of the Colonial Andes The earliest textile murals appear in late-­seventeenth-­century churches that were undoubtedly fueled by Mollinedo’s mandates to renovate religious structures throughout the diocese. For the purposes of this chapter, I focus on textile murals in the chapel of Canincunca (late seventeenth century) and the churches of Checacupe (seventeenth century), Oropesa (late seventeenth century), Chinchero (eighteenth century), and Ocongate (mid- to late eighteenth century) to gain a better understanding of their visual impact within sacred spaces as well as their transformations over time. As textile designs took on brighter color palettes and larger, more baroque floral elements, so too did their associated murals, thus enabling us to track Andean and European textile histories through their painted manifestations. Despite the proliferation of locally produced Andean textiles within the Viceroyalty of Peru throughout the colonial period, textile murals of the seventeenth century almost always imitate designs and patterning found exclusively within the domain of European and specifically Spanish textiles. The textile designs painted on the walls of Andean churches may at first glance appear to be a straightforward imposition of an Iberian aesthetic and religious convention onto a colonial Andean context. The lack of exclusively indigenous or local design elements certainly supports such a contention. As we will see, there are a number of compelling visual parallels between the textile murals under consideration and Spanish hangings, dalmatics, and chasubles. The cultural and artistic hybridity of Andean textile murals lies not in their surface appearance but in their more diffuse, ephemeral interconnections to history, materiality, and corporeality. This forces us to contend with what Carolyn Dean and Dana Leibsohn describe as the “deceit of visibility” that hinders a multifaceted approach to artistic production produced within a context of cross-­cultural mixture and exchange.46 The majority of the cloths visually referenced in these textile murals no longer survive. Nevertheless, their respective church inventories contain innumerable descriptions of their holdings of liturgical textiles. The descriptions often possess a level of detail that far surpasses that accorded to sculptures and canvas

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Clothing the Architectonic Body     97 paintings—the typical foci of art historical inquiry. In church inventories, to the frustration of many an art historian, more ink is spilled on the gilded frames that circumscribe canvas paintings than on their actual pictorial content.47 Textiles, by contrast, are inventoried by color and further distinguished by material, decoration, use, age, and other identifying characteristics. To take one illustrative example, consider the care given to this description of a white chasuble housed at the church of Urcos: “And another said [chasuble] of old brocade of gold flowers and green silk on a field of damask lined in taffeta [with] a peach flower adorned with a false overlay of silver with stole, maniple, and chalice cover with golden fringe and its burse without fringe.”48 This level of detail devoted to each description was the norm rather than the exception, thus enabling us to approximate the sumptuousness of the fabrics contained within even the most humble parish churches and chapels. While the majority of the church inventories at the Archivo Arzobispal de Cuzco date to the eighteenth century or later, we can still draw broad, albeit more diffuse relationships between their textile holdings and the murals that predated them by a century. We must also take into consideration that liturgical cloths were treated with utmost care and preserved for as long as their material lifespan would permit. In the same 1788 inventory from Urcos, the cura notes that one of the chasubles belonged to none other than King Charles V, the Holy Roman Emperor who reigned over the Spanish empire from 1516 to 1556: “One chasuble of old wool from Seville with a crimson velvet strip embroidered with images, adorned with golden fringe, with its stole, maniple, burse, and damask chalice cover without strips is that of S. Carlos V.”49 Whether the item actually belonged to King Charles V is beside the point. While it would be unwise to assume that the textiles described in the inventories directly correlate with the textile murals from an earlier period, the practice of maintaining older textiles through repairs and proper care was common enough to suggest that the textile holdings of a given church could have spanned the entirety of the colonial period. Textile murals thus constitute a colonial visual archive of sorts, lending permanence to an ephemeral and largely vanished corpus of material culture. Textual archives also intervene in the documentation of textile murals in unprecedented ways. As discussed in chapter 1, colonial murals largely suffer from an archival silence; as images embedded in architecture, they lack a specified monetary value and thus receive scant mention in church inventories. In the case of textile murals, however, we witness a strong correspondence between the written and visual record. As I scoured parish inventories for even the faintest nuggets of information on mural paintings, I noticed that great care was spent

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98     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between in detailing every shred of fabric located within the church’s walls, down to the miniature mantas used to dress statues of the Virgin Mary. The extensive enumeration of cloth, clothing, and tapestries initially appeared to be a hindrance to the larger objective to finding murals in a proverbial archival haystack. I soon realized, however, the complicated linkages between textile murals and the detailed descriptions of cloth recorded in their respective inventories. These correspondences suggest that artists looked to liturgical cloths located in the very church as inspiration for the designs that would adorn its walls. They also offer new possibilities for understanding the complexities of artistic practice in the colonial Andes, particularly the continued importance of the fiber arts in mural paintings produced long after the Spanish conquest.50

Mollinedo’s Murals: Textile Paintings of the Late Seventeenth Century The churches of the Quispicanchi and Canas y Canchis provinces boast some of the finest examples of textile murals in the Cuzco region—all of which were painted during or after Mollinedo’s tenure except for Checacupe. While some scholars have argued that Mollinedo viewed the colgadura-­style murals with distaste and ordered their defacement, I contend that he actually promoted the practice as an inexpensive, efficient means of decorating churches that afforded them appropriate decency that would inspire religious devotion among indigenous Andeans.51 The church of Quiquijana, for instance, was celebrated as one of the most beautiful in the viceroyalty. In his relación of 1689, Don Diego Salazar y Guzman, cura of the doctrina of Quiquijana, credits Mollinedo for the exquisite adornments outfitting the church, which was constructed in 1673 under his aegis.52 The sacristy of the church contains an array of textile murals contemporaneous with Mollinedo’s mandates, including painted frames overlaid with delicate designs imitating the appearance of white lace as well as a trompe l’oeil carpet extending up toward the ceiling.53 The Churches of Checacupe and Oropesa The church of La Virgen Inmaculada de Checacupe is located in the neighboring province of Canchis about sixty miles southeast of Cuzco. The church dates to the late sixteenth century with murals and canvas paintings from the early to mid-­seventeenth century. The sotacoro (area beneath the choir loft) contains an exuberant mural program of trompe l’oeil framed paintings depicting Saint Anthony the Abbot and Saint Paul the Hermit to the left and right of the entrance

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Clothing the Architectonic Body     99

Figure 3.7  Detail: textile murals, Church of La Virgen Inmaculada de Checacupe. © Pilar Rau.

portal, respectively (see plate 9). The murals extend along the nave walls, with an elaborate triumphal arch framing the entrance to the baptistery as in its counterpart at the church of Andahuaylillas (fig. 3.7).54 To the left of the baptistery entrance is another trompe l’oeil framed painting of the Martyrdom of Saint Lawrence and on the adjacent wall a large, multifigural depiction of Saint James at the Battle of Clavijo.55 Alternating panels of painted damasks serve as a decorative backdrop for the imitation canvases and architectural elements painted along the sotacoro.56 The entire interior of the church is painted with this sumptuous faux drapery whose deep reds and gold leaf endow it with a sense of warmth, enveloping the spectator in an intimate space whose luxuriousness evoked by the painted cloths belies the reality of cold, hard adobe walls. The designs consist of undulating vines encircling stylized pomegranates, palmettes, and flowers set within ogival frame patterns. While little has been written about the church, scholars since the 1940s have commented on its magnificent decorations, making Checacupe a true contender for the “Sistine Chapel of the Andes,” along with the church of Andahuaylillas.57 The dark color scheme of the Checacupe textile murals and tight, controlled patterning place the paintings and the textiles that they reference firmly within a sixteenth-­century stylistic tradition. A close match can be found in a sixteenth-­ century Spanish silk fragment from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which features stylized stemmed pomegranates framed by leafy palmettes that curl up and inward toward the fruit (fig. 3.8). The Checacupe muralists, undoubtedly inspired by the patterns found in textiles like this one, copied the motif with

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Figure 3.8  Sixteenth-­century Spanish silk and linen fragment, L. 10 1/4 × W. 10 1/4 in. (26.0 × 26.0 cm), Metropolitan Museum of Art, Accession #36.90.1376, Gift of The United Piece Dye Works, 1936.

painstaking fidelity, even including the same curled opening at the tip of each pomegranate found in the textile example.58 The Checacupe textiles are among the earliest surviving examples of their kind and may have served as an ideal model for the neighboring parishes. In a letter from 1679, Mollinedo includes a description of the various repairs made to churches in the province of Canas y Canchis (among others). In reference to the nearby church of Yanaoca, Mollinedo states that “more than 26,000 pesos have been spent to adorn the church, painted in the form of damasks and adorned with rich decorations. It is very beautiful.”59 Although the church of Checaupe does not receive more than a passing reference in Mollinedo’s letters, his preference for textile murals is corroborated by their appearance in a number of churches that were constructed and repaired under his command. Likewise, the church of San Salvador de Oropesa underwent substantial intervention under Mollinedo. The murals located in the sotacoro date to 1685 and consist of a decorative scheme similar to that of Checacupe, with a backdrop of painted rose-­colored hangings superimposed with mural paintings of the Virgin Mary and Saint Rose of Lima circumscribed by elaborate multicolored frames (see plate 10).60 The deep burgundies and golds of Checacupe were replaced by a lighter rose hue at Oropesa, and the clearly identifiable pomegranate motif was replaced with a more generic stylized spade shape topped with three curved ten-

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Clothing the Architectonic Body     101

Figure 3.9  Decorative murals along the arches of the Church of San Salvador de Oropesa, ca. 1685. Photo by author.

drils that emerge from a single line. Nevertheless, the basic design scheme remains the same. As at Checacupe, the Oropesa textile murals consist of vertical panels with a golden border along the top register. Delicate white lace designs on a blue background painted along the arches culminate in “tiles” adorned with rosettes on the underside of the archways and on the ceiling (fig. 3.9). The profusion of ornament along nearly every surface of the church cannot simply be read as mere decoration, but as a conscious effort to simulate a variety of materials of tremendous social, cultural, monetary, and religious value, thereby endowing the church’s interior with an aura of sacredness through a number of different pictorial dialects.

Chapel of Canincunca The chapel of Nuestra Señora de la Candelaria de Canincunca is located en route to Urcos, the parish center for the chapel and the church of Huaro (see chapter 5). Restorations to the chapel were begun in 1974 and took place again in 1979 under the auspices of the Programa de Naciones Unidas Para el Desarrollo and UNESCO (United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization).61 New restorations to improve the structural integrity of the chapel as well as its deteriorating murals, retablos, and canvas paintings were slated for 2015–2016.62 The chapel’s

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Figure 3.10 Textile murals, Chapel of Nuestra Señora de la Candelaria de Canincunca, late seventeenth century. © Pilar Rau.

titular Virgin forms the central panel of the altar, as described in a 1788 inventory: “the gilded retablo with two levels and a small tabernacle: [it has] five paintings in the place of niches surrounding the niche of the Virgin, which is painted on the wall: and on each side of the altar in the place of buttresses are three paintings with gilded frames. It is beautiful.”63 The image of the Virgin to whom the chapel is dedicated, in keeping with the inventory’s description, is painted directly on the wall and surrounded by a stunning gilded altarpiece (see plate 11). The priest has injected a rare dose of subjectivity into the inventory, which generally consists of no more than a dry, terse enumeration of the church’s holdings. The beauty of the retablo thus becomes integral to its material value. Although it is beyond the scope of this chapter, the gradual infusion of language related to beauty in artists’ contracts and other legal documents by the eighteenth century indicates a growing consciousness around local and regional concepts of aesthetics in the Andes. Despite the inventory’s late date (no known inventories survive for the chapel before 1788), stylistic evidence suggests that the murals and retablo were completed in the late seventeenth century.64 Pedro Santistevan y Cano, parish priest of the chapel at the time the inventory was written, also faithfully notes that “the chapel is painted in the form of

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Clothing the Architectonic Body     103 hangings.”65 Indeed, the entire nave is adorned with alternating panels of faux burgundy-­colored drapery with termination points along the lower and upper registers of the decorative program, which contain emblems surrounded by grotesque imagery (fig. 3.10).66 The textile patterns consist of alternating panels of urns with flowering bouquets and counterposed S-­shaped curves with frond-­like appendages. The urn motif is common in European textiles of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. At Canincunca, four leafy branches with pearl-­like buds emanate from clover-­shaped vases with a central blooming inflorescence (see plate 12). The design can be read right side up or upside down, as the same branches and flower emanate from the bottom of the vase as well. The interior of the urn contains a miniature pedestal upon which a Figure 3.11  vase of flowers flanked by two plants Panel from Toledo, Spain. Silk and hemp, L. 51 1/4 × W. 18 3/4 in. (130.2 × 47.6 cm), rests. The clever Russian-­doll nesting Metropolitan Museum of Art, Rogers Fund, 1934, of one flowering vase inside another Accession #34.29. www.metmuseum.org. imbues the pattern with a sense of self-­referentiality while also filling in the negative space within the vessel. The motif of a vertically repeating urn and flower design can be found in a wealth of contemporaneous European textiles such as a sixteenth-­ century silk and hemp panel from Toledo, Spain (fig. 3.11). At fifty-­one inches long, the panel could have served a purpose similar to the Canincunca murals of being draped along the nave or chancel of a church. When taken as a whole, the alternating panels of urn/flower and counterposed S-­shaped motifs create a rhythmic repetition that retains its fidelity throughout the entire interior of the chapel, from the entrance to the presbytery. The only areas that remain untouched by textile murals are the choir, altar, and ceiling.

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Figure 3.12 Detail: grotesque frieze, Chapel of Nuestra Señora de la Candelaria de Canincunca, late seventeenth century. © Pilar Rau.

In addition to their impressive cumulative impact as visitors feel that they are in an actual draped space, apparent care is taken to preserve the integrity of the patterning. At Checacupe, Oropesa, and Canincunca we witness a careful repetition of each design element without the use of stencils. The slight deviations in each brushstroke to produce the appendages on the S-­shapes at Canincunca, for instance, indicate that these were painted freehand. This acute attention to detail demonstrates the great pains undertaken to imitate the mechanical, nearly error-­proof nature of the imported European ecclesiastical textiles. The textile primacy of the pre-­Columbian era retains an important space in the colonial arena, testified by the sheer number of both portable paintings and murals that prominently feature textiles. The examples discussed here are only a small sample of a much larger body of visual practice. The Canincunca murals capitalize on viewers’ textile literacy. The grotesque friezes that border the bottom and top edges of the hangings demand slow, deliberate looking in order to comprehend the profusion of flora and fauna whose idiosyncratic nature requires close inspection.67 The frieze lining the lower portion of the nave wall consists of emblemata set within roundels and surrounded by ornate strapwork.

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Clothing the Architectonic Body     105 Blue flowers burst into bloom on each side of the emblem, from which emanate additional sprays of white flowers. Pelicans are precariously perched on curled leaves while vizcachas (Andean rodents closely related to the chinchilla) crouch atop thin gray flowers that emerge from the bottoms of the decorative border. The most captivating elements of the frieze are the anthropomorphized hermaphroditic winged sea horses flanking the left and right of the emblems (fig. 3.12). These bizarre creatures possess swinging breasts with prominent white nipples and darkened areolas, with the head of a white bearded male. This kind of monstrous grotesque figure, along with the decorative frieze within which it is ensconced, could have derived from European print culture. In particular, these decorations graced the borders of the frontispieces of books published throughout Europe and the Americas. Artists may also have gained exposure to these kinds of images from architectural treatises and pattern books, which enjoyed broad circulation in the Novohispanic and Peruvian viceroyalties.68 This image also seems to draw from a rich Andean tradition of representing mermaids in painting and architectural carvings. While mermaids and mermen carry a negative connotation of carnal sin in a European context, Teresa Gisbert has traced their more multivalent significance in the Andes as references to Lake Titicaca origin stories.69 An entire chapter could be dedicated solely to the intricacies of Canincunca’s decorative friezes. What is most relevant here, however, is their broader participation in the viewing process. While the painted textile hangings elicit a fragmentary, partial visual experience, the lower frieze requires sustained observation of each detail, nested within a chaotic, dense composition. Situated at eye level, the lower frieze facilitates close inspection and serves as the “gateway” through which the viewer visually enters the realm of textile hangings situated above. As Serge Gruzinski demonstrates through his analysis of grotesques in colonial Mexican mural painting, these forms often served as an “attractor” for indigenous artists across colonial Latin America because they offered avenues for creativity and experimentation without fear of censorship.70 The intersection of the two pictorial elements also produces an impasse of a number of complementary opposites: abstract versus representational; decorative versus figural; ordered versus chaotic; static versus dynamic. Their juxtaposition demonstrates creativity and agency on the part of the artists, seamlessly combining designs derived from textiles, on the one hand, and engravings, on the other. The cumulative impact is a unified composition that exhibits both a productive visual tension and a remarkable harmoniousness.

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106     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between Painted directly below the upper frieze are two registers of decorative fringe that serve as points of connection with the wall hangings. The top layer consists of golden arabesques, and the lower fringe imitates the appearance of white lace atop a blue ground cloth. Hence the friezes do not merely constitute separate pictorial elements but form part of the entire textile configuration. The entire interior of the chapel was thus conceived of as an enormous tapestry that wrapped around its walls. An almost identical decorative scheme can be found in the seventeenth-­century murals of the church of Cay-­Cay, whose meticulously painted panels also give the feeling of being enveloped by a tremendous architectonic tapestry (see plate 13). A Spanish painting depicting religious processions such as the Procesión de las Gradas de la Catedral (after 1662) features a strikingly similar tapestry, but one that covers the exterior rather than the interior of the Seville Cathedral. In this painting the impressively large tapestry consists of alternating panels of burgundy and gold, topped with a decorative border of gold rinceaux patterns on a red background. The grandeur of the spaces and events for which these kinds of tapestries were reserved becomes reconfigured within the confines of a small, humble chapel in the hinterlands of a colonial Andean city. The textile murals of Checacupe, Oropesa, and Canincunca all share a similar spirit of imbuing the spaces they inhabit with an aura of splendor that transforms humble materials into luxurious displays that cloak their churches with color, warmth, and optical reverie through their seemingly infinite patterns. These spaces contained a virtuosity that remained nearly unparalleled in colonial Andean artistic practice. Mural painting utterly transcended its material properties in order to convey the appearance of rich, textured cloth. Paradoxically, Mollinedo’s ambitions did not account for the potentially subversive implications of these virtuosic paintings. By clothing the interiors of churches with floor to ceiling paintings that simulate the appearance of draped cloth, Andean artists offer a new take on long-­standing practices of marking sacredness. In the Inca period these practices were typically enacted on the surfaces of huacas, chullpas, or the royal body itself. In the colonial era, however, this practice shifted into new spaces and thus took on altered meanings, perhaps serving as a means of personifying the church to heighten the association between the body of the church and the body of Christ. These practices became localized through the translation of imported cloth into painted designs executed with local pigments and applied to the surfaces of adobe walls made from the very same earth on which the churches stand. But we can also think of these textile murals as enveloping our own bodies, as clothed huacas turned inside out, thereby transforming the

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Clothing the Architectonic Body     107 viewer into an adorned, sacralized being. Perhaps both because of and despite Mollinedo’s legacy, these churches set a crucial precedent for eighteenth-­century churches that far postdated the scope of his influence.

Breaking the Pattern: Textile Murals of the Eighteenth Century Textile murals continued to be produced in churches of the Cuzco region long after Mollinedo’s death in 1699. Their appearance in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries suggests that the genre’s continued resonance with local indigenous communities had little to do with their original role as cost-­effective solutions to lingering fears of Andean “idolatry.” By the eighteenth century textile murals began to take on a life of their own as the genre par excellence for rural church decoration. Parish churches throughout the southern Andes boast remnants of exuberant painted wall hangings that often mark the final stage of mural decoration, painted over a palimpsest of colonial images whose earlier remnants peek out in unexpected places. Gone are the somber burgundy damasks lined with gold leaf that dominated the seventeenth-­century textile mural aesthetic. Instead these later murals boast vivid color palettes of bright red, green, blue, and pink. The constrained patterning of the earlier murals gives way to a much looser, dynamic patterning that eschewed consistency or fidelity to the original textile design. Small, stylized pomegranate motifs are supplanted by flowers in full bloom, whose undulating vines and leaves invade the viewer’s optical field with a simulated garden paradise. The textile murals of the late colonial period move away from the virtuosity of their predecessors. Instead they draw explicit attention to their paintedness and artificiality. The edges of the painted textiles now become emphasized; some terminate mid-­wall, while in other examples the muralists emphasize fringes and tassels along the upper portion of the hanging. The specific designs and color schemes found in the late colonial textile murals bear a strong resemblance to contemporaneous Spanish and French textiles produced for the export market. These murals thus visually encode a complex history of transcontinental trade and commerce, which underwent enormous transformation in the eighteenth century. Philip V granted the French access to New World trade due to their assistance in the War of the Spanish Succession in 1701–1714.71 As a result, an influx of French goods, including textiles, flooded the Peruvian market in the eighteenth century.72 Both the Spanish and local Andean textile industry suffered as a result of the robust French market. Under the Bourbon Reforms, local obrajes (particularly those in the Quispi-

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108     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between canchi and Canas y Canchis provinces where the churches under consideration are located) began to shut down because of poor management as well as competition from French imports.73 Labor in the obrajes of Andahuaylillas, Oropesa, and Huaro became increasingly untenable due to poor ventilation, contaminated water, and failure to pay wages in a timely manner. In one instance, indigenous weavers were even imprisoned in the Andahuaylillas obraje by the bishop of Cuzco for being unfamiliar with Catholic doctrine.74 Local residents were also required to purchase exorbitantly priced luxury textiles in lieu of the cheaper cloth available at local obrajes and chorrillos due to the reinstatement of the repartimiento de mercancías (also known as the reparto) in 1756, the forced sale of peninsular goods to indigenous peoples.75 One testimony from an inhabitant of Oropesa describes the “useless” textiles that Indians were forced to purchase, including metal buttons and Castilian cloth.76 Other accounts cite the brocades, velvets, and silk stockings sold to them not out of necessity but because of the inherently exploitative nature of the reparto.77 The widespread appearance of luxury textiles painted along the walls of churches may also have served as a persistent reminder of the oppressive economic realities that local residents were forced to endure. Inventories of textile vendors in Cuzco reveal the cosmopolitanism of local textile holdings. Neus Escandell Tur’s examination of twenty-­one inventories of Cuzco shops between 1655 and 1818 revealed textiles hailing from France, England, Guadalajara, Quito, Holland, Milan, China, Toledo, Córdoba, and Castile.78 These same regional designators reappear in the church inventories, indicating the clergy’s reliance on local merchants to provide them with liturgical vestments and other types of cloth for the church. An eighteenth-­century inventory from the church of Urcos, for instance, mentions a chasuble from Milan provided as alms by a certain Fermin Galarreta.79 A contemporaneous inventory from Oropesa references a hongreline (overcoat) made from wool from Naples with gold lace and buttons and a taffeta lining.80 These specific references to the foreign city of manufacture suggest a certain prestige accorded to objects of distant origins. The special value that European and Asian luxury goods held in colonial Latin American societies has been discussed at length by a number of art historians.81 What deserves special consideration here, however, is the way in which local elements—pigments from nearby mineral sources, laboring hands, the walls of parish churches—collide in a seeming alchemical potion to transmit immutable qualities of “foreignness,” distance, luxury, and splendor. But at the same time these images may have elicited ambivalent reactions from local residents, who were forced to purchase similar types of cloth for which they had little use and which drove them into a condition of extreme poverty.

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Clothing the Architectonic Body     109 This ongoing tension between the allure of these increasingly flamboyant textile murals and the complicated economic terrain from which they emerged becomes especially palpable in the late colonial period. The textile murals of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries intervened in this contested socioeconomic terrain with an exaggerated, almost ironic opulence and grandeur. The textile murals do not adhere to the predetermined patterns of European prototypes but instead deploy a mixed set of motifs that demonstrate an unprecedented degree of control over the nature of the representation. The use of foreign iconography no longer corresponds to the dictates of an evangelizing, Europeanizing visual system. In this context, simulated textiles that connote notions of “elsewhere” are deployed to articulate a localized cosmopolitanism—the power of a rural, impoverished parish church on the fringes of imperial urbanity to settle on the precipice of “here” and “there” with impressive ease. The architectonic body emerges not as a “repaired” body in the aftermath of the 1650 earthquake but as one whose corporeality emerged with a theatrical, lavish flair. The Church of Chinchero The church of Nuestra Señora de Montserrat de Chinchero was constructed in the sixteenth century on the remains of the estate of the Inca ruler Topa Inca Yupanqui.82 It is located in the Urubamba Province about fifteen miles northeast of the city of Cuzco. The church offers a marvelous palimpsest of mural decorations spanning the sixteenth to the late eighteenth century. Careful restoration efforts undertaken by the Instituto Nacional de Cultura (now called the Ministerio de Cultura) has revealed grisaille checkerboard and wrought-­ iron designs along the lower nave wall. These types of designs commonly date to the late sixteenth century in both civic and religious architecture of the Cuzco region. The second phase of mural decoration is securely dated to 1603– 1607, thanks to José de Mesa and Teresa Gisbert’s decipherment of the inscription on the church’s triumphal arch. The murals painted during this phase include portraits of the twelve apostles and the Good Shepherd painted in the chancel; scenes from the birth of the Virgin Mary and the Virgin of Montserrat along the apse; and the Coronation of the Virgin, accompanied by evangelists, on the triumphal arch.83 The narthex murals on the exterior of the church depict an allegorical image of a puma defeating an amaru (Andean mythical dragon), glorifying Chinchero native Mateo Pumacahua’s victory over the rebel leader Tupac Amaru and his forces in the Tupac Amaru Rebellion, thus dating to after 1782.84

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110     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between Textile murals line the nave walls, seamlessly interwoven with the rest of the mural paintings, retablos, and canvas paintings that adorn the church’s interior (see plate 14). The current state of the murals does not fully correspond to their original appearance in the eighteenth century, however; restorers have removed areas of paint to reveal earlier murals that they once covered. In their original context, the textile murals likely ran along both nave walls. The tops of the textile hangings are painted with yellow borders that align precisely with the height of contemporaneous retablos as well as the choir loft railing. The bottoms of the painted hangings probably extended all the way down to the church’s Inca stone foundation (visible on both the exterior and interior of the church) but appear to have been removed to reveal their sixteenth-­century antecedents.85 The design of the Chinchero textile murals features red and blue flowers enveloped in curling branches laden with buds. The green branches emanate from a central flower and curve around the surrounding blooms to create a four-­leaf clover shape. The ornate floral designs threaten to break through their borders in an explosion of bounty. The flowers, indeed, appear far too large for their frames, endowing the composition with a horror vacui effect. The constrained, modest patterning of the seventeenth-­century textiles became replaced by asymmetrical compositions of oversized flowers, branches, leaves, and fruits. Abstracted, heavily stylized interpretations of pomegranates, palm fronds, and cornucopia transitioned into more naturalistic, dynamic renditions of an array of flora and fauna. Perhaps the most noticeable difference can be found in the color palette. Eighteenth-­century textiles tend to favor brighter tones, incorporating sky blues, lush forest greens, yellows, bright whites, and reds. The somber burgundies, deep purples, and red tones of the seventeenth century enjoyed less prominence in churches as liturgical garments such as chasubles, dalmatics, and maniples also began to embrace a more diversified color palette. In particular, Spanish vestments from the eighteenth century bring the oversized floral component to its apogee, enhanced with metallic threads.86 A Spanish chasuble dating to ca. 1650–1700 provides a close match to the Chinchero floral decorations, particularly in its scrolling foliage and depiction of carnations and tulips in full bloom (see plate 15). Chasubles like this one could have been stored among the church’s treasured liturgical garments and subsequently brought out by the artists to serve as a model for their textile murals. This change in the motifs, design schemes, and colors found in ecclesiastical textiles is all the more dramatic in light of the relative conservatism of church fashion when compared to secular trends.87 These eighteenth-­century murals parallel transformations in European textile design, stucco decoration, prints, and even furniture. At the same time, they

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Clothing the Architectonic Body     111 also demonstrate shifts in mural painting techniques and practices in the late colonial Andes. The murals boast a more relaxed brushstroke of undulating, free-­ flowing line rather than the tight, controlled, stamp-­like technique of the previous examples. Yellow pigments replace the prevalence of gold leaf as a decorative accent in the earlier textile murals, as at Checacupe, perhaps a reflection of subtle austerity measures in the visual arts during a period of political and economic instability.88 Each panel is treated as a separate composition; no one panel contains exactly the same types of flowers and their arrangements vary ever so slightly. On the left nave wall near the entrance to the baptistery, a floral panel with a yellow background directly below the choir loft stands out prominently next to six other panels with light blue and white backgrounds. The impulse to maintain continuity and standardization, then, seems to have lost precedence in favor of dramatic visual interventions that punctuate the viewing experience. The Church of Ocongate The church of San Pablo Apóstol de Ocongate is located in the Quispicanchi Province about 100 miles east of Cuzco, although in the colonial era it was part of the Paucartambo Province. It is situated en route to Mt. Ausangate where the yearly pilgrimages honoring El Señor del Qoyllur Rit’i take place. The church was founded in the sixteenth century, but the murals date to the mid- to late eighteenth century.89 The entire interior of the church is lavishly covered with mural paintings, from the textile murals lining the nave walls, to the painted ceiling featuring a series of elaborate floral decorations (fig. 3.13). The church underwent extensive renovation in 2010 under the auspices of the Ministerio de la Cultura. The murals along the right nave wall (lado de epístola) were removed, treated, and carefully repositioned to conform to their original placement on the wall. Nevertheless, due to the extensive pictorial interventions that occurred during the conservation process, I limit my analysis to discussion of the overall design scheme rather than any painterly or stylistic qualities of the murals.90 The painted wall hangings include alternating panels of red, green, and blue damasks with small, understated floral designs (see plate 16). Each of the monochromatic panels is separated by a vibrant multicolor panel of flowers, birds, crosses, and cornucopias brimming with fruit. These eye-­ catching panels consist of a series of vertically stacked crosses with cornucopias of various fruits emanating from either side of the base. A bell-­shaped flower with flared petals at the bottom hovers above each of the crosses, flanked by a pair of birds (fig. 3.14). These textile murals incorporate a number of local

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112     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between

Figure 3.13  Interior view, Church of San Pablo Apóstol de Ocongate, late eighteenth century. Photo by author.

elements into their design schemes. The bell-­shaped flower, for instance, may represent a heavily stylized version of the Andean cantu (Cantua buxifolia) (fig. 3.14). This flower is indigenous to the fertile mountain valleys of Peru, Bolivia, and Chile and often referred to as la flor del Inca. The cantu appears frequently in colonial material culture, from textiles to keros.91 In the pre-­Hispanic period the flower held an association with ancestor worship and was often used as an offering to the deceased. The flower also symbolized idealized conceptions of elite indigenous femininity, attested by numerous colonial portraits of coyas (queens) and ñustas (princesses) clutching bouquets of cantu flowers.92 The long-­beaked birds flanking the cantu flower produce a clear message of fertility, particularly if we read them as hummingbirds. This motif appeared frequently in Spanish and Italian chasubles of the eighteenth century, just as we see in the chasuble discussed above, which features a pair of birds perched on vines on each side of the garment. As Pauline Johnstone asserts, “a bird can be read as the symbol of the soul of man flying free at his death, but it seems more likely that in this case the intention was purely decorative, the bright plumage complementing the flowers of the design.”93 To complicate matters, we find a stylized depiction of a fleur-­de-­lis nestled within the center of each cross. This pervasive symbol of French royalty may have held special meaning in a late colonial Andean context as a metonym for Bourbon ascendancy. Contemporaneous liturgical vestments from France, Spain, Italy, and even China (produced for the export market) bear similar types of designs. When taken as a whole, the cross, cornucopia, and fleur-­de-­lis motifs seem to form a heraldic-­like display. But instead of a coat of arms at center, two of the most prominent symbols of power in a rapidly chang-

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Clothing the Architectonic Body     113

Figure 3.14  Detail of flower, cross, and bird motifs, Church of San Pablo Apóstol de Ocongate, late eighteenth century. Photo by author.

ing Peru (the cross and the fleur-­de-­lis) occupy the focal point of this symbolic configuration. While the seventeenth-­century murals of Checacupe, Oropesa, and Canincunca feature highly standardized textile patterns that can be matched almost precisely with contemporaneous European examples, the eighteenth-­century murals resist one-­to-­one correspondences with extant textiles. Instead the textile murals appear to incorporate motifs from a variety of visual repositories, whether they be local Andean wildlife, Spanish liturgical vestments, or French heraldry. Like their colleagues working in canvas painting, sculpture, and a

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114     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between variety of other media, muralists of the late colonial period exercised considerable agency in the crafting of unique compositions that deftly interwove visual sources from a variety of contexts into an eclectic tour de force. Despite their composite nature, the murals embody a metaphorical relationship to the practice of sewing and textile production. The muralists acted as “embroiderers” in the production of their craft. They began with a colored ground “cloth” and slowly built a network of designs atop the base panel. The painted “threads” do not mimic a weaving structure by which the image gets constructed row by row; rather, they create a dense superstructure while still allowing parts of the solid background color to show through. The Canincunca murals, by contrast, convey the principles of weaving through their systematic execution. If a ruler was held horizontally across the panels, the patterns would line up almost precisely. This gives the impression (whether this was the case in actual practice or not) that the painters worked row by row, completing an entire horizontal register of designs before moving vertically to the next pattern repetition. The “embroidered” aspect of the Ocongate murals, particularly in the multicolored panels, lends the walls an intense dynamism. The colorful frieze of angels and foliate men (hombres follajes) running along the lower portion of the nave wall provides a harmonious counterpart to the vertical panels of painted hangings. The sinuous curves of the angels’ bodies and the twisting lines of the cornucopias that the foliate men hold in each hand lead the eye upward to a series of soaring textile patterns, which distill the curved shapes of those figural representations into a series of vegetal abstractions. The proliferation of similar design schemes on the ceiling (flowers, tropical fruits, and birds ensconced in a series of vegetal scrolls) completes the visual program. While Canincunca and Checacupe also feature painted ceilings, the ornamentation contrasts sharply with the textile murals below. Checacupe’s ceiling, which probably postdates the textile murals, features curled acanthus leaves, grapes, and other fruit surrounding oval-­shaped gems. The Ocongate ceiling, in contrast, retains strong continuity with the painted walls, giving the overall effect of a completely tented space (fig. 3.15). Both the Ocongate and Chinchero murals conjure lush paradisiacal scenes replete with flowers, tropical birds, and fruits of all varieties. Scholars have done sustained work on the conflation of Andean ideas of paradise rooted in hanacpacha with the Garden of Eden and the Heavenly Jerusalem. As Teresa Gisbert argues, this sense of a hybrid Andean paradise “begins when indigenous people identify birds with angels and when heaven is shown as an orchard. Moreover, the talking birds, like parrots, are considered to be marvelous beings and birds

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Clothing the Architectonic Body     115

Figure 3.15 Artesonado ceiling, Church of San Pablo Apóstol de Ocongate, late eighteenth century. Photo by author.

in general as carriers of the voice of divinity.”94 References to a garden paradise can be found in Andean churches across South America (and indeed throughout New Spain as well), conveying notions of splendor through the lens of an idealized and imagined Antisuyu, the eastern sector of the Inca Empire that encompassed part of the Amazonian basin where the so-­called Chunchos resided.95 These murals ultimately build on a central theme of this book: artists continually sought to situate European iconography, visual strategies, and concepts within Andean frameworks that would have been legible to local viewers. The surface appearance of the textile murals betrays an undeniable use of imported textiles as source images. The specific designs and patterns captured in these murals provide critical visual evidence for a largely vanished material culture. But closer inspection of the murals also reveals their embeddedness within specifically Andean modes of structuring images and, by extension, broader cosmological and cultural constructs. Scores of historians, anthropologists, and art historians have examined the dexterity with which Andean peoples have harnessed foreign ideas, images, and histories into preexisting structures or relationships as a way of making sense of the world. In the realm of visual culture,

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116     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between this phenomenon can be traced, in its broadest sense, from the drawings of Guaman Poma de Ayala to the social and economic transactions that occur between tourists and artisans who produce mates burilados (engraved gourds) in the contemporary community of Cochas in the Peruvian central highlands.96 This is not to imply that European concepts were merely inserted into a primordial, static repository of ancestral beliefs. Rather, these relationships of foreign and local, European and Andean, virtuosity and materiality were constantly being expressed and renegotiated through new visual codes. The textile murals offer a microcosmic snapshot of these negotiations through time. From ecclesiastical prescription to willful appropriation, textile murals underwent dramatic transformations that were carefully mediated by both the artists who produced them and the congregations who viewed them. The utilization of specific visual strategies—whether a systematic weaving-­like technique or an additive process analogous to embroidery—served to order and control the viewing experience. By imitating one material with another, artists produced unexpected ways of seeing: paint could be mobilized to draw attention to visual tensions, harmonies, and juxtapositions. This material substitution also allowed for reflection on visual paradoxes that would otherwise have remained obscured. The creation of added distance between object and referent simultaneously draws the viewer’s attention to both the artificiality of the representation and the materiality that it attempts to simulate. The eighteenth-­century murals are a far cry from their seventeenth-­century predecessors in nearly every aspect: iconography, patterning, color scheme, and painting style. These shifts, I argue, do not merely corroborate a changing artistic and commercial landscape in the colonial Andes. The murals also participate in an ongoing discourse with their viewers on what it means to clothe and embody sacredness. These murals also urge us to consider alternative meanings of the act of copying within an Andean context. The simulation or imitation of one medium for another was commonly perceived as inhabiting an inferior category of artistic production within early modern European understandings of invenzione or invención. While disegno (design/drawing) could serve as a preparatory model for the final product, the intangible notion of divine creativity was prized as the most essential ingredient in the successful execution of an artistic masterpiece. In the colonial Andes, however, these attitudes toward the artistic process, undoubtedly transmitted to the Americas through translations of Leon Battista Alberti’s treatise and other humanist manuals, came into contact with local ideas around principles of copying and transmission.97 Returning to the pre-­Hispanic chullpas of Bolivia, their patterned adobe walls did not signify a degraded notion of a textile-­

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Clothing the Architectonic Body     117

Figure 3.16 Contemporary textile murals in a residence in the town of Kuchuwasi near Ocongate. Photo by author.

once-­removed. They drew metaphorical links connecting architecture, the body of the deceased, and the world of the ancestors. The proximity of materiality and sacredness that ecclesiastical authorities desperately sought to distance during the extirpation campaigns of the seventeenth century resurfaces in the simulated textiles painted on the walls of colonial Andean churches. The painted simulations, the textiles they signify, and their claims to embodied sacredness build on each other to create a palimpsestic, additive force field of divinity. These murals stage an encounter between different permutations of the natural world (the “natural,” lightly modified earthen walls of the church with heavily processed materials drawn from the earth to create pigments and their binders) that coalesce into a singular totality. Earth mediates earth to create a sacred conflation of architecture, the sacred body, and divine space that fit seamlessly into a reflexive, porous mode of visual and bodily experience in the colonial Andes. Textile murals began to wane in significance toward the mid-­nineteenth century in favor of figural canvas paintings and austere neoclassical-­style retablos as the colonial period came to a close in 1824. Nevertheless, textile murals continue to reveal themselves in the most unexpected places. Right down the road from the church of Ocongate in the neighboring town of Kuchuwasi, the house of a local family features contemporary textile-­like mural decorations painted along the exterior of repeating diamonds, flowers, and butterflies supported by a frieze of chakana motifs (fig. 3.16). The legacy lives on.

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C h ap t e r 4

Turning the Jordan River into a Pacarina Murals of the Baptism of Christ at the Churches of Urcos and Pitumarca

Mural paintings depicting the baptism of Christ proliferated throughout the colonial Andes as visual backdrops for the enactment of the first sacrament that marked induction into a Christian life.1 Located within the baptistery and framing the baptismal font, these larger-­than-­life images provided a reminder of the very act that Jesus Christ undertook in his own spiritual journey. In the early colonial period in particular, these images would have been particularly relevant to indigenous Andeans who were baptized en masse during the widespread evangelization campaigns of the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. One notable feature of Andean paintings of Christ’s baptism is the special emphasis placed on the depiction of water. In the seventeenth-­century canvases of the Baptism of Christ at the churches of Huanoquite and Zurite, for instance, the depiction of the Jordan River takes center stage in the composition, with close attention to the waters’ ripples and reflective surface (see fig. 4.1 and plate 17). In both compositions, the water is teeming with fish, flamingos, and ducks. The artists draw special attention to the delicate red and white flowers that grow along the banks of the river, nourished by its abundant waters. Most significantly, all of these images place equal if not greater emphasis on the watery space between Christ and Saint John the Baptist, whose reflective blue hues blend effortlessly into the sky and clouds above. European prints likely provided the compositional structure of these paintings. Their chromatic vibrancy, however, demonstrates a stunning departure from the black and white engravings on which they are likely based. This chapter focuses on two murals depicting Christ’s baptism: Diego Cusi Guaman’s composition at the church of Urcos (ca. 1630s) and a late-­eighteenth-­century mural of the same subject at the church of Pitumarca (see plates 18 and 19).2 Both

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Figure 4.1 Anonymous, Baptism of Christ, oil painting on canvas, Church of Todos los Santos de Huanoquite, seventeenth or eighteenth century. © Raúl Montero.

of these paintings make creative reference to nearby sacred lakes that served as pacarinas: sites of origin that had been in place since the pre-­Columbian era. Pacarinas were natural features of the landscape such as caves, springs, and lakes that marked places of human emergence and became codified into ancestral sites to which local peoples would pay their respects and deposit ritual offerings. As Sabine MacCormack notes, “a place of origin, often described as pacarina, from pacari, ‘dawn,’ and paccarini, ‘to be born,’ was a point fixed in the environment, where geographical space and human time intersected.”3 The conflation of the Jordan River with these Andean bodies of water facilitated a local understanding of the site’s significance as marking the beginning of Christ’s earthly ministry.4 The act of visually situating this event within local sacred landscapes also gave artists and viewers agency in positing the emergence of Jesus as savior on local

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Turning the Jordan River into a Pacarina     121 soil and thereby aligning the history of Christianity within an Andean “memoryscape”: the relationship forged between huacas, pacarinas, and other sacred places with collective memories of historical or mythic events.5 As Michael Sallnow reminds us, “Power in the Andes, both dominant and subversive, was always spatial, mapped out across the variegated natural environment and thus appearing to issue from the landscape itself. Social relations became spatial relations, conceptualized through an energized landscape finely contoured in accordance with gross physical topography.”6 The layered meanings projected onto Christ’s baptism reveal the potential for murals to articulate community values and collective histories that extend far beyond their expected parameters of religious meaning.7 These murals also incorporate local elements into their compositions that would have recalled oral and written histories associated with the Andean landscape, thus symbolically extending the physical limits of the images from church walls to local environments. The murals of Urcos and Pitumarca were not only connected through their reference to local sites; they were mutually implicated in a chain of prints, canvas paintings, and murals that placed them within a dynamic web of transatlantic and transregional exchange. These murals offer a snapshot of the transformation of one genre of iconography over time and the differing pictorial agendas that their respective artists took in relating the images to local concepts, landscapes, and temporalities.

Overview of the Churches of Urcos and Pitumarca The church of Santiago Apóstol de Urcos, located in the Quispicanchi Province, was likely founded in the last quarter of the sixteenth century.8 Urcos served as the parish center for the region, whose annexes were located in Canincunca and Huaro. The exterior of the church consists of a triple-­arched narthex and balcony constructed entirely of brick.9 Most of the interior decorations were destroyed in a fire in the early twentieth century. As discussed in chapter 1, however, a description of its abundant textile murals from the church’s 1788 inventory suggests that it was once richly decorated with mural paintings. Diego Cusi Guaman’s baptistery painting is all that remains of a once extensive mural program that probably covered the entire interior of the church.10 Diego Cusi Guaman (also spelled Cusihuaman) was an indigenous painter who worked throughout Cuzco in the first few decades of the seventeenth century.11 He was most likely a member of the indigenous elite given that he ranked

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122     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between as a master painter at such an early date. Cusi Guaman’s use of Latin in his signature accompanying his mural of the Baptism of Christ at Urcos (to be discussed further below) further indicates access to a formal education. His use of the honorific “Don” in the signature also suggests elevated status. Indeed, Cusi Guaman is the earliest known indigenous painter of the Cuzco region to sign his name.12 The town of Pitumarca is located in the Canchis Province, which borders Quispicanchi to the east.13 The doctrina is an annex of Checacupe, which serves as parish center for the region. Pitumarca is located in the northwestern corner of the province, surrounded to the south and east by the towns of Checacupe and Combapata. Situated about fifty miles south of Cuzco, Pitumarca is relatively isolated from the city and its immediate orbit of doctrinas. The church of San Miguel de Pitumarca was founded in the late sixteenth century, but the surviving murals date to the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.14 It is a single-­ nave church of adobe construction with two lateral chapels and a bell tower.15 The church contains extensive mural decorations along the nave, ceiling, interior arches, side chapels, and baptistery.16 In 1580 Mateo Pérez de Alesio, an Italian painter who would eventually embark on a career in the Viceroyalty of Peru, commissioned Perret to produce a series of engravings based on his paintings in Malta, where he was stationed in the years leading up to his transatlantic journey.17 The Italian painter produced an enormous body of work there, including a mural cycle at the Palace of the Grand Masters in Valetta completed in 1565, which depicted scenes from the Siege of Malta by the Ottoman Turks.18 His Baptism of Christ is a canvas painting that was completed around 1577–1579 and originally displayed on the high altar of Saint John’s Cathedral in Valetta, Malta (fig. 4.2). Pérez de Alesio commissioned Perret to produce an engraving of his painting in 1582, dedicating it to Cardinal Ferdinando de’ Medici, as stated in the inscription at the bottom of the print (fig. 4.3).19 Perret’s print may have been brought to Peru by Pérez de Alesio himself, who arrived in Lima at some point between 1588 and 1590.20 In an alternate scenario, it is perhaps an interesting twist of fate that the Spanish monopoly on the Antwerp export market facilitated the arrival of a northern European copy of an Italian émigré’s artwork in Malta to grace the walls of Peruvian churches. Perret’s Baptism of Christ provides the basic compositional format for the baptism murals of Urcos and Pitumarca. All three images feature a supplicating Christ receiving the baptism from Saint John, who holds a cross with his left hand while pouring the baptismal water over Christ’s head with his right. Christ’s arms are crossed over his chest, and he wears nothing but a short loin-

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Turning the Jordan River into a Pacarina     123

Figure 4.2  Mateo Pérez de Alesio, Baptism of Christ, oil on canvas. St. John’s Cathedral, Valetta, Malta, ca. 1577– 1579. From Cynthia de Giorgio, The Conventual Church of the Knights of Malta: Splendour, History and Art of St. John’s Co-­Cathedral, Valletta (Valetta, Malta: Midsea Books, 2010), 141.

cloth knotted across the front. While Cusi Guaman’s composition exhibits clear visual parallels with Perret’s print, particularly in his rendering of Christ, the Pitumarca mural bears more diffuse connections to the Perret prototype. Mutual affinities between Perret’s print and the Pitumarca mural can be found in Saint John the Baptist’s lunging stance, the faces of the two principal figures, and the stylized depiction of the sun’s rays with the Holy Spirit at the center. While Perret’s print incorporates about twenty-­three angels to accompany the principal figures, the Urcos and Pitumarca murals include only two additional figures who stand behind Christ, holding garments with which to clothe him once the baptism is completed. Artists throughout colonial Latin America were expected to produce uncluttered religious images that communicated biblical narratives in a clear and accessible visual language.21 Paintings participated in an overlapping evangelizing discourse that encompassed a variety of media; they could act as both substitutes for and supplements to the written word, capitalizing on the ability of indigenous congregations to comprehend divinity through a tightly honed visual literacy.

Figure 4.3 Pieter Perret, Baptism of Christ, engraving after Mateo Pérez de Alesio’s painting at the Valetta Cathedral, Malta, 1582. © Rome, Istituto Centrale per la Grafica, courtesy of the Ministero dei Beni e delle Attivita Culturali e del Turismo.

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Turning the Jordan River into a Pacarina     125 Canvas paintings of Christ’s baptism produced in the Cuzco region also help to place the Urcos and Pitumarca murals within a broader intervisual dialogue. Mateo Pérez de Alesio’s colleague Bernardo Bitti produced a painting of the same subject for the church of San Juan de Juli near Lake Titicaca dating to the late sixteenth century, which originally served as the central image of the main retablo of the church.22 Bitti may also have consulted Perret’s print of Pérez de Alesio’s Malta composition, although a number of differences suggest that he utilized other models as well. Based on stylistic affinities, José de Mesa and Teresa Gisbert argue that Diego Cusi Guaman served as an assistant to Bitti in Juli before returning to Cuzco in the early seventeenth century.23 The geometricized folds of Saint John’s cloak in Cusi Guaman’s image pay direct homage to Bitti, suggesting that he was exposed to Bitti’s painting either directly or through a drawn copy.24 Despite their stylistic and compositional similarities, Cusi Guaman’s access to Bitti’s original painting in distant Juli proves difficult to substantiate in the absence of archival documentation to support this connection. Nevertheless, it is almost certain that he came into contact with Luis de Riaño’s signed and dated Baptism of Christ (1626) at the church of Andahuaylillas, which is located a mere three miles from Urcos (fig. 4.4). The most striking similarity between Diego Cusi Guaman’s mural and Riaño’s canvas is the depiction of Saint John in an open stance with his right knee resting on a log. This compositional detail bears no correlation whatsoever with Perret’s print or Bitti’s painting. The level of detail and technical virtuosity evident in Riaño’s painting suggests its utility as a model for Cusi Guaman rather than vice versa. Cusi Guaman’s mural has a rougher quality that places greater emphasis on color and symbolism than on technical detail. It is less likely, then, that Riaño would have looked to Cusi Guaman’s painting as a model, because it lacks the attention to fine modulation that plays such an important role in Riaño’s oeuvre. Given this, we can postulate that Cusi Guaman produced his mural after 1626.25 Another important element linking these images can be found not within the compositions themselves, but rather in their frames. Riaño’s canvas is set between two double pilasters topped with Corinthian capitals painted directly on the wall to imitate architectural detailing. The painting and the elaborate trompe l’oeil frame that surrounds it serve as an ideal backdrop for the baptismal font, which hits the exact midpoint of the composition. The baptistery mural at the church of Urcos features a similar layout. Diego Cusi Guaman painted the scene at the center of the facing wall of the baptistery, making it the first image that a visitor sees upon entering the room. Two columns flank the scene of the baptism of Christ—a simplification of the double pilasters found in Andahuaylillas.

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Figure 4.4 Luis de Riaño, Baptism of Christ, oil on canvas, Church of San Pedro Apóstol de Andahuaylillas, 1626. © Raúl Montero.

Like at Andahuaylillas, a decorative frieze extends from both sides of the painting of the baptism, covering the entire upper portion of the wall up to the ceiling with repeating columns, strapwork, and cornucopia inspired by a seventeenth-­ century print by the Flemish architect Hans Vredeman de Vries.26 Diego Cusi Guaman departs from Riaño’s model, however, by transforming the canvas and frame into a single orchestrated piece, all rendered in tempera applied directly to the surface of the wall. The shift from canvas to mural for depicting Christ’s baptism was of no small consequence. Perhaps the most obvious explanation is

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Turning the Jordan River into a Pacarina     127 that murals served as inexpensive alternatives for the priests or cofradías (confraternities) that commissioned them. But this shift also demonstrates a growing aesthetic preference for murals in rural churches of the Cuzco region. Painted in the late eighteenth century, the Baptism of Christ at the church of Pitumarca disavows any attempt at illusionistic, perspectival space. The figures lack the mannerist-­inflected, elongated human forms found in earlier images of the same subject, while the idiosyncratic rendering of the Jordan River filled with fishermen and aquatic life bears no relationship to Perret’s rather mundane treatment of the river. The mural carries an evanescent quality that differs substantially from the dark, shadowy image produced by Diego Cusi Guaman. Nonetheless, it loosely emulates the compositional dictates provided by Perret’s print, indicating that the muralist likely possessed a copy of the print from which he adopted the basic pictorial schema, perhaps from the workshop in which he was trained or from the local priest. Regardless of the exact trajectory that the print took, what is most remarkable about this scenario is that the same print informed mural programs separated in time by over a century. This testifies to the longevity of prints and the great pains taken to conserve (and copy) them for generations after their initial arrival in the Americas. But what distinguishes the Pitumarca mural from earlier images by Bitti, Riaño, and Cusi Guaman is its visual affinity not only with European print culture but also with contemporaneous murals of Christ’s baptism at nearby churches. The church of San Juan Bautista de Catca (also spelled Ccatcca) contains a mural of Christ’s baptism that is remarkably similar to the Pitumarca image (fig. 4.5). The Catca mural was painted in the 1750s, about two or three decades before its Pitumarca counterpart.27 Both feature Saint John and Christ standing beneath a heavily stylized sunburst, separated by a river filled with fish. They reveal a pared-­down version of the biblical scene—Catca’s composition is reduced to three figures, while the Pitumarca mural contains merely four, featuring its most basic elements. In both compositions, the baptism is configured within a larger painted retablo flanked by Solomonic columns. Another eighteenth-­century baptistery mural at the nearby church of San Pablo Apóstol de Ocongate (discussed in chapter 3) depicts Christ’s baptism, also with great emphasis on the brightly colored Jordan River, sparse composition, and location within a painted retablo (fig. 4.6). The badly preserved mural retains little of its original detail. Nevertheless, the vestiges that remain reveal a strong affinity with the Pitumarca and Catca murals. The three murals appear to be painted by different hands, but their close geographical and temporal proximity suggests that itinerant artists sought inspiration from and perhaps even competed with neighboring parishes in the

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Figure 4.5 Anonymous, Baptism of Christ, mural painting, Church of San Juan Bautista de Catca, eighteenth century. Photo by author.

creation of their compositions. The Urcos and Pitumarca murals participated in networks of images that extended as far as Antwerp and Malta and as close as the pueblos de indios scattered throughout the Quispicanchi and Canchis provinces.28 The role of the print as a point of origin for these murals of Christ’s baptism also demonstrates the diverse trajectories that paintings could take despite their allegiance to the same visual source. Pitumarca’s Baptism of Christ, along with its analogues at Catca and Ocongate, reveals a new stage in the development of mural painting in the late colonial period. Muralists of the eighteenth century utterly transformed the print sources on which their predecessors so closely relied. This can partly be attributed to the formation of the Cuzco School of painting in the late seventeenth century, whose origins some scholars have traced to a legal dispute between indigenous and Spanish artists.29 Through their participation in the justice system, indigenous artists secured their new position as agents in the administration of their own guilds and as intermediaries in the negotiation of contracts by ecclesiastical and private patrons.

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Turning the Jordan River into a Pacarina     129

Figure 4.6 Anonymous, Baptism of Christ, mural painting, Church of San Pablo de Ocongate, eighteenth century. Photo by author.

The Cuzco School developed a unique artistic signature characterized by a bright color palette, flattened forms, indigenous symbolism, and a profusion of gold ornament. These paintings acquired a palpable “Andeanness” never before seen in Peruvian painting.30 The links between the Cuzco School artists specializing in paintings on canvas or panel and those with a specialty in mural painting are yet unclear. We can say with certainty, however, that this new wave of artistic activity reverberated across a variety of media, including sculpture, oil painting, and mural painting. Like their colleagues working in oil paint, muralists began to exhibit a preference for flattened and geometricized forms. The figures in the Pitumarca mural, for instance, defy the rules of proportion, scale, or modulation that had characterized colonial Andean art for much of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The heavily outlined figures do not give the illusion of three-­dimensionality. Moreover, the color palette, dominated by pastel earth tones, bears no relation to the rich coloration of Riaño’s and Cusi Guaman’s paintings. Nevertheless, mural paintings of the eighteenth century developed a unique visual language that was not fully wedded to the Cuzco School aesthetic. Perhaps most significantly, mural paintings, by virtue of their fixed location within

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130     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between rural churches, tend to contain direct references to the local history of the area within which they are situated. As discussed in chapter 1, paintings produced in workshops exerted a centrifugal impact on the Andean region, whereby paintings produced within a workshop disseminated outward across the city center, into the countryside, and to other major cities throughout the viceroyalty. Mural paintings, by contrast, operate on a decentralized model whose patterns of dissemination can better be delineated through the painted manifestations of itinerant artists working along certain commercial and administrative routes. We can therefore trace a genealogy of Baptism of Christ images that begins at Urcos and Andahuaylillas and extends southeast to Catca, Ocongate, and Pitumarca, each with a unique composition wedded to its own local community but undeniably interconnected through the traffic of people, prints, and ideas along the commercial arteries linking Cuzco to Lake Titicaca. By the eighteenth century mural production had ceased to exist as a unidirectional process in which expertise and materials flowed from Europe to Lima to Cuzco. It became a multidirectional enterprise, producing new clusters of artistic activity in areas far beyond metropolitan spheres of influence. Having established the complex visual networks and artistic contexts out of which the Urcos and Pitumarca murals were conceived, we can now turn to the specificities of the images to understand their relevance to the local communities who viewed them as well as the mediating role of Andean painters in the production of sacred visual imaginaries.

Diego Cusi Guaman’s Baptism of Christ Diego Cusi Guaman’s Baptism of Christ, as discussed above, retained a fairly close adherence to the prototypes offered by Perret, Bitti, and Riaño. But as we begin to probe beyond the compositional skeleton of Cusi Guaman’s work to consider its color and materiality, the Baptism of Christ emerges as an image deeply embedded in the local geography and historical memory of its seventeenth-­century viewers. The following interpretation proposes a set of alternate readings of Diego Cusi Guaman’s image that consider the spectra of possibility that lay in the meaning-­making that occurred between the mural and its spectators. These possibilities, while by no means definitive or conclusive, suggest new ways of seeing colonial murals that take into consideration local histories, geographies, and regimes of knowledge to which contemporaries may have had access. Only two colors dominate Cusi Guaman’s composition: bright red and a deep, vibrant blue. The source of the red tones in this mural remains unknown.31

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Turning the Jordan River into a Pacarina     131 They could have derived from local red tierras de colores (colored earths) or imported mineral and organic pigments such as vermillion, hematite, cochineal, or red lake.32 Red served as an important accent color that created a strong triangulation of Saint John’s cloak, the puffed breast of the parrot in the bottom right corner, and the cloak of one of the angels positioned to the left of Christ. The predominance of red in Cusi Guaman’s Baptism of Christ may have resonated with the indigenous congregations of Urcos, given its central importance in Inca color symbolism. Colonial chronicler Antonio de la Calancha notes that red held the same political significance in Inca culture as purple did among European royalty.33 We need only recall the prized mascapaycha (royal Inca red fringed headdress) to ascertain the political and religious significance of red in Inca aesthetics. Indeed, contemporaneous portraits of the Christ Child depict him wearing a bright red fringe across his forehead as a means of conflating Inca sovereign power with Christian divinity.34 These portraits also reflected the presence of actual Christ Child statues adorned with this symbol. Mollinedo is famously known for his order to the priest of Andahuaylillas in 1687 to “remove the mascapaycha and [replace it with] rays or an imperial crown on the Jesus Child on an altar of the church.”35 Cusi Guaman’s extensive use of blue draws the viewer’s attention to the scene’s most significant symbolic element: the waters of the Jordan River from which Jesus receives the Holy Sacrament. The body of water takes up over half of the picture plane, cascading along the contours of the central figures and receding deep into the background. A special aura achieved through the tonal progression of blue hues that begin at Christ’s feet and extend to the midpoint of the composition. Cusi Guaman further accentuates the water with S-­shaped waves that begin in the foreground and continue up to Christ’s figure. These waves, which we do not find in Riaño’s painting or Perret’s print, draw our attention to the experiential properties of water. The water’s color, movement, and texture take center stage as critical intercessors in the viewing experience. The watery surface is not mere negative space but a constructed place in and of itself.36 Christ’s right foot does not dip into the water, as we see in Perret’s print and Riaño’s painting. Instead it hovers right above the surface, as if the water were frozen solid. It is tempting here to make an association with the famous glaciers of Mt. Ausangate, where annual pilgrimages to the Shrine of Qoyllur Rit’i take place. This would not be as far-­fetched as it may seem, as the village of Urcos, located en route to the shrine, has historically played a central role in the organization of the pilgrimage; legions of trained dancers from there participate in the festivities to this day.37

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Figure 4.7  View of Lake Urcos/Q’oyllur Urmana. Photo by author.

The extensive use of blue to evoke the site of Christ’s baptism may also have encouraged viewers to contemplate it in relation to the geography of Urcos itself. A large lake located to the northwest of the town’s colonial center serves as the town’s most prominent geological feature and pacarina for Urcos’s inhabitants (fig. 4.7). Lake Urcos, known locally as Q’oyllur Urmana (which roughly translates to “Place of the Fallen Star”), is located within walking distance from the plaza de armas (main plaza) where the church of Urcos stands. Directly across from the church along the western shores of the lake is the Chapel of Canincunca, discussed in chapter 3. Urcos was an important Inca settlement and figured into some Inca origin stories, particularly the version related by the sixteenth-­century Spanish chronicler Juan de Betanzos. According to Betanzos, the creator god Con Ticci Viracocha (also spelled Contiti Viracocha) passed through Urcos on his travels from Lake Titicaca to Cuzco. When he arrived in Urcos he climbed to the top of a mountain and ordered all of the ancestors of that region living in mountain peaks (apu) to emerge. The people of Urcos subsequently built a shrine (huaca) to honor Viracocha and placed it on the stone where he had once sat. Betanzos describes the huaca as a bench of fine gold on which they placed a statue of Viracocha. Urcos was the last site that Viracocha passed through before arriving in the Inca capital of Cuzco.38 Although Lake Urcos is not specifically men-

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Turning the Jordan River into a Pacarina     133 tioned in this variant of the Inca creation story, the reference to the settlement of Urcos would carry an implicit association with one of the town’s most significant landmarks. Other stories place Lake Urcos firmly at the interface of Inca and Spanish colonial history. Early chronicles mention a 700-­foot gold link chain made for Huascar, the half-­brother of Atahualpa, who vied for the Inca throne at the time of the Spanish invasion.39 The chain was deposited into a lake in the Cuzco environs in order to hide it from the Spaniards. Huascar’s father, Huayna Capac, had ordered the chain to be made in honor of the birth of his first son and apparent heir to the throne. Agustín de Zárate was the first to mention the famed gold chain in his Historia del descubrimiento y conquista del Perú, published in 1555. In his chapter on the deeds of Huayna Capac, he states: At the time of the birth of his first son, Guaynacaua ordered that a rope of gold be made so thick (according to the many living Indians that say so) that more than two hundred Indian nobles [orejones] could not carry it very easily, and in memory of so remarkable a jewel, he named the son Guasca, which in their language means “rope.”40 “El Inca” Garcilaso de la Vega weaves his own testimony into Zárate’s early account. Garcilaso notes that the gold chain was intended to imitate the linked arms of the rows of dancers that performed at royal ceremonies: “The men took one another’s hands, but each dancer gave his hand not to the one immediately in front of him but the next one. They all did this, thus forming a chain.” Once Huascar found out about Atahualpa’s death, he ordered that all of the gold pieces being sent to Cajamarca for his ransom be hidden away from the Spaniards. As for the fate of Huascar’s golden chain, Garcilaso writes: “This superb and valuable piece was hidden by the Indians with the rest of the treasure which was spirited away as soon as the Spaniards came in, to such purpose that no trace of it has been found.”41 He recounts that in 1557 the Spaniards ordered the draining of Lake Urcos in order to find the treasure but quickly gave up when they encountered bedrock.42 The legend of the golden chain lingered throughout the colonial period, as evidenced by Pablo José de Oricain’s reference to the “cadena del Inga” buried in Lake Urcos in his 1790 manuscript.43 We can imagine that such an event would have remained fixed in the minds of local inhabitants and passed down orally as a significant moment in the town’s history. Residents would likely have been aware of this story when Cusi Guaman’s mural was completed about seven decades after the attempted excavation of the chain. The lake thus not only would have held significance as the

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134     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between place of emergence for the ancestors of resident Urqueños but also been conceived as the sacred repository for an artifact of Inca history that held unparalleled cultural value. Diego Cusi Guaman’s use of water as a pictorial focal point could have been read through an Urcos-­centered geographic lens, not because of any explicit references to Q’oyllur Urmana in the painting but by virtue of its immediate proximity to the church and its indelible historical significance for local residents. Like the Jordan River, Lake Urcos marks a site of legend, religious power, and transformation. It was layered with meanings recalling the bookends of Inca history, from the empire’s murky origins to its chaotic and contested capitulation. As the pacarina for the local community, the lake served as both a spatial and temporal marker for the emergence of human life and its descent into ucu pacha (the world of the dead). In her discussion of the Urcos variant of the Inca origin story as recounted by Cieza de León, Sabine MacCormack states: “What distinguishes this myth from many others of its kind is the theme of the lake as the place whence the people of Urcos first came and also the place to which their souls returned at death and whence again they set forth for a new life. For the idea that the same place constitutes both beginning and end, origin and destiny, was merely hinted at in other Andean myths.”44 The mural’s embeddedness in architectonic space, which in turn is rooted in Urqueño social and physical geography, thus facilitates alternate readings of the image in which Christ’s baptism is performed right outside of the church’s doors, along the shores of the community’s auspicious site of origin. The sacred waters of the Q’oyllur Urmana both brought forth the ancestors of the inhabitants of Urcos and protected one of the most iconic examples of Inca material wealth, which was never to be found again. In Cusi Guaman’s mural we can imagine its replenishing waters facilitating the induction of none other than Christ himself into the Christian faith. Pictorially locating Christ’s baptism at this lake marked his emergence as the savior of humankind through Andean cultural codes. Diego Cusi Guaman integrates other aspects of Andean history and culture in his Baptism of Christ mural that more deliberately showcase his efforts to create multiple registers of legibility among local parishioners. In the lower right corner of the composition Cusi Guaman depicts a parrot hovering over a banner that reads “Don do. Cusi Guaman Me Fecit.” The depiction of birds as signature-­ carriers was something that Cusi Guaman would have copied from Mateo Pérez de Alesio, whose most famous usage of a parrot can be found in his fresco of Saint Christopher in the Seville Cathedral.45 Pérez de Alesio, in turn, had emulated Albrecht Dürer’s famous engraving of Adam and Eve, which contains an

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Turning the Jordan River into a Pacarina     135 image of a bird perched on a branch supporting a cartouche with his name and the date.46 Most important for our discussion, however, is the parrot’s symbolic weight within the context of the composition as a whole. Parrots served as important symbols of the Americas, frequently populating European cartographic and allegorical representations of the newly “discovered” territory. As Hiroshige Okada notes, parrots, monkeys, and mermaids formed a triumvirate of visual stereotypes for representing America.47 Their origin in tropical environments contributed to the conflation of parrots with the “exotic” American landscape.48 Parrots also occupied a distinct role in the highland imagination. Parrots are indigenous to the eastern slopes of the Andes and the Amazonian basin, which the Incas referred to as Antisuyu. Colonial-­period writings often frame the people of Antisuyu as culturally backward, primitive, and savage. They served as cultural barometers for the civility of the Incas, whose otherness became increasingly accentuated during the Inca consolidation of power in the montaña region to the east.49 Guaman Poma describes them as follows: They [people of Antisuyu] were infidels until the present time, although they were at peace and friends of the Incas. Later the Indians here are warlike, Indians of the jungle; they eat human flesh. In their lands there are animals, serpents, jaguars, mountain lions, poisonous snakes, caimans, cows, wild donkeys, and other animals, many macaws, parrots, birds, monkeys, wild pigs, and many warlike Indians, some naked and others use loincloths, while others wear an anaco, both men and women.50 As we can see from Guaman Poma’s passage, parrots were frequently associated with the people of Antisuyu. The various cultural groups of this region were given the catchall term of Chunchos, a label that seems to have been invented in the colonial period.51 Chunchos paid tribute to the Inca crown in the form of wood, tropical foodstuffs, coca leaves, and feathers. The traditional iconography of the Chuncho Indian included a sparsely clothed individual, usually wearing no more than a loincloth and a feather headdress. Representations of Chunchos wearing feathered crowns abound on kero vessels, in paintings of religious conversion, and in the drawings of Guaman Poma.52 The feathers serve as stand-­ins for the rich ornithological diversity of Antisuyu and call to mind the brilliantly colored parrots and macaws from which they derived. Returning to Cusi Guaman’s image, we can see that a parrot rests directly below the left foot of Saint John. The position of its head creates an unbroken axis line with Saint John’s leg, drawing the viewer’s attention to his figure. He wears a tattered loincloth around his waist that bears little relation to the more

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136     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between

Figure 4.8  “Segunda Señora Capac Mallquima,” from Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala, El primer nueva corónica i buen gobierno (1615), 175 [177]. © Det Kongelige Bibliotek, Copenhagen, Denmark.

polished robes with which he is depicted in the sister images of the Baptism of Christ discussed above. In fact, Cusi Guaman’s rendering of Saint John’s robes actually corresponds more closely to the biblical passage describing the baptism than any of the other images: “Now John was clothed with camel’s hair, and had a leather girdle around his waist, and ate locusts and wild honey” (Mark 1:6). This representation of a seminude figure clothed in tattered rags bears a close resemblance to textual descriptions and visual depictions of the Chunchos. For instance, Guaman Poma illustrates the second wife of an Inca captain from the Antisuyu quarter named Capac Mallquima wearing nothing but a skirt, with exposed breasts and bare feet (fig. 4.8).53 A parrot, with its right eye cocked toward the viewer, stands to her left side, mirroring the compositional organization of Saint John and the parrot in Cusi Guaman’s painting. In another drawing depicting the feast of the Antisuyus, the male participants wear feathered headdresses, recalling the parrots and other exotic birds that served as the sources for these vestments.54 Saint John’s tattered robes make this an even more “orthodox” painting than the others that preceded it, yet it

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Turning the Jordan River into a Pacarina     137 is marked as different because of its diversion from its immediate models. But this can also serve as a source of agency for Cusi Guaman, who capitalized on the symbolic synchronicity between Saint John the Baptist and the Chuncho Indians, demonstrating how new visual languages can attain multiple registers of meaning. This is but one example in which colonial Andean images can carry radically opposed yet not necessarily contradictory messages. Cusi Guaman brought together two prominent signifiers of Cuzco’s “others”—the parrot and tattered robe—as a means of bestowing local legibility to a biblical figure. The parrot in particular could have served as a signifier of the local American context. Stereotypical images of the Americas—­particularly parrots, mermaids, and monkeys—found in European maps and engravings during the so-­called Age of Discovery eventually made their way back to the Andes by the seventeenth century and became reappropriated by indigenous elites as markers of status.55 In this case, Cusi Guaman could be placing the parrot beneath Christ’s baptism as a way of securely locating the scene within the Americas. Cusi Guaman strategically appropriated the iconography of the Chunchos in his representation of Saint John the Baptist, I would argue, as a means of placing him in a relationship of complementarity and reciprocity with Christ. By equating him with a Chuncho devoid of elaborate clothing or human possessions, Cusi Guaman offers a recognizable analogue through which John’s role could be understood. John the Baptist sheds his normative identity and is recast as a Chuncho-like figure representing the margins of the Inca empire. Indeed, these legacies carry on into the twentieth century; in his ethnographic study of Urcos in 1971, Manuel Marzal notes that the term “Chuncho” was used to describe unbaptized children. Local residents stressed the necessity for them to receive the sacrament of baptism “so they don’t become savages.”56 Moreover, as Michael Sallnow observed during his fieldwork in the 1980s, ukuku (bear) dancers from Urcos making their first pilgrimage to Qoyllur Rit’i would be ritually “baptized” through the act of whipping, after which “the victim kissed the whip and embraced the whipper.”57 Therefore the complex evocations of baptism as a performative rite involving local actors and intimately associated with the figure of the Chuncho had a long-­standing presence in Urcos. We can also read Cusi Guaman’s mural in light of Andean spatial hierarchies.58 If we are to map out the image based on the spatial coordinates of the Inca empire, Saint John is situated in the eastern Antisuyu quarter. Christ occupies the dead center of the composition—a subtle but significant shift from the compositions of Perret, Riaño, and Bitti, which place Christ slightly left of

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138     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between center. We can thus interpret Christ as an axis mundi, the conceptual center of the new spiritual map of the Andes. This subtle repositioning of Christ carried great symbolic weight, as Cuzco had once formed the center point of all territorial divisions under the Inca Empire. Christ joins Cuzco/Urcos as the center of gravity, bridging geography and religion, imperial cosmology and colonial spirituality. Cusi Guaman may have staged these two figures as complementary opposites through the structural paradigm offered by the Inca/Chuncho division.59 Christ as the axis mundi and central figure of the composition becomes conflated with “us”: the parishioners of Urcos. Saint John assumes a role similar to the role of the tribute-­paying Chunchos; he bestows on Christ the sacrament of baptism in order for him to cultivate a life of ultimate sanctity. That is, he grants Christ the raw material—sanctified water—to become the savior of humankind, just as the Chunchos offered tribute of feathers and other goods to be fashioned into royal items to be used by the divinely ordained Sapa Inca. Placing them in this complementary, dualistic relationship appealed to pan-­Andean understandings of reciprocity that continued to permeate social relations well into the colonial period and beyond.60 Cusi Guaman’s subtle use of color, symbolism, and composition communicated Christ’s primacy through mutually reinforcing local channels of knowledge. As the creator of an alternative Andean visuality of the sacred, Diego Cusi Guaman mediates between a Europeanized rendition of Saint John and a purposeful Andeanization of the very saint that facilitated the establishment of the sacrament of baptism. We now turn to the church of Pitumarca, whose mural of Christ’s baptism, while rooted in the same print source, responded to a unique set of historical factors that differed considerably from the realities of Diego Cusi Guaman’s Urcos of the 1630s.

The Baptism of Christ at the Church of Pitumarca The eighteenth century ushered in what John Rowe famously referred to as an era of “Inca Nationalism.”61 With the Spanish conquest buried safely in the past by nearly two centuries, indigenous Andeans enjoyed relative freedom to reconstruct and reenact Inca history through literature, performance, and the visual arts. Portraits of descendants of Inca royalty and genealogical trees of Inca rulers became increasingly important as a means of asserting power at a time when the privileges granted to indigenous elites were gradually being curtailed.62 Inca history occupied an important space in the collective memory of many indigenous

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Turning the Jordan River into a Pacarina     139

Figure 4.9  Reed boat on the Isla Totora, Lake Titicaca. © Jeremy James George.

Andeans. Oral history offered a vital link to the pre-­Columbian past, even if Inca narratives became heavily modified over the course of the colonial period. But one of the most important developments in the resurrection of an “authentic” Inca identity was the publication of the second edition of Comentarios reales by “El Inca” Garcilaso de la Vega in 1723. This particular edition enjoyed wide readership in South America, particularly among indigenous elites.63 Garcilaso’s text offered Andeans a repository of Inca history and culture that strongly resonated with a society that attached such great value to the written word.64 We can also surmise that this edition may have circulated widely among artists, who could utilize it as a definitive source in the production of Inca-­themed compositions. While Cusi Guaman only suggests a Jordan River/Lake Urcos connection in his mural, the Pitumarca mural draws an explicit connection to the largest and most prominent body of water in the Andes: Lake Titicaca.65 A heavily stylized body of water separates Christ from Saint John the Baptist, teeming with life and activity. Boats fashioned from the totora reeds skim across its surface. These boats were (and continue to be) built by people of the Lake Titicaca region, where this material grows in abundance along its shores (fig. 4.9). Lake Titicaca held enormous significance for pre-­Columbian Andean peoples. It served as a sacred site or huaca to which pilgrims would pay their respects each year.66 It is

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140     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between located in the heartland of the Aymara-­speaking peoples. But despite its location on culturally foreign territory, the Incas appropriated the lake as a place of origin from which the mythical founders of the empire emerged. Several variants of the Lake Titicaca narrative cycle circulated throughout the colonial period.67 One version to which Garcilaso de la Vega dedicated substantial attention recounted Manco Capac and Mama Ocllo’s emergence from the Island of the Sun on Lake Titicaca. They were the son and daughter of Inti, the sun god, and eventually became the mythical founders of the Inca Empire. Inca versions of the Lake Titicaca myth tend to “solarize” the principal gods through the privileging of Inti rather than Viracocha as the entity directly responsible for deifying Manco Capac and Mama Ocllo.68 This emphasis is reflected in the writings of Garcilaso, who recounts the story as follows: Our father the Sun set these two children of his in Lake Titicaca, eighty leagues from here, and bade them go where they would, and wherever they stopped to eat or sleep to try to thrust into the ground a golden wand . . . when this wand should sink into the ground at a single thrust, there our father the Sun wished them to stop and set up their court.69 The golden wand with which the sibling couple was equipped eventually led them on a northward journey to found the city of Cuzco. Returning to the mural, the most prominent aspect of the composition aside from the depiction of the water is the brilliant sunburst overhead, which visually echoes the halos emanating from the heads of Christ and John the Baptist. The rays of sun around Christ’s head produces a mirroring effect with the sun rays above, creating a strong vertical axis down the center of the painting aided through the positioning of the shell streaming baptismal water directly in between. This visual strategy helps to reinforce the conflation of Christ with Inti without the use of any overt Inca symbolism that would have caught the attention of censors.70 Two individuals stand to the right of Christ in the space occupied by a pair of angels in all of the previous images. Both Christ and Saint John can be read as mestizo, with their abundant facial hair (a common visual trope that denoted European ancestry) and light brown skin. The two figures situated next to Christ, who share a similar physiognomy but lack facial hair, can be read as ethnically indigenous or indigenous descended. These subtle racial designations become more fully apparent by comparing the figures with the whiter, rosy-­cheeked figures of Saint Peter and Saint Paul flanking the scene. The figure in the front has a smaller face and softer jawline and appears to

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Turning the Jordan River into a Pacarina     141 be gendered as female, while the figure behind has a slightly larger face and more masculine features. The figures are situated close to one another and make bodily contact, further suggesting their status as a couple. I would suggest that the figures represent Manco Capac and Mama Ocllo themselves, witnessing the scene of Christ’s baptism. While colonial representations of this mythical couple usually feature them in traditional Inca vestments, here they wear more nondescript clothing, perhaps in keeping with the Christian theme. It should be noted, however, that both figures wear sandals, which was a common marker of elite Inca status (as opposed to going barefoot). This kind of revisionism became increasingly widespread in the late colonial period as a way for indigenous peoples unparadoxically to claim both Christian and Andean identities, as the writings and illustrations of Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala so eloquently address. Garcilaso also set a precedent for such conflations in his description of the origin of the Inca kings, in which he states: While these peoples were living or dying in the manner we have seen, it pleased our Lord God that from their midst there should appear a morning star to give them in the dense darkness in which they dwelt some glimmerings of natural law, of civilization, and of the respect men owe to one another. The descendants of this leader should thus tame those savages and convert them into men, made capable of reason and of receiving good doctrine, so that when God, who is the sun of justice, saw fit to send forth the light of His divine rays upon those idolaters, it might find them no longer in their first savagery, but rendered more docile to receive the Catholic faith and the teaching and doctrine of our Holy Mother the Roman Church. . . . It has been observed by clear experience how much prompter and quicker to receive the Gospel were the Indians subdued, governed, and taught by the Inca kings than the other neighboring peoples unreached by the Incas’ teachings.71 Garcilaso follows a formula similar to that of contemporary indigenous and mestizo authors in his assertion that the Incas furnished the conditions under which the gospel could be received once it was brought to Peru by the Spaniards. This historical construction posits the Incas as critical intermediaries in the transmission of Christianity to the Andes, without whom the colonial project might have failed.72 By integrating the mythical couple into Christ’s baptism at Lake Titicaca, the muralist takes Garcilaso’s narrative one step further to claim that the Incas were witnesses to one of the most iconic moments in the history of Christianity. The

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142     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between painting also capitalizes on Pitumarca’s geographical position between Lake Titicaca and Cuzco, perhaps reminding viewers of their own proximity to this place of origin through well-­worn pilgrimage routes with which local inhabitants would have surely been familiar. It grants legitimacy to Inca origin stories by bringing both the sacred site and the key figures associated with it into alignment with the Christian timeline. The painting thus participates in an ongoing struggle to establish commensurability between two pasts previously considered at odds with one another. As Verónica Salles-­Reese notes, Lake Titicaca served as an “unmoving center” through which different origin stories and collective identities were asserted, whether on the part of local Colla peoples, the Incas, or Augustinian missionaries who settled in the region in the sixteenth century.73 We can perhaps see the Pitumarca mural as carving out its own version of the narrative cycle through the interpenetration of its visual characteristics with the written and oral histories that viewers would have conferred onto it. To paint Christ’s baptism in such an explicitly Andean physical and mythical landscape was a remarkable act of agency. Such bold acts did not emerge from a vacuum. The cultural climate of Inca Nationalism in the years leading up to the Tupac Amaru Rebellion of 1780 offered opportunities for artists to explore the intersections of Inca and European origins in an era of increased artistic opportunity for indigenous painters.74 Evocations of Incaness, whether in the realm of material culture, literature, or painting, were not practiced out of mere whim. There was a great deal at stake in the articulation of contemporary indigenous peoples’ cultural and historical contiguity with the Inca past. Murals like these participated in a larger ideological battleground for the political primacy and recognition of native elites.75 As Hiroshige Okada has demonstrated in his analysis of the murals at the Church of Carabuco situated along the eastern shores of Lake Titicaca, indigenous elites played a central role in the patronage of murals during the late colonial period.76 While the figure of Christ himself does not wear an Inca tunic or bear any visual markers of an Inca sovereign, the compositional elements work together to place Christ within Inca space and time. Conversely, they also place the Andes within a Christian history and teleology. The figures comingle in a wholly Other space that could only exist in the collective imagination of Andeans entrenched in both mytho-­theological traditions. Tracing a genealogy of artistic production from Perret’s print to its resultant murals can only tell us part of the story, whereby the visual complexity of the original engraving breaks down into ever more simplified forms. This narrative, when considered in isolation, merely repeats the old adage that colonial art fails to live up to the naturalism and stylistic finesse of its original sources. Some may

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Turning the Jordan River into a Pacarina     143 see this stylistic shift as indicative of a gradual geographical and temporal dislocation from cosmopolitan currents. But I would argue that the transition from Cusi Guaman’s mannerist-­inflected naturalism to a total rejection of illusionistic space in the Pitumarca mural underscores the artist’s investment in alternative modes of visual communication. And if we look beyond the surface appearance of these images to consider the physical and conceptual pathways along which these artistic exchanges occurred, a different kind of art historical trajectory emerges in which spatial dynamics take center stage. These baptism murals demonstrate the negotiation of three layers of spatiality: first, the literal movement of Perret’s print across physical space from Malta to the Andes; second, the conceptual movement of imagined spaces referenced in the painting from the Jordan River to Qoyllur Urmana or Lake Titicaca; and finally the permutations of media from oil on canvas to engraving to mural painting. We also witness a conscious modification of each image from the model that preceded it as a means of bringing the painting into alignment with the vicissitudes of its contemporary moment. We must thus recognize that the Pitumarca mural is just as thoroughly embedded in a late-­eighteenth-­century historical and cultural milieu, despite its “provincial” appearance, as are Perret’s print and Cusi Guaman’s painting in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. While an art historical model predicated primarily on formal comparative analysis may posit the Pitumarca mural as a stylistic “throwback,” this leaves out half the story. The Pitumarca mural thoroughly recontextualized the site of Christ’s baptism within an Andean sacred landscape loaded with its own ritual and political significance inherited from the Inca period. Most importantly, the artist did so within a new visual paradigm that decentered European verism in order to make room for new symbolic and iconographical possibilities for articulating sacredness. These murals demonstrate the different means by which artists coded Christ’s baptism with a diverse set of local references from the seventeenth to eighteenth centuries. While united in their reliance on Pieter Perret’s print, the murals take on dramatically different appearances as a result of the availability of visual source materials and the historical conditions in which they were conceived. Neither of the cases presents a simple process of direct, literal copying. The visual evidence offered here points to a sophisticated system of transmission and exchange of source images as well as the physical movement of the artists across the Andean landscape to view and emulate preexisting paintings housed in parish churches throughout the region. Cusi Guaman and the Pitumarca muralist imbued these murals with local

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144     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between resonance through the inclusion of indigenous symbolism, the conflation of Christian sites with Andean sacred geographies, and subtle compositional maneuvers that reorganized European religious imagery according to Andean spatial hierarchies. They relied on their viewers’ fluency in both Christian iconography and a diverse set of local and pre-­Columbian referents codified through a colonial visual rhetoric. These murals were not simply static paintings on baptistery walls but dynamic expressions of local identities filtered through iconic Christian scenes, signifying a plethora of meanings and possibilities for the assertion of Andean beliefs, visions, and counterclaims to colonial ideologies.

C h ap t e r 5

Earthly Violence/Divine Justice Tadeo Escalante’s Murals at the Church of Huaro

Late-­eighteenth-­century Peru marked a period of acute social and political conflict, which historian Steve Stern famously coined the “Age of Andean Insurrections.”1 An unprecedented number of anticolonial uprisings occurred over the course of four decades, including the Juan Santos Atahualpa Rebellion of 1746 in the Amazonian region, the Huarochirí Rebellion of 1750 in Lima’s highlands, the Tupac Amaru Rebellion of 1780–1783 in southern Peru, and the Tupac Katari Rebellion of 1780–1781 in Alto Peru (modern-­day Bolivia). While the estimates for the human cost of these rebellions vary widely, one of the material consequences that can be hardly disputed is the amount of destruction wrought on residences, customs houses, and churches by rebel forces and counterinsurgents alike.2 During the Tupac Amaru Rebellion in particular, churches were set on fire, liturgical objects made of precious metals confiscated, and a litany of other sacred items destroyed, attested by the wealth of late-­eighteenth-­century inventories, account books, and letters between rural priests and Cuzco’s ecclesiastical administration that describe the damage done to their churches.3 This chapter explores artistic production within a climate of both reconstruction and cultural repression through the lens of an elaborate mural program at the church of Huaro signed and dated by Tadeo Escalante in 1802. While Escalante’s murals extend across the entirety of the church, this chapter focuses on his four murals in the sotacoro: Hell (Infierno), Death in the House of the Rich and Poor (Muerte en la casa del rico y pobre), Tree of Life (Árbol de la vida), and The Last Judgment (El juicio final) (see plate 1). New archival evidence introduced here sheds light on the artistic career of Escalante, a poorly understood figure in the history of colonial Andean painting, to understand his enigmatic artistic interventions at the church of Huaro. A comparative analysis of Escalante’s paintings with a simi-

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146     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between lar set of murals from the Church of San Pablo de Cacha provides context for the conditions under which artists worked in the postrebellion era. This chapter also demonstrates the ways in which eschatological imagery was deployed as a means of recouping repressed collective memories of unmitigated political violence waged on the very lands on which Huaro’s parishioners stood. The Huaro murals demonstrate a marked preference for figural representation: in particular, complex, multifigural compositions with unprecedented numbers of bodies in every configuration imaginable, from clothed, sanctified bodies to menacing skeletons. Unlike the abstracted aesthetic of the textile murals discussed in chapter 3, Escalante’s mural program demonstrates a reprivileging of figural representation. Indeed, the sheer magnitude of human figures represented across nearly every paintable surface of the church of Huaro far outnumbers that of any colonial church in the Cuzco region. This can perhaps be attributed to Escalante’s desire to showcase his skill in producing complex compositions that surpass those of his peers as well as his ability to command a large labor force of assistants. Though a far cry from the ordered, abstracted aesthetic of the textile murals, Escalante’s compositions at Huaro similarly draw metaphorical relationships to the human body. The “body” of the church and the multitudinous bodies displayed along the surfaces of its walls engaged in a dialogical relationship that made manifest recent histories of violence enacted within churches themselves throughout the southern Andes. These skeletal, sanctified, and demonic figures were strategically deployed to narrate histories of social upheaval and its resultant carnage through an eschatological prism—revealing a wealth of possibilities for accessing tangible, visible memories at a time when the terrain of remembrance was actively policed.

The Tupac Amaru Rebellion By 1780 mounting discontent with the crown’s radical restructuring of Andean life converged with prophecies of the return of the Inca to incite the largest and most violent anticolonial rebellion in Latin America. The turn of the century ushered in a major regime change, with the transfer of imperial power from the Habsburgs to the Bourbons. The Bourbon monarchy gained control over Spain and its colonial possessions in 1713 after the War of Spanish Succession. In an effort to streamline colonial bureaucracy and increase profits, the monarchy implemented a series of measures known as the Bourbon Reforms. One of the most devastating economic policies imposed under these reforms was the reinstatement in 1756 of the repartimiento de mercancías (also known as the re-

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Earthly Violence/Divine Justice     147 parto), discussed in chapter 3.4 Indians were expected to pay off their debts incurred from these purchases through increased participation in the system of rotational labor known as the mita, which usually involved arduous labor at the dangerous Potosí mines. This new system exploited the already fragile divisions among corregidores (local magistrates), curacas, and indigenous communities.5 The subdivision of the southern sector of the Peruvian viceroyalty in 1776 into the Viceroyalty of Río de la Plata also resulted in the fragmentation of trade networks, which catapulted these districts into further economic marginalization.6 The radically altered economic and political landscape of Peru under the Bourbons dovetailed with the development of several apocalyptic prophecies in the late eighteenth century.7 The preface of the second edition of “El Inca” Garcilaso de la Vega’s Comentarios reales, published in 1723, recounts a prophecy by Sir Walter Raleigh that the Indians would overthrow the Spanish to usher in a return to the Inca Empire with the help of the British.8 Some of these messianic prognostications began to materialize into human action. For instance, the mestizo Juan de Dios Orcoguaranca staged a failed uprising in Cuzco on January 1, 1777, due to the prophecy allegedly put forth by Saint Rose of Lima that indigenous Peruvians would have their kingdom returned to them in the “year of three sevens.”9 Another prophecy that began to gain currency during the time of Tupac Amaru’s uprising was the myth of Inkarrí, which claimed that the body and decapitated head of Tupac Amaru I, the last leader of the Neo-­Inca state, who was executed by viceroy Francisco de Toledo in 1572, had begun slowly regenerating underground.10 As such, the second Tupac Amaru was the reincarnated Inca born out of this regenerated body and equipped to fulfill his rebel ancestor’s mission to reclaim Inca power.11 This aura of impending destruction incited by prophecies and failed uprisings fomented a ready-­made base of ideological support for Tupac Amaru’s campaign, which capitalized on the bonds of an imagined shared Inca identity that would be forged through mutual hatred for Peru’s new economic regimes and a utopian vision of an Inca future. José Gabriel Condorcanqui Tupac Amaru (1738–1781) was a muleteer and curaca of Tungasuca in the province of Canas y Canchis to the southeast of Cuzco.12 He trained at the Colegio San Borja, a prestigious Jesuit school for the Indian nobility in the city of Cuzco. He was fully bilingual in Spanish and Quechua and knew a smattering of Latin. As the political intermediary between his indigenous community and the Spanish colonial administration, Tupac Amaru found himself in an increasingly compromised position as he witnessed the brutal exploitation of Tungasuca’s population under the Bourbon Reforms. In 1776 he traveled to Lima, where he entered into a legal battle against Don

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148     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between Diego Felipe Betancur to compete for official status as a legitimate descendant of Tupac Amaru I, which was rejected by the high court. He also petitioned to have the mita labor obligation lifted from his community of Tungasuca because of the dangerous conditions in the Potosí mines. His request was swiftly rejected by the newly appointed visitador general (the equivalent of royal inspector), José Antonio de Areche. A defeated Tupac Amaru returned to Tungasuca in 1777, at the height of the region’s messianic fervor, after two major bureaucratic losses. On November 4, 1780, Tupac Amaru and the corregidor of Tungasuca, Antonio Arriaga, attended a banquet in the town of Yanaoca hosted by the local priest. Tupac Amaru had a fairly antagonistic relationship with Arriaga and became increasingly frustrated by his apparent lack of concern for the welfare of Tungasuca’s indigenous inhabitants. Tupac Amaru left the banquet early, feigning illness. He camped out on the road to the town of Tinta until he and his attendants saw Arriaga en route. They ambushed Arriaga and brought him back to Tungasuca in chains. During his imprisonment Arriaga was forced to write letters to his assistants in Tinta requesting arms and money under the false pretense that he needed supplies to fight pirates along the coast. Although Arriaga managed to collect the arms and money that Tupac Amaru needed to wage his insurgency, Tupac Amaru still issued an order for Arriaga’s execution on November 10, 1780.13 Arriaga was brought to the gallows in the plaza of Tinta and presented with a false proclamation penned by Tupac Amaru himself that he was to be hanged under the orders of King Charles III. This was pure fabrication on the part of the rebel leader, of course, but pointed to his desire to eliminate political intermediaries. He saw himself as a sovereign ruler who received orders directly from the king of Spain. Arriaga’s execution kicked off Tupac Amaru’s insurgency. He traveled throughout the Cuzco region recruiting troops, enlisting disgruntled indigenous, mestizo, zambo (of indigenous and African ancestry), and even criollo insurgents, all united against a common enemy: peninsular Spaniards. Tupac Amaru promised his supporters a life free of Spanish colonialism and all of its repressive economic institutions. The hotbed of activity centered in the southern provinces of Canas y Canchis and Quispicanchi, where Tupac Amaru drew his largest base of rebel troops.14 Canas y Canchis provided full support of the rebel leader with the exception of the towns of Coporaque and Sicuani. Quispicanchi, where the church of Huaro is located, was roughly divided in half between rebels and royalists.15 The city of Cuzco and its satellite communities to the north in the Urubamba Valley, however, remained staunchly loyalist. Tupac Amaru had plans to attack Cuzco but delayed his attack until January 1781 for reasons not fully understood. On Janu-

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Earthly Violence/Divine Justice     149 ary 8 he waged an offensive on the city with an army of four hundred men. The royalist forces, aided by reinforcements from Lima, led a violent counterattack. Tupac Amaru retreated. His forces were defeated at the Battle of Tinta by a group of heavily armed royalists who surrounded their encampment and attempted to starve them out. Tupac Amaru fled, but a traitor from his army alerted the authorities on his whereabouts. He and his wife, Micaela Bastidas, were captured on April 14, 1781. While the rebellion continued in the Lake Titicaca region until 1783, the Cuzco region declared the rebellion over with the capture and bloody execution of Tupac Amaru, his family, and his most loyal supporters. The estimates vary widely, but most place the death toll at around 100,000 indigenous Andeans and about 10,000 Spaniards and criollos.16

Churches as Sites of Counterindoctrination Churches and chapels figured prominently in the Tupac Amaru Rebellion as sites of both refuge and violence. Indeed, the pivotal event that made evident the need for a robust counterinsurgency took place inside the church of Sangarará near the town of Tinta on November 18, 1780. Tupac Amaru went head to head with Tiburcio Landa, who had gathered a royalist force composed of about a thousand Indians and mestizos from the Cuzco area. Landa and his troops took refuge in the church due to an impending snowstorm. When Landa refused to evacuate his forces, Tupac Amaru and his army set fire to the church, and a bloody battle ensued. The accounts vary widely, but the battle cost the lives of about five hundred troops. Several women and children were raped and murdered. The Battle of Sangarará sent a forceful message to the loyalists that the rebels possessed tremendous military strength and ideological unity. Traditionally seen as places of refuge and protection, churches became transformed into sites of rampant bloodshed. Consider one vivid account of the Battle of Sangarará by a Spanish royalist soldier: The universal slaughter, the pitiful groans of the dying, the bloodthirstiness of the enemy, the fragments of flames—in short, everything that occurred that unfortunate day provoked horror and commiseration, sentiments never felt by the rebels; blinded by fury and thirsty for blood, they only thought of stabbing all the whites in a horrifying and bloody spectacle, which will never escape my thoughts for as long as I live.17 Juan Manuel de Moscoso y Peralta, bishop of Cuzco during the rebellion, described the actions of Tupac Amaru and his troops as causing “horrifying dep-

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150     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between redation with death, robbery, sacrilege, rape, and other iniquities.”18 Vivid descriptions of violence like these tap into a corresponding visual imaginary of the apocalypse facilitated by paintings of hell and the Last Judgment, to which contemporaries would have had ample access on the walls of churches and private residences.19 The Battle of Sangarará itself became a metaphor for Judgment Day; the senseless violence that the rebels inflicted on the royalists, it was believed, would match the eternal suffering that the rebels would encounter in the afterlife. In fact, Moscoso was explicit about the eventual fate of all of those who supported the rebel leader, reminding them that “your eternal condemnation is already decreed by God.”20 Documents produced during and after the rebellion continually draw upon apocalyptic metaphors in their description of the violence, rendering the southern Andes as a veritable hell on earth. At the same time that royalist forces were invoking eschatological concepts in their descriptions of the rebellion, the rebels emphasized the unthinkable spiritual and physical violence wrought on indigenous, mestizo, and creole peoples by the Spaniards. In an edict written by Tupac Amaru himself that was found in his pocket at the moment of his capture, he describes Spanish secular and ecclesiastical officials as people who, “without fear of God, harmed the naturales [native peoples] of this Kingdom as if they were beasts.”21 The Peruvian historian Alberto Flores Galindo argues that the logic of the anticolonial insurgents justified the killing of Spaniards as a way of restoring order to a world controlled by heretics and God-­hating “savages”: This was conquest discourse inverted. Rebel texts referred to them [the Spaniards] as “impious” or “the excommunicated,” placed them at the edge of humanity, or denied them humanity: Spaniards were the devil incarnate, anti-­Christs and pistacos, the infernal, evil beings who emerged only to steal fat or blood. One document stated that corregidores “come to suck and take advantage of blood and sweat.”22 In the rebel Andean imaginary, both peninsular and creole Spaniards become personified as subhuman, demonic creatures—the very ones who populate the apocalyptic visions conjured by their loyalist enemies. It should be noted, however, that Tupac Amaru, a devout Catholic whose intense religiosity is well documented in his letters, was in no way attempting to make a break with the church. Rather, he blamed the corruption of the Spaniards for preventing Andean peoples from reaching their full spiritual potential.23 It is within this larger ideological battle to locate each side within a religious

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Earthly Violence/Divine Justice     151 framework of unparalleled moral transgression that the church of San Juan Bautista de Huaro enters the scene as a site of political indoctrination.24 José Esteban Escarcena de Villanueva provided a lengthy account of the movement of the rebels in the Huaro region during his January 16, 1781, confession of criminal acts conducted with Mariano Banda during the rebellion.25 He recounts that Tupac Amaru participated in services at the church of Huaro, after which he led the local indigenous residents to the nearby cemetery, where he made an important announcement to the community members. The rebel leader told the Huareños that until now they had not known God, nor had they understood who he was; they had respected as God the thieves [who called themselves] corregidores and the priests, but that he came to remedy all this, and from now on there would no longer be repartos, acabalas, Potosí mitas, allowances, or customs and that they would live free and only need to pay tribute to him.26 As Escarena recalled in his testimony, Tupac Amaru then traveled to the nearby towns of Andahuaylillas and Oropesa, where he entered the churches, prayed at the altars, and then led the worshippers to the nearby cemetery, where he gave the same speech.27 This event had a clear impact on Huaro’s indigenous residents: Micaela Bastidas mentions the tactical support that she received from the Indians of Huaro in a letter to Tupac Amaru dated February 20, 1781.28 The church of Huaro served as a site not only of political mobilization but of counterindoctrination. Tupac Amaru’s strategic use of the church and its immediate environs granted physical, architectonic form to his damning indictment of the people and institutions associated with it. The body of the church became a metaphor for the corrupt individuals who embodied colonial power. In Tupac Amaru’s vision of this world turned upside down, priests, corregidores, and other officials now formed a sinister pantheon of a religion of deceit. This also raises a question: if the spectators had not known God until that very moment, then through what mechanism were they now able to “see” their true God? Tupac Amaru positions himself as the vital force capable of reinstating order to a disordered universe, as a messianic figure who could bring people out of their ignorance and let them see what a just world could look like. Architecture and the visual arts thus played a central role in creating a shared visual and spatial landscape of insurgency. This remapping of the sociopolitical consciousness of Tupac Amaru’s rebel forces through the creation of a navigable visual imaginary provided a clear itinerary of liberation. It also meant that the visual arts of the postrebellion period would need to project an especially forceful message of

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152     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between orthodoxy and social propriety to overcome the tremendous ideological assaults waged on the Catholic Church. Throughout his campaigns, the rebel leader transformed the region’s most sanctified spaces into potent sites of unlearning; they were now indicted for their complicity in the oppression of the communities that had invested so much of their economic and spiritual resources into the church. For instance, while setting fire to the church of Caylloma in which several Spaniards were housed, the rebels shouted: “The time of mercy is finished, there are no more Sacraments nor God with any power.”29 The church, which was the literal spiritual and social center of the rural Andean pueblo, was stripped of its role as a site of sanctuary. Instead it bore witness to unthinkable acts of rape and murder. As David Garrett notes, “The assault on these temples, and their refugees, represented a profound rejection of the Church as a corrupt, colonial institution. Colonial elites criticized aspects of the colonial order, but they embraced colonial society: here the rebels rejected a fundamental institution and set of beliefs.”30 Garrett rightly argues that the rebel forces dismantled the church’s traditional function within the pueblos de indios of the southern Andes. But I would contend that the church was not merely “undone” or rejected during the time of rebellion. It was also radically transformed into a place of deliberate counterindoctrination: its contradictions were exposed and the battle for righting the wrongs of colonial rule could be waged. In other words, the church was not simply emptied of significance but subsequently laden with the discourse of insurgency. The church became the backdrop for the collection of troops, the violence of insurgent warfare, and the performance of Tupac Amaru’s political machinations. The space of the church was situated at the nexus of the rebellion’s physical and ideological conflicts, whose reverberations were felt long after the fires had dwindled and the rebellion was quelled.

Rebuilding the Christian Landscape Scholars have devoted ample attention to the reconstruction of Cuzco in the aftermath of the 1650 earthquake and the central role that Bishop Manuel de Mollinedo y Angulo played in rebuilding and renovating hundreds of churches and chapels throughout the Cuzco archdiocese.31 Far fewer, however, have considered the process of rebuilding rural Cuzco in the aftermath of the Tupac Amaru Rebellion nearly a century and a half later. Once the violence in the Cuzco region had ceased with the brutal execution of Tupac Amaru and his supporters in the

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Earthly Violence/Divine Justice     153 city’s plaza de armas on May 18, 1781, the southern provinces lay in ruins.32 As Moscoso lamented in 1781, The Temples are desolate, the Altars ruined, the practice of Religion abandoned, the sublime Doctrine forgotten, the Sheep scattered, the Pastor faint, the pueblos still steaming from the blood of the victims sacrificed to the fury, such was the state of the [divine] cult, and the Religion of the Rebel Provinces.33 With the ecclesiastical infrastructure of this region all but destroyed, the task of rebuilding was imperative for restoring both the physical ruins and the spiritual well-­being of its inhabitants. Indeed, as Michael Sallnow notes, the miraculous apparition of El Señor de Qoyllur Rit’i in 1783 was probably not mere coincidence; the shrine fulfilled a political agenda to reunite the polarized indigenous factions of Ocongate and beyond through a devotion that was “uniquely capable of transcending the divided loyalties of a distressed people and extending its grace to all comers.”34 The parishes that were most complicit in the rebellion often feature artworks with the most violent imagery, couched within a variety of religious themes. The church of Santa Bárbara in the La Paz region, for instance, once contained a 1790 painting depicting the indigenous rebels of the Tupac Katari Rebellion engulfed in the flames of hell.35 The late-­eighteenth-­century baptistery mural at the church of Catca depicting Cuzco’s great plague of 1720, to take another example, has been interpreted as a thinly veiled reference to the Tupac Amaru Rebellion.36 The impetus for the integration of this imagery in the churches of former rebel territories was manifold. First, it served as a means of currying favor with ecclesiastical authority in Cuzco, which had undergone a major reconfiguration after the rebellion. Second, as some scholars have argued, these images provided “reaffirmations of the faith” that helped to restore a sense of religiosity in an increasingly secularized society whose commitment to the Catholic Church had perhaps been compromised during the rebellion.37 Third, mural painting offered a quick and inexpensive way to decorate the interior of the church without having to pay for the labor and materials required for the construction of new retablos, canvas paintings, liturgical hangings, and other types of decoration. And finally, as in the church of Huaro, the murals could simultaneously participate in erasing the social memory of the church as a site of counterindoctrination through a visually flamboyant religiosity while also subversively re-­“membering” histories of violence through the visual deployment of the human body.

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154     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between

Figure 5.1 Hell, mural painting, Church of San Pablo de Cacha, late eighteenth century. © Rodrigo Rodrich.

The next two decades brought a flurry of reconstruction activity described in great detail in the documentary record as evidence of the good deeds referenced in priests’ petitions for special privileges submitted in the wake of the rebellion.38 Of particular relevance here is a relación (report) describing the merits and services of Doctor Don Manuel de Cabiedes. The relación outlines in great detail the improvements that he made to the church of San Pablo de Cacha, which, like Huaro, was also a site of rebel activity in the early phase of the rebellion.39 He was praised for completely refurbishing the churches of the doctrina of Cacha (which included the churches of San Pedro and San Pablo). The visitador general Joseph Gallegos deemed Cabiedes one of the most exemplary párrocos in the diocese in 1789 not only for his dedication to his congregation but for his “particular care in the adornment and edification of his churches.”40 A set of mural paintings in the sotacoro of the church of San Pablo de Cacha provides us with a visual manifestation of Cabiedes’s deeds and a probable link to Escalante’s murals at Huaro (see plate 20).41 In the mural to the right of the entrance portal, the souls of purgatory languish in flames, with contorted bodies and hands clasped in prayer. Angels along the upper register pull some

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Earthly Violence/Divine Justice     155 of the bodies up out of the fiery landscape. Though badly deteriorated, the mural exhibits clear visual continuities with a series of prints by the engraver Diego Villegas that were included in Pablo Señeri’s El infierno abierto al christiano para que no caiga en él, originally published in Puebla, Mexico, in 1719.42 The twisted bodies and harrowing expressions of the figures in the San Pablo de Cacha mural have an affinity with Villegas’s prints. Coincidentally, these very same prints informed Tadeo Escalante’s depiction of hell in the sotacoro of the church of Huaro two decades later (as discussed below). Given the 1789 date of the relación that describes Joseph Gallegos’s designation of Cabiedes as an exemplary párroco, we can hypothesize that the sotacoro murals were likely produced at some point between 1781 and 1789. The mural of hell to the left of the entrance wall of San Pablo de Cacha is also deteriorated, but the remaining upper half of the image features a roaring hell mouth with flames spurting from its eyes and a profusion of burning bodies and demons emanating from its maws (fig. 5.1). The fiery castle loosely resembles the one depicted in an eighteenth-­century mural also dedicated to the paths to heaven and hell at the Convent of La Merced in Cuzco proper, located in a basement residence inhabited by Fray Francisco de Salamanca (see plate 21).43 The Merced mural, perhaps loosely based on Riaño’s mural at Andahuaylillas discussed in chapter 2, can help establish a web of iconographical connections to the murals of San Pablo de Cacha (ca. 1780s) and the church of Huaro (1802), whose relationships were forged through the movement of artists, drawings, and prints across the city of Cuzco and its southern provinces. The sotacoro murals of San Pablo de Cacha place great emphasis on fire, blood, and human anguish, whose intensity engenders a visceral rather than contemplative viewing experience. This was perhaps a reflection of a community still processing and mourning the violent bloodshed that had occurred just a few years earlier. These murals differ dramatically in style and content from the rest of the mural program distributed along the nave and presbytery, which dates to the early seventeenth century and centers on scenes from the life of Saint Augustine.44 Manuel de Cabiedes, in his efforts to repair and adorn the church, may well have hired an amateur artist to decorate the sotacoro with imagery that resonated with indigenous communities that had experienced the trauma of death while also sending a clear message of the eternal consequences of rebelling against the colonial state. Tomás Collado, a colleague of Manuel de Cabiedes and cura of Huaro until the late 1790s, would have known of his accomplishment at San Pablo de Cacha and may have wished to position his own parish as an exemplary model for the dio-

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156     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between cese in the eyes of visitador general Joseph Gallegos. Collado’s decision to reserve exactly the same location (the sotacoro) for Escalante’s murals at the church of Huaro and make use of the same print sources that informed the Cacha murals may have been a way for him to jockey for power within Cuzco’s ecclesiastical hierarchy. His patronage of Tadeo Escalante, a high-­status maestro pintor who had already completed an impressive mural program at the Convent of Santa Catalina in Cuzco about a decade earlier, could also reflect Collado’s desire not only to emulate Cabiedes but to surpass his achievements.45 The parishes that remained loyal to the royalist cause, in contrast, featured religious and allegorical references to the defeat of Tupac Amaru. The párroco of the staunchly royalist community of San Jerónimo on the outskirts of Cuzco commissioned a sculpture of “Apostle Santiago with clothing engraved in gold, trampling over Joseph and Diego Tupa Amaro [his cousin and supporter]” to be placed in one of the niches in the altar dedicated to Saint Peter.46 The sculpture adds yet another twist to the evolving identity of Santiago Matamoros to Mataindios, and in this case perhaps to Santiago “Matatupamaro.”47 Representations like these countered prior invocations of a Santiago “Matagodos” (Spanish killer) during the rebellion. The church of Chinchero features a mural along the portico depicting their community’s very own cacique Mateo Pumacahua, personified as a puma, vanquishing an amaru, an Andean mythological creature and an obvious play on the name of the rebel leader. The church’s titular virgin of Montserrat presides over the scene, underscoring her divine intervention in aiding the royalist cacique (see figs. 5.2 and 5.3).48 The artistic programs of the formerly royalist parishes tend to feature victorious imagery of triumph through the lens of allegory and spiritual intercession, while former rebel areas often contain grotesque, violent images of hell and the Last Judgment as a means of deterring any future actions against the state. The rebuilding of Cuzco’s southern provinces can thus be better understood in light of broader struggles for recognition among priests in the wake of the disaster in which artists played a crucial intermediary role. It is here that Tadeo Escalante enters the scene, whose career straddled both the prerebellion and postrebellion periods as well as the colonial and postcolonial worlds.

Tadeo Escalante Escalante grew up in Acomayo, located about eighty miles east of Cuzco. The Escalante family had deep roots in Acomayo as well as in Cuzco proper. His exact birth and death dates remain unknown, but scholars have estimated that he was

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Earthly Violence/Divine Justice     157

Figure 5.2 Portico mural at the Church of Nuestra Señora de Montserrat de Chinchero, after 1782. Photo by author.

Figure 5.3 Detail of portico mural showing a puma defeating an amaru, Church of Nuestra Señora de Montserrat de Chinchero, after 1782. Photo by author.

born around 1770.49 He likely died before 1838, as his name does not appear in Acomayo’s only surviving Libro de Defunción (Death Ledger), which spanned the years from 1838 to 1861.50 Little is known about his life or lineage, but it has also been proposed that he witnessed the public beheading of his blood relative

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158     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between Tomasa Tito Condemayta, whose head was prominently displayed in the plaza of Acos after her brutal execution for her participation in the rebellion.51 He enjoyed a prolific artistic career, painting murals in the Sala Capitular of the convent of Santa Catalina in the late eighteenth century, the church of Huaro (1802), the Capilla de Nuestra Señora de Belén in Acomayo (1830), and a series of murals in the wheat mills (molinos) of Acomayo (1830), where his descendants still live today.52 Although he may have also painted on canvas, his only securely attributed surviving work exists in mural format. I began my search in Cuzco’s ecclesiastical archives in an effort to flesh out Escalante’s spotty biography, examining legal documents and church records of baptisms, marriages, and deaths in order to piece together his family history.53 The earliest reference that I located related to the Escalante family concerns a Dorotea Trivino de Escalante, who filed a complaint about thieves on her property in 1703. The name “de Escalante” (of Escalante) suggests that she married into the family, although the legal document contains no reference to her husband’s full name.54 The Escalante family had married into the Tito Condemayta family, a noble indigenous ayllu (kin group) of the Acomayo/Acos region, by the late eighteenth century. Born in 1729, Tomasa Tito Condemayta Hurtado de Mendoza was the daughter of Sebastián Tito Condemayta, a curaca, and Doña Alfonsa Hurtado de Mendoza. Tomasa Tito Condemayta is best known for her active participation in the Tupac Amaru Rebellion alongside Tupac Amaru’s his wife, Micaela Bastidas.55 Tito Condemayta married Faustino Delgado and had at least two sons: Ramón and Evaristo Delgado, who are both mentioned in the Tupac Amaru documentation.56 Julián Escalante, who may have been Tomasa’s nephew, served as one of Tupac Amaru’s principal advisors.57 Given Tadeo Escalante’s young age during the time of the rebellion, Julián and his wife, Teresa Farfán (sometimes referred to the documents as Tomasa), could have been his parents.58 On June 8, 1816, Julián and Teresa’s son, Juan Escalante, married Gregoria Peso, a Spaniard.59 He was the widower of Ancelma Sinayuca y Ccama, who came from a prominent indigenous elite family in Lampa.60 Other Escalantes abound in the archival records. In 1780 Ramón Escalante drew up a petition justifying his holding of the titles for a chaplaincy in the town of Pomacanchi near Acomayo.61 Domingo Escalante, brother of Julián and assistant to the priest of Marcoconga near Sangarará,62 was tried in 1781 for suspected support of Tupac Amaru.63 A Mariano Escalante lived in Acomayo in the early years of the nineteenth century, indicated by a suit filed against him for tithes he owed to Doctor Manuel de la Sota in the form of cattle and fruit produced in the nearby town of Rondocan in 1803–1804.64 Another Juan Escalante,

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Earthly Violence/Divine Justice     159 perhaps the son of the elder Juan, was a local justice of the peace ( juez de paz local) of Acos in 1848.65 A Santiago Escalante served as cura of Guayopata, Acos, in the 1860s.66 The final entries for members of the Escalante clan with potential immediate connection to Tadeo are Acomayo residents Gregorio Escalante, husband of Ysabel Luna, who died in 1843, and Juana Escalante, who died in 1867.67 None of these documents, however, contain any reference to Tadeo Escalante himself.68 This research led to the discovery of the only known archival reference to Tadeo Escalante to date, located in the inventory for the church of Huaro. The Huaro ledger housed in the Archivo Arzobispal de Cuzco includes inventories recorded between 1788 and 1862.69 The administration of the church of Huaro underwent numerous changes in the late eighteenth century and early nineteenth century. Pedro Santistevan y Cano served as cura of Urcos and Huaro from 1788 to 1792 and maintained a resolutely loyalist stance during the rebellion.70 Several letters exchanged between Santistevan and Juan Manuel de Moscoso during the rebellion indicate his commitment to defeating the rebel forces. One even describes his effort to prevent them from burning down the church of Urcos, which was also under Santistevan’s jurisdiction.71 After Santistevan’s death in 1792,72 he was succeeded by Tomás Collado, who oversaw the parish from 1792 to 1802, followed by Clemente Enriquez, who had been honored in 1784 for his service during the Tupac Amaru Rebellion in protecting the church of Yauri from the insurgents.73 Enriquez began his tenure at Huaro in 1803, a year after Escalante had completed his murals. By 1792 the church seems to have been in a state of disrepair. The newly installed cura Tomás Collado states that areas of the church had “braces in the parts without adobe or whitewash with a slight fall toward the choir, and several holes in the roof.”74 The following year, however, Collado refers to “two pesos paid to the painter for paintings in the presbytery,” suggesting a slow but steady renovation of the church.75 Curiously, the inventory contains no mention whatsoever of Escalante’s 1802 mural, despite careful documentation of expenses and renovations made to the church. In the account ledger from 1803, however, the new cura Clemente Enriquez records “eight pesos that I paid to Tadeo Escalante, maestro pintor, for the two confessionals that he repaired and painted, which were practically rubbish.”76 This entry is the first and only known archival reference to Tadeo Escalante, offering us secure historical documentation that confirms his position as master painter. The documentary evidence presented here raises more questions than answers. If the priests of Huaro were so meticulous in their record keeping, how

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160     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between is it that Escalante’s murals were left completely unmentioned, yet a seemingly minor job (repairing and painting two confessionals) receives attention? Escalante signed and dated the Huaro murals in 1802. We can certainly assume that he began painting them at some point after 1788, the earliest surviving entry in the Huaro inventory.77 Additional research in the Archivo Regional de Cuzco may uncover the original contract negotiated between Escalante and the cura of Huaro. In the absence of such a document, however, I propose that Tomás Collado, keeping in mind the accolades received by his colleague Manuel de Cabiedes, commissioned Escalante to paint the mural in the late 1790s that both emulated and improved upon the sotacoro murals at San Pablo de Cacha as a way of emphasizing his successes in reevangelizing a former rebel community.

Tadeo Escalante’s Murals at the Church of Huaro The church of San Juan Bautista de Huaro was founded in the last quarter of the seventeenth century (fig. 5.4). Late-­eighteenth- and early-­nineteenth-­century murals cover almost all vestiges of an earlier mural program, but restorations have revealed small patches of painting that correspond with seventeenth-­ century styles based on color palette and style.78 The church was declared a historical monument by the local government in December 1972 and was restored under the auspices of the World Monuments Fund in 2003.79 The paintings merit substantial attention as an artistic tour de force, covering nearly every paintable surface of the church’s interior, from nave to ceiling (see plate 22). The church’s inventory builds on our understanding of the chronology of the church’s mural program, which has until now only been hypothesized by scholars based on stylistic features. Santistevan describes Huaro’s ceiling “of carved and painted wood” and the walls “painted in the form of hangings [colgaduras], with glazed galones.”80 Indeed, several areas of the nave wall feature sections of red and green textile murals. During a visita by Joseph Gallegos on July 12, 1788, one of his mandates was for the priest to “have Santo Cristo painted on the wall” of the Capilla de Misericordia.81 Gallegos’s specific choice of mural painting as an appropriate form of religious adornment at Huaro demonstrates his preference for the medium and foregrounds his decision to select Manuel de Cabiedes, whose own church of San Pablo was filled with murals from floor to ceiling, as a commendable párroco in the following year for his work in the doctrina of Cacha. Collado’s support of Escalante’s mural project may have stemmed from Gallegos’s original suggestion in 1788 to utilize mural painting as a means of improving the church.

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Figure 5.4 Interior view of the Church of San Juan Bautista de Huaro, looking toward the altar. © Pilar Rau.

Huaro underwent at least two phases of mural decoration in the late eighteenth century. Unfortunately, because an earlier inventory of the church no longer exists, we do not know whether Escalante and his assistants were responsible for the earlier murals. We also do not know whether the murals to which Santistevan and Gallego refer were overpainted by Escalante or whether the originals remained untouched. The left nave wall (nave de evangélia) contains the following scenes leading toward the altar: death, pietà, Saint John, Saint Francis Xavier, and the Holy Family with St. John (fig. 5.5). The right nave wall (nave de epístola) contains the following murals: heaven, Saint James the Moor-­Killer at the Battle of Clavijo, Saint Jerome, Saint Martin of Tours, and the Life of Saint Albert the Confessor. A comprehensive analysis of Huaro’s mural program, which has already been taken on by a number of scholars, remains beyond the scope of this book.82 This chapter offers new interpretations of four scenes securely attributed to Escalante located in the sotacoro, where he signed and dated his work: Hell, Death in the House of the Rich and Poor, the Tree of Life, and the Last Judgment. It is in these images that the historical and political significance of Escalante’s work is most perceptible. Taking our cue from the circumstances that informed the strikingly similar murals at San Pablo de Cacha, Escalante’s murals also emerged during a critical period of reconstruction and reindoctrination. But

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162     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between

Figure 5.5 Pietà surrounded by textile murals, detail of nave murals, Church of San Juan Bautista de Huaro, 1802. Photo by author.

Escalante’s message can be construed in different ways, capitalizing on a deliberate ambiguity that facilitated multiple readings of the same images.

Hell The scene of hell at Huaro takes up the entire wall to the right of the entrance and frames the doorway leading up toward the choir. The magnificent multifigural scene is presided over by a brown-­skinned winged Lucifer situated at the top of the composition (see plate 23). The scene is divided into two registers delimited by banners containing two texts. The top banner reads “Ay de nosotros para que pecamos ya no ay remedio en el Ynfierno, adonde no ay que ber algun orden sino eternal confusion” (Woe to us that we sin and now there is no remedy in hell, where you will see no order, but eternal confusion). The lower banner reads “Ay de mi que ardiendo quedo ay que pude ya no puedo ay que por siempre he de arder ay que a Dios nunca he de ver” (Woe is me that I remain on fire, woe that what I could I no longer can, woe that forever I burn, woe that never will I see God). The rhythmic nature of the statements seems to evoke the repetitive moaning of the damned. As Gabriela Siracusano has observed in other Andean paintings of

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Figure 5.6 Tadeo Escalante, Hell, mural painting, Church of San Juan Bautista de Huaro, 1802. © Pilar Rau.

the Last Judgment, the musicality of the text comes through in a series of “sinuous rhythms” that can also be found in religious couplets from the eighteenth century describing the torments of hell.83 We can even imagine parishioners reciting the lines aloud as they view the scene, perhaps with the assistance of the priest, bringing the mural into the realm of a multisensory spectacle. Among the tortures depicted are a man ripping his heart out of his chest as a demon munches on his head and another demon sodomizing a victim with a spike (fig. 5.6). Scholars have posited that these graphic scenes, while in part derived from prints like those by Diego Villegas included in Pablo Señeri’s El infierno abierto, also recalled some of the gruesome aspects of the violent execution of Tupac Amaru and his supporters that Escalante may have witnessed as a child. For instance, an image of a person’s tongue being extracted by a demon has been interpreted as a reference to Tupac Amaru’s execution (his tongue was cut before his beheading), while the man clutching a stack of papers in the lower right with a rope around his neck has been identified as either Arriaga or Benito de la Mata Linares.84 Tropes of tongue cutting appear in a great deal of hell imagery, however, making it difficult to distinguish between the conventions of the iconography and possible historical acts that it may be referencing.

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164     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between All of the demons depicted in the composition have brown or green skin, another common trope in both the visual and literary culture of Iberia and colonial Latin America. The sinners, by contrast, have pale white skin with red hair. The reddened bodies engulfed in flames call to mind the derogatory Quechua term pukakunka (redneck) used to describe Spaniards in the eighteenth century during the period of insurgency.85 The seemingly infinite intertwined bodies participate in a choreographed orgy of terror. We can recall the testimony cited by Moscoso and others (discussed earlier in the chapter), describing the horrific events at the church of Sangarará. While it is tempting to posit the mural as a portrayal of the Spanish royalists burning in hell, such suppositions, initially put forth by the scholar José Uriel García in the 1960s, remain impossible to prove.86 But perhaps a more productive way to interpret the scene would be to consider Escalante’s depiction of bodily suffering as a whole. The naked, contorted bodies splayed across the wall—literally embedded directly in its surface—call to mind the bodies of rebels and royalists alike who burned to death in the church of Sangarará and other churches throughout the region. The murals, while situated against an eschatological backdrop, draw explicit attention to the space of the church and the unprecedented suffering and torture that occurred within its walls. The medium of mural painting was particularly equipped to conjure these associations because of its direct imprint on the body of the church. The painted body and the body of the church become fused, as does the space within which the scene is configured. The church wall houses these representations and places them within sacred space while at the same time referencing the spaces of hell through pictorial illusionism. The scene gives visual expression to the imagery described in the testimony of the Battle of Sangarará. The unambiguous religious content of the scene provided Escalante with the safety to recoup memories of the rebellion without running the risk of censorship. From the perspective of the clergy, this imagery helped to transform the church back into a site of sanctuary as well as to force parishioners to come to terms with the fate of the rebellion’s most fervent supporters. Escalante’s visual intervention, however, may not necessarily conform precisely to this formula. Perhaps if we read this image less as a statement for or against the rebellion, we can see it (in conjunction with the other images of the sotacoro) as a meditation on the bodily and spiritual damage caused by the rebellion. Two decades after churches had been sites of incomprehensible violence— rape, torture, murder—what did it mean to reproduce these very images on the walls of a church that had once played a role in the rebellion? The visceral impact

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Earthly Violence/Divine Justice     165 of a mural depicting 131 condemned bodies and dozens of demons invading the viewer’s entire visual field cannot be overstated.87 Might we see this instead as assigning visual form to the disappeared, set into configurations of eternal suffering and glory? Regardless of Escalante’s particular opinions on the rebellion’s guiding ideology, his paintings can be likened to Tupac Amaru’s own speeches, using the painted image as a means of restoring moral order to a society upended by political upheaval.

Death in the House of the Rich and Poor The scene contiguous with Hell (located to the left of the entrance portal) continues the thread of theatricality that runs through Escalante’s mural program at Huaro. Death in the House of the Rich and Poor is divided into two sections (see plate 24). The top section, labeled “La muerte benigna en la Casa del Pobre” (Benign Death in the House of the Poor) features a somber scene of public mourning in which an individual on his or her deathbed in Cuzco’s main plaza is received by a procession of praying mourners. The scene has an artificial if not jarring quality; the bed, for instance, rivals the cathedral in size, appearing almost as a stage prop. The privileging of the dying through amplified scale emphasizes the dignity of receiving the last sacrament: anointing the sick. Escalante locates the scene in Cuzco’s main plaza, a place of tremendous ceremonial significance. We can easily identify the Cuzco Cathedral and its adjoining Iglesia del Triunfo to the right and the Iglesia de la Sagrada Familia to the left. Since the Inca period, the plaza had served as an important public space for celebrations, processions, royal entries, military triumphs, and (most recently in the minds of local residents) gruesome executions. On May 18, 1781, Tupac Amaru and his family were executed in Cuzco’s plaza. After he had witnessed the deaths of his family members, the executioners attached Tupac Amaru’s limbs to horses in order to quarter him. After many failed attempts at ripping apart his body, the visitador general José Antonio de Areche ordered that they behead him and cut off his tongue. His body was subsequently butchered, and his body parts distributed to the towns in which he maintained his broadest base of support. His head was sent to Tinta, his arms to Tungasuca and Carabaya, and his legs to Livitaca and Lampa. The arm of Antonio Bastidas, Tupac Amaru’s brother-­ in-­law, was taken to nearby Urcos.88 The plaza thus served as a powerful site of political violence, a spectacle that surely would have remained in the minds of locals who witnessed the event or heard about it from others who had been present.

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166     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between Escalante’s composition directly represents the plaza in perhaps one of the few known images of the site painted within two decades of Tupac Amaru’s execution. He similarly marks the plaza as a public site of death. Locating the sober throngs of mourners on the most prominent landmark of bodily violence provides a powerful counterpoint to the plaza’s recent function as the site of gruesome execution. The image may perhaps have served to resituate the plaza as witness to a dignified, noble death in the eyes of both God and the mortal spectators. The bottom section, labeled “La muerte en la casa del rico” (Death in the House of the Rich), by contrast, reveals the consequences of a life lived in excess. Sumptuously clad dinner guests sit around a long table filled with platters of meat, fruits, and bread. Each diner is depicted in the act of touching something (a plate of food, utensils, a drinking vessel, or a collar or jacket). These acts serve as visual shorthand for indulgence in worldly pleasures, in those things that can be felt or consumed. The overindulged feasters contrast sharply with the plainly dressed mourners, whose hands do not hold objects but are tightly clasped in prayer. The dinner party remains completely oblivious that one of the guests has been snatched by death and is hanging upside down in the grip of a skeleton. While the virtuous poor bestow the deceased with the dignity of a funeral procession, the rich fail to acknowledge the gravity of death, suggesting a corresponding lack of concern for human life. Escalante’s images of death mark an important shift in mural painting of the late eighteenth century. While the churches of Andahuaylillas, Urcos, and Pitumarca contained murals that bore varying levels of adaptation from European source prints, the Huaro murals introduce an unprecedented level of artistic improvisation. The deathbed located in Cuzco’s plaza likely derives from an early-­ seventeenth-­century print by Johan Wierix entitled All Is Vanity. The scene provides an allegory of worldly pleasures through the depiction of Vanity lounging in a large bed, surrounded by a demon and other figures partaking of food and wine. The content of the print bears a loose relationship to Escalante’s scenes, but he has in fact appropriated Vanity’s bed to serve an opposing function—as the deathbed of a pious Cuzqueñan. The canopy and bed-­frame become reinterpreted as a marker of glorified poverty and simplicity, placed into a small house-­ like structure with room for nothing but a nightstand and a cross. Death in the House of the Rich bears a resemblance to another engraving by Johan Wierix from 1602 entitled Allegory of Death, depicting a party with food and music (fig. 5.7). A woman at the center of the composition falls to her death as a skeleton pierces her with a spear. The majority of the partygoers appear either wholly

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Figure 5.7  Johan Wierix, Allegory of Death, engraving, 1602, 114 × 165 mm. Accession number RP-­P-­1961-­244. Courtesy of Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

unaware or unmoved by the spectacle of death occurring in their company. Only one figure appears visibly distressed by the scene—a woman to the right of the composition gesturing toward the fallen woman in an act of prayer. Despite the mural’s slight resemblance to the print, Escalante has completely reformulated the composition by elongating the small dinner table in the Wierix print to fill up nearly the entire composition.89 To add to the drama of the event, Escalante has flipped the woman captured by death upside down, hurtling headfirst toward a compositional netherworld. Escalante’s improvisational use of prints is also significant when considered in light of Cuzco’s artistic milieu. By the early nineteenth century the popularity of the famed Cuzco School of painting that had taken the Andes by storm in the late seventeenth century had begun to wane. In its place a new popularized neoclassical-­rococo hybrid style began to take root. Artists such as Marcos Zapata and Cipriano Gutiérrez introduced a new aesthetic to Cuzco patrons, characterized by thickly outlined figures, a profusion of white and pastels marked by a corresponding absence of gold leaf, and flattened compositions devoid of excessive modulation of forms or the illusion of perspectival space.90 The print sources for such paintings often came from France rather than from

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168     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between the Low Countries, facilitated by the newly reigning Bourbon dynasty.91 Escalante emulates his contemporaries in color palette. A number of his figures display French attire and hairstyles (notice, for instance, the hairstyles and flared overcoats of the men in the feasting scene). He departs from them, however, in his decision to use 200-­year-­old print sources even when more contemporary models were surely available. Though referring to Guaman Poma de Ayala’s seventeenth-­century chronicle, Maarten van de Guchte’s argument that this type of strategic archaism served as a way to “imbue the work with a moral and authoritative quality” also finds direct application in Escalante’s murals.92 Like Guaman Poma’s magnum opus, Escalante drew from a European repository of archaic imagery, not out of any kind of provincial sensibility but as a means of articulating contemporary political issues through the visual language of eschatology and moral allegory. Images that safely yet powerfully lambast the morality of the rich can also be read as a subversive critique of Spanish colonial policies that protect the interests of wealthy peninsulares and criollos.93 By dressing the characters in French-­style costumes, he heightens their association with contemporary Peruvians who emulated the fashion of their continental Spanish and French contemporaries. The placement of Death in the House of the Rich and Poor on the wall contiguous with Hell offers a compelling narrative of the tortures that await the rich, whose table is cleverly placed on the same level as Hell’s image of the paper- and pen-­wielding sinner hanging from a noose. Escalante also appears to maintain continuity with earlier muralists in his spatial organization of the scene. Notice that Death in the House of the Rich and Poor maintains a strict bipartite schema of upper and lower components, which correlate with the Andean concepts of hanan and hurin. Hanan is associated with masculinity and dominance, spatially expressed as up, above, or to the right. Hurin, in contrast, represents femininity and subordination, spatially corresponding to notions of down, below, or to the left. These spatial concepts infused many aspects of Andean life throughout the pre-­Columbian and colonial period, from social relations to the built environment.94 Here the dignified poor occupy the upper and dominant hanan sector, while the wealthy feasters are relegated to the subordinate hurin position. Drawing from centuries-­old Andean cosmological precepts most cogently illustrated in the work of Guaman Poma and Joan de Santa Cruz Pachacuti Yamqui Salcamaygua, Escalante asserts continuity with early colonial visual traditions entrenched in Inca systems of thought.95 Hanan and hurin become mobilized to spatialize piety and vice, poverty and wealth, public space and private property, and heaven and hell into locally understood dualistic components.

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Figure 5.8  Tadeo Escalante, Tree of Life, mural painting, Church of San Juan Bautista de Huaro, 1802. © Pilar Rau.

Tree of Life The Tree of Life (also known as the Tree of Vanity, located to the right of the entrance portal) features a large tree containing a festive group of elite people dining and playing music atop its canopy (fig. 5.8). Death (personified as a skeleton), the Virgin Mary, Jesus, and a demon stand below the tree. Death threatens to chop down the tree with an axe, while Mary beseeches Jesus, who is about to ring the bell to announce the moment of truth. Meanwhile the demon holds a taut rope, preparing to send the tree crashing down.96 Tree of Life imagery became a popular subject in colonial Latin American religious painting in the seventeenth century. Stripped of its Edenic antecedents as the source of Eve’s temptation, the

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170     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between Tree of Life in a New Testament context demonstrates the triviality of human life on earth.97 Escalante repeats the extravagant diners in the Death in the House of the Rich almost verbatim in his depiction of a feasting scene nestled atop the tree. In both scenes wealthy individuals partake of food and drink around a long rectangular table filled with heaping plates of food. Round loaves of bread decorated with small puncture holes accompany each diner. These loaves closely resemble the round flat breads that continue to be produced in the nearby town of Oropesa (less than ten miles west of Huaro) to this day. Oropesa bakeries use ovens for baking bread that have been in existence since the colonial period.98 It would be impossible, of course, to ascertain whether the bread was intended to recall the locally available bread produced by indigenous Oropesanos. But even if Escalante was not referring specifically to the bread of Oropesa, the representation maintains a strong local orientation: pan serrano (highland bread) is flat by nature because the altitudinal conditions do not allow high-­rising breads. Wheat bread, a European importation kneaded and baked by a steadily marginalized indigenous labor force, was consumed by members of the white upper classes. The prominent jugs of wine resting at each table suggest a message similar to that of the Andahuaylillas feasting party discussed in chapter 2. The wine and bread serve as a false Eucharist consumed for fulfillment of worldly pleasures. A concurrent meaning may also be at play, however. By depicting a local food marked by its association with indigenous production, Escalante could be staging the symbolic “consumption” of the product of Indian labor. The posh attendees, who remain wholly decontextualized from the manufacturing process, reinforce colonial social hierarchies through the act of feasting. Indigenous bodies have thus become dematerialized and transubstantiated into bread to symbolize their sacrifice of labor and life during the tumultuous years surrounding the rebellion. Both feasting scenes possess an air of theatricality through Escalante’s inclusion of curtained backdrops. The curtains, particularly in the Tree of Life scene, are draped in such a way that one simple pull of the tassel could bring down the entire cloth. The scenes appear as two acts in a morality play that stages iterations of vice against a series of dramatic backdrops. Escalante places the figures in a simulacrum of sin. The scene of hell reinforces the idea of eternal suffering through the text banners and seemingly endless array of tortures. The Tree of Life and Death in the House of the Rich murals, in contrast, present sin and its corresponding punishment of death as a cycle that continually perpetuates itself through the rhythmic rise and fall of stage curtains. The spatial distribution of Death in the House of Rich and Poor and Tree of Life also

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Earthly Violence/Divine Justice     171 encourages a viewing experience that engages with the body of the spectator. The placement of the tree feasters on the upper right wall next to the entrance and their counterparts on the lower left creates a strong diagonal axis guiding the viewer’s eye across the entire entrance wall. Diagonals that run from upper left to lower right are typically conflated with divinity and social balance. In Guaman Poma’s illustrations, for instance, compositional diagonals running along this axis tend to feature positive associations of power or morality.99 The Huaro murals abide by a similar moralizing spatial format. The axis running from upper left to lower right connects the pious mourners in Cuzco’s plaza de armas with Christ and Mary standing below the Tree of Life, while the intersecting diagonal connects the feasting sinners in the lower register of Death in the House of the Rich with those nestled in the canopy of the Tree of Life. The parishioner crossing through the entry portal of the church stands at the intersection of these four spatial components as the fifth cardinal direction: center.100 The X-­axis held great significance for Andeans well into the late colonial period. As Mary Louise Pratt points out, Areche’s sentencing for Tupac Amaru’s body to be quartered by four horses unwittingly reproduced the symbolic quadripartite territorial division of Tawantinsuyu (which means “The Four Parts Together” in Quechua). His body’s refusal to tear apart, then, merely reaffirmed the power of the reincarnated Inca.101 Escalante has carved out a liminal center for the visitor to stand at and contemplate the intersections of good and evil as they symbolically pass through his or her body. While the Andahuaylillas entrance wall mural encouraged viewers to choose one of two paths that beckoned the viewer to walk into the composition, the Huaro murals arrest the viewer at the empty center.

The Last Judgment Escalante’s painting of the Last Judgment completes his eschatological program of the Four Last Things: death, judgment, heaven, and hell (see plate 25). The entire composition encompasses all four themes, while Escalante’s murals of Hell, Death in the House of the Rich and Poor, and Tree of Life place emphasis on each one.102 The painting crowns the doorway leading to the baptistery, contiguous with the wall on which Tree of Life is painted. Christ hovers over a globe at the top center of the composition, surrounded by four registers of angels, ecclesiastics, saints, and other individuals floating in the heavens. Skeletons and lifelike bodies emerge from underground tombs awaiting resurrection. Hordes of the faithful holding palm fronds line up to enter the gates of heaven, depicted as a white domed tower located at the viewer’s left. On the right, a menacing

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172     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between hell mouth swallows up those who have been judged unfavorably, presumably rerouted to the adjacent wall, where the same mouth reappears in the lower left of Escalante’s Hell. Escalante based his painting on a 1606 engraving by Philippe Thomassin (1562–1622) of the same subject (fig. 5.9). Thomassin was a French-­born engraver who spent the majority of his life in Rome.103 He enjoyed a prolific career producing engraved copies of drawings by master Roman artists such as Antonio Tempesta and Giulio Romano.104 Thomassin’s engraving of the Last Judgment played a significant role in the New World evangelization project.105 It inspired several large-­scale paintings produced across the colonial Americas, including Mexico, Peru, and Bolivia. Antonio de Santander was one of the earliest artists to make use of the engraving for a seventeenth-­century painting located in the church of Totimehuacán in Puebla, Mexico.106 A number of Cuzco School painters produced localized renditions of the Last Judgment following Thomassin’s compositional format, such as Diego Quispe Tito’s painting from 1675 located in the Convent of San Francisco in Cuzco. Escalante was one of the last known artists to utilize the engraving for the creation of a large religious painting. The original print contains a series of glosses that associate specific scenes with biblical passages extracted from the books of Matthew, Job, Psalms, and Ecclesiastes. In their paintings of the Last Judgment, both Quispe Tito and Escalante omitted a few of the original passages present in Thomassin’s print and removed the name of the biblical text and verse number included at the end of each passage. Escalante may have viewed Quispe Tito’s canvas and perhaps even copied the translations from him. The text that frames the top of Escalante’s hell scene can be found prominently written verbatim across Quispe Tito’s canvas to demarcate the boundary between hell and earth. At the lower right both Escalante and Quispe Tito include a passage on the torments of hell taken from Matthew 13:42. In Quispe Tito’s painting the passage reads: “Arrojaranlos a la / guera [sic] del fuego eternal / alli sera el llanto a / el crugir de dientes” (They will throw them into the / furnace of eternal fire [or “war of eternal fire” if he meant “guerra” instead of “hoguera”] / where there will be weeping to / the gnashing of teeth). Escalante’s text reads slightly differently: “Arojar[á]nlos ala ho [sic] guerra / Alli el cruger de dientes eternal / Alli sera el llanto / los Poderosos Padeseran [sic] Poderosos tormentos” (They will throw them into the furnace of fire / where there will be the eternal gnashing of teeth / where there will be weeping / the powerful will suffer powerful torments) (fig. 5.10). Escalante takes poetic license in his rearrangement of the text to begin con-

Figure 5.9 Philippe Thomassin, Durissimum iudicium gentibus profert: Potentes potenter tormenta patientur, Rome, 1606. © Biblioteca Casanatense, 20.B.I.74/28, by permission of MiBACT.

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174     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between

Figure 5.10 Detail: Tadeo Escalante, The Last Judgment, mural painting, Church of San Juan Bautista de Huaro, 1802. © Photo by Pilar Rau.

secutive refrains with “Allí.” This rhythmic repetition, also seen in the Hell mural, endows the text with a type of musicality not seen in the Quispe Tito painting or in Thomassin’s original print. Whereas Quispe Tito places the text in the register depicting the earth immediately above the hell mouth (similar to its placement in Thomassin’s engraving), Escalante places it directly in the maws of its vicious jaws. The “gnashing of teeth” therefore takes on additional metaphorical significance. The text and the mouth, placed side by side, mutually reinforce the dual primacy of written and pictorial communication. Escalante tacks on a final additional sentence that does not appear in Diego Quispe Tito’s composition: “The powerful will suffer powerful torments.” This phrase is printed in Latin along the lower edge of Thomassin’s engraving: “Potentes Potenter Tormenta Patientur.” Escalante’s decision to combine the biblical phrases at such a key location in the composition further strengthens his message of divine justice. The once mighty bodies falling into the maws of the

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Earthly Violence/Divine Justice     175 hell mouth are sucked in against their will by a powerful wind. Escalante visually renders their punishment as an inevitability. The scene offers a striking counterpoint to the depiction of souls admitted to heaven, who patiently wait in line as they file through the gates. This ominous phrase encapsulated the implicit message across all of the compositions, from the figures with European accoutrements in the bubbling cauldrons of hell to the feasting parties in Death in the House of Rich and Poor and Tree of Life. This focus on society’s most powerful stakeholders pervades the mural program of the sotacoro. Escalante’s mural program focuses precisely on the very people who would be least likely to attend mass in an overwhelmingly indigenous parish. The lives, mannerisms, and fashions of a people far decontextualized from the social realities of Peru’s pueblos de indios receive center stage in Escalante’s compositions, which shift effortlessly from images of feasting and vice to judgment and (across the vestibule) to hell. His trenchant critique of society’s most elite groups seems especially jarring for the dearth of actual parishioners who would recognize their sinning, gluttonous selves reflected back at them. The trappings of the elite lifestyle of the landed gentry, which receives ample visual elaboration in Escalante’s entrance wall paintings, would have been wholly alien to most Huareños. The curtains and theatricality of the images, which at the church of Andahuaylillas were intended to cultivate religiosity among the indigenous congregation, here merely add an additional layer of distance and artifice. Escalante’s images remain conspicuously disconnected from their local context despite their rootedness in a postrebellion milieu of rebuilding and reindoctrination. Escalante’s murals, unlike the examples discussed in earlier chapters, urge viewers to observe, to recite, to draw connections to the recent past, but to do so from a safe distance. The murals in the sotacoro do not draw viewers in but keep them at arm’s length. These murals work together to produce an uncompromising critique of greed and avarice, itself a central tenet of Catholicism, but also one that would have elicited scant empathy on the part of Huaro’s population. If Escalante’s intent was to produce a set of intensely graphic and moralizing images with which viewers would concur that “these are not about us,” then what purpose did they serve?

Artistic Production in the Postrebellion Era One question we may ask ourselves is “Why did Escalante need to be so careful not to make any explicit references to the rebellion?” Or perhaps an even better question would be “Can we read these images as subversive?” In order to begin to answer these questions, a consideration of the early scholarship on Tadeo Es-

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176     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between calante is in order. As mentioned at the beginning of the chapter, Escalante’s murals at Huaro first received recognition by José Uriel García, whose provocative interpretations set the tone for the ways in which these murals have been perceived in both public and scholarly discourse. García first wrote about Escalante and his authorship of the Huaro murals in a 1934 newspaper article published in Buenos Aires,107 but what put Escalante on the map was García’s 1963 article on Huaro, published in the Revista del Instituto Americano del Arte. Combining visual analysis with oral testimony, García concludes that these murals served as subversive references to the Tupac Amaru Rebellion. He bases a great deal of his interpretations on his conversations with Victoriano Yábar, a resident of Huaro who recounted oral traditions about Tadeo Escalante preserved by his descendants. Based on Yábar’s account, García argues that the Hell mural graphically illustrated Escalante’s own memories of the rebellion and in particular the violent execution of his parents, who were supporters of Tupac Amaru.108 This interpretation persevered over the next three decades.109 One essay in particular stands out for its role in placing Escalante’s murals within a broader framework of utopian thought in the Andes. In his seminal publication Buscando un inca: Identidad y utopía en los Andes (1986), the renowned Peruvian scholar Alberto Flores Galindo discusses the murals alongside a series of apocalyptic dreams recorded by Gabriel Aguilar, a native of Huánuco who was hanged in 1805 after a failed attempt to stage an anticolonial rebellion in Cuzco in the years following the brutal suppression of Tupac Amaru’s movement.110 Flores Galindo posits that Escalante’s mural program was a prophetic visual precursor to Aguilar’s conspiracy carried out just a few years later.111 This idea of Escalante as a rebel painter or a painter of prophecies, denouncing the actions of the counterinsurgents on the walls of a church in former rebel territory, continues to carry great currency in contemporary Cusqueño historical memory. During my research trips to Peru, nearly every individual that I asked had heard of Tadeo Escalante. Each had a different story to tell about him. A discourse on Escalante materialized into a shape-­shifting web of family history, local lore, and hearsay as well as competing claims over his authorship of a great number of unsigned church murals throughout the Cuzco region. The importance of oral history, initiated by Victoriano Yábar, transcribed by García, and transformed back into spoken discourse, holds a special resonance in the Peruvian Andes, where oral, tactile, and written transmission of knowledge have engaged in mutually enriching relationships since the colonial period. Indeed, as Virgilio Freddy Cabanillas Delgadillo argues, even if these interpretations of Escalante’s murals as subversive and pro-­Amarista do not actually reflect his intent

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Earthly Violence/Divine Justice     177 in 1802, this does not make them any less valid.112 As images indelibly bound to community space, the Huaro murals and many others discussed throughout this book shift meanings to satisfy the needs of local residents, whether in terms of a transformation in religious beliefs or the construction of communal memories of a rebellion buried deep in the annals of history. Rather than see García’s use of oral testimony as an obstacle to an accurate reading of the murals, we can instead view it as a rare glimpse into the ways in which colonial images have continued to engage viewers in the complicated process of meaning making from the moment of their creation to the present day. The murals of the church of Huaro thus present us with the difficult task of reconciling their profound significance for contemporary viewers, transmitted through both scholarly literature and tour guides, with the insights that can be gleaned through visual analysis of the images in concert with the documentary record. One way to approach this is by considering the broader historical and cultural panorama in which Escalante worked. As discussed above, Escalante’s murals were part and parcel of a larger movement to rebuild the religious infrastructure of Cuzco’s southern provinces. Priests and other ecclesiastical authorities seem to have been engaged in healthy competition to commission the most impressive and dramatic works of art to put forth a powerful reminder of the rebel fighters’ eternal suffering in the afterlife. While the documentary record remains inconclusive as to Escalante’s specific ties to the Tito Condemayta family (which, even if true, do not prove his political orientation), what we can say with certainty is that Escalante produced his work during one of the most repressive censorship campaigns in the history of Peru. If his murals did communicate any type of sentiment about the rebellion, they did so through the art of double entendre. Immediately after the rebellion, Moscoso and visitador general José Antonio de Areche corresponded on the importance of censoring all artistic and cultural references to the Inca past in order to prevent any future rebellion from coming to fruition.113 They believed that the maintenance of “memory” about the Inca Empire through portraiture, clothing, dance, theater, and literature was ultimately to blame for the uprising, whose ideological bases formed a common identity around which the rebels could organize. Here we find a striking parallel to post­1650 Cuzco under Mollinedo, in which indigenous Andeans were targeted retroactively for causing the natural catastrophe due to their spiritual transgressions. Garcilaso de la Vega’s publication was censored in the postrebellion era. In fact, Bishop Moscoso even claimed that Tupac Amaru would not have waged his rebellion had it not been for his exposure to Garcilaso’s work.114 In his sentencing

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178     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between of Tupac Amaru, Areche provided a litany of prohibited practices, objects, and works of art pertaining to the Incas, which were streamlined into a real cédula (royal decree) on April 27, 1782.115 I reproduce here a large portion of his statement to provide a better understanding of the range of customs and images deemed subversive: To this same end, it is prohibited that the Indians wear heathen clothes, especially those who belong to the nobility, since it only serves to symbolize those worn by their Inca ancestors, reminding them of memories which serve no other end than to increase their hatred toward the dominant nation; not to mention that their appearance is ridiculous and very little in accordance with the purity of our relics, since they place in different parts images of the sun, which was their primary deity; and this prohibition is to be extended to all the provinces of this southern America, in order to completely eliminate such clothing, especially those items which represent the bestialities of their heathen kings through emblems such as the unco, which is a kind of vest; yacollas, which are very rich blankets or shawls of black velvet or taffeta; the mascapaycha, which is a circle in the shape of a crown from which they hang a certain emblem of ancient nobility signified by a tuft or tassel of red-­colored alpaca wool, as well as many other things of this kind and symbolism. All of this shall be proclaimed in writing in each province, that they dispose of or surrender to the magistrates whatever clothing of this kind exists in the province, as well as all the paintings or likenesses of their Incas which are extremely abundant in the houses of the Indians who consider themselves to be nobles and who use them to prove their claim or boast of their lineage. These latter shall be erased without fail since they do not merit the dignity of being painted in such places, and with the same end in mind there shall also be erased, so that no sign remains, any portraits that might be found on walls or other solid objects; in churches, monasteries, hospitals, holy places or private homes, such duties fall under the jurisdiction of the reverend archbishops or bishops of both viceroyalties in those areas pertaining to the churches; and in their place it would be best to replace such adornments with images of the king and our other Catholic sovereigns should that be necessary (emphasis mine).116 Not all Spanish officials agreed with Areche’s approach, however. In a 1783 report written in Madrid, Antonio Porlier and Pedro Muñoz de la Torre express doubts about the unparalleled prohibition of all things Inca, arguing that it could actually “cause new and violent commotions, or at least a general unwill-

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Earthly Violence/Divine Justice     179 ingness of spirit among the Indians, even those who have been faithful during the recent turmoil.”117 Nevertheless, Areche’s reforms became the dominant discourse in postrebellion Cuzco, particularly in 1782–1787, which marked the peak of iconoclastic activity.118 Of special interest here is his reference to mural paintings. His prohibition of “any portraits that might be found on walls” can best be interpreted as murals, while his references to portraits on “other solid objects” likely refer to canvases, wooden panels, or even vessels such as keros. In fact, Areche’s first documented iconoclastic act involved the removal of a mural of Inca portraits that he describes as “etched on the wall [gravadas en la pared]” of the exterior of the Colegio de San Borja in Cuzco, the very school for indigenous elites that Tupac Amaru attended as a child.119 While unprecedented for its designation of Inca material and visual culture as possessing an inherent political subversiveness, Areche’s decree emerges out of a broader history of visual censorship in the Andes. We need only recall Viceroy Toledo’s reference to mural paintings and Mollinedo’s references to the baby Jesus wearing the mascapaycha in religious sculpture of the region to recognize the embeddedness of Areche’s proclamation within larger discourses on visual art and ecclesiastical propriety. In all three of these cases effacement was followed by replacement. Writing in 1572, Toledo notes that the “pagan” images found on indigenous houses and buildings should be removed and replaced with “crosses and other Christian insignia.”120 In 1687 Mollinedo orders the mascapaycha to be replaced with a royal crown. Areche, following suit nearly a century later, requires these adornments to be replaced with “images of the king and our other Catholic sovereigns.” The act of censorship, then, does not merely entail removal of the offending elements, but a conscious reinstatement of power through the visual language of imperial legitimacy. The postrebellion years thus marked a period of conservatism in the visual arts. Mural paintings in particular seem to have been subject to increased vigilance during this time, perhaps due to the very nature of their physical form. Murals cannot simply be taken off the wall or confiscated; their removal requires defacement of an entire wall or building, followed by whitewashing and replacement with a new image. Painting during the 1790s in the wake of these repressive measures, Tadeo Escalante would have been particularly cautious not to include any overtly offensive imagery in his Huaro murals due to fear not only of defacement but of losing the commission entirely. Tadeo Escalante’s murals at Huaro constitute some of the most politically and ideologically loaded images discussed in this book. The examples analyzed in previous chapters evinced a strong local component, whether in their refer-

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180     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between ences to sacred local landscapes or in their utilization of Andean concepts and visual conventions for signifying sacredness. The images themselves offered tremendous insight into the specific historical circumstances of their manufacture through close visual readings in concert with archival documents and source imagery. The Huaro murals, by contrast, reveal far less in their pictorial content, yet the documentary record yields an unprecedented amount of contextual information for ascertaining the historical milieu within which Escalante painted his masterpiece. Escalante was faced with the difficult task of imbuing the church with an emphatic religiosity in a space once subject to Tupac Amaru’s proclamations of colonialism’s radical undoing. Any one of the allegorical or eschatological themes present in Escalante’s sotacoro murals could be found in other Andean churches at any point during the mid- to late colonial period. But their specific appearance at Huaro within two decades of the Tupac Amaru Rebellion can hardly be construed as mere coincidence. Escalante fulfills the postrebellion imperative of recentering churches as spaces of spiritual fervor and ecclesiastical authority. At the same time, however, his ominous message that the powerful were destined to the most horrific damnation imaginable gains additional potency in light of recent political history in which the powerful were the eventual victors. At a certain level, Escalante emulates the rebel leader’s political theater at Huaro through his own performance in paint. But the hundreds of human bodies painted along the walls of the sotacoro defy simplistic readings of Escalante’s murals as unequivocal statements for or against the rebellion. For all of the emphasis on the damned, Escalante also reserves space for the righteous in the upper part of The Last Judgment and in his mural of heaven on the nave wall next to Hell. Rather, Escalante’s images can better be understood as palpable reminders of the multitudinous lives lost, often within the very entity—the space of the church—within which they are represented. At precisely the same time that “memories” of the Incas, as Areche framed it, were suppressed through artistic censorship, Escalante used the same tools to facilitate a ritual remembrance of a period of tremendous loss. The murals indirectly assign divine justice to those who do not appear in the mural program—the disempowered, the impoverished—while still adhering to the restrictive protocol around postrebellion artistic practice, particularly in Cuzco’s southern provinces. The presence of innumerable sinning, tortured, suffering bodies urged viewers to consider that which remained absent in the murals—the bodily presence of the rebellion’s survivors who gazed at them. If there was any question as to the extent to which preoccupations about the rebellion lingered in the communal memory of Huareños when Escalante com-

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Earthly Violence/Divine Justice     181 pleted his murals, we need only look to the failed Huaro conspiracy in 1809, which involved a group of indigenous men who allegedly sought to stage an uprising against the town’s Spaniards and wealthy Indians with the help of Micaela Bastidas’s surviving brother. According to the testimony of Mariano Soria, which he later recanted and attributed to drunkenness, the rebels planned to “hang Spaniards from the willow trees and the beams of Don Ignacio Solar’s house. They planned a feast under the trees afterward.”121 We can immediately recall the Tree of Life scene, which features elite people feasting in its canopy as the devil begins to pull down its branches. Could the conspirators have gazed at this mural, envisioning themselves as critical actors in restoring order to the world by bringing the Spaniards to their ultimate end and initiating their own feast in celebration? Whether Soria’s confession was true or was simply the ramblings of a drunken man, it does suggest that Escalante’s murals may have had a far greater impact than he himself could have ever imagined, providing visual cues for the construction of an insurgent imaginary that both fomented collective memories of a suppressed history and enabled viewers to keep their eyes firmly fixed on an alternative future.

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Conclusion

This book has sought to demonstrate the social, political, and art historical relevance of colonial Andean mural painting over a period of nearly two hundred years. The choice to connect the dots between murals disparate in time produced large historical gaps that were sometimes challenging to overcome. Nevertheless, whatever shortcomings surfaced as a result of the project’s extensive timeline were offset by the benefits reaped from a perspective that alternated between microanalysis and macroanalysis of specific mural programs, their interrelationships, and large-­scale changes over time. Attention to the subtleties of a given mural program yielded insights regarding its broader sociocultural relevance and the agency exercised by the artists who created it as well as the communities who viewed it. One of this book’s primary objectives is to carve out an interpretive space for colonial Andean muralism. Murals defy easy insertion into histories of painting or architecture; while they incorporate aspects of both, they form a third category guided by a separate set of conventions for viewing and experiencing them. The murals of Andahuaylillas and Huaro, for instance, demonstrated the importance of the human body as an axis from which viewers interpreted pictorial space. The Path to Heaven and Hell of Andahuaylillas actively engaged the body through its life-­sized diverging paths that beckoned viewers conceptually to step into the painted walls. Tadeo Escalante’s Death in the House of the Rich and Poor and Tree of Life painted along the interior entrance wall of the church of Huaro similarly operate along diagonal axes that intersect in the viewer’s body as he or she stands within the liminal space of the church’s entryway. Their contemporaneity with the protracted postrebellion era enhanced their significance for a popu-

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184     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between lation that had witnessed Tupac Amaru’s ideological campaign within the very walls of the church. The textile murals of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries capitalized on the deep-­rooted indexical relationships between Andean textiles and their painted manifestations throughout the pre-­Columbian period. Their treatment of the church’s interior walls as the exterior of an architectonic body or a clothed huaca turned inside out transformed the architecture of the church into a living, pulsating being. Textile murals hover at the interface of representation and embodiment. Their designs, particularly in the seventeenth-­century murals, faithfully emulate designs found on European liturgical cloths. Their cumulative effect, however, humanizes the adobe walls of the church and thereby constitutes a new iteration of long-­standing practices in the Andes of “clothing” sacred structures and huacas. Wrought from local pigments deployed to imitate rich imported fabrics from Spain, Italy, and France, textile murals simultaneously evoked the intimacy of being surrounded by an omnipresent sacred body rooted in the local landscape while also making reference to the outside world of trade by virtue of the cosmopolitanism of the cloths being depicted. Murals of the Baptism of Christ transport the scene to Andean sites that held special resonance among viewers for their proximity and connection to Inca origin myths or conquest narratives. They facilitate a viewing experience that engages the priest, parents, and godparents in a reenactment and emulation of Christ’s own experience. The Andes becomes the new Holy Land upon which key biblical events are visually staged and reenacted. The Path to Heaven mural at Andahuaylillas also modeled its Heavenly Jerusalem on the church itself, a connection amplified by the possibility of a performance of El peregrino in the church’s atrium. Murals of the colonial Andes thus command what Victor Turner calls “public reflexivity”—deliberate human action in the form of performance, devotion, gesturing, or conversation rather than just passive viewing or contemplation.1 Throughout this book I have highlighted the cultural specificity, the “Andeanness,” of mural viewing practices through a consideration of notions of quillca, materiality, embodiment, and the intersections of viewership and collective memory. The evangelizing content of religious murals and the types of social codes that they attempted to enforce at times ran counter to local modes of visual consumption. For example, the depictions of Andeans engaged in idolatrous acts (according to Christian precepts) in the Andahuaylillas murals were nevertheless created using local tierras de colores and likely painted by the hand of an indigenous assistant to Luis de Riaño. The image is thus made up of intersect-

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Conclusion     185 ing and even contradictory components that were comprehended differently (or overlooked altogether) depending on the cultural perspective that informed the viewer’s gaze. Deborah Poole’s attention to the reflexivity of the Andean gaze with respect to modernity and early photography also bears relevance for murals produced in the preceding centuries: it is necessary to abandon that theoretical discourse which sees “the gaze”—and hence the act of seeing—as a singular or one-­sided instrument of domination and control. Instead, to explore the political uses of images—their relationship to power—I analyze the intricate and sometimes contradictory layering of relationships, attitudes, sentiments, and ambitions through which European and Andean peoples have invested images with meaning and value.2 Poole asserts that the direction and means by which viewers assert their gaze can be an empowering act that emerges as the result of different forms of engagement with an image. Murals were not passively and silently viewed but were often integrated into oral discourse. Ramón Mujica Pinilla notes that priests would use paintings of hell for visual punctuation of their sermons on the tortures that awaited the unfaithful.3 Sermons frequently evoked vivid imagery whose painted analogues could easily be found within the churches where priests delivered them. Moreover, prints by the Wierix brothers and Father Jerónimo Nadal’s Evangelicae Historiae Imagenes (1593), which formed the basis of numerous colonial Latin American religious compositions, served as memory aids; each scene was labeled with a letter that corresponded to a specific biblical passage listed in a key at the bottom of the image. The use of the senses in conjunction with viewing religious images possesses deep roots in European spiritual discourse.4 Saint Ignatius of Loyola was the first to introduce these techniques to private devotion in his famous Spiritual Exercises, written in 1522–1524 and published in 1548. But when these prints arrived in the Americas, private devotion transformed into public instruction. Perhaps the most famous example of the use of devotional prints to inculcate religious memory in colonial Latin America is the Franciscan missionary Pedro de Gante, who founded the school of San José de los Naturales in Mexico City for the instruction of indigenous Mexicans. His student Diego Valadés, a Mexican-­ born Franciscan monk, illustrated Gante’s use of images in the instruction of indigenous peoples, which he cogently illustrated in a pair of engravings included in his publication Rhetorica Christiana, published in 1579.5 We lack comparable

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186     Heaven, Hell, and Everything in Between historical documentation for the Andean context, but the writings of priests such as Juan Pérez Bocanegra suggest that this practice was equally pervasive in the Viceroyalty of Peru. The murals of Andahuaylillas and Huaro contain texts that were almost certainly integrated into sermons and possibly into song or theatrical performance. These texts would likely have been read aloud by a priest or a literate religious layperson to facilitate the viewing experience of their congregations through an added aural component. It is important to consider, however, that at the same time that texts accompanying mural images were being integrated into oral discourse, some murals also recalled Andean oral traditions through pictorial references. The murals at the churches of Urcos and Pitumarca offer vivid depictions of Lake Urcos and Lake Titicaca that held great mythical and historical relevance for their respective local communities. As pointed out in chapter 4, the rich blue pigments used in the depiction of the Jordan River in Diego Cusi Guaman’s Baptism of Christ could have inspired an association with Lake Urcos, a site of recent history, when treasure hunters attempted to drain the lake in search of Huascar’s fabled golden chain in the decades prior to Cusi Guaman’s completion of the mural. This demonstrates the power of color and materiality in creating associations between images and oral histories. Murals of the Andes add greater nuance to prevailing theories on the crosscurrents of orality, writing, and image making in colonial Latin America.6 Mural painting of the colonial period carved out new possibilities for the mutual reinforcement of images and histories, as we saw with a number of mural programs that recalled written and oral histories. A reductive view of colonial Latin American art would posit Europeanized images as silencers of indigenous modes of knowledge. It is important, however, to also understand the capacity of colonial images to offer new possibilities of viewership and reception that reformulate indigenous knowledge through a new skill set of pictorial strategies. Mural painting in particular participated in the negotiation of visual, written, and oral literacy through recourse to a mixed set of Spanish, indigenous, local, and hybridized symbols. Murals also participated in the process of narrating and memorializing recent histories of colonial violence. Tadeo Escalante’s murals at the church of Huaro reveal Peru’s evangelizing mission turned against itself through the use of eschatological imagery to seemingly condemn the behavior of royalist counterinsurgents during the Tupac Amaru Rebellion. Escalante’s murals stand in direct opposition to other artworks of the period that allegorized the rebellion from the perspective of the victors. Escalante’s strategic use of Christian images dur-

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Conclusion     187 ing a period of acute censorship and iconoclasm, not seen since the extirpation of idolatries campaigns during the early seventeenth century, offers a compelling example of how artists could recoup a sense of creative autonomy even in the face of sweeping bureaucratic restrictions. Escalante managed to transform religious muralism into a platform for voicing a biting social critique. His murals dovetail with a rich body of literature on collective memory and the ritual “remembering” of trauma through visual images.7 They articulate a history that had been systematically silenced, its memory policed. In his book on the impact of silencing in the production of Haitian revolutionary history, Michel-­Rolph Trouillot states that “the very mechanisms that make any historical recording possible ensure that historical facts are not created equal. They reflect differential control of the means of historical production at the very first engraving that transforms an event into a fact.”8 Perhaps cognizant of the mechanisms of the colonial state that drove recent history into a resounding silence, Escalante produced a counterhistory of the rebellion through an entirely different medium—one that relativizes fact and fiction into a play of religious metaphors that defy disentanglement. Escalante’s murals signify a radical reconceptualization of mural painting that his sixteenth-­century predecessors could never have dreamed of. Nevertheless, the murals of the intervening centuries furnished the conditions under which mural painting could reach these unprecedented transformations in the late colonial period. The case studies presented here ground murals in a sociohistorical context. They consider the varied strategies that artists employed to make their compositions meaningful to local communities. By charting the subtle yet remarkably evocative ways in which murals responded to their local historical and cultural contexts, we can see how murals anticipated, precipitated, and documented societal transformations, serving as powerful barometers of Andean life under colonialism. Perhaps Sandra de la Loza puts it best in her discussion of Chicana/o murals produced thousands of miles north and hundreds of years later, yet still strikingly resonant with the Andean context: “Practicing their craft at the edge of architectural space, muralists create a new context in that liminal space where the material merges with the social. Within this new space a social architecture emerges that allows for cultural recognition and regeneration, the resurfacing of suppressed imagery and knowledge, and the imagining of new subjectivities. Space is transformed into place.”9 As these case studies show, murals converted the space of the church into a place of community and localized knowledge, envisioning not just heaven and hell but, most importantly, all that lay in between.

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Notes

Abbreviations

AAC: ARC: PESSCA:

Archivo Arzobispal de Cuzco Archivo Regional de Cuzco Project for the Engraved Sources of Spanish Colonial Art

Introduction 1. Pablo Macera, “El arte mural cuzqueño, siglos XVI–­XX”; Pablo Macera, La pintura mural andina, siglos XVI-­XIX; José de Mesa and Teresa Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:232–255; and Jorge Flores Ochoa, Elizabeth Kuon Arce, and Roberto Samanez Argumedo, Pintura mural en el sur andino. 2. For further discussion, see Teresa Gisbert and Andrés de Mesa, “Los grabados, el ‘Juicio Final’ y la idolatría indígena en el mundo andino.” 3. The colonial arts of the Cuzco region have received ample attention from scholars; indeed, some have convincingly argued for moving beyond what many consider to be a Cuzco-­centric framework of colonial Andean artistic production into less-­studied areas such as Quito, Cuenca, Popayán, the northern Chilean cities of Arica and Iquique, and Salta and Tucumán in northwestern Argentina. See Joanne Rappaport and Thomas B. F. Cummins, Beyond the Lettered City: Indigenous Literacies in the Andes, 8–9; and Gauvin Alexander Bailey, “Ambivalent Identities: Catholicism, the Arts, and Religious Foundations in Spanish America,” 197–199. But while the case can certainly be made for reorienting the focus to other areas encompassed by the Viceroyalty of Peru, much work still remains to be carried out with respect to mural painting. 4. See Sabine MacCormack, “Art in a Missionary Context: Images from Europe and the Andes in the Church of Andahuaylillas near Cuzco”; Juan Carlos Jemio Salinas, ed., Catastro, evaluación y estudio de la pintura mural en el área centro sur andina; Inés Mambretti, “Las

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190     Notes to Pages 4–9 pinturas murales y la ornamentación de las Misiones jesuíticas de Chiquitos, Bolivia”; Virgilio Freddy Cabanillas Delgadillo, “Los demonios y el infierno en la pintura mural andina: La iglesia de Huaro (Cusco)”; and Fernando Guzmán Schiappacasse, “Las pinturas murales en la doctrina de Belén.” 5. In particular, see Carolyn Dean, “Copied Carts: Spanish Prints and Colonial Peruvian Paintings”; and Clara Bargellini, “Originality and Invention in the Painting of New Spain.” 6. Rappaport and Cummins, Beyond the Lettered City, 10. 7. Jeanette Peterson made a similar point in her study of sixteenth-­century murals in the conventos of New Spain. See Jeanette Favrot Peterson, The Paradise Garden Murals of Malinalco: Utopia and Empire in Sixteenth-­Century Mexico, x. 8. Flores Ochoa, Kuon Arce, and Samanez Argumedo, Pintura mural en el sur andino, 25–27; see also David S. Whitley, Handbook of Rock Art Research, 707–759. 9. Duccio Bonavia, Mural Painting in Ancient Peru, 6. 10. Ignacio Alva Meneses, Ventarrón y Collud: Origen y auge de la civilización en la costa norte del Perú. 11. For discussion on convento murals of New Spain, see Serge Gruzinski, El águila y la sibila: Frescos indios de México; Samuel Edgerton, Theaters of Conversion: Religious Architecture and Indian Artisans in Colonial Mexico; and Jaime Lara, City, Temple, Stage: Eschatological Architecture and Liturgical Theatrics in New Spain. 12. Peterson, The Paradise Garden Murals of Malinalco, 104–105. 13. I draw here from Samuel Edgerton’s elaboration of the concept in his book Theaters of Conversion. 14. For further discussion, see Serge Gruzinski, Images at War: Mexico from Columbus to Blade Runner (1492–2019), 161–207; Alessandra Russo, “Plumes of Sacrifice: Transformations in Sixteenth-­Century Mexican Feather Art”; and Alessandra Russo, The Untranslatable Image: A Mestizo History of the Arts in New Spain, 1500–1600, 19–36. 15. “Así las paredes destos aposentos como las de los terraplenos y del demás edificio que abrazaba esta máquina, estaban enlucidas de tierra y pintura de varios colores, con muchas labores curiosas á su modo, si bien al nuestro toscas, y diversas figuras de animales mal formadas, como todo lo que estos indios pintaron.” Bernabé Cobo, Historia del nuevo mundo, 187. All translations are mine unless otherwise noted. I retain all original spellings and orthography of Spanish sources. 16. Thomas B. F. Cummins, “Queros, Aquillas, Uncus, and Chulpas: The Composition of Inka Artistic Expression and Power.” 17. A few exceptions exist. A mural at the church of San Juan Bautista in Sutatausa, Colombia, depicting a cacica (female indigenous leader) wearing an elaborate manta (shawl) demonstrates the tensions between the flatness of the textile design and the modulated naturalism of the figure wearing it. As Rappaport and Cummins point out, “the design on the manta does not participate in the system of representation that depicts it.” Rappaport and Cummins, Beyond the Lettered City, 96. Nevertheless, the dominant visual paradigm guiding the mural is pictorial illusionism. 18. Rebecca Stone (formerly Stone-­Miller) was the first to coin the term “textile pri-

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Notes to Pages 9–13     191 macy,” which has gained great currency in Andean scholarship. See Rebecca Stone-­Miller, ed., To Weave for the Sun: Andean Textiles in the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, 13–18. 19. Flores Ochoa, Kuon Arce, and Samanez Argumedo, Pintura mural en el sur andino, 32. 20. Jeffrey Quilter provides a compelling response to George Kubler’s seminal 1961 essay “On the Colonial Extinction of the Motifs of Pre-­Columbian Art,” in which he argues for a sensitive exploration of continuities of style and form as well as disjunctions, both within the pre-­Columbian period and across the colonial divide. His discussion of the relative universality of the Moche “Revolt of the Objects” theme across the ancient Americas and its survival through the colonial period provides an interesting case study in the potential for drawing out “the short and the long threads of history, the unique from the general, the long-­standing”: Quilter, “Continuity and Disjunction in Pre-­Columbian Art and Culture,” 314. 21. Carolyn Dean and Dana Leibsohn, “Hybridity and Its Discontents: Considering Visual Culture in Colonial Spanish America.” 22. Gabriela Siracusano, El poder de los colores: De lo material a lo simbólico en las prácticas culturales andinas, siglos XVI–­XVII; and Gabriela Siracusano “Colors and Cultures in the Andes.” 23. See Macera, La pintura mural andina; Flores Ochoa, Kuon Arce, and Samanez Argumedo, Pintura mural en el sur andino; and Rodolfo Vallín Magaña, Imágenes bajo cal y pañete: Pintura mural de la colonia en Colombia. 24. For instance, Harold E. Wethey, Colonial Architecture and Sculpture in Peru; and Ramón Gutiérrez, Arquitectura y urbanismo en Iberoamérica. 25. As Sandra de la Loza aptly argues, “muralism literally destabilizes the ‘concrete materialism’ of space with paint”: Sandra de la Loza, “La Raza Cósmica: An Investigation into the Space of Chicana/o Muralism,” 58. 26. These include Diana Fane, ed., Converging Cultures: Art and Identity in Spanish America; Víctor Mínguez, ed., Iberoamérica mestiza: Encuentro de pueblos y culturas; Elena Phipps, Johanna Hecht, and Cristina Esteras Martín, eds., The Colonial Andes: Tapestries and Silverwork, 1530– 1830; Joseph J. Rishel and Suzanne Stratton-­Pruitt, eds., The Arts in Latin America, 1492–1820; Jonathan Brown, ed., Pintura de los reinos: Identidades compartidas, territorios del mundo hispánico, siglos XVI–­XVIII; Ilona Katzew, ed., Contested Visions in the Spanish Colonial World. 27. Scholars have touched briefly on the importance of a spatial understanding of Andean murals. See, for instance, Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:246; Flores Ochoa, Kuon Arce, and Samanez Argumedo, Pintura mural en el sur andino, 37–38; and Teresa Gisbert, “La pintura mural andina,” 17. 28. Some of the most nuanced scholarship on the relationships between murals and their respective local communities can be found in studies of the Chicano/a mural movements of the west coast, whose broad applicability to a colonial Latin American context is surprising. See in particular Eva Sperling Cockcroft and Holly Barnet-­Sánchez, eds., Signs from the Heart: California Chicano Murals; and Guisela Latorre, Walls of Empowerment: Chicana/o Indigenist Murals of California. 29. See, for instance, Arjun Appadurai, ed., The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective; Claire Farago, ed., Reframing the Renaissance: Visual Culture in Europe and Latin

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192     Notes to Pages 14–18 America, 1450–1650; Mary D. Sheriff, ed., Cultural Contact and the Making of European Art since the Age of Exploration; Daniela Bleichmar and Peter C. Mancall, eds., Collecting across Cultures: Material Exchanges in the Early Modern Atlantic World; and Alessandra Russo, “Cortés’s Objects and the Idea of New Spain Inventories as Spatial Narratives.” 30. Francisco Stastny, “A Note on Two Frescoes in the Sistine Chapel,” 777; Antonio Palesati and Nicoletta Lepri, Matteo da Leccia: Manierista toscano dall’Europa al Perú, 48. 31. Christopher L. C. E. Witcombe, Copyright in the Renaissance: Prints and the Privilegio in Sixteenth-­Century Venice and Rome, 231. For further discussion of his murals at Malta, see Cynthia de Giorgio, The Conventual Church of the Knights of Malta: Splendour, History and Art of St. John’s Co-­Cathedral, Valletta. 32. José de Mesa and Teresa Gisbert, El pintor Mateo Pérez de Alesio, 51–54. 33. Scholars remain divided on both the attribution and the dating of the murals. Héctor Schenone and Mesa/Gisbert believe that the murals were completed by Alesio himself before his death around 1616. Héctor Schenone, “Una pintura en Lima atribuída a Pérez de Alesio”; and Mesa and Gisbert, El pintor Mateo Pérez de Alesio, 54. Luis Eduardo Wuffarden, however, dates the murals to 1628 and attributes them to one of Alesio’s disciples. Luis Eduardo Wuffarden, “Las escuelas pictóricas virreinales,” 81. Ricardo Estabridis Cárdenas also argues for an attribution to one of his disciples. Ricardo Estabridis Cárdenas, “Influencia italiana en la pintura virreinal,” 138. 34. Jorge Bernales Ballesteros, “Mateo Pérez de Alesio, pintor romano en Sevilla y Lima,” 263. 35. For further discussion on the concept of quillca and its relation to the visual arts, see Joanne Rappaport and Thomas B. F. Cummins, “Between Images and Writing: The Ritual of the King’s Quillca”; Carolyn Dean, “The Trouble with (the Term) Art”; Rappaport and Cummins, Beyond the Lettered City, 191–218; and most recently Galen Brokaw, “Semiotics, Aesthetics, and the Quechua Concept of Quilca.” 36. “Los instrumentos de escrivir, o de pintar”: Diego González Holguín, Vocabulario de la lengua general de todo el Peru llamada lengua qquichua, o del Inca, 301. 37. “Labrar alguna obra con colores generalmente”: Fray Domingo de Santo Tomás, Lexicon o vocabulario de la lengua general del Peru, 357. 38. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 301. 39. Brokaw, “Semiotics, Aesthetics, and the Quechua Concept of Quilca,” 176. 40. “Artificios, pintores, que pintan en paredes y en quiro y en mate que le llaman cuscoc, llinpec”: Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala, El primer nueva corónica y buen gobierno, 165. 41. “Matizar algo, o labrar de colores, o esmaltar”: González Holguín, Vocabulario, 58. 42. Santo Tomás, Lexicon, 347. 43. “Color, o haz de qualquiera cosa, rostro, o imagen, o figura”: González Holguín, Vocabulario, 315. 44. “Rostro, Imagen.” Diego de Torres Rubio, Arte de la lengua quichua, 171. 45. Russo, The Untranslatable Image, 2. 46. For further discussion, see Ramón Mujica Pinilla, “‘Reading without a Book’: On

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Notes to Pages 19–28     193 Sermons, Figurative Art, and Visual Culture in the Viceroyalty of Peru,” 41–42; and Rappaport and Cummins, Beyond the Lettered City, 63–65. 47. I would like to thank Donato Amado for generously sharing a number of conservation reports on the murals covered in this book. 48. New archival evidence discovered by Graciela María Viñuales and Ramón Gutiérrez indicates that the walls of the church were whitewashed in 1790 (presumably excluding the seventeenth-­century murals on the entrance wall, choir, and nave, which securely date to the 1620s and do not appear to have been covered up at any point during the colonial period). The authors cite an inventory from 1847, which states that the “walls did not have any lesions and were painted in tempera.” This suggests that the presbytery murals were produced before 1847 and likely at some point in the early to mid-­nineteenth century, given their stylistic features. Nevertheless, we know that Andahuaylillas underwent a series of renovations beginning as early as 1937 and continuing through 2012. Graciela María Viñuales and Ramón Gutiérrez, Historia de los pueblos de indios de Cusco y Apurímac, 446–448. 49. Mesa and Gisbert, for instance, divide mural traditions into the categories of renaissance and mannerist, baroque, mestizo baroque, neoclassical, and popular painting. Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:232–254. Pablo Macera’s approach also employs European stylistic categories for constructing a chronology of Andean mural traditions, albeit with greater sensitivity and sophistication, tracing murals from mannerist and mudéjar (Hispano-­Islamic) styles to baroque, neo-­mannerist–­rococo, Andean mestizo, the “new art,” and the style of “Provincial Liberation.” Some of his categories are so specific, however, that they only refer to one mural program and are not useful for application across a variety of murals executed in the same period. Macera, La pintura mural andina, 21.

Chapter 1. The Painted Walls of the Andes 1. For an in-­depth discussion of murals in the Moche world, see Margaret A. Jackson, Moche Art and Visual Culture in Ancient Peru, 19–36; and Lisa Trever, “The Artistry of Moche Mural Painting and the Ephemerality of Monuments.” For more extensive discussions of specific Moche murals, see Duccio Bonavia, “A Mochica Painting at Pañamarca, Peru”; Christopher B. Donnan, “Moche-­Huari Murals from Northern Peru”; Izumi Shimada, Pampa Grande and the Mochica Culture; and Duccio Bonavia, Mural Painting in Ancient Peru, 47–64. 2. Roberto Samanez Argumedo, “Mural Painting on Adobe Walls during Peruvian Colonial Times: Its Restoration and Conservation,” 75. The late-­nineteenth-­century North American traveler Ephraim George Squier mentions that the walls of Chan Chan retained traces of color. See Ephraim George Squier, Peru: Incidents of Travel and Exploration in the Land of the Incas, 154. 3. Joanne Pillsbury, “Reading Art without Writing: Interpreting Chimú Architectural Sculpture,” 84.

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194     Notes to Pages 29–33 4. For further discussion of highland Inca murals, see Flores Ochoa, Kuon Arce, and Samanez Argumedo, Pintura mural en el sur andino, 29–34. 5. On keros and aquillas, see Jorge Flores Ochoa, Elizabeth Kuon Arce, and Roberto Samanez Argumedo, Qeros, arte inka en vasos ceremoniales; and Thomas B. F. Cummins, Toasts with the Inca: Andean Abstraction and Colonial Images on Quero Vessels. On textiles, see John Howland Rowe, “Standardization in Inca Tapestry Tunics”; and Rebecca Stone-­Miller, “‘And All Theirs Different from His’: The Dumbarton Oaks Royal Tunic in Context.” 6. Although much of the original mural program has now deteriorated, early-­ twentieth-­century accounts provide a clearer picture of its original character. Max Uhle, an important early figure in Peruvian archaeology, describes it as follows in his 1924 publication: “Its southern part is elevated and shows wall painting on three sides. The painting, which is of pure Incaic character in every sense, forms a strip continued from the first wall, over the second, to the third, and is similar to the designs frequently met with on Inca vessels of the amphora or aryballos type. The colors are red, black and green (the latter nearly faded away) on white. The pattern consists of rhomboid figures cut in triangles as well as the spaces left between them. Each triangle of a pair shows the same color, either red or green, while the confining triangles are of opposite color. Within each triangle a maeander-­like hook is spaced out in white, in such a way that the hooks of the confining triangles are turned in opposite directions.” Max Uhle, “Explorations at Chincha,” University of California Publications in Archaeology and Ethnology 21, no. 2 (1924), 77–78; quoted in Bonavia, Mural Painting in Ancient Peru, 155. See also Dorothy Menzel, “The Inca Occupation of the South Coast of Peru,” 130. 7. Adam Herring, “Caught Looking: Under the Gaze of Inca Atawallpa, 15 November 1532,” 391. 8. Bonavia, Mural Painting in Ancient Peru, 153. 9. Ibid., 172. 10. Cited in ibid., 168. 11. Rowe, “Standardization in Inca Tapestry Tunics,” 242–243. 12. For further discussion of the importance of the checkerboard pattern in an Inca political and military context, see Thomas B. F. Cummins, “Queros, Aquillas, Uncus, and Chulpas: The Composition of Inka Artistic Expression and Power.” 13. For further discussion on the relationship between coastal and highland Inca murals, see César Paternosto, The Stone and the Thread: Andean Roots of Abstract Art, 50–51. 14. Squier, Peru: Incidents of Travel, 411. 15. Graziano Gasparini and Luise Margolies, Inca Architecture, 253. 16. Bonavia, Mural Painting in Ancient Peru, 174. 17. Ann Kendall, Aspects of Inca Architecture: Description, Function, and Chronology, 52; Susan A. Niles, The Shape of Inca History: Narrative and Architecture in an Andean Empire, 289–290. 18. Gasparini and Margolies, Inca Architecture, 309. 19. Ibid., 147–154. 20. Cited in Teresa Gisbert, El paraíso de los pájaros parlantes: La imagen del otro en la cultura andina, 21.

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Notes to Pages 33–36     195 21. The Inca Empire was subdivided into four quadrants that emanated from Cuzco in the four cardinal directions: Chinchaysuyu (north), Antisuyu (east), Cuntisuyu (southwest), and Collasuyu (southeast). Collasuyu encompassed much of modern-­day southern Peru and Bolivia. 22. Kendall, Aspects of Inca Architecture, 49–52. 23. Martti Pärssinen, “Torres funerarias decoradas en Caquiaviri,” Pumapunku 5, no. 6 (1993): 9–31; see also Risto Kesseli and Martti Pärssinen, “Identidad étnica y muerte.” 24. Teresa Gisbert, Juan Carlos Jemio, and Roberto Montero, “El señorío de los Carangas y los chullpares del Río Lauca.” 25. Gisbert, El paraíso de los pájaros parlantes, 22, 24, 31. 26. Ibid., 31. 27. Marianne Hogue, “Cosmology in Inca Tunics and Tectonics,” 109. 28. Cummins lays the important groundwork for interpretations of Inca visual culture across media in “Queros, Aquillas, Uncus, and Chulpas.” 29. I draw my inspiration here from Niles, The Shape of Inca History (289); and Bonavia, Mural Painting in Ancient Peru (152), who both commented on the utility of ceramic architectural models for approximating the color scheme of Inca buildings. 30. Bernabé Cobo, Inca Religion and Customs, 193. 31. Squier, Peru: Incidents of Travel, 453. 32. Several scholars, most notably Teresa Gisbert and Duccio Bonavia, have compiled a list of references to mural painting in sixteenth- and seventeenth-­century historical accounts. This chapter draws on their findings, while adding additional sources to their corpus. Bonavia, Mural Painting in Ancient Peru, 152–174; and Gisbert, “La pintura mural andina.” 33. “Tuvieron sus templos en partes ocultas y escuras [sic], a donde con pinturas ho­rri­ bles tenían las paredes eculpidas”: Pedro de Cieza de León, Crónica del Perú: El señorío de los Incas, 158. 34. “Las paredes de su palacio tenía pintadas con diferentes modos de pinturas, porque fue extrañamente aficionada a ello”: Martín de Murúa, Historia general del Perú, 215. Huascar was the half-­brother of Atahualpa and son of Huayna Capac, the penultimate ruler of the Inca Empire. At the time of the Spanish conquest in 1532, Huascar was engaged in a bitter struggle with Atahualpa over possession of the royal crown. 35. “Y así como en los templos sagrados de los cristianos, y en el palacio apostólico del Sumo Pontífice de Roma, e los palacios reales o imperiales suelen estar comúnmente blanqueados de yeso o cal, y en fiestas solemnes acostumbran adornarlos de lindas e ricas tapicerías, e a mayor solemnidad interponen brocados e telas de oro”: Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo y Valdés, Historia general y natural de las indias, 103. 36. “Estaban las paredes labradas de labores, y ricas y adornadas de mucho oro y estamperías de las figuras y hazañas de sus antepasados, y las claraboyas y ventanas guarnecidas con oro y plata, y otras piedras preciosas.” Murúa, Historia general del Perú, 345. 37. “Porque de la costumbre envejecida que los indios tienen de pintar ídolos y figuras de demonios y animales a quien solían mochar en sus duhos, tianas, vasos, báculos, paredes y edificios, mantas, camisetas, lampas y casi en todas cuantas cosas les son nece-

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196     Notes to Pages 37–39 sarias, parece que en alguna manera conservan su antigua idolotría, proveeréis, en entrando en cada repartimiento, que ningún oficial de aquí adelante, labre ni pinte las tales figuras, sobre graves penas, las cuales ejecutaréis en sus personas y bienes lo contrario haciendo. Y las pinturas y figuras que tuvieren en sus casas y edificios, y en los demás instrumentos que buenamente y sin mucho daño se pudieren quitar y señalaréis que pongan cruces y otras insignias de cristianos en sus casas y edificios”: Francisco de Toledo, Fundación español del Cusco y ordenanzas para su gobierno: Restauraciones mandadas ejecutar del primer libro de Cabildos de la Ciudad por el Virrey del Peru, Don Francisco de Toledo, 171; cited in Bonavia, Mural Painting in Ancient Peru, 152–153 (emphasis in translation added). 38. “Algunos caziques usavan tener a sus puertas unas tablas, y en ellas esculpidas o pintadas algunas figuras de animales, para que las adorase el pueblo”: Fray Laureano de la Cruz, Descripción de la América Austral o reinos del Perú con particular noticia de lo hecho por los franciscanos en la evangelización de aquel país, 107. 39. For the most comprehensive survey to date of pueblos de indios throughout the southern Andes, see Graciela María Viñuales and Ramón Gutiérrez, Historia de los pueblos de indios de Cusco y Apurímac. 40. Hiroshige Okada, “Mural Painting in the Viceroyalty of Peru,” 407–409. 41. “Tiene mandado, que no solo en las Yglesias, sino que en ninguna parte, ni pública, ni secreta de los pueblos de los Yndios, se pinte el Sol, la Luna, ni las Estrellas; y en muchas partes, ni animales terrestres, volátiles ni marinos, especialmente algunas especies de ellos, por quitarles la ocasión de volver (como está dicho) a sus antiguos delirios, y disparates”: Juan Meléndez, Tesoros verdaderos de las Yndias, 62. 42. The type of language employed in the discussion of images in seventeenth-­century religious texts was fairly precise, enabling us to distinguish between references to murals and to portable paintings. For instance, in the records of a 1613 diocesan synod it states: “Because in the Churches it is not proper that there be any profane thing that could cause distraction in the eyes of the faithful. We prohibit the hanging of images in them, portraits of gentiles, and other figures that are not of Christ, our Lord, or Our Lady, or their saints” (Porque en las Yglesias no es justo, que aya cosa profana, y que pueda causar distraccion en los ojos delos fieles. Prohibimos que en ellas no se puedan colgar Ymagines, ni retratos de gentiles, ni de otras figuras, que no sean de Christo, nuestro Señor, o de Nuestra Señora, o sus sanctos): Constituciones synodales del Arçobispado de los reyes en el Piru, fol. 57v (emphasis added). Here we can see that specific emphasis was placed on the hanging of images on the wall. 43. Gauvin Alexander Bailey, The Andean Hybrid Baroque: Convergent Cultures in the Churches of Colonial Peru, 307–311. 44. Bonavia, Mural Painting in Ancient Peru, 179–181. 45. Murúa, Historia general del Perú, 370. 46. Pedro de Villagómez, Carta pastoral de exortacion e instruccion contra las idolatrias de los indios del arçobispado de Lima, fol. 45v. Gabriela Siracusano has compiled a list of similar references in the seventeenth-­century extirpation of idolatries literature: El poder de los colores, 304–309.

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Notes to Pages 39–40     197 47. Fernández de Oviedo y Valdés, Historia general y natural de las indias, 5:105; cited in Bonavia, Mural Painting in Ancient Peru, 180. 48. Samanez Argumedo, “Mural Painting on Adobe Walls,” 77. 49. Bonavia, Mural Painting in Ancient Peru, 182. 50. Elizabeth P. Benson, The Worlds of the Moche on the North Coast of Peru, 46. 51. Ibid., 180–181. See also Pablo Macera, “El arte mural cuzqueño, siglos XVI–­XX,” 66; and Flores Ochoa, Kuon Arce, and Samanez Argumedo, Pintura mural en el sur andino, 10. 52. Samanez Argumedo, “Mural Painting on Adobe Walls,” 77. 53. Julio Ninantay Loayza, personal communication, January 2011. 54. A few exceptions exist. The church of La Merced Cuzco, the church of San Pedro in Lima (personal observation), and the church of Azángaro feature small areas of mural paintings executed with oil painting. For discussion of Azángaro, see Rodolfo Vallín Magaña, “La pintura mural en hispanoamérica,” 200–201. For further discussion on the fresco secco technique, see Samanez Argumedo, “Mural Painting on Adobe Walls,” 77; and Magaña Vallín, Imágenes bajo cal y pañete, 49. 55. Macera, “El arte mural cuzqueño,” 66; Samanez Argumedo, “Mural Painting on Adobe Walls,” 77; Flores Ochoa, Kuon Arce, and Samanez Argumedo, Pintura mural en el sur andino, 11; Vallín Magaña, “La pintura mural en hispanoamérica,” 201; and Vallín Magaña, Imágenes bajo cal y pañete, 49. 56. For a comprehensive discussion of pigments used in colonial Andean painting, see chapter 1, “Moliendo y revolviendo sutiles elementos,” in Gabriela Siracusano, El poder de los colores, 37–130. See also Alicia M. Seldes et al., “Blue Pigments in South American Painting (1610–1780)”; and Alicia Seldes et al., “Green, Yellow, and Red Pigments in South American Painting, 1610–1780.” 57. Mesa and Gisbert make the argument that Cusi Guaman also executed a mural depicting the coronation of the Virgin on the triumphal arch of the church of Chinchero based on a cartouche painted on the arch stating that the cura (priest) of the church commissioned paintings by “the hand of don Diego,” but the area where his last name would have appeared is damaged beyond legibility. The principal cacique of Chinchero was D. Martín Guamán Cusi Sallo, so they reason that Cusi Guaman could have been a relative of his, further supporting the attribution. The dates provided in the cartouche of 1603–1607 also correspond to the dates during which Cusi Guaman was active, making the attribution even more tempting. I cannot support this attribution, however, based on consideration of the vast stylistic differences between his securely attributed work at Urcos and the murals at Chinchero. The flattened and awkwardly rendered figures on the triumphal arch bear little to no resemblance to the attenuated figures and compositional layout of the Urcos mural. The portraits of saints in the presbytery would be more likely candidates to be his work but again do not bear a strong resemblance to his work at Urcos. See José de Mesa and Teresa Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:236–237. 58. José de Mesa and Teresa Gisbert, “El pintor y escultor Luis de Riaño”; Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:237–238; and, more recently, Elizabeth Kuon Arce, “Del manierismo al barroco en murales cuzqueños: Luis de Riaño.”

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198     Notes to Pages 40–44 59. To a degree, we could argue that colonial Andean painting as a whole remains largely anonymous, although there are far more examples of signed canvases than signed murals. 60. Vallín Magaña, “La pintura mural en hispanoamérica,” 201. 61. Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:79–80; and José de Mesa and Teresa Gisbert, El manierismo en los Andes: Memoria del III Encuentro Internacional sobre Barroco, 114–115. 62. A number of conventos in New Spain also contain monochromatic bands of grotteschi painted along the interior walls. See Serge Gruzinski, The Mestizo Mind: The Intellectual Dynamics of Colonization and Globalization, 121–132; and Mónica Domínguez Torres, “Frames for Conversion: The Assimilation of Native Motifs in the Monastic Decoration of New Spain (1540–1580).” 63. Ramón Gutiérrez, “Los gremios y academias en la producción,” 31. 64. Ramón Gutiérrez, Arquitectura virreynal en Cuzco y su región, 63, 68. 65. Ibid., 59–60. 66. Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:258–269; Luis Eduardo Wuffarden, “The Rise and Triumph of the Regional Schools, 1670–1750,” 357–363. 67. For further information, see P. Alejandro Repullés et al., Por la ruta del barroco cusqueño. See also http://www.andahuaylillas.com/rdba/index.html. 68. Some anthropologists, conservators, and architects in Peru have plans to conduct future research projects and renovation campaigns in a number of deteriorating churches located along the ruta del barroco, which will further illuminate their underexplored interconnections. Elizabeth Kuon Arce, personal communication, 2014. 69. Paola Corti, Fernando Guzmán, and Magdalena Pereira, La pintura mural de Parinacota en el último bofedal de la Ruta de la Plata, 23–25. 70. Paola Corti, Fernando Guzmán, and Magdalena Pereira, “La pintura mural de la iglesia de Santiago de Curahuara de Carangas como patrón iconográfico de la iglesia de la Natividad de Parinacota”; Paola Corti, Fernando Guzmán, and Magdalena Pereira, “El Indio Trifronte de Parinacota: Un enigma iconográfico”; and Fernando Guzmán Schiappacasse, “Las pinturas murales en la doctrina de Belén.” 71. Juan Carlos Jemio Salinas, ed., Catastro, evaluación y estudio de la pintura mural en el área centro sur andina; and Philipp Schauer and Teresa Gisbert, Guía turística de iglesias rurales: La Paz y Oruro. 72. For a discussion of perceptions of value in colonial Andean art, see Maya Stanfield-­ Mazzi, “The Possessor’s Agency: Private Art Collecting in the Colonial Andes,” 354–357. 73. Gutiérrez, Arquitectura virreynal en Cuzco y su región, 67. 74. Jorge Cornejo Bouroncle’s transcription of artists’ contracts from seventeenth- and eighteenth-­century Cuzco shows consistently high wages paid to ensambladores (assemblers) and carpinteros (carpenters) contracted to build retablos: Derroteros de arte cuzqueño. See Datos para una historia del arte en el Perú, 130, 134, 136–138, 141–142. 75. Mesa and Gisbert occasionally cite archival sources, but many of the citations are incomplete, which makes it nearly impossible to relocate the unpublished sources that they

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Notes to Pages 45–46     199 consulted. Moreover, many of their archival sources are culled from published anthologies of archival documents rather than from original research. Flores Ochoa, Samanez Argumedo, and Kuon Arce also rely on published anthologies of archival sources in their interpretations of Andean murals. Pablo Macera’s work, though insightful and convincing in a number of areas, does not make use of any archival documents and indeed hardly relies on any outside sources at all. It should be noted that poor citation of Peruvian archival sources also has to do with the state of the archives at the time at which the authors were writing. Both the Archivo Arzobispal and Archivo Regional of Cuzco have undergone extensive reorganization and cataloguing over the past two decades. 76. “Ytt. Doy en Data quinze pesos que pague al Pintor p[o]r que pintase las dos capillas, y bolbiese a renovar toda la Yglesia”: AAC, Libro de Fábrica e Inventario de Iglesias, San Juan Bautista de Ccatca (1718–1764), fol. 88v. 77. One notable exception can be found at the church of Andahuaylillas. The excellent restoration campaign undertaken by the World Monuments Fund (2010–2012) has managed to preserve small sections of mural programs spanning nearly the entirety of the colonial period, giving us a sense of the church as a living monument that underwent several phases of renovation. 78. “Ytt mande retocar a los Apostoles y demas pinturas de la Yglesia, y paga al M[ae­ st]ro Pintor (18 pesos)”: AAC, Libro de Fábrica e Inventario de Iglesias, Chinchero, Book 1 (1718–1782), fol. 60v. 79. “Yt al Oficial Pintor que pintó la Capilla con sus colores se le pago treinta y sinco p[eso]s”: ibid., fol. 72v. 80. “Yt. se Pintó y aseó, con pinturas finas, la Pila, sus paredes y puerta que costó dies p[eso]”: ARC, Inventario de Iglesias, Legajo 25, Expediente 26 (1786–1820), Inventario de Marcapata, no pagination. 81. “Yt. mandé pintar las paredes, y puertas de la Yg.a que costó veinte y cinco pesos”: ibid. 82. http://peru.com/viajes/noticia-­de-­viajes/cusco-­restauraran-­templo-­san-­francisco -­asis-­marcapata-­noticia-­122046. 83. “Yt. por doce p[eso]s q[ue] pagué p[o]r la pintura del coro vajo con todos los Arcos, y paga del Pintor doce p[eso]s”: ARC, Inventario de Iglesias, Legajo 25, Expediente 26 (1786–1820), Inventario de Anta, not paginated. 84. “Yt. por 7 p[eso]s que gasté en mandar pintar las paredes del Arcotoral y Presbiterio”: AAC, Libro de Fábrica e Inventario de Iglesias, Urcos (1788–1872), fol. 44v. 85. “Por dos p[eso]s que pague al Pintor, q[ue] compuso un pedaso que se desgajo del Arcotoral junto al Pulpito por su trabajo y colores que costeo”: ibid., fol. 67v. 86. “Por cinquenta y seis y siete de que parté en mandar embarrár y blanquear el techo de la Yglecia ViceParro. de Guaroc; en esta forma veinte y seis dias que se ocuparon en este trabajo, cada dia tres Albañiles, y dies peones ganan estos a real p[o]r dia”: AAC, Libro de Fábrica e Inventario de Iglesias, Huaro (1788–1862), fol. 82r. One real is equivalent to eight pesos.

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200     Notes to Pages 46–49 87. Okada, “Mural Painting in the Viceroyalty of Peru,” 435. 88. Stanfield-­Mazzi, “The Possessor’s Agency,” 355. 89. Depending on the preferences of the parish, some inventory categories were further subdivided into objects made of wood and metal, with additional sections on mirrors and paintings on canvas. In my research I have found that the categorization of church holdings depended more on the preferences of the different curas drawing up the inventories than on any other historical or geographical factor. 90. Ornamentos (also spelled hornamentos) means fabrics. 91. Imágenes refers to sculptures of saints. 92. “La capilla pintada en forma de colgaduras”: AAC, Libro de Fábrica e Inventario de Iglesias, Huaro (1788–1862) (which includes Canincunca). 93. “Toda la yg[lesi]a esta pintada p[o]r el techo con sobrepuestos de pasta: y p[o]r el cuerpo pintada en forma de colgadura”: AAC, Libro de Fábrica e Inventario de Iglesias, Urcos (1788–1872), fol. 42r. 94. Occasional documents appear in the notarial archives, consisting of contracts for the production of clothing or for silver items destined for a church, but over the course of several months of archival research at Cuzco repositories, focusing specifically on late-­ eighteenth-­century documentation, I was unable to locate a single contract for a mural painting. By comparing account books, inventories, and notarial archives of the same period, I have found that the majority of expenditures by priests detailed in church accounts are not accompanied by legal contracts. It is impossible to ascertain whether such contracts ever existed or whether mural commissions were instead drawn up through informal channels, the contracts have been lost, or they simply remain hidden among the hundreds of thousands of pages of notary documents in Cuzco’s regional archive. 95. Agustina Rodríguez, “De París a Cuzco: Los caminos del grabado francés en los siglos XVII y XVIII.” 96. Some notable studies include José de Mesa, “La influencia de Flandes en la pintura del área andina”; Carolyn Dean, “Copied Carts: Spanish Prints and Colonial Peruvian Paintings”; José Enrique Torres and Fernando Villegas, “The Influence and Uses of Flemish Painting in Colonial Peru”; and, most recently, Cécile Michaud and José Torres de la Pina, eds., De Amberes al Cusco: El grabado europeo como fuente del arte virreinal. 97. Almerindo Ojeda di Ninno, “El grabado como fuente del arte colonial: Estado de la cuestión,” 15–16. 98. Clara Bargellini, “Originality and Invention in the Painting of New Spain,” 83; and Clara Bargellini, “The Spread of Models: Flemish and Italian Prints and Paintings in America.” 99. Siracusano, El poder de los colores, 161. 100. Several inventories from Cuzco-­area churches include references to Antwerp missals, which likely contained illustrations. An inventory from the church of Huaro from 1792 mentions an old unbound Antwerp missal. AAC, Libro de Fábrica e Inventario de Iglesias, Huaro (1788–1862), fol. 34v. The inventory of the church at Urcos likewise

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Notes to Pages 51–54     201 mentions possession of an old Antwerp missal that was falling apart. See AAC, Libro de Fábrica e Inventario de Iglesias, Urcos (1788–1872), not paginated. In a 1795 will for Don Marcos de Tapia, a doctor and cura rector of the parishes of Belén and Santiago, lists “a group of Antwerpian breviaries, printed in [17]52” (“un juego de brevarios antuerpianos, su impresion del año sinquenta y dos”): ARC, Inventario de Protocolos, Sección Notarial, Escribano Agustin Chacon Becerra, Prot. 81 (1794–1795), fol. 50r.

Chapter 2. The Road to Hell Is Paved with Flowers 1. “Y ha avido notables mudanzas y conversiones de yndios con la consideración de juizio y gloria y penas de los condenados, que está todo pintado por las paredes de esta Yglesia y capilla, y particularmente con las penas y castigos que en el infierno tienen los vicios y pecados de los yndios que están allí bien dibujados . . . porque los indios se mueven mucho por pinturas y muchas veces más que con muchos sermones”: Antonio de la Vega, Historia y narración de las cosas sucedidas en este Colegio del Cuzco desde su fundación hasta hoy, 1 de noviembre Día de los Santos, año de 1600, 42–43. 2. “Y en cada iglesia haya un juicio pintado allí muestre la venida del Señor al Juicio, el cielo y el mundo y las penas del infierno”: Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala, El primer nueva corónica y buen gobierno, vol. 3, 883; cited in Gisbert, El paraíso de los pájaros parlantes, 209. 3. Parts of this chapter originally appeared in “Painting Andean Liminalities at the Church of Andahuaylillas, Cuzco, Peru.” The material has been reprinted with full permission from Colonial Latin American Review. http://www.tandfonline.com/. 4. Viñuales and Gutiérrez mention a 1917 newspaper article published in Cuzco in which the “capilla sixtina” reference was first made. See Historia de los pueblos de indios de Cusco y Apurímac, 448. The church of Andahuaylillas has received substantial scholarly attention for its exceptional artistic merit. It also remains one of the best-­preserved churches to survive the devastating Cuzco earthquake of 1650, providing us with a rare glimpse of Cuzco’s artistic traditions of the first half of the seventeenth century. See Pál Kelemen, “Two Village Churches of the Andes”; Pál Kelemen, Baroque and Rococo in Latin America, 174–175; George Kubler and Martin Soria, Art and Architecture in Spain and Portugal and Their American Dominions, 1500 to 1800, 322–323; Macera, “El arte mural cuzqueño,” 71–72; Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:237–238; Flores Ochoa, Kuon Arce, and Samanez Argumedo, Pintura mural en el sur andino, 66, 138–142; Macera, La pintura mural andina, 33–34, 67–71; and Sabine MacCormack, “Art in a Missionary Context: Images from Europe and the Andes in the Church of Andahuaylillas near Cuzco.” And for a stunning photo essay of the church during Semana Santa, see Robert A. Lisak and Jaime Lara, The Flowering Cross: Holy Week in an Andean Village. 5. For further discussion of Toledo’s resettlement campaign, see Jeremy Ravi Mumford, Vertical Empire: The General Resettlement of Indians in the Colonial Andes. 6. Sabine MacCormack, “‘The Heart Has Its Reasons’: Predicaments of Missionary Christianity in Early Colonial Peru,” 453–454.

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202     Notes to Pages 54–58 7. See Diane Elizabeth Hopkins, “The Colonial History of a Hacienda System in a Southern Peruvian Highland District,” 12. The town’s name had several variations, including Antahuayla la Chica, Antahuailla, and Antahuaylla. The latter two were occasionally a source of confusion, because Andahuaylas was the name for a province and town in the Apurímac region of the southern Andes. 8. Viñuales and Gutiérrez, Historia de los pueblos de indios de Cusco y Apurímac, 441. 9. Mario Castillo Centeno, Elizabeth Kuon Arce, and César Aguirre Zamalloa, San Pedro Apóstol de Andahuaylillas: Guía de visita, 15; Viñuales and Gutiérrez, Historia de los pueblos de indios de Cusco y Apurímac, 443. 10. The church of Andahuaylillas has undergone several phases of restoration. The Cuzco earthquake of 1950 wrought considerable damage to the structure, necessitating emergency repairs in its immediate aftermath to reinforce the crumbling walls and ceiling by the Corporación de Fomento del Cusco. In 1979 the Instituto Nacional de Cultura (National Institute of Culture), under the auspices of Copesco (Comisión Especial para Supervigilar el Plan Turístico Cultural PERÚ-­UNESCO), began to restore the paintings on canvas and murals, with particular emphasis on the entrance wall mural of the church. Most recently the church has received considerable funding for restoration projects through the World Monuments Fund in an effort to reverse the deleterious effects of poorly executed structural repairs of previous decades. See http://www.wmf.org/project/san-­pedro-­ap%C 3%B3stol-­de-­andahuaylillas-­church. The restorations were completed in 2012, and the parish plans to open a new local museum featuring some of the recently restored sculptures, silverwork, and paintings on canvas. 11. Kelemen, Baroque and Rococo in Latin America, 174. 12. Ramón Gutiérrez, Arquitectura y urbanismo en Iberoamérica, 61; Teresa Gisbert and José de Mesa, Arquitectura andina, 1530–1830, 84. 13. Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:238; Flores Ochoa, Kuon Arce, and Samanez Argumedo, Pintura mural en el sur andino, 80–81. 14. For commentary, see Bruce Mannheim, The Language of the Inka since the European Invasion, 47–48; and Alan Durston, Pastoral Quechua: The History of Christian Translation in Colonial Peru, 1550–1650, 123–124. 15. Translation from MacCormack, “Art in a Missionary Context,” 108. 16. Ibid., 114. 17. Flores Ochoa, Kuon Arce, and Samanez Argumedo, Pintura mural en el sur andino, 113. 18. John B. Knipping, Iconography of the Counter Reformation in the Netherlands: Heaven on Earth, 2:313. 19. In “Art in a Missionary Context” (117–118), MacCormack draws a fascinating parallel between the spatial organization of the choir loft mural and the indigenous chronicler Joan de Santa Cruz Pachacuti Yamqui’s cosmological diagram. The placement of the Virgin, Gabriel, and the skylight mimics Pachacuti Yamqui’s placement of woman, man, and the creator Viracocha in his diagram. Her analysis underscores the important role that Andean cosmology played in the organization of mural imagery, a point that I explore further in regard to the entrance wall mural.

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Notes to Pages 58–60     203 20. Knipping, Iconography of the Counter Reformation in the Netherlands, 2:244. 21. Samuel C. Chew’s seminal text The Pilgrimage of Life (1962) still stands as one of the most authoritative studies on the iconography of pilgrimage in European art. For a general discussion of the theme of the two paths in European stage sets, see Oscar G. Brockett and Franklin J. Hildy, History of the Theatre, 91–92; and for a discussion of the theme’s relevance in the staging of Spanish plays, see William Shoemaker, The Multiple Stage in Spain during the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries. For a discussion of the hell mouth in medieval visual culture, see Pamela Sheingorn, “Who Can Open the Doors of His Face?: The Iconography of Hell Mouth.” 22. Teresa Gisbert makes the important point that studies of the 1980s and 1990s on the influence of medieval religious concepts and artistic models in colonial Andean art were cast aside by the onslaught of recent publications focused on the baroque qualities of Andean painting and architecture. Themes of the postrimerías (Four Last Things), with images of hell and demons in frightening detail that had long fallen out of favor in the European scene, would become wildly popular in the colonial Andes for the next two centuries. See Gisbert, El paraíso de los pájaros parlantes, 101–116; and Francisco Stastny, Síntomas medievales en el “barroco americano.” 23. Ramón Mujica Pinilla, “‘Reading without a Book’: On Sermons, Figurative Art, and Visual Culture in the Viceroyalty of Peru,” 43–46. 24. Ibid., 46. 25. “Defiéndelas de las tentaciones del Demonio, Mu[n]do, y carne. Dá las fuerças para pasar adelante en el camino de la virtud, hasta entrarlas en la Gloria, q[ue] por esso dize la Iglesia, mens impletur, gratia & futureae gloriae, nobis pignus datur”: Juan Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, e institucion de curas, 475. 26. Geoffrey Baker, Imposing Harmony: Music and Society in Colonial Cuzco, 201. 27. Bruce Mannheim, “Pérez Bocanegra, Juan (?–­1645),” 3:516. 28. Diego de Esquivel y Navia, Noticias cronológicas de la gran ciudad del Cuzco, 31. 29. Diego de Mendoza, Chronica de la prouincia de S. Antonio de los charcas del orden de n[uest] ro seraphico P.S. Francisco, 551. See also Ernesto Cucho Dolmos, “Juan Pérez Bocanegra, cura de Andahuaylillas y su obra (Cuzco),” 105. 30. Inspection of the licenses provided at the beginning of the book reveals that only two individuals granted a license for Ritual formulario in 1622: Don Lorenzo Pérez de Grado, bishop of Cuzco, on October 26, and Maestro Fray Luys Corneio [Luis Cornejo] on November 22. The other four licenses were provided between 1626 and 1628. This suggests that Pérez Bocanegra may not have been able to secure sufficient funding in 1622 and sought additional licenses in the subsequent years. Of the thirteen known copies of the book located in public libraries, only a handful contain an additional leaf with the licenses of Fernando de Avendaño and the Ordinario, both dating to 1631. Kenneth Ward, curator of Latin American books at the John Carter Brown Library, suggested that there may have been two editions of the book, with the version containing the licenses from Avendaño and the Ordinario being the second edition (personal communication, August 2010).

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204     Notes to Pages 60–64 31. José Toribio Medina, La imprenta en Lima (1584–1824), 1:279; and MacCormack, “Art in a Missionary Context,” 106. 32. For further discussion, see Mannheim, The Language of the Inka since the European Invasion, 250–251n17. 33. See Rubén Vargas Ugarte, Historia de la Iglesia en el Perú, 3:368–369; Durston, Pastoral Quechua, 339n24; and Viñuales and Gutiérrez, Historia de los pueblos de indios de Cusco y Apurímac, 443. 34. Bruce Mannheim, “Gramática colonial, contexto religioso,” 215. 35. For more on confessional practices in the seventeenth-­century Andes, see Monica Barnes, “Catechisms and Confessionarios: Distorting Mirrors of Andean Societies”; John Charles, “Unreliable Confessions: Khipus in the Colonial Parish”; and Regina Harrison, Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru: Spanish-­Quechua Penitential Texts, 1560–1650. 36. Tercero cathecismo y exposicion de la doctrina christiana, por sermones, fols. 23v–­26v. 37. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 386–445. 38. “Has adorado algunas huacas, porque te hagan buena hilandera, y texedera?”; “En las fiestas del Capacraimi, citua, Incaraimi, y en las demas fiestas de tus pasados, has hecho danzas, y bailes, adorando las huacas, que en tiempo del Inca solias adorar? O en tales fiestas, has bebido hasta emborracharte, en honra de las huacas, con los demas Indios?”; “Curas con algunas yerbas, o semillas, o polvos, invocando primero al Demonio o dices algunas palabras, que te enseñaron tus antepasados, sin las entender tu, pareciendote, que sanas los enfermos con ellas?”: ibid., 129, 133–134, 198. 39. Mendoza, Chronica de la prouincia de S. Antonio, 551. 40. I thank architect Diana Castillo Cerf and the Andahuaylillas restoration team for bringing this mural to my attention. 41. As Mesa and Gisbert have amply demonstrated, Riaño’s hallmark style of flattened, angular figures with oval faces and sharply pointed chins remains consistent across his signed canvas paintings and the Andahuaylillas murals: “El pintor y escultor Luis de Riaño.” His Bautismo de Cristo, located in the church’s baptistery, is signed and dated 1626, indicating patronage by Pérez Bocanegra. We can thus conclude that his murals formed part of the same patronage package and were not commissioned by the Jesuit order. Unfortunately, no known colonial inventories or artists’ contracts for the church of Andahuaylillas survive that would help corroborate this attribution archivally. 42. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, not paginated. I thank Dr. Miguel Arisa for this translation. 43. Countless art historians, anthropologists, and historians have written on the syncretism of European and Andean belief systems. Sabine MacCormack’s Religion in the Andes is one of the most significant general studies on the topic. For specific studies on the examples cited above, see Irene Silverblatt, “Political Memories and Colonizing Symbols: Santiago and the Mountain Gods of Colonial Peru”; Carol Damian, The Virgin of the Andes: Art and Ritual in Colonial Cuzco; and Carol Damian, “The Virgin of the Andes: Queen, Moon and Earth Mother.” 44. This is not to imply, however, that early conversion activities in Peru were any less

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Notes to Pages 64–66     205 dogmatic or forceful than they were in the seventeenth century. For further discussion, see Kenneth Mills, Idolatry and Its Enemies: Colonial Andean Religion and Extirpation, 1640–1750, 17–18. 45. For one of the most comprehensive sources on the subject, see Luis Millones, ed., El retorno de las huacas: Estudios y documentos sobre el taki onqoy, siglo XVI; as well as Gabriela Ramos, “Política eclesiástica y extirpación de la idolatría: Discursos y silencios en torno al Taqui Onqoy”; Jeremy Mumford, “The Taki Onqoy and the Andean Nation: Sources and Interpretations”; Jaymie Heilman, “A Movement Misconstrued? A Response to Gabriela Ramos’s Interpretation of Taki Onqoy”; and Gabriela Ramos, “Política eclesiástica, cultura e historia: Cristóbal de Albornoz y el Taqui Onqoy, otra vez.” 46. It is important to keep in mind that extirpation of idolatries campaigns undertaken in the New World emerged out of a larger tradition of Spanish Christian attempts to wipe out witchcraft and the practice of Islam among its morisco (converted Spanish Muslim) populations. Inquisitional trials brought against sorcerers, witches, and practitioners of various superstitions throughout the early modern period in Spain loosely correlate with Spanish attempts to wipe out “idolatrous” practices among the recently converted indigenous peoples. Although few studies exist that compare the two contexts, for a discussion of Spanish inquisitional trials, see Gunnar W. Knutsen, Servants of Satan and Masters of Demons: The Spanish Inquisition’s Trials for Superstition, Valencia and Barcelona, 1478–1700. 47. Pablo José de Arriaga, Extirpacion de la idolatria del piru; Francisco de Ávila, Tratado de los euangelios; Fernando de Avendaño, Sermones de los misterios de nuestra santa fe catolica, en lengua castellana, y la general del inca; Pedro de Villagómez, Carta pastoral de exortacion e instruccion contra las idolatrias de los indios del arçobispado de Lima. 48. Arriaga, Extirpacion de la idolatria, 9. 49. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 469–470. 50. Luis Enrique Tord, “Luis Jerónimo de Oré y el Symbolo catholico indiano,” 25. 51. “Es muy necessario que en los pueblos e yglesias de indios, aya pulpitos para predicar la palabra de Dios, y para dezir en ellos la doctrina y cathecismo: pues en estas cosas exteriores ponen los indios los ojos, y hazen mayor reflexion. Y estando con la decencia que conuiene, les causara mayor aprouechamiento, edificacion, y deuocion”: Luis Geronymo de Oré, Symbolo catholico indiano, en el qual se declaran los mysterios dela fe contenidos en los tres Symbolos Catholicos, Apostolico, Niceno, y de Athanasio, fol. 51v. 52. Mujica Pinilla, “‘Reading without a Book’”; Regina Harrison, “Doctrinal Works,” in Guide to Documentary Sources for Andean Studies, 1530–1900, 1:222. 53. David Noble Cook, “Luis Jerónimo de Oré: Una aproximación,” 45, 48. Although it is beyond the scope of this chapter, close comparative analysis of the work of Oré and Pérez Bocanegra would yield fascinating insights on the intellectual world of seventeenth-­ century Cuzco. 54. MacCormack, Religion in the Andes, 316; Cook, “Luis Jerónimo de Oré,” 49–50. 55. “Y lo que más importa, se satisfará a personas graves, y doctas, que no solo han dudado, de lo que aquí verán claramente, sino contradicho en muchas ocasiones, que hay Idolatrías entre los Indios, diciendo, que todos son buenos Christianos”: Pablo José de Arriaga, La extirpación de la idolatría en el Pirú (1621), 8.

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206     Notes to Pages 66–70 56. “El primer Mandamiento de la ley de Dios, dize: Amaras a Dios sobre todas las cosas. En las preguntas siguientes, se contienen todos los ritos, cerimonias, y adoraciones, que antiguamente los Indios tenian. Iuntamente con sus agueros, y hecizerias, que aunque ahora por la misericordia de Dios, no aya mucho desto en esta ciudad del Cuzco, y aya personas que digan, y engañen a su Magestad del Rey Don Felipe nuestro señor con falsedad, que ay idolatrias, dizenlo por sus intereses, y ambiciones y no porque aya, a los menos, con publicidad nada desto ay algo fuera del, y en raras partes”: Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 146 [126]. 57. Vargas Ugarte, Historia de la Iglesia en el Perú, 3:362–369. 58. This is an approximation; I came to this estimate based on WorldCat searches (www.worldcat.org) corroborated by correspondence with several U.S. university libraries in possession of the book. 59. References to the paths can be found in much of the Christian devotional literature produced in seventeenth- and eighteenth-­century Spain as well. See, for example, Martin de León, Camino del cielo en lengua mexicana, con todos los requisitos necessarios para conseguir este fin; and Diego Suárez de Figueroa, Camino del cielo: Emblemas cristianos. 60. “Christo Señor nuestro vino hijos mios al mundo por sola su immensa piedad, i misericordia, i siendo Dios quiso hazerse Hombre juntamente, para solo mostrarnos el camino del cielo, i como gemos de llegar a el. I esto lo hizo con obras, i palabras. Pero mirad, primero aveis de saber que el camino Real que và derecho al cielo es vno solo, assi como antiguamente en esta tierra a auia vn camino real, que era por donde los Ingas iuan de un pueblo a otro. Pues el camino real para el cielo es amar a Dios sobre todas las cosas, i luego a nuestro proximo como a nosotros mismos”: Ávila, Tratado de los euangelios, 1:81. 61. “No aueis visto muchas vezes, quando vá vn chapeton de aquí al Cuzco, o a Potosi, que pide en el tambo vn Indio que le guie, y enseñe el camino, hasta llegar al otro tambo, porque no se pierda, y tuerça el camino, y vaya a dar en algun despeñadero, y se haga pedaços? Pues de la misma manera la Providencia de dios, dio a los hombres que caminamos desde el tambo de esta vida mortal al otro tambo de la vida inmortal, que nunca se ha de acabar esta guía, que llamamos Fé: porque está por ser donde dios nos enseña el camino verdadero, para el bien de nuestras almas, y nos enseña la verdad sin engañarnos, y errar; porque sabe mucho, y dice verdad: por eso avisa, y advierte a los hombres, que se aparten del camino que va al infierno, que es camino torcido, que vayan por el camino derecho de los Mandamientos de Dios”: Avendaño, Sermones de los misterios, 1:2[r]–­2[v]. 62. Antonio de la Calancha, Coronica moralizada del orden de San Augustin en el Peru, con sucesos egenplares en esta monarquia, 1639, 379. 63. Peter Gose, Invaders as Ancestors: On the Intercultural Making and Unmaking of Spanish Colonialism in the Andes, 152. 64. Calancha, Coronica moralizada, 375; and MacCormack, Religion in the Andes, 180. 65. Ávila, Tratado de los euangelios, 2:174. 66. Monica Barnes argues that the tripartite organization of the universe into the world of the living (kay pacha), the upper world (hanac pacha), and the netherworld/lower world (ucu pacha) may relate more to Renaissance cosmological concepts than to pre-­Hispanic

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Notes to Pages 70–75     207 ones, thus adding an additional layer of complexity to colonial Andean conceptions of the afterlife: “Catechisms and Confessionarios,” 79. 67. The relationship between colonial Andean paintings and European prints has received ample scholarly attention. Some notable studies include Mesa, “La influencia de Flandes”; Dean, “Copied Carts”; Torres and Villegas, “The Influence and Uses of Flemish Painting”; and Michaud and Torres de la Pina, eds., De Amberes al Cusco. 68. References to the print can be found in Louis Alvin, Catalogue raisonné de l’oeuvre des trois frères Jean, Jérôme et Antoine Wierix, 238; Marie Mauquoy-­Hendrickx, Les estampes des Wierix: Conservées au Cabinet des estampes de la Bibliothèque royale Albert Ier: Catalogue raisonné, enrichi de notes prises dans diverses autres collections 2:198; F. W. H. Hollstein, The New Hollstein: Dutch and Flemish Etchings, Engravings, and Woodcuts, 1450–1700, 66:127. A digital image can also be found at PESSCA: http://colonialart.org/archives/locations/peru/departamento-­de-­cusco /ciudad-­de-­andahuaylillas/iglesia-de-­san-­pedro#c124a-­124b. 69. “La puerta del cielo su entrada es estrecha, y angosta, y el camino para llegar a aquella vida lo proprio, y son muy pocos los que dan con el. No sabeis quan angosta es? Oyd. Si vos vinierais a hora a esta Iglesia, y vierais que su puerta no era bastante para que entrase mas que vn niño pequeño, y que el camino para llegar a ella estaba sembrado de espinas, no temierais el llegar a ello? Y si aunque lo vterais assi, os animarais, y dixerais; sin embargo he de llegar allà: Como os vbierais para ello? Haziendoos fuerza, alentandoos, hallando las espinas aunque punzaçen, desnudandoos el vestido, para que no impida la entrada por tan pequeña puerta para poder entrar dentro; assi antais de hazer, y sin esto, no entrarais”: Ávila, Tratado de los euangelios, 173. 70. Guillermo Lohmann Villena, El arte dramático en Lima durante el virreinato, 7, 15–25. 71. Margot Beyersdorff, “Theater on the High Road: Andean and Spanish Scriptwriters Representing the Indian”; and Gisbert, El paraíso de los pájaros parlantes, 238–254. 72. Raquel Chang-­Rodríguez, Hidden Messages: Representation and Resistance in Andean Colonial Drama. See also Carolyn Dean, Inka Bodies and the Body of Christ: Corpus Christi in Colonial Cuzco, Peru. 73. Rubén Vargas Ugarte, De nuestro antiguo teatro: Colección de piezas dramáticas de los siglos XVI, XVII y XVIII; Margot Beyersdorff, La adoración de los Reyes Magos: Vigencia del teatro religioso español en el Perú andino; Margot Beyersdorff, Historia y drama ritual en los andes bolivianos, siglos XVI–­XX; César Itier, El teatro quechua en el Cuzco; and Luis Millones, “Colonial Theatre in the Andes.” 74. There exists a wealth of literature dedicated to the auto sacramental in Spain. For a representative sampling, see Norman D. Shergold, A History of the Spanish Stage from Medieval Times until the End of the Seventeenth Century; Ricardo Arias, The Spanish Sacramental Plays; Melveena McKendrick, Theatre in Spain, 1490–1700, especially chapter 9; and Ignacio Arellano and J. Enrique Duarte, El auto sacramental. 75. Teodoro Hampe-­Martínez, “The Diffusion of Books and Ideas in Colonial Peru: A Study of Private Libraries in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries”; and Pedro Rueda Ramírez, Negocio e intercambio cultural: El comercio de libros con América en la Carrera de Indias (siglo XVII). 76. Lohmann Villena, El arte dramático en Lima durante el virreinato, 17; Luis Millones, “Dra-

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208     Notes to Pages 75–78 matisation of the Past in Processions,” 12–13; and José A. Rodríguez Garrido, “Teatro y fiesta de la Eucaristía en Lima durante el virreinato,” 28–29. 77. See, for instance, Beyersdorff, Historia y drama ritual en los andes bolivianos, siglos XVI–­ XX; Gisbert, El paraíso de los pájaros parlantes, 238–254; and Jerry D. Moore, Cultural Landscapes in the Ancient Andes: Archaeologies of Place, 123–173. 78. Esquivel y Navia, Noticias cronológicas, 39–41. 79. Baker, Imposing Harmony, 39. 80. For the most definitive work on José de Valdivielso that provides a full collection of his plays with commentary, see Ricardo Arias y Arias and Roberto V. Piluso, José de Valdivielso: Teatro completo. 81. Lohmann Villena, El arte dramático en Lima durante el virreinato, 153. Although we do not have secure archival evidence of the play’s arrival in the Americas, shipping manifests from Seville indicate that a number of Valdivielso’s works were shipped to Quito, New Spain, and Peru. His most widely disseminated work was Vida de San Joseph: 995 copies were shipped to the Americas between 1605 and 1649. See Rueda Ramírez, Negocio e intercambio cultural, 318–319. Unfortunately, the titles of all books by a given author are not always listed in the shipping manifests, which may account for why Doze actos sacramentales y dos comedias, the anthology within which El peregrino was included, does not appear in the documentary record. Nevertheless, given Valdivielso’s involvement in the transatlantic book trade, we can assume that his work enjoyed a considerable presence in seventeenth-­ century Peru. 82. Several scholars have written on the eleven known paintings depicting Our Lady of Cocharcas. See Damian, The Virgin of the Andes, 57–58; and Emily A. Engel, “Visualizing a Colonial Peruvian Community in the Eighteenth-­Century Paintings of Our Lady of Cocharcas.” 83. “Hijo, ¿yo no te la doy? / Madre, tras la eterna voy / todo me los has prestado, / pues que te lo he de bolber / dísteme pan de dolor / entre espinas y entre abrojos, / comprado a precio de enojos / y gotas de mi sudor”: Ricardo Arias y Arias and Roberto V. Piluso, José de Valdivielso: Teatro completo, 1:388 [lines 14–15, 49–52]. 84. “De los dos carros se descolgarán dos escalas, como puentes leuadizas. La vna será ancha, llena de flores y yeruas y galas; y arriba aurá música y vna boca de infierno. La otra escala será muy angosta y llena de zarças, abrojos y espinas, cruzes, calaberas, &c. Y arriba, música”: ibid., 1:387. 85. Ibid., 1:397 [lines 413–415]. 86. Ricardo Arias, “Reflexiones sobre El peregrino de José de Valdivieso,” 154. 87. “Sueles adorer esta tierra donde estas, diziendo, ‘O madre tierra, o madre tierra larga, y estendida, traeme acuestas, o entre tus braços, con bien?’”: Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 129; cited and translated in Harrison, Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru, 66. 88. For a comprehensive discussion of the symbolic import of the Greco-­Roman past in the colonial Andes, see Sabine MacCormack, On the Wings of Time: Rome, the Incas, Spain, and Peru.

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Notes to Pages 78–83     209 89. Bruce Mannheim, “A Semiotic of Andean Dreams.” 90. Barnes, “Catechisms and Confessionarios,” 75–77. 91. “Quando durmiendo pasas entre sueños alguna puente, sueles dezir, que es para apartarte de alguna persona?”; “Viendo en sueño alcones, ò bueitres, dizes, que as de tener algun hijo? (y si es muger) hijo tengo de parir?”; “Si entre sueños vès el sol, ò luna, dizes, que se te à de morir algun pariente?”; “Viendo entre sueños alguna persona arreboçada con manta, sueles dezir que es señal que te as de morir?”; “Todo lo que as soñado, y sueñas, sueles creerlo, y dizes, que à de ser verdad? Dime, que sueles dezir quando despiertas acerca de lo que sueñas?”: Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 147 [127]. 92. “Mvy ordinario es entre los Indios creer en sueños, y adiuinar por ellos, del qual genero de adiuinacion vsan comunmente . . . vnos que prouienen naturalmente, ò sea por auer precedido antes algun pensamiento . . . ò por la disposicion del cuerpo, y en este caso es licito dar credito a los sueños, para conseruar la salud del cuerpo, ò para temer alguna enfermedad, como si vno soñasse que veìa fuego, puede conjeturar, que tiene mucho humor colerico. . . . Otros sueños ay, que prouienen de Dios, como fueron los de Gedeon, Daniel, Iacob, Nabucodonosor, Ioseph, y otros; y a estos sueños, quando claramente muestran alguna cosa, concurriendo circunstancias bastantes para creer que son sueños causados de Dios. . . . Los vltimos son los sueños, que prouienen del demonio, excitando la fantasia del hombre . . . es grauissimo pecado de suyo, y que pertenece a la supersticion de adiuinacion”: Alonso de la Peña y Montenegro, Itinerario para parochos de indios, en que se tratan las materias más particulares, tocantes à ellos, para su buena administración, 200. 93. Emily Umberger, “The Monarchia Indiana in Seventeenth-­Century New Spain.” 94. Rappaport and Cummins, Beyond the Lettered City, 91. 95. I expand on this issue of idolatry, drunkenness, and indigenous identity at Andahuaylillas and other Andean churches in my essay “Making Race Visible in the Colonial Andes.” 96. Rodríguez Garrido, “Teatro y fiesta de la Eucaristía en Lima durante el virreinato,” 28–37.

Chapter 3. Clothing the Architectonic Body 1. While some scholarship exists on Mollinedo’s artistic patronage, much work still remains to be done. See Isabel Zizold, “El obispo don Manuel de Mollinedo y Angulo, mecenas del Cuzco”; Horacio Villanueva Urteaga, Nuevos datos sobre la vida y obra del obispo Mollinedo; Horacio Villanueva Urteaga, “Los Mollinedo y el arte del Cuzco colonial”; and Suzanne L. Stratton-­Pruitt, “The King in Cuzco: Bishop Mollinedo’s Portraits of Charles II.” 2. Ricardo Palma, Anales del Cuzco, 1600 á 1750, 200–201; cited in Harold E. Wethey, Colonial Architecture and Sculpture in Peru, 67. 3. Michael Schreffler, “To Live in This City Is to Die: Death and Architecture in Colonial Cuzco, Peru,” 59–61.

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210     Notes to Pages 84–89 4. “Toda ella [la iglesia] con sus capillas y baptisterio, se pinte con cenefas y colgaduras”: Pedro Guibovich Pérez and Luis Eduardo Wuffarden, Sociedad y gobierno episcopal: las visitas del obispo Manuel de Mollinedo y Angulo (Cuzco, 1674–1694), 211. 5. In some cases, Mollinedo refers to murals in the style of colgaduras and cenefas. Other instances in which he merely references “paredes con pinturas de colores y oro” (walls with paintings in color and gold) likely also refer to textile murals. See, for instance, Gutiérrez, Arquitectura virreynal en Cuzco y su región, 171; Guibovich Pérez and Wuffarden, Sociedad y gobierno episcopal, 127, 211; and Horacio Villanueva Urteaga, Cuzco 1689: Informes de los párrocos al obispo Mollinedo: Economía y sociedad en el sur andino, 93, 251. 6. Siracusano, El poder de los colores, 276–289. 7. For an illuminating comparative study of architectural ornament in European and Islamicate contexts, see Oleg Grabar, The Mediation of Ornament, 155–224. 8. As Peter Thornton notes, these decorative murals have received scant attention in favor of the illusionistic frescoes for which Renaissance Italy is so well known: The Italian Renaissance Interior, 1400–1600, 35–37. 9. Antonio Bonet Correa, Iglesias madrileñas del siglo XVII; and Ana Ávila, Imágenes y símbolos en la arquitectura pintada española (1470–1560). 10. Gisbert, El paraíso de los pájaros parlantes, 31. 11. Thomas A. Abercrombie, Pathways of Memory and Power: Ethnography and History among an Andean People, 181–182. 12. Rebecca Stone-­Miller, “To Weave for the Sun: An Introduction to the Fiber Arts of the Ancient Andes,” 13. 13. Hogue, “Cosmology in Inca Tunics and Tectonics.” 14. For further discussion, see Cummins, “Queros, Aquillas, Uncus, and Chulpas.” 15. John Murra, “Cloth and Its Functions in the Inca State”; Irene Silverblatt, Moon, Sun, and Witches: Gender Ideologies and Class in Inca and Colonial Peru; MacCormack, Religion in the Andes; and Susan A. Niles, “Artist and Empire in Inca and Colonial Textiles.” 16. For further discussion on resonances between Inca architecture and textiles, see César Paternosto, The Stone and the Thread: Andean Roots of Abstract Art; and Adam Herring, “Shimmering Foundation: The Twelve-­Angled Stone of Inca Cusco,” especially 67–69. 17. Rebecca Stone-­Miller and Gordon F. McEwan, “The Representation of the Wari State in Stone and Thread: A Comparison of Architecture and Tapestry Tunics,” 54. 18. Juan de Betanzos, Narrative of the Incas, 46. 19. Carolyn Dean, A Culture of Stone: Inka Perspectives on Rock, 35. 20. Elena Phipps, “Garments and Identity in the Colonial Andes,” 34. 21. Kenneth Mills, “Seeing God in Mid-­Colonial Peru,” 309, 310. 22. Cristóbal de Albornoz, Fábulas y mitos de los incas, 196; cited in Maya Stanfield-­ Mazzi, Object and Apparition: Envisioning the Christian Divine in the Colonial Andes, 79–80; see also Kenneth Mills, Idolatry and Its Enemies: Colonial Andean Religion and Extirpation, 1640–1750; Dean, A Culture of Stone, 62–63, 210–211n159; and Claudia Brosseder, “Cultural Dialogue and Its Premises in Colonial Peru: The Case of Worshipping Sacred Objects,” especially 396–398.

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Notes to Pages 89–92     211 23. For a discussion of the distinctions between representation and presentation as it played out in colonial Andean portraiture, see Carolyn Dean, “Inka Nobles: Portraiture and Paradox in Colonial Peru.” See also Brosseder, “Cultural Dialogue and Its Premises in Colonial Peru,” 398; as well as her recent book The Power of Huacas: Change and Resistance in the Andean World of Colonial Peru. 24. See, for instance, Catherine J. Allen, The Hold Life Has: Coca and Cultural Identity in an Andean Community. 25. Gauvin Alexander Bailey, The Andean Hybrid Baroque: Convergent Cultures in the Churches of Colonial Peru. 26. Peter Thornton, Baroque and Rococo Silks, 82. 27. “Primeramente, que no se puedan hazer en estos nuestros Reynos adereços, ni colgaduras algunas de casas de personas de qualquier estado, y calidad que sean, de brocados, ni telas de oro, ni plata, ni bordados dellos ni, de rasos, o otras qualesquier sedas que tengan oro, o plata, sino que solamente se quedan hazer de terciopelo, damascos, rasos, y tafetanes, y de otro qualquier genero de seda: con que en las colgaduras de sea no aya bordado, ni recamado: aunque permitimos, que en solas las goteras de las dichas colgaduras se puedan echar flocaduras de oro, y plata”: Prematica, y nueva orden, cerca de las colgaduras de casas, y hechura de joyas de oro, y piedras, y pieças de plata, y en la forma que se han de hazer labrar, y traer, y otras cosas, 20. 28. For further discussion, see Juan Sempere y Guarinos, Historia del lujo y de las leyes suntuarias de España; and Ruth Mackay, “Lazy, Improvident People”: Myth and Reality in the Writing of Spanish History, 121–162. 29. Relacion de los puntos que su Magestad a sido seruido de declarar y ajustar, en algunos de los que están ya resueltos, para mayor facilidad de su execucion, not paginated. 30. Carlos Sempat Assadourian, “The Colonial Economy: The Transfer of the European System of Production to New Spain and Peru,” 64–65. 31. Ethnic separation within workshop contexts was perceived to be beneficial in preventing discord among members of lower-­ranked castas. For further discussion, see Fernando Silva Santisteban, Los obrajes en el virreinato del Perú, 22–25. 32. Natalie Rothstein, “Silk in the Early Modern Period, C. 1500–1780,” 1:531–534. 33. Mark A. Burkholder and Lyman L. Johnson, Colonial Latin America, 157. 34. A chorrillo is defined as a small mill with no more than six looms, usually organized around a family. 35. Pragmatica que su magestad manda publicar sobre la reformacion en el Excesso de Traxes, Lacayos, y coches, y prohibicion del consumo de las mercaderias de Francia y sus Dominios, y otras cosas. 36. “Hizieren los registros para llevarlas fuera del Reino, han de pedir despachos, y guias para ello al Juez de la parte donde salieren, quedando obligado el dueño a traer testimonio de como quedan dichas mercaderias fuera destos Reinos en la parte para do[n]de se le diere la guia, o embarcadas en Flotas, o Galeones, si la pidiere para transportarlas a las Indias”: ibid., fol. 5v. 37. “Y de la esquina principal de la plaza que llaman de los mercaderes, salen dos calles, las más ricas que hay en las Indias, porque en ellas están las tiendas de los mercade-

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212     Notes to Pages 92–98 res, donde se vende todas las cosas preciosas y de estima, que Inglaterra, Flandes, Francia, Alemania, Italia y España producen, labran y tejen, porque todas las envían y van a parar a esta ciudad, de donde se distribuyen por todo el Reino, de suerte que, cuando el hombre pudiere desear de telas, brocados, terciopelos, paño finos, rajas, damascos, rasos, sedas, pasamanos, franjones, todo lo hallarán allí a medida de su voluntad, como si estuviera en las muy ricas y frecuentadísimas ferias de Amberes, Londres, León (en Francia), Medina del Campo, Sevilla y Lisboa. . . . y se hallarán allí de todas las naciones de Europa y de las Indias, de México y de la gran China”: Murúa, Historia general del Perú, 507–508; cited in Elena Phipps, “The Iberian Globe: Textile Traditions and Trade in Latin America,” 33. 38. Phipps, “The Iberian Globe,” 41. 39. For more information on the series, see Dean, Inka Bodies and the Body of Christ, 64–78. 40. As Dean notes, the depiction of La Linda and Saint Rose in this composition symbolized the rivalry between the original seat of Inca power and the coastal capital of the Peruvian Viceroyalty: ibid., 90–92. 41. Elena Phipps, “Cumbi to Tapestry: Collection, Innovation, and Transformation of the Colonial Andean Tapestry Tradition,” 77, 97n31 (quotation). 42. “La yglesia está muy galantamente adereçada muy lucida”: González Holguín, Vocabulario de la lengua general, 213. 43. Dean, “Copied Carts.” 44. For further discussion, see Phipps, “Cumbi to Tapestry,” 77. 45. Although the subject is beyond the scope of this chapter, it should be noted that substantial research has been conducted on domestic wall hangings as part of a broader history of European furnishing textiles. See, for instance, Thornton, The Italian Renaissance Interior, 35–53, 68–84; and Anna Jolly, ed., Furnishing Textiles: Studies on Seventeenth- and Eighteenth-­Century Interior Decoration. 46. Dean and Leibsohn, “Hybridity and Its Discontents,” 13. 47. Indeed, this carries a direct analogue to artistic patronage in the Iberian world: artists were paid not for the quality of their work but for the cost and quality of the materials. See Siracusano, El poder de los colores, 137. 48. “Yt otra dha [casulla] de Brocato antiguo a flores de oro y ceda verde en campo de damasco forrada en tafetan flor de durasno adornada con sobrepuesto falso de plata con estola, manipulo y paño con franxa de oro y su volsa sin ella”: AAC, Libro de Fábrica e Inventario de Iglesias, Urcos (1788–1872), fol. 34r. 49. “Una casulla de lana antigua de sevilla con faxa de terciopelo carmesi bordado con Ymagines, adornada con franxa de oro, con estola, manipulo, volsa, y paño de damasco sin hijuelas es la del S. Carlos V”: ibid. 50. A number of scholars have written on the primacy of textiles in the pre-­Columbian Andes and their subsequent impact on an array of art forms, as discussed at the beginning of this chapter. For the colonial period, the essays in the exhibition catalogue The Colonial Andes: Tapestries and Silverwork, 1530–1830, edited by Elena Phipps, Johanna Hecht, and

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Notes to Page 98     213 Cristina Esteras Martín, superbly demonstrate the cross-­fertilization of textile and silver designs and motifs. Bailey’s The Andean Hybrid Baroque investigates potential connections between women’s llicllas and the stone carvings found on the façades of southern Andean churches (331–338). Very few, however, have considered the manifestation of textile patterns in colonial Andean paintings. Notable exceptions, which indeed provided the foundations for the conceptualization of this chapter, are Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:241–244; and Flores Ochoa, Kuon Arce, and Samanez Argumedo, Pintura mural en el sur andino, 163–167. 51. Mesa and Gisbert argue that Mollinedo disapproved of the textile murals that he encountered in Cuzqueñan churches when he began his tenure in 1673, citing an example from his 1682 visit to the church of San Jerónimo, where he orders “que la iglesia se reteje por de fuera, y por de dentro se blanquee y adorne con toda decencia posible quitando toda deformidad”: Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:123. Based solely on this statement, the authors arrive at the conclusion that Mollinedo must have been referring to textile murals that were painted on the walls. They argue that a few chapels and churches decorated in this manner survived, such as Huasac, Cay-­Cay, and Canincunca, but that the majority were destroyed or repainted under Mollinedo’s orders. While vestiges of red and burgundy textile murals survive behind the altar that would corroborate Mesa and Gisbert’s hypothesis, we have no way of knowing whether these are what Mollinedo is referring to when he describes the “deformidad” of the murals or whether he perceived a specific image as particularly indecent. Given the frequency with which Mollinedo ordered the churches of the diocese to be “painted in the form of colgaduras,” it seems unlikely that he would simultaneously have disapproved of this manner of decoration. Instead I would propose that he promoted it widely, particularly given the genre’s resonances with practices of draping churches with fine silks and damasks in his native Spain. Upon reviewing the original inventory of San Jerónimo to which Mesa and Gisbert refer, I have confirmed that the passage reads as follows: “Que se reteje la Iglesia por de fuera, afijando las texas condal, y quitadas las goteras, se blanquee, y enlusga por de dentro, y se ponga con toda la decensia possible” (AAC, Libro de Fábrica e Inventario de Iglesias, San Jerónimo, Book 1 [1672–1814], fols. 26r–­26v). A later entry from 1698 states: “Que por quanto se arreconocido [ha reconocido] q por estar toda la Yglesia pintada de colorado esta dho cura, y sin la luz q necesita un [?] grande, deponga dho padre nro se raspe todo el pintado y se blanquee toda ella con que que [sic] dara con mas claridad” (fol. 43r). While it is clear that the entire church was repainted for “clarity” due to the lack of light, there is no indication that the textile murals were referred to as a “deformity.” 52. “Tienele pues este Pueblo en una Iglesia de las mas hermosas, y bien tratadas que ay en el Reyno, por que sin necesitar de reparos q’ amanesen ruina a su durasion, esta maravillosamente adornada, hecha un asqua de oro, con ygual correspondencia en sus tarjas y liensos, desde el altar mayor hasta el coro, y rremate de su ultima puerta; enrriquesida con escoguidas y preciosas alajas como son frontal de Plata, Viril curioso, y costoso, Lamparas, Blandones, Siriales, Cruses altas, Andas y otras preseas de Plata, que al fomento del

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214     Notes to Pages 98–100 cuidado y selo pastoral del Iltmo. señor Dr. D. Manuel de Mollinedo y Angulo su dignisimo obispo se deve lo mas, como en el rresto de todas Iglesias deste su obispado”: Villanueva Urteaga, Cuzco 1689, 163. 53. For further discussion of the church of Quiquijana, see Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:242; and Pablo Macera, La pintura mural andina, siglos XVI–­XIX, 5. 54. For further discussion of the arch decorating the baptistery, see Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:235; Durston, Pastoral Quechua, 123–124. 55. Pál Kelemen, “Two Village Churches of the Andes”; Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:235–236; and Flores Ochoa, Kuon Arce, and Samanez Argumedo, Pintura mural en el sur andino, 132–134, 192–193. 56. Damask is a figured woven fabric made from cotton, linen, or silk, with a combination of satin or sateen weaves. What makes damasks unique is their reversible quality; the ground cloth on the obverse becomes the design scheme on the reverse. The name refers to the city of Damascus, which served as a major crossroads in the textile trade throughout Eurasia during the medieval period. For a comprehensive discussion of their place within global textile history, see Jennifer Harris, Textiles, 5,000 Years: An International History and Illustrated Survey; David Jenkins, ed., The Cambridge History of Western Textiles; and for a more historically specific discussion, see G. F. Wingfield Digby, “Sixteenth-­Century Silk Damasks: A Spanish Group.” 57. Honduran scholar Rafael Heliodoro Valle describes it in Visión del Perú (28): “Dentro de cuatro muros de adobe un relicario de oro, en que el júbilo de la luz exalta formas y brillos, flores inmóviles y pinturas adheridas a la pared, con calidad de gobelinos. No es hipérbole decir que solamente los marcos de las pinturas pudieron ser dignos de ostentarse en el Salón de Embajadores de un palacio imperial de la Edad Media. El frontal de plata del altar nos recuerda que ésta es una de las dos tierras de América en que el vil metal sirvió de solio a los santos y los ángeles. Habría que trasladarse a la Capilla Doméstica de Tepozotlán en México, para sufrir gozosamente una emoción idéntica, frente a esta joya del arte mestizo en que lo popular colaboró con temas de ingenuidad deliciosa.” Pál Kelemen was another early scholar who discussed Checacupe’s artistic value, commenting mostly on the church’s paintings and architectural embellishments during its second phase of decoration (post-­textile murals) around 1690–1700. See Kelemen, “Two Village Churches of the Andes,” 186–188. 58. The earliest textiles that feature the pomegranate and ogive format originated in central Asia around 1000 AD, undergoing continual transformation over the next half millennium and traveling westward through the Mediterranean world into Ottoman, Italian, and Spanish textile workshops. The pomegranate motif held great significance throughout the Judeo-­Christian world as a symbol of the sacrifice of Christ and his resurrection as well as a symbol of agricultural bounty, derived from its pre-­Christian association. For further information, see Rosamond E. Mack, Bazaar to Piazza: Islamic Trade and Italian Art, 1300–1600, 47, 177–279; James Trilling, Ornament: A Modern Perspective, 49–54. 59. “En Ianaoca se an gastado más de veynte y seis mil pesos en aderesar la iglesia, pin-

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Notes to Pages 100–05     215 tarla en forma de damascos y adornarla de ricas alhajas. Está muy hermosa”: Guibovich Pérez and Wuffarden, Sociedad y gobierno episcopal, 127. 60. Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:242; Gisbert, “La pintura mural andina.” 61. Roberto Zegarra Alfaro, “Iglesia de Canincunca, Canincunca, Perú,” 212. 62. Elizabeth Kuon Arce, personal communication, 2014. 63. “Yt el retablo dorado de dos cuerpos con su sagrario pequeño: cinco lienzos en lugar de nichos fuera del nicho de la Virgen q.e esta pintada en la pared: y en cada lado del altar en lugar de arbotantes, tres lienzos con sus marcos dorados. Es lindo”: AAC, Libro de Fábrica e Inventario de Iglesias, Huaro (1788–1862), fol. 20v. 64. Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:242. 65. “La capilla pintada en forma de colgadura”: AAC, Libro de Fábrica e Inventario de Iglesias, Huaro (1788–1862), fol. 20v. 66. Mesa and Gisbert briefly mention the textile murals of Canincunca in Historia de la pintura cuzqueña ([1982], 1:242). See also Pablo Macera, “El arte mural cuzqueño,” 98; Flores Ochoa, Kuon Arce, and Samanez Argumedo, Pintura mural en el sur andino, 164. The chapel has also received recent notoriety for its location along the ruta del barroco, a new touristic circuit that highlights the splendor of the churches of Andahuaylillas, Huaro, and Canincunca, all located along the same road that links Cuzco to the city of Urcos in the southeast. While a number of promotional materials have been created to highlight the chapel’s art historical value, no scholarly publications have approached the chapel’s artistic features in depth. 67. I am indebted here to Mary Weismantel’s recent work on vision, materiality, and temporality as it relates to the way we view the archaeological record. The various frameworks that she lays out for the different modes of visuality that monuments require— including “slow seeing,” “active seeing,” “kinesthetic seeing,” and “being seen”—hold great promise for thinking through sacred images produced across a variety of cultures and periods. Her call for an analysis that incorporates iconographic study with a consideration of the experiential properties of a given image or monument is of great relevance to scholars of colonial Latin American art, where experience and visuality often get left out of the analytical equation. See in particular Weismantel, “Inhuman Eyes: Looking at Chavín De Huantar.” 68. A comprehensive analysis of grotteschi imagery at Canincunca and in colonial Andean murals as a whole remains beyond the scope of this chapter. For further discussion, see Gutiérrez, Arquitectura y urbanismo en Iberoamérica, 62–64; Flores Ochoa, Kuon Arce, and Samanez Argumedo, Pintura mural en el sur andino, 59–78; and Johanna Hecht, “The Past Is Present: Transformation and Persistence of Imported Ornament in Viceregal Peru.” For discussion of grotesque imagery in colonial Mexican murals, see Gruzinski, The Mestizo Mind; and Mónica Domínguez Torres, “Frames for Conversion: The Assimilation of Native Motifs in the Monastic Decoration of New Spain (1540–1580).” 69. Teresa Gisbert, Iconografía y mitos indígenas en el arte, 46–51.

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216     Notes to Pages 105–09 70. Gruzinski, The Mestizo Mind, 107–132. 71. Burkholder and Johnson, Colonial Latin America, 280. 72. Rothstein, “Silk in the Early Modern Period,” 1:541. 73. Silva Santisteban, Los obrajes en el virreinato del Perú, 32–39. 74. Ward Stavig, The World of Túpac Amaru: Conflict, Community, and Identity in Colonial Peru, 146–147. 75. These issues are revisited in chapter 5, but for further context, see Alfredo Moreno Cebrian, El corregidor de indios y la economía peruana del siglo XVIII (los repartos forzosos de mercancías); and John Robert Fisher, Bourbon Peru, 1750–1824. 76. “Muchos de los efectos que reparten son inútiles y todos de exorbitante precio, pues que cossa mas inútil aujas, botones de semilor, percianas tafetanes, sintas de tela, virretes bordados bretañas, paños y vayeta de Castilla, para unos miserables indios, que solo se biste de vayeta de la tierra, que bale dos reales la bara y de cordellate, ó pañete, que les cuesta dos y medio, si no lo texen en sus casas, para vestirse, y no usan capas, sino mantas de lana burda y lo que sucede es, que quando los executan a la paga mal baratan estos generos bendiendolos, por la tercera ó quarta parte, de el precio á que se les dio (si hallan compradores) por librarse de la execusion”: Comité Arquidiocesano del Bicentenario Túpac Amaru (Arzobispado del Cusco), Túpac Amaru y la iglesia: Antología, 131. 77. Ibid., 154–155. 78. Neus Escandell Tur, Producción y comercio de tejidos coloniales: Los obrajes y chorrillos del Cusco, 1570–1820, 340. 79. “Primeram.te una casulla de Brocato nueva a flores de oro adornada con franja ancha de Milan de oro forrada en tafetan nacar con estola manipulo con rapasejos de oro: Volsa y paño sin franxas y sus hijuelas limosna de D. Fermin Galarreta”: AAC, Libro de Fábrica e Inventario de Iglesias, Urcos (1788–1872), fol. 34r. 80. “Yt. una ongarina de lana de Napoles, color nacar, con encage de oro, sus botones de hilo de lo mismo, forro de tafetan celeste”: AAC, Libro de Fábrica e Inventario de iglesias, Oropesa (1776–1791), no pagination. 81. See in particular the essays included in Donna Pierce and Ronald Otsuka, Asia and Spanish America: Trans-­Pacific Artistic and Cultural Exchange, 1500–1850: Papers from the 2006 Mayer Center Symposium at the Denver Art Museum; and Amelia Peck and Amy Elizabeth Bogansky, eds., Interwoven Globe: The Worldwide Textile Trade, 1500–1800. 82. For further discussion on the architecture of Topa Inca Yupanqui’s estate, see Stella Nair, “Witnessing the In-­Visibility of Inca Architecture in Colonial Peru.” See Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:174–175; 247–248; Flores Ochoa, Kuon Arce, and Samanez Argumedo, Pintura mural en el sur andino, 121–122, 273–274; Richard L. Kagan, Urban Images of the Hispanic World: 1493–1793, 133–134; and Stella Nair, “Localizing Sacredness, Difference, and Yachacuscamcani in a Colonial Andean Painting,” for further discussion of the church’s colonial artworks. 83. Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:236. 84. For further discussion of these murals, see Flores Ochoa, Kuon Arce, and Sama-

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Notes to Pages 110–116     217 nez Argumedo, Pintura mural en el sur andino, 121; Macera, La pintura mural andina, 63–64; and Gisbert, Iconografía y mitos indígenas, 213. 85. Unfortunately, the conservation reports conducted by the Instituto Nacional de la Cultura on the church of Chinchero and the other churches included in this study remain highly inaccessible to outside researchers. Personal communication with conservators who worked on the churches enabled me to fill in some of these gaps, coupled with up-­close inspection of the murals themselves. Nevertheless, access to this information would significantly enhance our understanding of the degree of intervention on the extant murals. 86. For a comprehensive discussion of stylistic changes in liturgical vestments in western Europe, see Pauline Johnstone, High Fashion in the Church: The Place of Church Vestments in the History of Art, from the Ninth to the Nineteenth Century, especially 90–109. 87. Rothstein, “Silk in the Early Modern Period,” 551. 88. See chapter 5 for further discussion of the economic and social impact of the Bourbon Reforms among indigenous communities in the southern Andes. 89. Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:244. 90. “Informe técnico anual de preliquidación del templo de San Pablo Apóstol-­ Ocongate-­Quispicanchi-­Urcos-­Cusco 2010.” 91. Thomas B. F. Cummins, Toasts with the Inca: Andean Abstraction and Colonial Images on Quero Vessels, 233–234; and Phipps, “Garments and Identity in the Colonial Andes,” 29. 92. For further discussion, see Carol Damian, The Virgin of the Andes: Art and Ritual in Colonial Cuzco. 93. Johnstone, High Fashion in the Church, 93. 94. “Comienza cuando los indígenas identifican los pájaros con los ángeles y cuando se muestra el cielo como un huerto. Asimismo, los pájaros parlantes, como los loros, son considerados seres maravillosos y los pájaros en general, como portadores de la voz de la divinidad”: Gisbert, El paraíso de los pájaros parlantes, 173–174. 95. Ibid., 149–174. For a discussion of Mexican depictions of this theme, see Peterson, The Paradise Garden Murals of Malinalco. See chapter 4 for further discussion of the trope of the Chunchos in the highland Andean imagination. 96. Mercedes López-­Baralt, Icono y conquista: Guamán Poma de Ayala; Mercedes López-­ Baralt, “From Looking to Seeing: The Image as Text and the Author as Artist”; Abercrombie, Pathways of Memory and Power; Rolena Adorno, ed., Guaman Poma: Writing and Resistance in Colonial Peru; and Pilar Rau, “Aesthetics and Sacrifice: Pentecostalism, Tourist Art and the Capitalist Promised Land.” 97. For further discussion, see Gabriela Siracusano, “El ‘cuerpo’ de las imágenes andinas: Una mirada interdisciplinaria.”

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218     Notes to Pages 119–121

Chapter 4. Turning the Jordan River into a Pacarina 1. Parts of this chapter originally appeared in “From the Jordan River to Lake Titicaca: Images of the Baptism of Christ in Colonial Andean Churches.” The material has been reprinted with full permission from The Americas. 2. In my earlier publication I posited that the Pitumarca Baptism of Christ mural was painted by the artist Pablo Gamarra in 1777, based on a reference in the Libro de Fábrica of Pitumarca at the Archivo Arzobispal de Cuzco that he was responsible for painting the baptistery (ibid., 109–110). But given that the entry does not explicitly mention that Gamarra was responsible for painting the specific composition of Christ’s baptism (such entries are notoriously vague, as discussed in chapter 1), I have amended my previous assertion as a probability but not a definitive one. I therefore wish to maintain a more conservative stance and retract the attribution until further archival evidence corroborates my initial findings. Nevertheless, I still contend that the mural dates to the late eighteenth century based on stylistic evidence and in light of the issues raised throughout this chapter. 3. MacCormack, Religion in the Andes, 97. 4. There are interesting parallels here with Novohispanic depictions of Saint John’s vision of the Woman of the Apocalypse that transform Patmos into Tenochtitlan/Mexico City. I thank Lauren Kilroy-­Ewbank for pointing this out to me. 5. Carolyn Dean, A Culture of Stone: Inka Perspectives on Rock, 37–39. 6. Michael J. Sallnow, Pilgrims of the Andes: Regional Cults in Cusco, 97. 7. Of course this phenomenon is not specific to murals but can also be found in canvas paintings and other types of artwork commissioned by prominent community members to be displayed in their local church. Stella Nair’s analysis of a painting of the Virgin of Montserrat by the indigenous artist Francisco Chihuantito provides an excellent model for understanding the local impulses that informed the production of certain types of sacred imagery, which has greatly influenced my own approach to this material. See Nair, “Localizing Sacredness, Difference, and Yachacuscamcani in a Colonial Andean Painting.” 8. George Kubler and Martin Soria, Art and Architecture in Spain and Portugal and Their American Dominions, 1500 to 1800, 89. See also Diego Angulo Iñiguez and Enrique Marco Dorta, Historia del arte hispano-­americano, 653–655. 9. Wethey, Colonial Architecture and Sculpture in Peru, 65. 10. The church of Urcos has undergone extensive restoration under the auspices of the Instituto Nacional de Cultura, which were completed in 2012. Unfortunately, a faulty conservation job on Diego Cusi Guaman’s mural has fundamentally altered the painting. When conservators attempted to liberate the mural from the wall in order to restore it, parts of the adobe crumbled, leaving large cracks throughout the composition. While I provide a recent image of the mural to show its current state, I rely on a prerestoration photograph and personal observation for visual analysis of the painting. 11. Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:233–236; Teófilo Benavente Velarde, Pintores cusqueños de la colonia, 106; Flores Ochoa, Kuon Arce, and Samanez Argumedo, Pintura mural en el sur andino, 80–81.

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Notes to Pages 122–125     219 12. Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:236. 13. In the colonial period Canas and Canchis were lumped together into a single province known interchangeably as Canas y Canchis and Tinta. 14. Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:244. 15. Flores Ochoa, Kuon Arce, and Samanez Argumedo, Pintura mural en el sur andino, 204. 16. Perhaps because of its isolated location, Pitumarca does not make it into any of the surveys on the art and architecture of colonial Latin America, including Pál Kelemen, Baroque and Rococo in Latin America; Kubler and Soria, Art and Architecture in Spain and Portugal; and Damián Bayón and Murillo Marx, History of South American Colonial Art and Architecture: Spanish South America and Brazil. Even books focusing specifically on Andean architecture do not include any references to the church, such as Wethey, Colonial Architecture and Sculpture in Peru; and Teresa Gisbert and José de Mesa, Arquitectura andina, 1530–1830. 17. José de Mesa and Teresa Gisbert originally cited Bernardo Bitti’s Baptism of Christ located at the church of Saint John in Juli as the source image for Diego Cusi Guaman’s mural in their 1962 edition of Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (234). Pablo Macera suggested in his 1975 article “El arte mural cuzqueño,” however, that the Urcos mural actually derived from Pérez de Alesio’s composition in Malta (78). Interestingly, Macera formed his hypothesis based on a low-­quality black-­and-­white image that had been inadvertently reversed in Mesa and Gisbert’s 1972 book El pintor Mateo Pérez de Alesio (38, fig. 10). Mesa and Gisbert modified their suppositions in light of Macera’s suggestion in their second edition of Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982). All three authors, however, remained unaware of Perret’s print of the baptism of Christ. For further discussion of Perret’s print, see Antonio Palesati and Nicoletta Lepri, Matteo da Leccia: Manierista toscano dall’Europa al Perú, 78–79, 126–129. 18. Christopher L. C. E. Witcombe, Copyright in the Renaissance: Prints and the Privilegio in Sixteenth-­Century Venice and Rome, 231. 19. Ibid., 232; and Palesati and Lepri, Matteo da Leccia, 78. 20. Emilio Harth-­Terré and Alberto Márquez Abanto, Pinturas y pintores en Lima virreinal, 127. 21. Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1; Stratton-­Pruitt, The Virgin, Saints, and Angels; and Suzanne Stratton-­Pruitt, “Origins of the Art of Painting in Colonial Peru and Bolivia.” 22. This image is available in Mesa and Gisbert, “El pintor y escultor Luis de Riaño,” 147. For further discussion, see José de Mesa and Teresa Gisbert, Bitti, un pintor manierista en Sudamérica, 55. 23. Ibid., 62. 24. It would not be unreasonable to assume that both Diego Cusi Guaman and Luis de Riaño were exposed to Bitti’s work in Juli, whether in person or through copies. Moreover, if the lives of Bernardo Bitti, Mateo Pérez de Alesio, and Angelino Medoro offer any indication, artists in seventeenth-­century Peru traveled extensively throughout the viceroyalty. Medoro, for instance, began his South American career in modern-­day Colombia, settled

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220     Notes to Pages 125–128 briefly in Ecuador, arrived in Lima around 1600, and then returned to Seville around 1624. For further discussion of the interactions between Italian émigré and local Andean artists in seventeenth-­century Cuzco, see Mesa and Gisbert, Bitti, un pintor manierista en Sudamérica; Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:56–88; and Ricardo Estabridis Cárdenas, “Influencia italiana en la pintura virreinal.” 25. The chronology of Cusi Guaman’s work in the Cuzco area remains unclear. Macera notes that the most immediate local reference to his Baptism can be found in Riaño’s painting at Andahuaylillas (“El arte mural cuzqueño,” 78), implying that Riaño’s work came first. Flores Ochoa, Kuon Arce, and Samanez Argumedo date Cusi Guaman’s painting to the early years of the seventeenth century, implying that Riaño’s canvas came later (Pintura mural en el sur andino, 80). Mesa and Gisbert (Historia de la pintura cuzqueña [1982] 1:236) remain mum on an exact date for Cusi Guaman’s mural but seem to imply that it was executed sometime between 1607 and 1630, the approximate dates of his alleged murals at the churches of Chinchero and Sangarará, respectively. In their 1975 publication on Luis de Riaño, however, they state that his painting directly influenced Diego Cusi Guaman (“El pintor y escultor Luis de Riaño,” 148). While the existing literature seems to suggest a rough date of the first quarter of the seventeenth century, I argue for a later date of the 1630s to 1640s. 26. Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:236. 27. A 1753 entry in the account book for the church states that the priest paid seven pesos for the baptistery to be painted: “Yt. Doi en Data ciete pesos q[ue] pague al Pintor p[a]r[a] q[ue] pintase el Bautisterio”: AAC, Libro de Fábrica e Inventario de Iglesias, Ccatca San Juan Bautista (1718–1765), fol. 78v. Five years later the priest recorded that he paid fifteen pesos to the painter to paint two chapels and to return to renovate the entire church: “Ytt. Doy en Data quinze pesos que pague al Pintor p.r que pintase las dos capillas, y bolbiese a renovar toda la Yglesia”: ibid., fol. 88v. Together with the mural’s stylistic features and bright color palette indicative of eighteenth-­century highland Andean painting, this archival information suggests that the baptistery mural was created and/or modified between 1753 and 1758. 28. Andahuaylillas, Urcos, Ocongate, and Catca are located in the Quispicanchi Province. Pitumarca is located in the adjoining province of Canchis (originally classified as Canas y Canchis in the colonial period). 29. In 1688 a group of indigenous artists initiated a legal battle that would change the course of artistic production for the rest of the colonial period. A group of Spanish-­ descended painters drew up a petition directed to the corregidor of Cuzco in rebuttal of a (now lost) request made by indigenous artists to withdraw from participation in the creation of a triumphal arch for the 1677 Corpus Christi procession. The Spaniards countered the claims made by their indigenous associates of mistreatment and discrimination, instead claiming that it was the Indians themselves who were drunk and malicious toward them. The original document is located in the Archivo Regional de Cuzco. For an English translation of the document, see Damian, “Artist and Patron in Colonial Cuzco,” 53. For

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Notes to Pages 129–133     221 a full transcription, see Horacio Villanueva Urteaga, “Nacimiento de la escuela cuzqueña de pintura.” See also Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:137–138. Recent scholars have critiqued Mesa and Gisbert’s overreliance on the 1688 document as the definitive turning point in Cuzco’s artistic system, arguing instead for a more nuanced approach that acknowledges the documentary gaps that have impeded our understanding of the pre-­1688 guild system in Cuzco. See Fernando Valenzuela, “Painting as a Form of Communication in Colonial Central Andes: Variations on the Form of Ornamental Art in Early World Society,” 182–209. For a more condensed version, see Fernando Valenzuela, “The Guild of Painters in the Evolution of Art in Colonial Cusco.” 30. A wealth of scholarship exists on the Cuzco School. See, for instance, Felipe Cossío del Pomar, Pintura colonial (escuela cuzqueña); Leopoldo Castedo, The Cuzco Circle; Ramón Gutiérrez, “Notas sobre organización artesanal en el Cusco durante la colonia”; Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), vol. 1; José de Mesa, “La pintura cuzqueña (1540–1821)”; and Carol Damian, “Artist and Patron in Colonial Cuzco: Workshops, Contracts, and a Petition for Independence.” 31. Access to technical reports produced during conservation campaigns of the 1980s and 1990s remains exceedingly difficult; in many cases, such documentation has been lost after the transfer of conservation archives to their current site at the Conservación del Patrimonio Cultural Mueble de la Dirección Regional de Cultura de Cusco in the town of Tipón. In the absence of information regarding the chemical composition of the murals, we must make educated guesses as to the possible pigments used based on documentation of pigment trade and use in Andean paintings of the same period and region. I draw primarily from the expertise of Gabriela Siracusano and her team of scientists, who have worked extensively on colonial Andean paintings of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries produced throughout Cuzco, Potosí, and northwestern Argentina. 32. For a discussion of red pigments in colonial Andean painting, see Seldes et al., “Green, Yellow, and Red Pigments in South American Painting,” 233–237. 33. Referenced in Gabriela Siracusano, El poder de los colores, 98–100. 34. For further discussion of the depiction of the mascapaycha in colonial Andean painting, see Dean, Inka Bodies and the Body of Christ, 103–110; 122–159; and Gisbert, Iconografía y mitos indígenas en el arte, 82–84. 35. “Al Nino Jesús que está en un altar de la yglesia se le quite la mascapaycha y se le pongan o rayos o corona ymperial”: Guibovich Pérez and Wuffarden, Sociedad y gobierno episcopal, 146. He also made the same request at the nearby church of Oropesa. Ibid., 150. 36. For more on the symbolic import of water in Inca mythology and imperial strategy, see Jeanette E. Sherbondy, “Water Ideology in Inca Ethnogenesis.” 37. Sallnow, Pilgrims of the Andes, 214–227. 38. Juan de Betanzos, Suma y narración de los incas, 14. 39. While most English sources translate the Spanish and Quechua terms as “chain” or “cable,” it may not have been a chain at all. Huascar was allegedly named in honor of this great golden ornament. The Quechua word for the chain is huasca, which actually trans-

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222     Notes to Pages 133–135 lates to the Spanish word maroma (rope). Samuel K. Lothrop argues that the so-­called chain would more likely have been a gold-­plated rope based on testimony by the chronicler Pedro Sarmiento de Gamboa: Inca Treasure as Depicted by Spanish Historians, 45. 40. “Al tiempo que le nació el primer hijo mandó hazer Guaynacaua vna maroma de oro, tan gruessa (según ay muchos indios biuos que lo dizen) que asidos a ello más de dozientos indios orejones no la reuantauan muy fácilmente; y en memoria desta tan señalada joya llamaron al hijo Guasca, que en su lengua quiere dezir ‘soga’”: Agustín de Zárate, Historia del descubrimiento y conquista del Perú, 59–60. 41. Garcilaso de la Vega, Royal Commentaries of the Incas, and General History of Peru, 544– 545. 42. “In the valley of Orcos, six leagues south of Cuzco, there is a small lake less than half a league round, but very deep and surrounded by high hills. The story is that the Indians threw a great part of the treasure from Cuzco in it as soon as they knew about the approach of the Spaniards, and that one of the treasures was the gold chain Huaina Cápac had ordered to be made, of which I shall speak in due course. Twelve or thirteen Spaniards dwelling in Cuzco, not settlers who possess Indians but merchants and traders, were stirred by this report to form a company to share the risk or profit of draining the lake and securing the treasure. They sounded it and found it was twenty-­three or twenty-­four fathoms of water without counting the mud which was deep. They decided to make a tunnel to the east of the lake, where the river Y’úcay passes and the land is lower than the level of the lake: they could thus run off the water and leave the lake dry. . . . They began work in 1557 with great hopes of getting the treasure, but after tunneling fifty paces into the hillside, they struck a rock and though they tried to break it, they found it was flint, and when they persisted, they found they struck more sparks than stone. So having wasted many ducats of their capital, they lost hope and gave up. I went into the tunnel several times while they were working.” Ibid., 190–191. 43. Pablo José de Oricain, “Compendio breve de discursos varios sobre diferentes materias y noticias geográficas del obispado del Cuzco, que claman remedios espirituales,” fol. 38r. 44. MacCormack, Religion in the Andes, 97. 45. Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:236. 46. An image of Dürer’s engraving of Adam and Eve is available at the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Online Collection: http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/works-­of-­art/19 .73.1. For further discussion, see Mesa and Gisbert, El pintor Mateo Pérez de Alesio, 89–90; and Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:236. 47. Hiroshige Okada, “Inverted Exoticism?: Monkeys, Parrots, and Mermaids in Andean Colonial Art,” 74. 48. Hugh Honour, The New Golden Land: European Images of America from the Discoveries to the Present Time, 34–37. 49. Sallnow, Pilgrims of the Andes, 221. 50. “Tiempo en questamos los quales son ynfieles, aunque con el Ynga tubieron pas y amistad. Y después acá son yndios belicosos, yndios de la montaña, comen carne humana.

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Notes to Pages 135–138     223 Y en su tierra ay animales, serpientes y tigres y leones y culebras ponsoñosas y saluages y lagartos, bacas, asnos montecinos y otros animales y muchos uacamayas y papaguayos y páxaros, monos y monas, puercos montecinos y muchos yndios de Guerra y otros desnudos y otros que tray panpanilla y otros que tray atra anaco, los hombres como las mugeres”: Guaman Poma de Ayala, El primer nueva corónica y buen gobierno, 60 [77]. 51. According to Thierry Saignes, chuncho is an Aymara term employed by missionaries and other colonial-­period writers roughly translated to mean savage. See Saignes, Los Andes orientales: Historia de un olvido, 51–54. The term does not appear in Ludivico Bertonio’s 1612 dictionary, Vocabulario de la lengua Aymara, however. It does appear in González Holguín’s 1608 Quechua dictionary Vocabulario de la lengua general (121), spelled chhunchu and defined as “a province, or bellicose Andeans” (“vna prouinvia, o de Andes de Guerra”), probably meant to invoke an association of Chunchos as warlike people. The term seems to have been devoid of any specific ethnic or geographic affiliation other than somewhere east of the Andes. In fact, “Chuncho” was used in one eighteenth-­century publication describing missionary efforts in the early colonial period to describe indigenous people in Paraguay. See Pedro Lozano, Historia de la Compañia de Jesus en la provincia del Paraguay, escrita por el padre Pedro Lozano, 568. 52. Lee Anne Wilson, “Nature versus Culture: The Image of the Uncivilized Wild-­Man in Textiles from the Department of Cuzco, Peru,” 209. 53. Guaman Poma de Ayala, El primer nueva corónica i buen gobierno, 175 [177]. 54. Ibid., 322 [324]. An image is available on the Det Kongelige Bibliotek website, which has fully digitized Guaman Poma’s manuscript: http://www.kb.dk/permalink/2006 /poma/324/es/text/?open=id3087472. 55. Okada, “Inverted Exoticism?” 56. Manuel M. Marzal, El mundo religioso de Urcos: Un estudio de antropología religiosa y de pastoral campesina de los Andes, 130. 57. Sallnow, Pilgrims of the Andes, 227. 58. I am indebted to the scholarship of Rolena Adorno, Raquel Chang-­Rodríguez, Mercedes López-­Baralt, and others whose work on Guaman Poma de Ayala’s illustrations has provided a framework for approaching the implicit spatial hierarchies and relations embedded in many colonial Andean images. See in particular Rolena Adorno’s “On Pictorial Language and the Typology of Culture in a New World Chronicle”; From Oral to Written Expression: Native Andean Chronicles of the Early Colonial Period; Guaman Poma de Ayala: The Colonial Art of an Andean Author; and Guaman Poma; as well as López-­Baralt, “From Looking to Seeing”; and Raquel Chang-­Rodríguez, La palabra y la pluma en “Primer nueva corónica y buen gobierno.” 59. For further discussion on the construction of Inca identities vis-­à-­vis the Chunchos, particularly in terms of gender, see Carolyn Dean, “Andean Androgyny and the Making of Men.” See also Carolyn Dean, “War Games: Indigenous Militaristic Theater in Colonial Peru,” in Contested Visions in the Spanish Colonial World, ed. Ilona Katzew (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2011), 132–149. 60. The literature on duality in the Andes is vast. For an archaeological perspective, see Jerry D. Moore, “The Archaeology of Dual Organization in Andean South America: A Theo-

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224     Notes to Pages 138–139 retical Review and Case Study.” For broader discussions of its role in state formation and the delineation of moieties, see Patricia J. Netherly, “The Nature of the Andean State”; and R. Tom Zuidema, Inca Civilization in Cuzco. For a discussion of duality and its intersections with Inca material culture, see Maarten van de Guchte, “Sculpture and the Concept of the Double among the Inca Kings.” And for a discussion of these concepts as they relate to modern Andean societies, see Salvador Palomino, “Duality in the Sociocultural Organization of Several Andean Populations”; and Tristan Platt, “Mirrors and Maize: The Concept of Yanantin among the Macha of Bolivia.” 61. John Howland Rowe, “El movimiento nacional inca del siglo XVIII.” 62. Scholars have written extensively on the various channels through which the Inca past was reenacted and reconstructed in the colonial period. For a discussion of artistic representations of the Incas in the eighteenth century, see Gisbert, Iconografía y mitos indígenas en el arte, 117–146; Jorge Flores Ochoa, Elizabeth Kuon Arce, and Roberto Samanez Argumedo, “De la evangelización al incanismo: La pintura mural del sur andino,” 171; Flores Ochoa, Kuon Arce, and Samanez Argumedo, Pintura mural en el sur andino, 254–267; Macera, La pintura mural andina, 19–23, 35–40; and Natalia Majluf, “De la rebelión al museo: Genealogías y retratos de los Incas, 1781–1900.” 63. Pedro Guibovich Pérez, “Lectura y difusión de la obra del Inca Garcilaso en el virreinato peruano (siglos XVII–­XVIII): El caso de los Comentarios Reales”; Carlos García-­ Bedoya Maguiña, Para una periodización de la literatura peruana; and José Antonio Mazzotti, Incan Insights: El Inca Garcilaso’s Hints to Andean Readers. 64. Ángel Rama’s groundbreaking work La ciudad letrada (1984) argued that the written word served as a powerful tool of legitimacy in the Spanish Americas, which was largely controlled, bureaucratized, and shaped by powerful Spaniards and creoles. Recent works have begun to complicate the picture, however, pointing out the role of mestizo and indigenous writers in the quest for power through the production of texts and images. See, for instance, Alcira Dueñas, Indians and Mestizos in the Lettered City: Reshaping Justice, Social Hierarchy, and Political Culture in Colonial Peru; Frank Salomon and Mercedes Niño-­Murcia, The Lettered Mountain: A Peruvian Village’s Way with Writing; and Rappaport and Cummins, Beyond the Lettered City. Other authors, such as Roberto González Echevarría, have focused on the legacy of the Spanish legal culture in the New World. His oft-­cited phrase “America existed as a legal document before it was physically discovered” (46) points to the primacy of the written word in the conquest as well as in the perpetuation of the colonial state: Roberto González Echevarría, Myth and Archive: A Theory of Latin American Narrative. This is not to imply, however, that Garcilaso’s second edition served as the sole vehicle by which Inca narratives became reenacted in the colonial period. A few representative examples of the rich body of literature on the impact of theatrical productions such as Ollantay and Usca Paucar are Margot Beyersdorff, Historia y drama ritual en los Andes bolivianos, siglos XVI–­ XX; Raquel Chang-­Rodríguez, Hidden Messages: Representation and Resistance in Andean Colonial Drama; and Ricardo Silva-­Santisteban, Antología general del teatro peruano. 65. Scholars have identified the indigenous manufacture of the boats depicted in the

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Notes to Pages 139–147     225 Pitumarca mural but do not elaborate on this point any further. See Gisbert, Iconografía y mitos indígenas en el arte, fig. 88. 66. For a discussion of the significance of Lake Titicaca as a pilgrimage site from the pre-­Columbian to the colonial period, see Brian S. Bauer and Charles Stanish, Ritual and Pilgrimage in the Ancient Andes: The Islands of the Sun and the Moon; and Verónica Salles-­Reese, From Viracocha to the Virgin of Copacabana: Representation of the Sacred at Lake Titicaca. 67. Salles-­Reese, From Viracocha to the Virgin of Copacabana, 45–171. 68. Ibid., 94–100. 69. Garcilaso de la Vega, Royal Commentaries, book 1, chapter 15, 42. 70. The analogy between Christ and the pagan sun god was also a long-­standing trope in medieval and Renaissance Europe. 71. Garcilaso de la Vega, Royal Commentaries, book 1, chapter 15, 40. 72. Kenneth Mills discusses this phenomenon in greater depth in his essay “The Naturalization of Andean Christianities.” 73. Salles-­Reese, From Viracocha to the Virgin of Copacabana, 175. 74. Luis Eduardo Wuffarden, “From Apprentices to ‘Famous Brushes’: Native Artists in Colonial Peru,” 267–269. 75. For further discussion on assertions of indigenous elite power through the practice of artistic patronage, see Dean, Inka Bodies and the Body of Christ; Carolyn Dean, “Inka Nobles: Portraiture and Paradox in Colonial Peru”; and Stanfield-­Mazzi, “The Possessor’s Agency.” 76. Hiroshige Okada, “‘Golden Compasses’ on the Shores of Lake Titicaca: The Appropriation of European Visual Culture and the Patronage of Art by an Indigenous Cacique in the Colonial Andes.”

Chapter 5. Earthly Violence/Divine Justice 1. Steve J. Stern, “The Age of Andean Insurrection, 1742–1782: A Reappraisal.” 2. David Cahill, From Rebellion to Independence in the Andes: Soundings from Southern Peru, 1750–1830, 127–131. 3. AAC, XXII, 1, 13, 1789, fols. 1–11 (Alejandrino Cavero, cura of the church of Langui, gives 727 pesos to Juan Bautista Aranzabal to reconstruct the destroyed church); AAC, XX, 3, 60, 1786 (Don Pedro Salazar y Rupillos relates the situation of the doctrina of Checacupe after the rebellion of Tupac Amaru); and AAC, XIX, 2, 37, 1781, fols. 1–9 (Don Francisco Antonio Pérez de Oblitas requests permission to be discharged from his parish after witnessing the devastation of the Tupac Amaru Rebellion). 4. A comprehensive discussion of the Bourbon Reforms and the other economic factors that led to the Tupac Amaru Rebellion is beyond the scope of this chapter. For an overview, see Scarlett O’Phelan Godoy, Un siglo de rebeliones anticoloniales: Perú y Bolivia 1700–1783; and John Robert Fisher, Bourbon Peru, 1750–1824. 5. Charles F. Walker, Smoldering Ashes: Cuzco and the Creation of a Republican Peru, 1780– 1840, 22–24.

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226     Notes to Pages 147–148 6. Ward Stavig, The World of Túpac Amaru: Conflict, Community, and Identity in Colonial Peru, 120–121. 7. Sinclair Thomson, We Alone Will Rule: Native Andean Politics in the Age of Insurgency, 164. 8. For further discussion of prophecies and conspiracies in the years leading up to the rebellion, see Walker, Smoldering Ashes, 24–33; and Alberto Flores Galindo, Buscando un Inca: identidad y utopía en los Andes. 9. Jorge Hidalgo Lehuede, “Amarus y cataris: Aspectos mesiánicos de la rebelión indígena de 1781 en Cusco, Chayanta, La Paz y Arica”; Jan Szemiński, “Why Kill the Spaniard?: New Perspectives on Andean Insurrectionary Ideology in the 18th Century,” 179–180; and Ramón Mujica Pinilla, Rosa limensis: Mística, política e iconografía en torno a la patrona de América, 344–347. 10. Tupac Amaru was the final ruler of the Neo-­Inca state in Vilcabamba that lasted from 1535 to 1572. He was publicly beheaded in Cuzco’s central plaza under the orders of viceroy Francisco de Toledo in 1572. 11. Alejandro Ortiz Rescaniere, De Adaneva a Inkarri: Una visión indígena del Perú. 12. The literature on the Tupac Amaru Rebellion is vast. This chapter draws from foundational texts such as Boleslao Lewin’s La rebelión de Túpac Amaru y los orígenes de la independencia de hispanoamérica; Tupac Amaru, su época, su lucha, su hado; Carlos Daniel Valcárcel, Túpac Amaru, precursor de la independencia; and Lillian Estelle Fisher, The Last Inca Revolt. The single most important anthology of documentary sources culled from Peruvian archives and the Archivo General de Indias in Seville is Luis Durand Florez, ed., Colección documental del bicentenario de la revolución emancipadora de Túpac Amaru. Another important collection of documents related to the affairs of the church during the rebellion is Comité Arquidiocesano del Bicentenario Túpac Amaru (Arzobispado del Cusco), Túpac Amaru y la iglesia: Antología. None of these anthologies has been translated into English, although some representative documents are included in Ward Stavig and Ella Schmidt, eds., The Tupac Amaru and Catarista Rebellions: An Anthology of Sources. Two recent English-­language books on the Tupac Amaru rebellion synthesize much of the documentary analysis conducted over the past four decades: Sergio Serulnikov, Revolution in the Andes: The Age of Túpac Amaru; and Charles F. Walker, The Tupac Amaru Rebellion. 13. The story of Arriaga’s capture, ransom, and eventual execution bears striking resemblance to the conquest narrative of Atahualpa. Francisco Pizarro ordered Atahualpa to ransom himself by providing enough gold and silver to fill up an entire room. Although Atahualpa miraculously managed to accumulate the materials, the Spaniards nevertheless executed him based on trumped-­up charges of idolatry and the murder of his half-­brother, Huascar. Having read Garcilaso de la Vega’s Comentarios reales, Tupac Amaru was certainly aware of the conquest narrative and may have staged Arriaga’s capture and execution as an Inca-­inspired counterconquest. The “staging” of the conquest through a contemporary lens would not have been a culturally alien practice. La muerte de Atahualpa and other plays that theatrically reenacted scenes from the Spanish encounter were widely performed in the Andes throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. 14. For a discussion of the impact of the reparto on these two regions, see Ward Stavig,

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Notes to Pages 148–151     227 “Ethnic Conflict, Moral Economy, and Population in Rural Cuzco on the Eve of the Thupa Amaro II Rebellion.” 15. Serulnikov, Revolution in the Andes, 52. 16. While documents of the period cite about 100,000 deaths, scholars today believe that the number may be exaggerated. In any event, the death toll was the highest for any indigenous rebellion in the history of Latin America. See Roger Neil Rasnake, Domination and Cultural Resistance: Authority and Power among an Andean People, 138–141; and Cahill, From Rebellion to Independence in the Andes, 121–122. 17. “La matanza universal, el lastimoso quejido de los moribundos, la sanguinolencia de los contrarios, los fragmentos de las llamas; por hablar en breve, todo cuanto se presentaba en aquel infeliz día, conspiraba al horror y la comiseración; mas ésta jamás había sido conocido por los rebeldes, ciegos de furor y sedientos de sangre, no pensaban, sino pasar a cuchillo a todos los blancos y en presentar a la vista de los hombres un espectáculo horroroso y sangriento, que jamás huirá de mi pensamiento mientras viva”: Durand Florez, Colección documental del bicentenario 1:432; cited in part in Walker, Smoldering Ashes, 38. 18. “Un estrago horroroso con muertes, robos, sacrilegious, estupros y demás iniquidades”: Durand Florez, Colección documental del bicentenario, 1:117. 19. Ramón Mujica Pinilla, “‘Reading without a Book’: On Sermons, Figurative Art, and Visual Culture in the Viceroyalty of Peru”; Ramón Mujica Pinilla, “Hell in the Andes: The Last Judgment in the Art of Viceregal Peru”; Teresa Gisbert and Andrés de Mesa, “Los grabados, el ‘Juicio Final’ y la idolatría indígena en el mundo andino”; and Gabriela Siracusano, “¿No escuchas? ¿No ves?: Interacciones entre la palabra y la imagen en la iconografía de las postrimerías.” 20. For the entire passage, see Durand Florez, Colección documental del bicentenario, 2:641–642. 21. Stavig and Schmidt, The Tupac Amaru and Catarista Rebellions, 121. 22. Alberto Flores Galindo, In Search of an Inca: Identity and Utopia in the Andes, 101. 23. For a detailed discussion of the role of the Catholic Church in the rebellion, see Comité Arquidiocesano del Bicentenario Túpac Amaru (Arzobispado del Cusco), Túpac Amaru y la iglesia; and Walker, The Tupac Amaru Rebellion, 65–85. 24. Though it is located a mere twenty miles outside of Cuzco, Huaro (along with its neighboring town of Andahuaylillas) serves as the entry point into the Quispicanchi Province and marks an important geographical and ideological boundary separating the largely loyalist Cuzco from the rebellious southern provinces. 25. For the trial of José Esteban Escarcena de Villanueva and Mariano Banda, see Durand Florez, Colección documental del bicentenario 5:119–229. 26. “Hasta ahora no había conocido a Dios, ni sabían quien era, que sólo tenían por dioses a los ladrones de los corregidores y a los curas, y que el venía a poner remedio en ello, que en adelante no había de haber repartos, alcabalas, mitos de Potosí, obvenciones, ni aduana y que habían de vivir libres y sólo le habían de pagar a él los tributos”: ibid., 5:126.

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228     Notes to Pages 151–154 27. Immediately thereafter, Tupac Amaru entered the church of Andahuaylillas, where he was received by the loyalist cura Pedro Santistevan y Cano. He prayed at the main altar and afterward led the residents to the town cemetery, where he gave a similar speech denouncing the corregidores and their invasive institutions. From there, according to Escarena’s testimony, he went to the church of Oropesa and did the same thing. Ibid., 5:126–128. 28. Durand Florez, Colección documental del bicentenario, 3:444–445. 29. Quoted in Szemiński, “Why Kill the Spaniard?” 179. 30. David T. Garrett, Shadows of Empire: The Indian Nobility of Cusco, 1750–1825, 208. 31. See chapter 3 for further discussion. 32. The story of Tupac Amaru’s brutal execution has been discussed at length by a number of scholars. His tongue was cut out and his limbs were tied to four horses in an attempt to quarter his body. Much to the horror of the spectators, his body would not split apart. He was subsequently beheaded on the orders of José Antonio de Areche. The limbs and heads of Tupac Amaru, Micaela Bastidas, and others were distributed to the southern rebel towns that had displayed the most support for him. For an insightful discussion of the symbolic implications of the execution, see Mary Louise Pratt, “Apocalypse in the Andes: Contact Zones and the Struggle for Interpretive Power.” 33. “Desolados los templos, arruinados los Altares, abandonados las prácticas de Religión, olvidada la sublime Doctrina, esparcidas las Obejas, desmayado el Pastor, los Pueblos aun humeando de la sangre de las víctimas sacrificadas al furor, tal era el estado del culto, y la Religión de las Provincias Rebeladas”: cited in Charles F. Walker, “Prólogo,” 18. 34. Sallnow, Pilgrims of the Andes, 214. 35. Estenssoro bases his discussion on a description by Felipe Vilela and Fernando Guarachi in their 1948 publication “Las artes plásticas,” in La Paz en su cuarto centenario 1548– 1948, vol. 3 (La Paz: Comisión Pro IV Centenario). The painting was destroyed in the twentieth century, so he notes that we cannot know for sure whether the painting made explicit references to the rebellion. Nevertheless, this example remains consistent with the other churches described above. Juan Carlos Estenssoro, “La plástica colonial y sus relaciones con la gran rebelión,” 430. 36. Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:248. 37. Flores Ochoa, Kuon Arce, and Samanez Argumedo, Pintura mural en el sur andino, 142–143. 38. Comité Arquidiocesano del Bicentenario Túpac Amaru (Arzobispado del Cusco), Túpac Amaru y la iglesia; Leon G. Campbell, “Rebel or Royalist?: Bishop Juan Manuel de Moscoso y Peralta and the Tupac Amaru Revolt in Peru, 1780–1784”; and Leon G. Campbell, “Church and State in Colonial Peru: The Bishop of Cuzco and the Tupac Amaru Rebellion of 1780.” 39. In January 1780, at a time of increased social disorder in the months leading up to the rebellion, the indigenous parishioners of San Pablo de Cacha asked to bring their

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Notes to Pages 154–156     229 nativity scene from the local chapel into the church for the celebration of the Epiphany. When their request was refused, they made their dissatisfaction clear to the priest. One month later the priest’s slave, Francisco, spread a false rumor that the priest had sent an order to corregidor Arriaga to send four hundred soldiers to kill them. In a wave of panic, the Indians of San Pablo de Cacha fled to the countryside. One of them suffered the misfortune of drowning after falling off a bridge. See Stavig, The World of Túpac Amaru, 239–240. In December of that same year, a month after the rebellion had begun, the priest Don Tapia Buenaventura promised Tupac Amaru that he would recruit Indian soldiers from the town of San Pablo de Cacha to participate in the insurgency. Charles F. Walker, “‘When Fear Rather Than Reason Dominates’: Priests Behind the Lines in the Tupac Amaru Rebellion (1780–1783),” 66. 40. “Y finalmente que su conducta ha sido en todo arreglada, y muy grande su esmero en reedificar, y adornar las Iglesias que ha puesto á sus expensas en un estado decente. Comprueba la certeza de estos méritos la sentencia que con motivo de la Visita de dicha Doctrina de Cacha pronunció en treinta de Enero de mil setecientos ochenta y nueve el Doctor Don Joseph Gallegos, Visitador general del Obispado del Cuzco, en la que declaró á este Párroco por uno de los exemplares de la Diócesis, respecto á que de la sumaria informacion, y pesquisa secreta no resultaba culpa, ni cargo alguno contra ál; antes sí constaba que habia exercido su ministerio con toda puntualidad, haciendo visible no solo al público, sino tambien á los Prelados Superiores, su exactitud en la instruccion Christiana de sus feligreses, su cuidado en socrorrerles en sus necesidades espirituales, y corporales, y su particular esmero en el adorno, y fábrica de las Iglesias, inviertiendo en ello la corta renta de su Curato, por cuyos méritos le dió las debidas gracias, ofreciendo informar de ellos á S.M.”: AGI, Cuzco 64, Relacion de los meritos, y servicios del Doctor Don Manuel de Cabiedes, Cura en el Obispado del Cuzco, fol. 2v. 41. For a more detailed discussion of the church’s mural program, see Ananda Cohen Suarez, “Las pinturas murales de la Iglesia de San Pablo de Cacha, Canchis, Perú.” 42. An image can be found in PESSCA, 1432A. 43. The mural at La Merced features a simplified rendition of the Andahuaylillas imagery of the two paths, suggesting that the artist either had access to the source print by Hieronymus Wierix (discussed in chapter 2) or had visited Andahuaylillas himself and adjusted the imagery to fit his own preferences by eliminating the hell mouth and inserting a demon playing the charango at the paths’ point of convergence. For further discussion of the murals in the Celda Salamanca, see Flores Ochoa, Kuon Arce, and Samanez Argumedo, Pintura mural en el sur andino, 169–172; and Jorge Flores Ochoa, “La celda del padre Salamanca (Cuzco).” 44. For further discussion, see Cohen Suarez, “Las pinturas murales de la Iglesia de San Pablo de Cacha, Canchis, Perú.” 45. Mesa and Gisbert follow Collado’s later career at the church of Catca, where he served as cura until his death in 1818. In an 1806 entry in the inventory and account book for Catca, he mentions paying eleven pesos to have the interior of the church painted. He

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230     Notes to Pages 156–158 probably commissioned the church’s large-­scale baptistery mural of Cuzco’s plague of 1720, which was likely completed under the auspices of his successor, José Benito Calderón. See Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:248. 46. “Apostol S.n Tiago con ropaje gravado de oro, pisando a Joseph, y Diego Tupa Amaro”: AAC, Libro de Fábrica e Inventario de Iglesias, San Jerónimo, Book 1 (1672–1814), fol. 112r. 47. Estenssoro, “La plástica colonial y sus relaciones con la gran rebelión,” 423. 48. For further discussion of the Chinchero murals, see Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:247–248; and Flores Ochoa, Kuon Arce, and Samanez Argumedo, Pintura mural en el sur andino, 121–123, 274. 49. Macera, “El arte mural cuzqueño,” 99. 50. AAC, Acomayo, Libro de Defunción (1838–1861). 51. Majluf, “De la rebelión al museo,” 289. 52. Flores Ochoa and his collaborators have proposed that the molinos may have been used as meeting spaces for local Freemason-­like secret societies to which Tadeo belonged. See Flores Ochoa, Kuon Arce, and Samanez Argumedo, Pintura mural en el sur andino, 267– 268. Gisbert has made a similar proposition regarding the mill murals, arguing that they served as “patriotic loggias.” She compares the painted altar in the Molino de los Incas containing a cross and flanked by two attendants bearing ladders with an unpublished manuscript by the Bolivian president and Freemason José Ballivián (in office 1841–1847) that describes a Masonic meeting that took place in La Paz in 1820. According to his account, the Freemasons used an altar adorned with similar details and members of the secret society took on pseudonyms of former Inca and Aztec monarchs. This led her to conclude that Escalante’s mural in the Molino de los incas staged a similar kind of event in which local initiates dressed up as Inca alter egos. See Gisbert, El paraíso de los pájaros parlantes, 275–276, 279–281. See also her more recent writings on the topic: Teresa Gisbert, “Iconografía mitológica y masónica a fines del virreinato e inicios de la República,” 187–191. For an alternate reading of the Molino de los incas that considers the figures in the context of colonial and republican imagery of the Inca lineage, see Majluf, “De la rebelión al museo.” For a general description of the murals of the Molino de la Creación, see Alba Choque Porras, “El molino del génesis cristiano: Tadeo Escalante.” For a general overview of Escalante’s molino murals, see Ananda Cohen Suarez, “Mural Painting and Social Change in the Colonial Andes, 1626–1830,” 242–262. 53. I also corroborated my archival findings with information provided by the anthropologist Carmen Escalante. When I met with Carmen in December 2010, she graciously showed me their family tree, newspaper clippings, and other documentation concerning the family lineage. 54. AAC, XXV, 3, 41, fol. 4. 55. For documentation of charges against Tomasa Tito Condemayta, see Durand Florez, Colección documental del bicentenario, 3:487–517. For a discussion of the role of Micaela Bastidas and Tomasa during the rebellion, see Leon G. Campbell, “Women and the Great Rebellion in Peru, 1780–1783.”

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Notes to Pages 158–159     231 56. These are the only sons referenced in the Tupac Amaru documentation, but she may have had other children that were not mentioned. For the reference to Evaristo Delgado as the brother of Ramón, see Durand Florez, Colección documental del bicentenario, 5:572. 57. Some of the scholarship refers to him as Julián Escalante Tito Condemayta, although his specific relation to Tomasa remains unclear. See Juvenal Pacheco Farfán, Tomasa T’ito Condemayta, heroína de Acos: Hito histórico y paradigma de liberación de la mujer, 278; and Majluf, “De la rebelión al museo,” 289. 58. Julián Escalante hailed from Acomayo, thus supporting the case for his possible parentage of Tadeo Escalante. In one of her letters to Micaela Bastidas, Tomasa Tito Condemayta implores her to consider replacing Torre with Julián Escalante because of his superior intelligence and youth, which could suggest some kind of close if not familial connection. Durand Florez, Colección documental del bicentenario, 3:492. Based on personal correspondence with historian David Garrett, Majluf argues that Julián Escalante and his wife, Tomasa Farfán, were almost certainly the parents of Tadeo Escalante. See Majluf, “De la rebelión al museo,” 289, 319. For Garrett’s discussion of the relationship of the Tito Condemayta, Delgado, and Escalante families, see Shadows of Empire, 105. In my own research, however, I have not found any conclusive evidence to prove that Tadeo was the son of Julián Escalante and Tomasa Farfán. Further archival research will be needed to complete the Escalante family tree and establish its connection to the Tito Condemayta family. 59. AAC, Acomayo, Libro de Matrimonios (1813–1860), fol. 38v. 60. Ibid., fol. 53r. See also Majluf, “De la rebelión al museo,” 289. 61. AAC, XXVIII, 4, 74, fol. 3. 62. Colección documental de la independencia del Perú. La Rebelión de Túpac Amaru, 286. 63. Lewin, La rebelión de Túpac Amaru, 234–235; O’Phelan Godoy, Un siglo de rebeliones anticoloniales, 238. 64. ARC, Inventario de Protocolos, Sección Notorial, Escribano Mariano Melendez Paez, fol. 180. 65. AAC, Libro de Fábrica e Inventario de Iglesias, Acomayo (1833–1869, Acos y Huaqui), fols. 22v–­23r. 66. AAC, XLV, 2, 35, fol. 4. 67. AAC, Acomayo, Libro de Defunción (1838–1861), fol. 45r; AAC, C-­XXIX, 1, 7, fol. 6. 68. Escalante may have drawn up his contracts, inventories, wills, and other documents in his hometown of Acomayo rather than in Cuzco. The majority of colonial documents produced in Acomayo were moved to Cuzco repositories in the mid-­twentieth century, when the Archivo Regional and Archivo Arzobispal began to consolidate their collections. It is also possible that some documents got lost or ended up in private hands. The public archives currently in the town of Acomayo only date back to the early twentieth century. 69. The entries for 1803 to 1836 are missing, however, and tear marks along the binding indicate that they were ripped out of the book. 70. Lewin, La rebelión de Túpac Amaru, 250.

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232     Notes to Pages 159–161 71. Durand Florez, Colección documental del bicentenario, 1:111–112. 72. The inventory of the church of Huaro over which Santistevan y Cano once presided contains an entry pertaining to the costs of his burial and final rites: “Por 3 p[e]s[os] 4 r[eale]s que se descarga haver gastado en mandar labrar alguna cera p[ar]a el entierro y onras del finado cura D. D. Pedro Santistev[a]n”: AAC, Libro de Fábrica e Inventario de Iglesias, Huaro (1788–1862), fol. 46r. 73. Comité Arquidiocesano del Bicentenario Túpac Amaru (Arzobispado del Cusco), Túpac Amaru y la iglesia, 344–345. 74. “Y tirantes por partes sin embarro, ni blanqueo con una ligera caida asi [sic: hacía] al coro, y barios agujeros en el techo”: AAC, Libro de Fábrica e Inventario de Iglesias, Huaro (1788–1862), fol. 41v. 75. “Por dos p[e]s[os] que pagué al Pintor por pinturas del presbiterio”: ibid., fol. 46v. As discussed in chapter 1, we can be certain that he is referring to murals because of the low cost and because of the different language used for framed canvas paintings and mural paintings. 76. “Ocho p[e]s[os] que pagué a Tadeo Escalante Maestro Pintor, p[o]r los dos Confesonarios q[ue] compuso y pinto q[ue] estaban quasi desechos”: ibid., fol. 83r. 77. It is possible, however, that the murals were commissioned immediately after the rebellion when Escalante was a young artist and that the project was postponed due to lack of funds or the priority of more pressing issues. If so, reference to the mural program would have appeared in the now-­lost earlier inventories. 78. Julio Ninantay Loayza, conservator for the Instituto Nacional de la Cultura (INC), personal communication, January 2011. 79. Luis Guillermo Lumbreras, Huaro: Proyecto de restauración de obras de arte del Templo de San Juan Bautista, 1. 80. “El techo de madera tallada y pintada, y las paredes pintadas en formas de colgaduras, con galones esmaltados”: ibid., fol. 15r. Galón refers to a strong fabric woven from gold or silver threads. Diccionario de la lengua castellana, 445. 81. “Se hara puerta de reja para la capilla de misericordia que esta dentro de la Escuela. Yt se formara un vanco de adove, y se hara pintar un santo cristo en la pared”: ibid., fol. 21r. 82. Huaro also received brief mention in survey texts such as Pál Kelemen, Baroque and Rococo in Latin America, 176. Flores Ochoa, Kuon Arce, and Samanez Argumedo see Escalante’s murals at Huaro as part of a larger trend in late colonial Andean mural painting to offer reaffirmations of the faith in the face of an increasingly secularized society: Pintura mural en el sur andino, 142. The authors note that Escalante must have had access to esoteric knowledge not available to the average painter in late colonial Peru. They do not push the argument further, although Gisbert picks up where the authors left off in a 2006 essay on mythological and Masonic iconography in late colonial and early republican art of the Andes. She sees the presence of certain symbols in Huaro as precedents for Escalante’s full expression of his Masonic knowledge in the molino (mill) series that he painted three decades later in his hometown of Acomayo: “Iconografía mitológica y masónica a fines del virreinato e inicios de la República,” 187–191. The most recent and thorough visual

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Notes to Pages 163–170     233 analysis of the Huaro murals can be found in an excellent essay by Virgilio Freddy Cabanillas Delgadillo, based on his thesis for his licenciatura at the Universidad de San Marcos in 2000: “Los demonios y el infierno en la pintura mural andina: La iglesia de Huaro (Cusco).” 83. Siracusano, “¿No escuchas? ¿No ves?” 80–81. 84. José Uriel García, “Escuela cusqueña de arte colonial: La iglesia de Huaroc,” 374. For further discussion and critique of these interpretations, see Cabanillas Delgadillo, “Los demonios y el infierno en la pintura mural andina,” 120–122. 85. Szemiński, “Why Kill the Spaniard?” 167; and Sinclair Thomson, “Was There Race in Colonial Latin America?: Identifying Selves and Others in the Insurgent Andes,” 83. 86. García, “Escuela cusqueña de arte colonial,” 368–374. 87. Cabanillas Delgadillo counted 131 condemned bodies, 44 hybrid demons, 9 beastly demons, 2 leviathans, 6 dragons, 8 serpents, 1 toad, and 4 bugs: “Los demonios y el infierno en la pintura mural andina,” 101. 88. Documentos para la historia de la sublevación de José Gabriel de Tupac-­Amaru: Cacique de la provincia de Tinta, en el Perú, 54–57. 89. As Macera argues (La pintura mural andina, 73), Escalante may have borrowed this compositional detail from Riaño’s mural of a feasting party at the church of Andahuaylillas completed over a century and a half earlier. What is most fascinating about this visual exchange is that Riaño also adapted his composition from a Wierix print but decided to augment the feasting scene for specific purposes, as discussed in chapter 2. 90. José de Mesa, “La pintura cuzqueña (1540–1821),” Cuadernos de Arte Colonial, 25–42; Pablo Macera, La pintura mural andina, siglos XVI–­XIX, 40–42. 91. Rodríguez, “De París a Cuzco.” 92. Maarten van de Guchte, “Invention and Assimilation: European Engravings as Models for the Drawings of Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala,” 108. 93. See most recently Gisbert and Mesa, “Los grabados, el ‘Juicio Final’ y la idolatría indígena en el mundo andino,” 38–39. 94. See, for instance, Maarten van de Guchte, “The Inca Cognition of Landscape: Archaeology, Ethnohistory, and the Aesthetic of Alterity”; and Cummins, Toasts with the Inca. 95. Pachacuti Yamqui’s cosmological diagram of the Coricancha has also received ample scholarly attention. See Billie Jean Isbell, “La otra mitad esencial: Un estudio de complementaridad sexual en los Andes”; Silverblatt, Moon, Sun, and Witches, 41–47; and Dean, Inka Bodies and the Body of Christ, 156–159. 96. Macera, La pintura mural andina, 74. 97. Iconographically, the scene draws from a number of sources. Marcos Zapata’s paintings of the Tree of Life and The Last Supper from the 1750s in the Cuzco Cathedral serve as important precedents. Santiago Sebastián, Contrarreforma y barroco: Lecturas iconográficas e iconológicas; Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:250; and Gisbert, Iconografía y mitos indígenas en el arte, 172. 98. In fact, Oropesa is so famed for its bread that the town holds an annual T’anta Raymi (Bread Feast) on October 4.

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234     Notes to Pages 171–176 99. The frontispiece to his manuscript, for instance, depicts a strong diagonal running from upper left to lower right between the pope and a supplicating Guaman Poma. See Rolena Adorno, ed., Guaman Poma de Ayala: The Colonial Art of an Andean Author. 100. The fifth direction (center) served as an important pre-­Columbian directional unit throughout the Americas. It reflected cosmological concepts of a multilayered universe composed of four directions and connected at the center through a world tree or axis mundi. 101. Mary Louise Pratt, “The Traffic in Meaning: Translation, Contagion, Infiltration,” 31–32. 102. Both Tree of Life and Death in the House of the Rich and Poor represent death, while the scene of hell provides an eschatological image unmediated by allegory. The scene of heaven is located on the right nave wall immediately past the vestibule. It shares the same wall as hell, but an arcade supporting the choir loft separates the scenes. The iconographically rich image merits substantial scholarly attention but unfortunately remains beyond the scope of this chapter. 103. Christopher L. C. E. Witcombe, Copyright in the Renaissance: Prints and the Privilegio in Sixteenth-­Century Venice and Rome, 150. 104. Edmond Bruwaert, La vie et les oeuvres de Philippe Thomassin, graveur troyen: 1562–1622. 105. His engravings also inspired a great number of important New World masterpieces. For instance, Jesus at the Age of Twelve and Weeping Virgin, both based on the work of the Italian miniaturist Giulio Clovio, served as prototypes for two of the most outstanding examples of colonial Mexican feather paintings. See Donna Pierce, Rogelio Ruiz Gomar, and Clara Bargellini, eds., Painting a New World: Mexican Art and Life, 1521–1821, 102– 105. Feather painting was a unique artistic genre that developed in the years immediately following the Spanish conquest of Mexico in 1521. Aztec feather workers, known as amanteca, produced exquisitely detailed feather works of religious subjects to be sent to Spain for its growing royal collection. The “paintings” served as material propaganda testifying to the successful conversion process of former Aztec subjects to Christianity. See Alessandra Russo, “Plumes of Sacrifice: Transformations in Sixteenth-­Century Mexican Feather Art.” 106. PESSCA has served as an instrumental source for tracing the wide-­ranging impact of Thomassin’s print. The archive accession numbers showing Thomassin’s Last Judgment and its various New World correspondences are as follows: 939A/939B, 939A/940B, 939A/941B, 939A/942B, 939A/943B, 939A/944B, 939A/946B, 939A/997B, 939A/1001B, and 939A/1002B. 107. José Uriel García, “La plástica popular peruana.” 108. García, “Escuela cusqueña de arte colonial,” 374. 109. See Macera’s “El arte mural cuzqueño,” “Otro mural de Tadeo Escalante: La Creación del Mundo,” “Otro mural de Tadeo Escalante: La Pobreza,” and La pintura mural andina. These early articles have also been reprinted in his anthology Trincheras y fronteras del arte popular peruano: Ensayos de Pablo Macera. Mesa and Gisbert briefly discuss the Huaro murals in

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Notes to Pages 176–179     235 the first edition of their survey text, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1962). They identify Escalante as a follower of Marcos Zapata, best known for a series of oil paintings that he completed for the Cuzco Cathedral. They liken Escalante’s work to the seventeenth-­century Andean artists Diego Quispe Tito and Melchor Pérez de Holguín for their shared affinity to the works of Hieronymous Bosch and Pieter Brueghel the Elder. See Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1962), 182–184. Mesa and Gisbert draw liberally from Macera’s scholarship in their own analysis of Escalante’s Huaro murals in the second edition of their survey text Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982). They offer a comprehensive description of the entire mural program that identifies all of the major biblical figures and scenes painted throughout the church. See Historia de la pintura cuzqueña (1982), 1:248–251. 110. Alberto Flores Galindo, Obras completas III (I), 211. 111. A long-­awaited English translation of Flores Galindo’s text was published by Cambridge University Press in 2010. Unfortunately, the chapter containing his analysis of the Huaro murals, entitled “Los sueños de Gabriel Aguilar,” was omitted from the English translation due to editorial considerations. Charles Walker, personal correspondence, September 2014. 112. Cabanillas Delgadillo, “Los demonios y el infierno en la pintura mural andina,” 122. 113. Areche’s role was to evaluate and oversee the public administration of the new Bourbon Reforms. For a short biography of Areche’s life and work, see Fisher, Bourbon Peru, 162–163. 114. Walker, Smoldering Ashes, 25. 115. David Cahill, “El Visitador General Areche y su campaña iconoclasta contra la cultura andina,” 90. 116. José Antonio de Areche, “All Must Die!” 158–159. 117. The statement in full reads: “Con igual cuidado y política parece a la Junta, debe procederse para la extinción (que juzga conveniente) de los trajes de la gentilidad, de las pinturas de los ingas, representaciones, funciones e instrumentos, que promueven su memoria; porque la prohibición y forzada ejecución, que dicta la sentencia, puede causar nuevas y violentas conmociones y cuando menos una general indisposición de los ánimos de todos aquellos naturales, aún de los que han sido fieles en las turbulencias últimamente acaecidas”: Durand Florez, Colección documental del bicentenario, 5:614. 118. For further discussion, see Cahill, “El Visitador General Areche,” 85–86. 119. Areche also confiscated a portrait of Felipe Tupac Amaru (from whom José Gabriel claimed descent) and a set of Inca portraits at the church of Curahuasi: “Mui Señor mío: en oficio de diez del que corre me previene reservadamente Vuestra Señoria mande recoger las pinturas de los Incas del Perú que se hallavan en el Colegio de los Indios Nobles, nombrado San Francisco de Borja, y otra que se mantiene en la Iglecia de la Doctrina de Curahuasi, provincia de Abancay; a su concecuencia he ordenado se borren las que estavan gravadas en la pared del angulo vajo de dicho Colegio, y remito un retrato del Inca Don Felipe Tupa Amaro que se hallava fijado en el refectorio”: Comité Arquidiocesano del Bicentenario Túpac Amaru (Arzobispado del Cusco), Túpac Amaru y la iglesia, 270.

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236     Notes to Pages 179–187 120. Francisco de Toledo, Fundación español del Cusco y ordenanzas para su gobierno: Restauraciones mandadas ejecutar del primer libro de Cabildos de la Ciudad por el Virrey del Peru, Don Francisco de Toledo, 171. 121. Quoted in Walker, Smoldering Ashes, 90–91.

Conclusion 1. Victor Turner, “Frame, Flow and Reflection: Ritual and Drama as Public Liminality,” 465. 2. Deborah Poole, Vision, Race, and Modernity: A Visual Economy of the Andean Image World, 7–8. 3. Mujica Pinilla, “‘Reading without a Book,’” 46–47. 4. Ibid., 45–47; and Christine Göttler, Last Things: Art and the Religious Imagination in the Age of Reform, 13–15. 5. Scholars have published widely on the contributions of Gante and Valadés. For a sampling of publications that provide an art historical perspective on their use of images in religious instruction in colonial Mexico, see Thomas B. F. Cummins, “From Lies to Truth: Colonial Ekphrasis and the Act of Crosscultural Translation,” 158–166; Samuel Edgerton, Theaters of Conversion: Religious Architecture and Indian Artisans in Colonial Mexico, 114–116; and Kelly Donahue-­Wallace, “Picturing Prints in Early Modern New Spain,” 328–335. 6. See, for instance, Elizabeth Hill Boone and Walter D. Mignolo, eds., Writing without Words: Alternative Literacies in Mesoamerica and the Andes; Frank Salomon and Mercedes Niño-­ Murcia, The Lettered Mountain: A Peruvian Village’s Way with Writing; and Antonio Cornejo Polar, Writing in the Air: Heterogeneity and the Persistence of Oral Tradition in Andean Literatures. 7. The field of memory studies has exploded in recent decades. Originally used as a sociological approach to the lives of Holocaust survivors, memory studies have been applied more broadly to encompass cultural groups across the world. Maurice Halbwachs is considered the father of memory studies with his seminal text Les cadres sociaux de la mémoire, published in 1952 and based on a 1925 text. The English translation published in 1992, On Collective Memory, resulted in a renewed popularization of Halbwachs’s text. 8. Michel-­Rolph Trouillot, Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History, 49. 9. Sandra de la Loza, “La Raza Cósmica: An Investigation into the Space of Chicana/o Muralism,” 58.

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Index

Page numbers in italics indicate illustrations. account books: church, 44–48 Acomayo: Escalante family and, 156, 157, 159, 231nn.58, 68; Nuestra Señora de Belén chapel in, 40, 158 Acomayo Province, 2 Acos, 159 Acosta, José de: Historia natural y moral de las Indias, 79 Adam and Eve: Dürer’s engraving of, 134– 35 administrative sites: tunic designs at, 31 admonitions: Catholic doctrine and, 61–62 adobe architecture, 29, 32, 33, 37, 54, 122 adobe tapestries: at Chan Chan, 28 Adonai: use of term, 57–58 aesthetics, 83; Andean, 184–85; changes in, 167–68; textile primacy of, 85–86 Aguilar, Gabriel, 176 Aiapata, 84 Alberti, Leon Battista, 116 Albert the Confessor, Saint, 161 Albornoz, Cristóbal de, 89 Alesio, Adrián de: poem by, 63 Alhambra: geometric designs in, 85 allegorical images: of historical events, 109

Allegory of Death, 166–67 All Is Vanity (Wierix), 166 amaru, 109, 156, 157 Amazon Basin, 135, 145 anacus, 87 ancestors, 112, 117 Andahuaylillas, 54, 67, 108, 151, 183, 202n.7; Jesuits in, 60–61; local beliefs and practices in, 61–62; patron saints of, 72–73. See also San Pedro Apóstol de Andahuaylillas angels: depictions of, 55, 114, 217n.94 animals: as motifs, 37, 109, 156, 157. See also birds Annunciation: depiction of, 57 Anta, 46 Anthony of Padua, Saint: depictions of, 95, plate 8 Anthony the Abbot, Saint: depictions of, 98– 99 Antioquía, 37 Antisuyu, 115, 135 apocalypse: images of, 1, 150, 176 Apollonia, Saint, 55 apostles: images of, 45, 109. See also by name

‣  261

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262     Index aquillas, 29 architecture, 42; clothing of, 86–88, 95; corporeality of, 84–85, 117; and murals, 11–12 archival records: church, 44–48 Archivo Arzobispal de Cuzco, 44, 97 Archivo Regional (Cuzco), 44 Areche, José Antonio de, 165, 177, 228n.32, 235n.113; anti-Inca reforms, 178–79, 235nn.113, 119 Arequipa, 90, 92 Arica (Chile), 43 Arriaga, Antonio, 148, 163, 226n.13 Arriaga, Pablo José, 67, 68; Extirpacion de la idolatria del piru, 65, 66 ars memoria, 59 artists, artisans, 4, 42, 43; contracts, 47–48, 128, 160, 200n.94, 231n.68; indigenous, 10, 220–21n.29; Quechua concepts of, 16–17; workshops, 36–37 artwork: communal nature of, 40–42; mobility of, 43; pre-Columbian, 5–8 Augustine, Saint, 155 Ausangate, Mt.: pilgrimage to, 111, 131 autos, 75–76, 81 auto sacramental, 24, 52, 75 Avendaño, Fernando de, 203n.30; Sermones de los misterios de nuestra santa fé catolica, 65, 67, 69 Ávila, Francisco de, 72; Tratado de los evangelios, 65, 67, 68–69 axis mundi: Christ as, 138 Aymara language: religious texts in, 56, 61, 65, 66 Banda, Mariano, 151 Baptism of Saint Augustine (Schelte à Bolswert), 95 Baptism of Christ images, 128, 219n.17, 220n.27, 229–30n.45, plate 17, plate 19; Cusi Guaman’s composition, 130–32, 135–38, 186, 220n.25, plate 18; historical

and cultural cues in, 134–35, 142–44; in Ocongate, 129; Perret’s engraving, 122– 23, 124; in Pitumarca, 119–21, 126–27, 139–44, 218n.2, plate 19; Riaño’s depictions of, 125, 126, 204n.41 baptisms, 25, 64 Barbara, Saint, 55 Bastidas, Antonio, 165 Bastidas, Micaela, 149, 151, 158, 181, 228n.32 Belén de Huachacalla (Oruro), 46 Belgium: prints from, 48 Betancur, Diego Felipe, 148 Betanzos, Juan de, 88, 132 biblical passages: in murals, 58–59 binding agents, 39 binzo, 39 birds: as voice of divinity, 114–15; as motifs, 111, 112, 113, 134, 217n.94 Bitti, Bernardo, 14, 219n.24; baptism of Christ painting, 125, 219n.17 blood: as offering, 88 blue: symbolism of, 131–32 body, bodies: architecture as, 85, 89, 117; churches as, 24–25, 146, 184; in Huaro murals, 153–54; royal, 106 Bolivia (Alto Perú), 33, 90, 145 books, 49, 105 borders (cenefas), 84 Borja, Francisco de, 60, 67 Bourbon monarchy, 48, 112, 168 Bourbon Reforms, 235n.113; Andean textile industry, 107–8; economic policies, 146–47 bridges: to underworld, 69, 79; Inca (achacaca), 69, 79 bread: Oropesa, 170, 233n.98 buon fresco, 14 burials: cloth draping of, 85 Cabiedes, Manuel de, 160; as patron, 154, 155

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Index     263 Cacha. See San Pablo de Cacha Cajatambo region, 88 Calancha, Antonio de la, 131 Calderón de la Barca, Pedro, 75 Callachaca, 32 Cañaris, 54 Canas y Canchis (Tinta) Province, 2, 98, 100, 108, 148, 219n.13 Canincunca, 43, 47, 121. See also Nuestra Señora de la Candelaria de Canincunca cantu (Cantua buxifolia): as motif, 112, 113 capac ñan, 70; conflation with camino del cielo, 68–69 Capac Mallquima, 136 Capac Raimi, 62 Carabaya, 165 Carabuco, Church of, 142 Carangas region, 33 Carriage of Saint Christopher, 93–94 Carta pastoral (Villagómez), 65 carts: processional, 94 Catca, 25, 45. See also San Juan Bautista de Catca catechisms: trilingual, 61 Catholic Church, Catholicism, 92, 152, 153; Andeanized, 4, 83–84; and indigenous practices, 89 Cay-Cay, 55, 215n.51; textile murals in, 106, 213n.51, plate 13 Caylloma: church at, 152 ccontay (white clay), 39 Cecilia, Saint, 55 cenefas, 84 censorship, 25; of Inca-related materials, 178–79, 187 ceramics, 17; Chimú, 28; Inca, 34–35; with textile designs, 86 chakana, 17, 86 Chan Chan, 6, 28 Charcas diocese, 66 Charles (Carlos) V, King, 97 chasubles: from Spain, 97, 110, plate 15

Checacupe, 23, 96, 122, 225n.3. See also Virgen Inmaculada de Checacupe, La checkerboard design, 31–32, 33, 109 chicha, 80, 81 children: unbaptized, 137 Chimú, 6, 28 Chinchero. See Nuestra Señora de Mont­ser­ rat de Chinchero chorrillos, 91, 211n.34 Christ Child: depictions of, 131, 221n.35 Christianity, 17, 18; conversion efforts, 37, 54, 64, 201n.1, 229n.40; evangelical texts, 61–62; paths to heaven and hell in, 58–59 Christopher, Saint: depictions of, 93, 94, 134 chullpas, 24, 33–34, 85, 106, 116–17, plate 4 Chunchos, 115, 135, 138, 222–23nn.50, 51; John the Baptist and, 136, 137 churches: archival records for, 44–48; clothed, 90, 184; as human body, 24–25, 146; and rebellions, 145, 149–52, 225n.3; violence depicted in, 153–55. See also by name Cieza de León, Pedro, 31, 134; on Isla de la Puna temples, 35–36 clay: wall preparation with, 39 cloth: in religious spaces, 93–94. See also textiles clothing, clothes, 178, plate 15; as architecture, 86–88; of structures and sacred shrines, 24, 85, 89–90, 184; pre-­Columbian motifs representing, 8, 29–30; of the sacred, 8, 10, 88–89, 195–96n.37 Cobo, Bernabé, 190n.15; house painting, 34, 35; on Pachacamac murals, 7–8 Cocharcas, 76 Cochas, 116 code switching: visual, 17–18 cofradías: of painters, 42 Colegio de San Borja, 179

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264     Index Collado, Tomás, 47, 155–56, 159, 160, 229– 30n.45 Collas, 33, 142 Collasuyu region, 33 collective memory: indigenous people, 138– 39, 177; murals as, 18, 184 Colombia, 37, 81, 190n.17 color, color schemes, 16, 194n.6; Bourbon era, 168; in Cusi Guaman’s mural, 130– 32; pigment, 38–39; Spanish and French, 107–8; symbolism of, 10, 131– 32, 164, 210n.5 comedias: performances of, 81 Comentarios reales (Garcilaso de la Vega), 49, 139, 147 confessional questions: on dreams, 78–79 Confraternities of Saint Rose and La Linda, The, 93 conopas, 89 conquest narratives, 226n.13; of temple murals, 35–36 conquistadors: in Andahuaylillas, 54 consulados, 91 Con Ticci Viracocha (Contiti Viracocha; Viracocha), 132–33, 202n.19 contracts: artist, 47–48, 128, 160, 200n.94 Contreras, Francisco de, 67 Contreras, Geronymo de, 68 conversion: to Christianity, 37, 51, 54, 64, 201n.1 Coporaque: Tupac Amaru Rebellion, 148 Coricancha, 32, 88 Cornejo, Luis (Luys Corneio), 66, 203n.30 cornucopias: as motifs, 111 Coronation of the Virgin: depiction of, 109 Corpus Christi festival: feasts during, 79, 80; processions during,75, 81, 220–21n.29 Corpus Christi series: textiles depicted in, 92–95 corregidores, 147; at El peregrino performances, 76; opposition to, 150, 151, 227n26, 228n.27

cosmology, 33, 138, 234n.100; Andean, 168, 202n.19, 206–7n.66 Council of the Indies, 66 Council of Trent, 65 Coya Chuqui Huipa, 36 creation stories: Lake Urcos in, 132–33, 134 crosses: cloth-covered, 89, 90; as motifs, 111, 112–13; stepped, 17, 86 Cruz, Laureano de la, 37 cumbi, 85, 86 cupola murals: in Bernardo Villega’s funerary chapel, 14, 15 curacas, 74, 80, 147, 227n.26 Cusi Guaman, Diego, 25, 40, 121–22, 197n.57, 220n.25; and Bernardo Bitti, 125, 219n.24; Baptism of Christ composition, 125–26, 130–32, 136–38, 143–44, 186, 220n.25, plate 18; historical and cultural cues used by, 134, 135–36; Urcos murals, 119, 123, 218n.10 cuscoc, 16, 17 Cuzco, 2, 3, 23, 28, 33, 36, 42, 86, 92, 108, 147, 200–201n.100, 212n.40, 220– 21n.29, 231n.68, 233n.97; Areche reforms in, 178–79; in Death in the House of the Rich and Poor mural, 165–66; 1650 earthquake in, 24, 83, 201n.4; Pérez Bocanegra in, 60, 67; plague depictions in, 153, 229–30n.45; plaza in, 165–66, 171; postrebellion, 152–53; Tupac Amaru’s attack on, 148–49 Cuzco, Department of, 23 Cuzco Cathedral, plays presented at, 74 Cuzco diocese, 66 Cuzco School, 43, 128, 129, 167, 172, 220– 21n.29; pilgrimage paintings, 76, 77 dances: Inca, 74 dancing sickness (taki onqoy), 64 death: and Cuzco plaza, 165–66; journey after, 69–70, 79; as theme, 161, 169, 234n.102

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Index     265 Death in the House of the Rich and Poor, 183, 234n.102; aesthetics of, 170–71; Escalante’s mural of, 145, 161, 165–68, 175, plate 24 deities: Andean, 64, 78 Delgado, Evaristo, 158 Delgado, Faustino, 158 Delgado, Ramón, 158 demons: depictions of, 164, 169, 229n.43 devil: depictions of, 58, 80, 181; dreams and, 79 diamonds: as motifs, 33, 34 divinity, 96, 131; birds and, 114–15; indigenous beliefs of, 83–84 Doctrina christiana, 62 doctrinal education, 37 doctrinas, 54, 122, 154 double-spout and bridge vessels: Inca, 34, 35 drapery: faux, 99–100 dreams, dreamworld, 78–79, 209nn.91, 92; in El peregrino, 76–77 drunkenness: as artistic trope, 80–81 duality, 168 Dürer, Albrecht: Adam and Eve engraving, 134–35 earthquakes, 24, 48, 52, 83, 201n.4, 202n.10 economy: Bourbon Reforms and, 146–47 elites, 30, 75, 112, 152, 178, 181, 196n.38; depictions of, 87, 141–42, 175; indigenous, 137, 139, 142, 158, 179 embodiment, 18, 85, 90, 184 embroidery: murals as, 114 engravings: Dürer’s, 134 Enríquez, Clemente, 159 Entrance of Viceroy Archbishop Morcillo into Potosí (Pérez de Holguín), 95 Escalante, Domingo, 158 Escalante, Gregorio, 159 Escalante, Juan, 158–59 Escalante, Juana, 159 Escalante, Julián, 158, 231nn.57, 58

Escalante, Mariano, 158 Escalante, Santiago, 159 Escalante, Tadeo, 1, 25, 26, 49, 230n.52, 232nn.77, 82, 234–35n.109; Death in the House of the Rich and Poor, 165–68, 183, plate 24; Hell, 162–65, 233n.87, plate 23; The Last Judgment, 171–72, 174, plate 25; life of, 156–58; and San Juan Bautista de Huaro murals, 40, 145–46, 155, 159–60, 161–62, 233nn.87, 89, plate 1, plate 22, plate 23, plate 24; as subversive, 175–77, 179–80, 186–87; Tree of Life, 169–71 Escarena de Villanueva, José Esteban, 151 Europe: textile use in, 90–91 Evangelicae Historiae Imagenes (Nadal), 185 evangelization, 2, 64, 65, 123, 172, 205n.51, 229n.40; images used in, 37, 184; religious theater and, 75–76 executions: of Tupac Amaru rebels, 158, 163, 165, 176, 228n.32 Extirpacion de la idolatria del piru (Arriaga), 65, 66 extirpation programs, 205nn.46, 55; Jesuits and, 64–65, 67, 88–89 Farfán, Teresa, 158, 231n.58 feasting: in El Camino del cielo e infierno, 73– 74, 79–80; in Tree of Life, 169, 170, 181, 233n.89 Fernández de Oviedo, Gonzalo, 36, 39 fertility: symbols of, 112 festivals: Andean, 62 fleur-de-lis motifs: in Ocongate, 112–13 flowers, floral panels: as motifs, 95, 99, 103, 105, 107, 110, 111, 112, 113, 212n.48 foliate men: depictions of, 114 forasteros, 54 fortresses: coastal Inca, 31–32 Four Last Things: depictions of, 171–72, 203n.22 France, 48, 107 Francis Xavier, Saint, 161

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266     Index fresco secco, 14, 40 fresco techniques, 14 friezes, 84 fringe, 106; symbolism of, 131, 221n.35 funerary chapel: Bernardo Villegas’s, 14, 15 funerary towers (chullpas), 24, 33–34, 85, 106, 116–17, plate 4 Gabriel, Angel: depiction of, 57 Galarreta, Fermin, 108 Galle brothers, 48 Gallegos, Joseph, 154, 155, 156, 160, 229n.40 Gante, Pedro de, 185, 236n.5 Garcilaso de la Vega, 66, 140, 141; Comentarios reales, 49, 139, 147; and Tupac Amaru Rebellion, 177–78, 226n.13 Garden of Eden: as theme, 114 genealogical trees: of Inca rulers, 138 geography: local, 25, 135; sacred, 120–21, 132–34, 144, 180, 184 geometric motifs, geometricism, 85; in Inca visual system, 33, 34; in pre-Columbian murals, 7, 8, 29, 194n.6 glaciers: Mt. Ausangate, 131 God the Father: depictions of, 57, 58 gold, 36, 90 gold chain: Huascar’s, 133–34, 186, 221– 22n.39 golden wand: in Inca origin story, 140 Goltzius, Hendrick: Mercy Conducting the Sinner to Penitence, 58 González Holguín, Diego: on llipiyak, 93–94; on quillca, 14–15, 16 Good Shepard: depiction of, 109 grotesques (grotteschi), 42; in Canincunca, 104, 105 Guaman Poma, Diego, 89 Guaman Poma de Ayala, Felipe, 33, 51, 66, 116, 141, 135, 168, 171, 234n.99; on artisans, 16–17, 36–37; El primer nueva corónica, 30, 87, 136 Guayopata, 159

guilds: merchants, 91; painters’, 40–41, 42, 128, 220–21n.29 Gutiérrez, Cipriano, 167 hanacpacha, 114–15 hanaccpachaman ñan, 70 Hanacpachap Cussicuinin (The Joy of the Heavens) (Pérez Bocanegra), 59–60 hanan and hurin, 168 hanging: depictions of, 163 headdresses: Chuncho, 135, 136; royal Inca, 9, 131, 179, 221n.35 Heaven, 73; as theme, 24, 114–15, 161. See also paths to heaven and hell Heavenly Jerusalem: as theme, 114, 184 Hell: depictions of, 74, 77, 81; in El peregrino, 76; as theme, 24, 185, 234n.102. See also paths to heaven and hell Hell: Escalante’s mural of, 145, 161, 162–65, 176, 233n.87, plate 23; at San Pablo de Cacha, 154, 155 Historia del descubrimiento y conquista del Perú (Zárate), 133 Historia general del Piru (Murúa), 36 Historia natural y moral de las Indias (Acosta), 79 history. See oral history/traditions Holy Family, 161 Holy Trinity: depictions of, 57, 58 houses: painting on, 34–35 Huaca la Centinela, 29–30, 31 huacas, 9, 10, 64, 27, 85; and churches, 106, 184; clothing of, 88, 89, 106; worship of, 61–62, 204n.38 Huancavelica, 39 Huanoquite: Baptism of Christ painting, 119, 120 huarango gum (Acacia macrocantha), 39 Huaro, 43, 46, 108, 121, 151, 227n.24. See also San Juan Bautista de Huaro Huarochirí Rebellion, 145 Huasac, 55, 213n.51

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Index     267 Huascar, 36, 195n.34; gold chain, 133–34, 186, 221–22n.39 Huayna Capac, 133 Huch’uy Qozqo, 32 hummingbirds, 112 hurin, 168 Hurtado de Mendoza, Alfonsa, 158 Ianaoca (Yanaoca), 100, 148, 214–15n.59 iconography, 17, 18, 43, 109, 115, 232–33n.82 identity: communal, 40–42; Inca, 139 idolatry, 66, 184, 195–96n.37; campaigns against, 64–65, 67, 205nn.46, 55, 206n.56; Catholic admonitions against, 61–62; clothed objects and, 88–89; in Inca art, 36–37 Ignatius of Loyola, Saint: Spiritual Exercises, 185 Illapa, 64 imperialism: symbols of, 29, 30, 31–32 Inca Empire, 2, 3, 131, 135, 140, 177, 195n.21, 230n.52; coastal murals, 29–32; collective memory of, 138–39; highland murals of, 32–34; mural preservation, 28–29; prohibited imagery of, 178–79 Inca Nationalism, 138, 142 Inca Raimi, 62 Inca Yupanque, 88 indigenous peoples, 54, 67, 89, 108, 186; adaptations of, 115–16; as artists, 128, 220–21n.29; censorship of, 178–79; collective memory of, 138–39; elite, 137, 158; religious beliefs, 83–84 Inkarrí, 147 inscriptions: in San Pedro Apóstol de Anda­ huaylillas, 55–56, 57, 62–63 Instituto Nacional de Cultura (Ministerio de Cultura): restorations, 109, 111, 217n.85, 218n.10 insurgents, 25 Inti, 140; sacrifices to, 88 inventories: church, 44–45, 47, 96–97, 102,

159, 160, 199n.86, 200–201nn.89, 100, 232n.72 Italy, 48, 85, 91 James the Moor Killer. See Santiago Jerome, Saint, 161 Jesuits, 74; in Andahuaylillas, 60–61; idolatry extirpation campaigns, 64–65, 67, 88–89 Jesus Christ, 138, 225n.70; baptism of, 25, 119, 121–23, 124, 127, 128; depictions with Inca symbolism, 131, 139, 140, 142, 179; and local sacred landscapes, 120– 21, 134, 171 John the Baptist: images of, 122–23, 124, 125, 127, 128, 131, 136–37, 139, 161 Jordan River: in Baptism of Christ images, 119, 127, 186; and local water sources, 25, 131–32, 153 journeys: spiritual, 58 Juan Santos Atahualpa Rebellion, 145 Judgment Day: Battle of Sangarará as, 150 kin group networks, 54 knowledge: indigenous modes of, 186; visual transmission of, 16, 17 labor: as tribute, 54, 148 Laca church, 84 lakes: as Jordan River, 25, 120 Lambayeque region, 67 La Merced Church (Lima), 14, 229n.43 Lampa, 165 land: worshiping, 78 Landa, Tiburcio, 149 landscapes, 25, 135; sacred, 120–21, 132–34, 144, 180, 184 languages: used in religious indoctrination, 56, 65, 67 La Paz (Bolivia), 3, 43 Last Judgment, 51; depictions of, 1, 3–4, 203n.22

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268     Index Last Judgment, The: Escalante’s mural of, 145, 161, 171–72, 174, 180, plate 25; Thomassin’s engraving of, 172, 173, 174–75 Latin: in inscriptions, 56 Lauca River: chullpas near, 33 Lawrence, Saint: martyrdom of, 99 libros de fábrica, 44–45, 46–47 Lima, 14, 81, 96, 145, 197n.54, 212n.40; Corpus Christi festivities in, 75; European textiles in, 91–92; Jesuits in, 67; José Tupac Amaru in, 147–48 Linda, La, 212n.40; depictions of, 93 literacy: quipu and, 15; negotiation of, 186; textile, 104; visual, 14, 18, 124 Livitaca, 165 llacsa, 39 llamas: blood offerings from, 88 llinpec, 16, 17 llipiyak, 93–94 Lope de Vega y Carpio, Félix, 75 López de Gomara, Francisco, 85 Lucifer: depictions of, 162 Lucy, Saint, 55 Luna, Ysabel, 159 luxury goods,: Spanish laws on, 90, 91; trade in, 92 Mama Ocllo, 140, 141 Mama Yunto Cayan, 87 Manco Capac, 140, 141 mantles, shoulder (llicllas), 95, 212–13n.50 Marcapata, 46 Marcoconga, 158 Martin of Tours, Saint, 161 mascapaycha, 9, 131, 179, 221n.35 Mata Linares, Benito de la, 163 materiality, 117, 184 materials: used in paintings, 9, 10. See also pigments Mayguanco, 89 Medoro, Angelino, 14, 40, 219–20n.24 Meléndez, Juan: on images, 37

memory: collective, 18, 23, 138–39, 176, 178, 180–81, 184, 187; landscape and, 121, 130, 133; social, 85, 154; and visual learning, 65–66, 185 memory house, 59 Mendoza, Diego de, 62 Mendoza Carvajal, Nicolás de, 75, 80 Merced, Convento de la, 155, plate 21 Mercy Conducting the Sinner to Penitence (Goltzius), 58 mermaids/mermen: depictions of, 55, 105, 135, 137 metallurgists: Chimú, 28 military uniforms: checkerboard designs, 31 minerals: as pigments, 9, 38–39 mita: Tungasuca’s, 148 Moche: murals, 6, 27–28 Mollinedo y Angulo, Manuel de, 24, 83, 177, 179, 210n.5; orders of, 131, 213–14n.52; renovations by, 96, 100; textile murals, 84, 85, 98, 106, 213n.51 monkeys: symbolism of, 135, 137 moon: as motif, 37–38 Moscoso y Peralta, Juan Manuel, 149–50, 153, 159, 177 Mother Earth, 76, 78 motifs, 17; repeating, 28. See also by type Muñoz de la Torre, Pedro, 178 muralists: anonymity of, 40–41 Murúa, Martín de: Historia general del Piru, 36; on textiles , 85, 91–92 Nadal, Jerónimo: Evangelicae Historiae Imagenes, 185 Nazca: ceramic designs, 86 Neo-Inca state, 64, 147, 226n.10 New Jerusalem, 73, 114 Nuestra Señora de Belén capilla (Acomayo), 40, 158 Nuestra Señora de la Candelaria de Canin­ cunca, 89, 106, 132, plate 11; restoration

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Index     269 of, 101–2; textile murals in, 96, 102–5, 113, 114, 213n.51, 215n.66, plate 12 Nuestra Señora de Montserrat de Chinchero, 45–46, 96, 109, 156, 157, 197n.57, 217n.85; paradise scenes in, 114–15; textile murals in, 110–11, plate 14 obrajes (textile mills), 91, 107–8 Ocongate, 153. See also San Pablo Apóstol de Ocongate offerings, 88, 89 oral history/traditions: indigenous peoples, 139, 186; of subversive images, 176–77 Orcoguaranca, Juan de Díos, 147 Ordenanzas (Toledo), 36 Oré, Luis Geronymo (Jerónimo): writings of, 65, 66 Oricain, Pablo José de, 133 origin, places of: bodies of water as, 120, 140 origin stories: Andean, 25; Lake Titicaca and, 105, 140; Lake Urcos and, 132–33, 134 Oropesa, 55, 108, 151; bread from, 170, 233n.98. See also San Salvador de Oropesa Oruro, 43, 46 Our Lady of Cocharcas under the Baldachin (painting), 77 Our Lady of Cocharcas sanctuary, 76 outdoor spaces: and public performance, 75 pacarinas, 25, 120 Pachacamac: murals at, 7–8 Pachacuti Inca Yupanqui, 31 Pachacuti Yamqui Salcamaygua, Joan de Santa Cruz, 168, 202n.19 Pachamama, 64, 78, 89 painters, 43; anonymous, 41–42 paintings: Baptism of Christ, 119, 125; cloth depicted in, 92–96; vs. murals, 11, 43, 196n.42 palaces, 9, 36

palimpsest: murals as, 19–21 palmettes: as motifs, 99 Pañamarca, 27 paños de lipi, 93 paradise: Spanish and Andean visions of, 114–15 Paramonga, 31–32 paria, 39 Parinacota (Chile), 3 parishioners: San Pedro Apóstol de Andahuaylillas, 59 parrots: depictions and symbolism of, 134, 135–36, 137 Path to Heaven and Hell, The (San Pedro Após­ tol de Andahuaylillas), 41, 52, 54, 68, 82, 72, 171, 183, 184, 229n.43, plate 5, plate 6, plate 7; details of, 58–60, 69–70; and El peregino, 76–77; feasting in, 73–74, 79– 80; inscriptions on, 62–63; themes of performativity of, 80–81 paths to heaven and hell, 206nn.59, 60, 207n.69; as Christian trope, 58–59; conflation with Inca roads, 68–69; depiction of, 155, plate 21 pathways: to afterlife, 69–70, 76–77 pattern books, 105 patronage, 142, 154, 212n.47; of Tadeo Escalante, 156, 160; of San Pedro Apóstol de Andahuaylillas murals, 62–64, 204n.41 patron saints: Andahuaylillas, 72–73 Paul, Saint: depictions of, 55, 140 Paul the Hermit, Saint: depictions of, 98–99 pelicans: as motifs, 105 Peña y Montenegro, Alonso de la, 79 peregrino, El (Valdivielso), 208n.81; feasting in, 79–80; performances of, 81, 184; themes of, 76–78 Pérez Bocanegra, Juan, 24, 52, 56, 186; career of, 60–61; on dreams, 78–79; as evangelizer, 59–60; mural patronage, 62–64, 204n.41; Ritual formulario, 61–62, 66–68

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270     Index Pérez de Alesio, Mateo, 122, 219n.24; works by, 14, 15, 123, 134, 192n.33, 219n.17 Pérez de Holguín, Melchor, 234–35n.109; Entrance of Viceroy Archbishop Morcillo into Potosí, 95 performances, 52, 74–75; of autos, 76, 81 Perret, Pieter: engraving by, 122–23, 124, 127, 143 Peru, Viceroyalty of, 3; trade with, 13, 91, 92, 96 Peso, Gregoria, 158 Peter, Saint: depictions of, 55, 72–73, 140 Philip II, 91 Philip III, 90 Philip IV, 90 Philip V, 107 pietá: depictions of, 161, 162 pigments, 9, 40, 111, 221n.31; color symbolism of, 10, 131–32, 210n.5; in Cusi Guaman’s mural, 130, 186; sources of, 38–39 Pikillacta, 87 pilgrimages, 52, 74, 76, 142; and afterlife, 69–70; to Ausangate, 111, 131 pinturas, 13; en la pared, 14, 18 Pitumarca, 122, 142, 219n.16. See also San Miguel de Pitumarca places of origin: bodies of water as, 120 plague: depictions of, 153 plaster, 39–40 plays, 74, 75, 226n.13 politics: in Escalante murals, 179–80 polvos: in Andean ritual, 39 Pomacanchi, 158 pomegranates: as motifs, 99, 100–101, 107, 214n.58 Popayán, 37 Portier, Antonio, 178 portraits: of Inca royalty, 138, 179, 235n.119 Postrimerías, 51, 171–72, 203n.22. See also Last Judgment Potosí (Bolivia), 43, 92 poverty, 108

powders: in Andean ritual, 39 power, 121, 131 Pragmatica . . . sobre la reformacion en el Excesso de Traxes, Lacayos, y coches, 91 preservation: of pre-Columbian murals, 28–29 primer nueva corónica, El (Guaman Poma), 30, 87, 136 printers, 68 prints, 58; for devotion and public instruction, 185–86; as source for mural depictions, 24, 25, 43, 48–49, 52, 70–72, 95, 126, 127, 128, 155, 163, 166–67, 168, 172, 173, 233n.89, 234n.105 processions, 74; Corpus Christi, 81, 92–95 prophecies, 147, 176 pueblos de indios, 3, 43, 54, 152, 196n.41 pukakunka, 164 Pumacahua, Mateo, 109, 156 pumas: depictions of, 109, 156, 157 Puna, Isla de la: temples on, 35–36 Puquina language, 56 purgatory: depictions of, 154–55 Qoyllur Rit’i, El Señor de: shrine of, 111, 131, 137, 153 Quechua, 59; concepts of painting, 14–16 Quechua language, 56; religious texts in, 65, 66; in Ritual formulario, 60, 61–62 quellcani, quellcanacuna, 14, 15 quillca, 184; definitions of, 14–16 quipu, 15 Quiquijana: church in, 98 Quispe Tito, Diego, 172, 234–35n.109 Quispicanchi Province, 1, 2, 98, 148, 227n.24; obrajes in, 107–8 Quispiguanca, 32 race: depicted in Baptism of Christ images, 140 Raleigh, Walter, 147 Raqchi (Temple of Viracocha): designs at, 32, plate 3

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Index     271 Raya, Antonio de la, 66 rebuilding campaigns: after 1650 earthquake, 52, 83, 201n.4 rebus: in Path to Heaven and Hell mural, 62– 63, 64 rectangle designs, 33 red: source and symbolism of, 130–31 reducciones, 37, 54 reevangelization/reindoctrination, 160, 161 religious beliefs: Andean, 83–84 religiosity, 37, 153 religious texts, 186; multilingual, 61–62, 65, 66 repartimiento de mercancías, 108, 146–47 resistance: cultural, 74–75. See also subversion restorations/renovations, 19, 20, 62, 109, 111, 160, 214–15n.59, 217n.85 Rhetorica Christiana (Valadés), 185 rhomboid and triangular motifs, 194n.6; highland Inca styles, 29, 33, 34, plate 4 Riaño, Luis de, 25, 204n.41, 219n.24, 220n.25; Andahuaylillas church murals by, 40, 41, 52, 54, 62, 70, 155, 184–85; Baptism of Christ, 125–26, 204n.41 Ricardo, Antonio: on quillca, 14 ricchay, 16 Río de la Plata, Viceroyalty of, 147 ritual: pigments used in, 39 Ritual formulario (Pérez Bocanegra), 59, 60, 63, 66, 78, 203n.30; admonitions in, 61–62; approbations for, 67–68 Ritvale, sev Manvale Pervanum (Oré), 65, 66 roads: Inca, 68–69, 70 Rondocan, 158 Rose of Lima, Saint, 147, 212n.40; depiction of, 93, plate 10 royal Inca road (capac ñan), 68–69, 70 royalty, rulers, 148; colors and, 131; depictions of, 74; Inca, 16, 29, 33, 74, 138, 194n34; Neo-Inca, 9, 226n.10; Spanish, 148. See also elites

ruta del barroco cusqueño, 43 ruta de la plata, 43 sacredness, 117; indigenous ideas of, 83–84 sacred objects: clothing of, 88–89, 195– 96n.37 sacred sites/spaces, 69, 89, 134 sacrifices: blood, 88 Sadeler, Raphael, 48 Saint Anthony of Padua Preaching before Pope Gregory IX, 95, plate 8 saints, 55; patron, 72–73. See also by name Salamanca, Francisco de, 155 Salazar y Guzman, Diego, 98 San Francisco church (Lima): autos performed in, 81 Sangarará, Battle of, 149, 150; images of, 164–65 San Jerónimo, 156, 213n.51 San Juan Bautista de Catca (Ccatcca), 153; Baptism of Christ mural, 127, 128, 130, 220n.27, 229–30n.45 San Juan Bautista de Huaro, 23, 25, 38, 46, 151, 215n.66, 232n.72, plate 1; Death in the House of the Rich and Poor mural, 165–68, 175, 183, plate 24; Hell mural in, 162–65, plate 23; Tadeo Escalante and, 40, 49, 145–46, 155, 157, 186, 232n.81, 234– 35n.109, plate 22, plate 23, plate 24, plate 25; inventory, 159–60; The Last Judgment mural in, 171–72, 174, plate 25; mural program in, 1, 153, 160–61; subversive images in, 176–77, 179–80; Tree of Life mural in, 169–71, 233n.89 San Jerónimo, 55 San Juan de Juli, 125 San Miguel de Pitumarca, 23, 25, 122, 186; baptism of Christ mural, 119–21, 123, 125–27, 128, 130, 139–44, 218n.2, plate 19 San Nicolás de Bari de Zurite: Baptism of Christ painting, 119, plate 17

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272     Index San Pablo Apóstol de Ocongate, 23, 25, 96, 127; Baptism of Christ mural, 129, 130; textile murals in, 111–13, 114–15, plate 16 San Pablo de Cacha, plate 20; postrebellion murals in, 146, 154–55, 160, 161 San Pedro cactus; gigantón; aguacollay (Tri­cho­ cereus pachanoi): as binding agent, 9, 39 San Pedro Apóstol de Andahuaylillas, 20, 21, 23, 24, 25, 40, 43, 53, 155, 175, 199n.77, 201n.4, 202n.10, 204n.41, 215n.66, 228n.27, 233n.89; Baptism of Christ mural in, 125, 126, 130; description of, 54–57; mural program in, 65–66, 183, 185, 186, 193n.48; The Path to Heaven and Hell mural in, 41, 52, 58–60, 62–64, 171, 183, 184, 229n.43, plate 5, plate 6, plate 7; use of Adonai term in, 57–58 San Pedro de Cacha, 154, 228–29n.39 San Salvador de Oropesa, 23, 96, 104, 228n.27; textile murals in, 100–101, 106, 113, plate 10 Santa Bárbara (La Paz), 153 Santa Catalina convent, 158 Santander, Antonio de, 172 Santiago: depictions of, 64, 99, 156, 161 Santiago Apóstol de Urcos, 23, 40, 121, 128, 159, 186, 218n.10; Baptism of Christ mural, 25, 123, 125–27, 130, 219n.17, plate 18; inventory of, 47, 97 Santistevan y Cano, Pedro de, 46, 47, 159, 160, 228n.27, 232n.72; on Canincunca textile murals, 102–5 Santo Tomás, Domingo de: on quillca, 14, 16 Sayri Tupac, 9 sea horses, winged, 105 Second Council of Nicea, 18 secular clergy, 60, 67 Sermones de los misterios de nuestra santa fe catolica (Avendaño), 65, 67, 69 Seville Cathedral, 14 shrines, 132, 153; clothing of, 24, 25 Sicuani, 148

signatures: of painters, 40 silk industry, 91 silver, 36, 90, 212–13nn.50, 52 Sinayuca y Ccama, Ancelma, 158 Sistine Chapel of the Americas. See San Pedro Apóstol de Andahuaylillas Solar, Ignacio, 181 song: as pathway to access divine, 59 Soria, Mariano, 181 Sota, Manuel de la, 158 Spain: prints from, 48; textiles from, 96, 97; textile use in, 90, 91 Spaniards: derogatory terms for, 164; and Tupac Amaru Rebellion, 150–51 spatial hierarchies: Andean vs. European, 137–38 Spiritual Exercises (Ignatius of Loyola), 185 squares: in Inca visual system, 34 Squier, Ephraim George, 32, 35 standardization: of Andean paintings, 48– 49 stars: as motif, 37–38 step design, 33 step-fret motifs, 29 subversion, 178; in mural images, 168, 175– 76, 179–80, 186–87; in textile murals, 106–7 sumptuary laws: Spanish, 90, 91 sun: as motif, 37–38, 140 Sun, Island of (Lake Titicaca), 140 sun god, 225n.70 Sutatausa, 81, 190n.17 symbolism, 144; of birds, 112, 114–15, 134– 36; color, 10, 131–32, 164; in Pitumarca mural, 140–41 Symbolo catholico indiano (Oré), 65 symbols: pre-Hispanic, 6–7 taki onqoy, 64 Tambo Colorado (Pucallacta; Pucahuasi), 9, plate 2, 29–30 tambos, 69

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Index     273 tapestries: Canincunca chapel as, 106 Tawantinsuyu. See Inca Empire tempera, 40 Temple of Viracocha (Raqchi), 32, plate 3 temples: conquest narratives of, 35–36; in Cuzco, 33 Ten Commandments: in Ritual formulario, 61 text: Escalante’s use of, 162–63, 172, 174 textile industry: Andean, 107–8, 114, 211nn.31, 34 textile murals, 8–9, 17, 24–25, 116, 184, 213n.51, 215n.66; in Canincunca chapel, 101–6, plate 12; in Cay-Cay, plate 13; in Checacupe, 98–100, plate 9; in Chinchero, 110–11, plate 14; in Huaro, 162; motifs in, 113–14; in Ocongate, 111–13, plate 16; in Oropesa, 100–101, plate 10; and sacred architecture, 84–85; sacredness of, 106–7; Spanish designs and patterns in, 96–97; Spanish and French in­fluences on, 107–8; as visual archive, 97–98 textiles, 25, 106, 214n.56; in Andean aesthetics, 85–86, 212–13n.50; and architecture, 86–87; chullpa motifs, 33, plate 4; church, 24, 95, 96–97; European, 90–91, 107, 108, 110–11, 211–12nn.27, 37; Inca, 178–79; in Lima, 91–92; as mural motifs, 29–30, 33, 47, 190n.17, plate 2; in public festivities, 92–94; Spanish, 100, 103, plate 15 theater: religious, 74–75, 76 Third Council of Lima, 65, 66 Thomassin, Philippe: The Last Judgment engrav­ing, 172, 173, 174–75 tierras de colores (colored earths), 9, 39, 131, 184, 190n.15 Tinta, 148, 165; Battle of, 149 Titicaca, Lake, 105, 142, 143; in Pitumarca mural, 139–40, 186 Tito Condemayta, Sebastián, 158

Tito Condemayta family, 158, 177 Tito Condemayta Hurtado de Mendosa, Tomasa, 158, 231n.57 Tiwanaku: chakana carved stones, 85–86 tocapu, 9, 24, 86, plate 2; on coastal buildings, 29–31 Todos los Santos de Huanoquite: Baptism of Christ painting, 119, 120 Toledo, Francisco de, 37, 54, 64, 179; Ordenanzas, 36; and Tupac Amaru I, 147, 226n.10 Toledo Cathedral, 85 tongue cutting: in hell imagery, 163 Topa Inca Yupanqui, 33, 109 Torres Rubio, Diego de, 16 tortures: depictions of, 163, 185 Totimehuacán, 172 trade networks, 107, 147; in textiles, 91–92 Tratado de los evangelios, (Ávila), 65, 67; on path to heaven and hell, 68–69 Tree of Life (Tree of Vanity), 181, 233n.97, 234n.102; Escalante’s mural of, 145, 161, 169–71 tribute, 54, 135, 138, 227n.26 Tridentine Office Book, 60 Trinity: depiction of, 57 Trivino de Escalante, Dorotea, 158 trompe l’oeil, 42, 98–99 Tungasuca, 147, 148, 165 tunics, 9, 32, 85; and architecture, 86–87; motifs on, 29–31, 33 Tupac Amaru, Diego, 156 Tupac Amaru, José Gabriel Condorcanqui, 109, 147, 150, 151, 156, 180, 226n.13, 228n.27, 228–29n.39; attack on Cuzco, 148–49; execution of, 163, 165, 228n.31 Tupac Amaru I, 64, 147, 148, 226n.10 Tupac Amaru Rebellion, 25, 64, 109, 145, 148, 180, 184, 227nn.16, 17, 228–29n.39; artistic references to, 156, 176, 228n.35; causes of, 177–78; churches and chapels during, 149–52, 159, 225n.3, 228n.27;

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274     Index Escalante’s depictions of, 164–65, 186– 87; executions after, 158, 163, 228n.32 Tupac Katari Rebellion, 145, 153 uncu. See tunics underworld: bridges to, 69 United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO), 101 uprisings, 145, 147. See also Tupac Amaru Rebellion Urcos, 55, 132–33, 137, 165. See also Santiago Apóstol de Urcos Urcos, Lake, 143, 186, 222n.41; and Huascar’s gold chain, 133–34; and Viracocha, 132–33 urn motif, 103 urpu, 80 Valadés, Diego, 236n.5; Rhetorica Christiana, 185 Valdivielso, José de, 75; El peregrino, 76, 208n.81 Vega, Antonio de la, 51 Ventarrón: wall paintings from, 5–6 vestments: liturgical, 96–97, 108, 110, 112, plate 15 Villagómez, Pedro de, 39; Carta pastoral, 65 Villegas, Bernardo: funerary chapel of, 14, 15 Villegas, Diego: prints by, 155, 163 violence: in church murals, 153, 154–55, 163–65; political, 25–26, 165–66; Tupac Amaru Rebellion, 149–50 Viracocha. See Con Ticci Viracocha Virgen Inmaculada de Checacupe, La, 104, 114, 214n.57; textile murals in, 99–100, 106, 113, plate 9; trompe l’oeil murals in, 98–99 Virgin Mary, 57, 64, 102, 109, 215n.63; in Huaro murals, 169, 171 Virgin of Montserrat, 156; depictions of, 109, 218n.7

visitas de idolatrías. See extirpation programs visual language/communication, 18–19, 116, 215n.67; Cuzco school, 128–29; of mural paintings, 129–30, 184–85 visual system: Andean, 16, 17, 33 vizcachas: as motifs, 105 Vos, Maarten de, 48 Vredeman de Vries, Hans, 126 wall hangings (colgaduras), 84, 90 Wari, 86, 87 water, 120, 138; color symbolism of, 131–32; rituals, 33 weaving, 114; and architecture, 86–87; decline of Andean, 107–8; in Peru, 91, 211nn.31, 34 Wide and Narrow Road, The (Wierix), 70, 71 Wierix, Hieronymus: prints by, 52, 166; The Wide and Narrow Road, 70, 71, 80 Wierix, Johan: Allegory of Death, 166–67; All Is Vanity, 166 Wierix brothers: prints by, 48, 49, 185, 233n.89 Wila-Kollu: chullpa designs, 33–34 workshops, 130, 211nn.31, 32; artisan, 36– 37 World Monuments Fund, 160 writings: religious, 52, 185–86 Yábar, Victoriano, 176 Yanaoca (Ianaoca), 100, 148, 214–15n.59 Yauri, 159 Yucay, 9 Zapata, Marcos, 167, 233n.97, 234–35n.109 zapote (Capparis angulata): as binding agent, 39 Zárate, Agustín de: Historia del descubrimiento y conquista del Perú, 133 zigzag design: in Inca visual system, 33, 34 Zurite: Baptism of Christ painting, 119, plate 17