Feminism and Folk Art: Case Studies in Mexico, New Zealand, Japan, and Brazil 149856433X, 9781498564335

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Feminism and Folk Art

Feminism and Folk Art Case Studies in Mexico, New Zealand, Japan, and Brazil Eli Bartra

LEXINGTON BOOKS

Lanham • Boulder • New York • London

Published by Lexington Books An imprint of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706 www.rowman.com Unit A, Whitacre Mews, 26-34 Stannary Street, London SE11 4AB Copyright © 2019 by The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. © 2013 by the Universidad Autónoma Metropolitana. Translation from Spanish by Andrea Ruthven and Andrea Knowles. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Bartra, Eli, author. Title: Feminism and folk art : case studies in Mexico, New Zealand, Japan, and Brazil / Eli Bartra. Other titles: Mosaico de creatividades. English Description: Lanham, Maryland : Lexington Books, 2019. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019008564 (print) | LCCN 2019009309 (ebook) | ISBN 9781498564342 (Electronic) | ISBN 9781498564335 (cloth : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Folk art—Themes, motives. | Folk art—Economic aspects. | Women artisans. | Art and society. Classification: LCC N5313 (ebook) | LCC N5313 .B37513 2019 (print) | DDC 745—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019008564 The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

Contents

Acknowledgments vii List of Figures

ix

Introduction

1

1  T  rees of Life: Polychrome Clay Figures and Women’s Work in Izúcar de Matamoros, Puebla, Mexico

13

2  Art Weavers: Maori Women of Aotearoa (New Zealand)

43

3  F  rom the Sober to the Saturated: Japanese Shunkei Lacquers and Edo Hagoita Co-authored with Kanae Omura

61

4  The Moon’s Smile: Folk Art and the Abayomi Project

91

Conclusion 117 Bibliography 121 Appendix: Further Reading

127

Index 133 About the Author

141

v

Acknowledgments

I would like to express my gratitude to Virginia Morgan, and her sons Geovanni and Gregorio Mercado Morgan, and to all the folk artists of Izúcar de Matamoros for their time, and the priceless gift of their help and information. To Anna María Bribiesca and the weavers in Auckland, New Zealand, for making the interviews possible and for offering me their time and showing me their work; also to the University of Auckland for granting me the Hoods Fellowship, which allowed me to spend various weeks in New Zealand; and to my beloved colleagues Waleska Pino-Ojeda and Kathryn Lehman, without whom my visit would not have been possible. I want to thank Mrs. Ogawa at the Lacquer Museum, Ms. Tozawa in Takayama, and Mr. and Mrs. Omura in Shirotori for their generous hospitality; to all the folk artists who so kindly gifted us with their time so that we could undertake this project. A special thank you goes to the Institute for Gender Studies at the University of Ochanomizu in Tokyo who supported me in a variety of ways but primarily by hiring me as a visiting professor during a research trip to Japan. To CAPES (Coordenaçao de Aperfeiçoamento de Pesoal de Nível Superior) of Brazil for the grant which enabled me to give a course at the Universidade Federal Fluminense of Rio de Janeiro, giving me the opportunity to undertake the research necessary to write this text. I would also like to thank the Universidad Autónoma Metropolitana-Xochimilco for the research grant during my 2004 sabbatical; and for the financial support from the UAM-X Rector, Patricia Alfaro Moctezuma in 2017. To John Mraz who, once again, revised and atomized the original in order to improve it. To Maiala Meza, who read the text and applied the final brush strokes in Spanish. I am deeply grateful to you all. vii

List of Figures

1.1  Vicky Morgan, Eagle Knight Candelabra, 2009.

19

1.2  V  icky Morgan Tepetla painting a Charro, Izúcar de Matamoros, Puebla, 2017.

22

1.3  Isabel Castillo painting, ca. 2016.

24

1.4  Isabel Castillo, Dancing Death, ca. 2012.

27

1.5  Isabel Castillo, Death—Catrina Carrying Her Daughter, 2009.

29

1.6  Leonila Ramos painting, 2011.

34

1.7  Leonila Ramos, little candelabra, clay, 2009.

36

1.8  Martha Hernández, Izúcar de Matamoros, 2017.

38

1.9  C  andi Leticia Domínguez, Candelabra for three candles, Izúcar de Matamoros, 2017.

40

2.1  Kete, 2008.

48

2.2  First kete made by Margaret Rose Ngawaka, ca. 1997.

54

3.1  Toshifumi Suzuki, platter, Takayama, 2006.

71

3.2  Tabi Fusae, painted little platter, Tokyo, 2006.

73

3.3  Akiko Goto, Hagoita with Kabuki Character Fuji Musume (dancing wisteria maiden), 2006.

79

3.4  Akiko Goto, Hagoita with Kabuki Character, 2006.

82

4.1  Angola fowl, clay, 2004.

99 ix

x

List of Figures

4.2  Lampião and Maria Bonita, clay, 2004.

101

4.3  Lena Martins, 2013.

105

4.4  Abayomi black rag doll, Trapeze Artist, Rio de Janeiro, 2004.

108

4.5  Abayomi doll, Saci-Pererè, Rio de Janeiro, 2004.

110

4.6  Abayomi black rag doll, Witch, Rio de Janeiro, 2004.

111

4.7  Abayomi magnet, Rio de Janeiro, 2004.

113

Introduction

This book is a mosaic, or better still, a one-of-a-kind quilt; a range of texts, like multicolored pieces of cloth, has been orchestrated into a harmonious whole. The chapters are as varied as the artisans under their investigative lens, particularly in terms of the artisans’ ages, genders, and ethnic and geographic origins. During the extended time that I spent on academic work in Brazil, New Zealand, and Japan, I was naturally drawn to study the folk art and gender dynamics of those peoples. A Japanese colleague’s familiarity with both her culture and her language helped me greatly in the chapter on Japan, but I speak the languages of the other three countries (Mexico is my homeland) well enough to do research on my own. I was drawn to visually attractive folk art pieces that also happened to be an essential element of their community’s economy. In Mexico, I chose Izúcar de Matamoros because the region’s female artisans and their exceptionally beautiful polychromatic clay pieces had not previously received any notable attention. According to Vlach and Bronner, there is an ongoing struggle between art vendors and folklorist anthropologists and sociologists. Folklorists “argue for the need to locate authentic works rather than those that are merely visually intriguing. They have consistently cited the importance of communal orientation and cultural context for determining the value of a work of art.”1 In addition, they point out that in order for artisans to be recognized by the National Heritage Fellowship Program of the Folk Arts Division of the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA) they must first be “Acknowledged as ‘exemplary master artists,’[and] these must pass tests of ‘authenticity, excellence, and significance within a particular tradition’” (NEA Guidelines, quoted in Vlach and Bronner, 1992).2 1

2

Introduction

While a bibliography on the topic of folk art is available in the book I just cited, Folk Art and Art Worlds, the folk art referenced is mostly, but not exclusively, from the United States. Moreover, the literature cited was all published prior to 1991, and it rarely emphasizes the gender divide except when addressing a craft that is almost exclusively associated with women, such as quilting.3 In all four cases studies presented here, the extent to which tradition and innovation are intertwined turns out to be particularly remarkable. This comes about in very different ways in each case, but this tradition-innovation duality is present in all of them and forms a conductive thread that runs clearly through the four chapters. In all four locations, the traditional aspects of the art and process are inevitably related to the cultural, and in some cases ethnic, identity of the art’s creators. Another guiding thread running through these studies—that are set in diverse countries with distinct social realities—is a discovery of what women (and men in the case of Japan) from subordinate groups are capable of creating with assorted and sundry materials (Japanese artisans, although well off compared with those of other places, do not belong to the upper classes). In spite of the fact that this is not a comparative work as such, the four geographical areas share many elements, allowing us to compare certain commonalities, such as the conditions of women living in social inequality or the relevance of gender to the folk art process, or, more importantly, the expression of cultural identity. I understand “visual folk art” (or rather, folk arts, plural) to indicate objects created by the impoverished classes—by those who are destined to create artisanal, manual, and artistic handicrafts without any formal art education. Instead, the trade is handed down from mothers to daughters or sons, grandmothers to granddaughters, or is learned from masters or self-taught. It tends to be made collectively and is more repetitive than “high” art, but it also has no utilitarian function so that its value is purely artistic—even in the case of a candelabra that can be used for lighting candles, for instance. Crafts, on the other hand, are also produced in an artisanal way, but they have above all a practical/utilitarian function; while they are aesthetic objects they are not artistic and thus cannot be considered to be folk art. Examples here might be clay griddles for tortillas, earthenware pots for cooking frijoles, palm-leaf chairs, or clay plates used for eating. This book does not deal with crafts but with folk art. Nonetheless, I think it is true that the “study of folk art can be reoriented so that our efforts center on the people who create this art. But first we must commit ourselves to speaking and thinking ‘properly’ about folk art” (Vlach and Bronner, 1992, p. 23). The difficulty, however, is coming to an agreement on what “thinking ‘properly’” might mean: the variety of



Introduction 3

ideas surrounding folk art is enormous, and consensus doesn’t exist. Even in the aforementioned book by Vlach and Bronner, Henry Glassie contends that there is no such thing as “folk art”—only “art” (1992, p. 274). Gender is not synonymous with woman, although the term is frequently deployed in this way. “Woman” is a socially created concept (an abstraction) that is based in common elements of the human female’s sexual characteristics—biological, physiological, anatomical, psychosocial, and cultural. Gender, although it does include women, does not signify only this. Instead, gender is a broad concept, or really, a category, into which fits the range of human genders. Gender constructions are not simple but rather complex and multifarious, and various intricate combinations exist. In the societies I discuss in this text, I focus principally on women and their artwork, although I do look at work by men, too, when required by the art objects selected. While there have been many explorations of human creativity in the past, these explorations have really only tried to understand masculine creativity, and then the findings have been expressed as if they explain the creativity of all humankind. This phenomenon is particularly clear with folk art, which is generally understood as the creation of “the people,” but in fact, what one envisions as “the art of the people” is actually an essentially male art. As I approach art created by women, I also ask myself if something we might call “feminine creativity” exists. The mere mention of masculine and feminine in relation to art immediately raises red flags. Voices from all corners rush to declare that art, obviously, has no sex and thus no gender. Still today, we hear that art is neuter, universal, and eternal. Responses among scholars of artistic production are more varied, however, and thus the question begins to appear more complex. One way in which it is possible to undertake this question of the “feminine” in art is by studying various manifestations of art. For women in Latin America and the Caribbean, as well as many other parts of the world, one of the most important manifestations has unquestionably been folk art. Specific representations of gender can only be seen directly in figurative or verbal (oral or written) art, whereas in other art forms, gender differences might be gleaned from the creators’ predilections for colors or preferences for particular geometric forms. Folk art, which I define here as the artistic production of individuals who are disadvantaged in their respective societies, has virtually never been studied anywhere in the world from a feminist point of view. That is to say, it has been studied neither by taking into account the hierarchical gender division that occurs throughout the creative process, nor by considering purely iconographic aspects of the art in order to notice the ways gender is represented and to identify any discriminatory forms. How can visual folk art be studied from

4

Introduction

a feminist point of view? I believe there are ways, or methodologies one can undertake, to learn more about folk art in general while attempting to decode feminine folk creativity. Joyce Ice says, “A feminist approach to folk culture can provide exciting and revolutionary possibilities for new ways of understanding the interaction between people and objects.”4 A feminist approach to the creative processes in folk art thus allows us to identify how differently gendered, racialized, and sexualized individuals of dissimilar ages interact with materials to create products. That is to say, a specifically intersectional feminist approach allows us a better understanding of the complex mechanisms of social domination.5 Marxism was crucial for its introduction of the concepts of social class and class identity in the nineteenth century, but its privileging of social class over other oppressions was never appropriate. The Marxism-rooted neo-feminism of the 1970s addressed this fault by taking into account the concept of gender to better understand gender-based oppressions. Some of these feminists placed the concept of gender ahead of social class in their theories and studies, while others did not; yet still, race-based oppression was often overlooked, and so was sexual preference. At the end of the 1980s, however, Kimberlé Crenshaw introduced the concepts of intersectionality and complexity in the face of social violence. Her work emphasized the need for more complex analysis that considers all forms of oppression, domination, and discrimination equally, in order to better understand social complexity.6 An intersectional approach, in turn, provides more thorough and richest knowledge of one’s field. In general terms, it can be said that it is necessary to understand the people who create the art. This can be done either by starting with the objects and then arriving at the people, or the other way around; that is, one might first get to know the artists and then study their work. Starting with the objects means that one must recognize the way objects become privileged, and have enough knowledge of art to be able to observe the good, the bad, the grotesque, the fine, or the coarse. In the cases I present in this book, I started out with an interest in the objects and then sought to reach their creators. It is important to reiterate here that both gender and class divisions have been fundamental to the classification of the arts, as Parker and Pollock have pointed out: The fact that the vast majority of creative work that covered surfaces of dress, equipage, and furniture in the time of Lord Shaftesbury [eighteenth century] was embroidery by women suggests that the sex of the maker was as important a factor in the development of the hierarchy of the arts as the division between art and craft on the basis of function, material, intellectual content and class. (1981, p. 51)



Introduction 5

When objects are taken as the starting point for investigation, selecting which artistic processes to focus on requires the researcher to notice the men and/or women of various ages involved in the artistic activity—sometimes there are only men, and sometimes only women. Any process can be studied, of course, not only those where women’s participation is visible from the outset. There are some processes in which women’s involvement cannot easily be detected, but almost always, if one searches with a magnifying glass, the women begin to appear. In examining various artistic processes of creation, distribution, and consumption, it is therefore necessary to carefully analyze women’s presence, participation, and protagonism, and, when the case arises—as it often does— to explain the absence of women. It is important to observe the differences and similarities that exist between men and women in the ways that they create, work, distribute, buy, and consume, in addition to analyzing how different artworks are viewed and valued. I have attempted to do this in some chapters, especially those on Izúcar de Matamoros (chapter 1) and Japan (chapter 3). Additionally, it is crucial to notice how women find themselves represented iconographically in the art we study. This obviously is only possible in the case of figurative art. Ultimately, we need to attend to what is said about gender in the studied artworks, and pay attention to who expresses it. This has been done in chapter 1 with respect to the representations of people in Izúcar’s polychromatic clay pieces. Similarly, in chapter 3, in relation to the figures attached to the decorative paddles (the Hagoita) made in Japan, and also in chapter 4, in respect to the rag dolls of the Abayomi project, an association of black women in Rio de Janeiro. However, such representations cannot be observed in the cases of Japan’s shunkei lacquers or the baskets of New Zealand, since neither of these are figurative art. Considering gender when carrying out a study is certainly necessary, but in itself is not enough for the work to be deemed as feminist or as having feminist methodology. Following a feminist methodology requires—through every stage of the research process (from the selection of the object of study itself through the ultimate communication of findings)—constantly bearing in mind the hierarchical divisions of the society, getting to know the women and the gender relationships involved, and taking into account all other oppressions. Moreover, such methodology goes beyond merely teaching us to see through a complex feminist lens, or beyond merely taking complexity into consideration; instead, it also requires the will to denounce an unjust state of affairs—be it subordination by gender, ethnicity, race, age, or sexuality—and to transform it. Feminist methodology can (and should) be deployed in any process of knowledge gathering. It is necessary to search for, to know,

6

Introduction

and to reveal the hierarchies that shape practically every social context in order for those hierarchies to be eliminated; this is always the political interest of feminist research. As an expression of creativity, folk art is commonly preconceived as being inferior to high art. Inferior because, by and large, the groups that generally produce it are considered subordinate—the poor, women, black folk, indigenous people—and perhaps also because of its lesser originality compared to other forms of artistic expression. Despite these generalizations, though, in all the societies I deal with, and many others too, there are always artisans/ artists who have risen on the social scale, or at least the cultural one. This is especially true in developed countries such as Japan, but it can also occur in underdeveloped ones such as Mexico. As for analyzing folk art from a feminist point of view, there is much more to do than has already been done. In places where there is not a great amount of folk art, such as Great Britain, France, the United States, or Canada, feminist art critics and historians began, starting around 1960, by enriching and transforming the very concept of folk art in order to include and make visible women’s creativity; previously, their creativity had been “buried”—disregarded—because it was unpaid domestic work, “the chores for love.”7 This labor included tasks such as weaving, embroidery, crochet, breadcrumb figurines, patchwork quilts, paper or papier-mâché objects. These items were commonly termed “handicrafts,” or sometimes even “crafts.”8 In Mexico, on the other hand, an extensive richness of folk art beyond these types of objects has meant that in that context, the term “folk art” has not expanded to include these objects, even though they are sometimes objects of such interesting aesthetic and artistic quality that they can merit study as art forms. While knowing what women have made and are making is fundamental to understanding more about folk art, it is also important to know how gender is communicated through this art. Furthermore, because imagery in the arts has proved to be a significant factor in the configuration of the social imaginary that supports, and reinforces, social hierarchies of gender, it is crucial to uncover and analyze the gendered images portrayed.9 A long history of discrimination has made it necessary both to expose and explain the absences of women in art and to scrutinize the art world to expose where women are present but hidden. However, we must also take note of the significant artistic contributions that women have made throughout history despite such adverse conditions. As Pauline Orell said in 1880, “We are asked, with indulgent irony, how many great women artists there have been. Oh, gentlemen, there have been some, and that’s a surprise in view of the enormous difficulties they encounter” (Sauer, 1990, p. 8).



Introduction 7

Knowing about female creativity, being able to identify it as such, and finding stimulating models for women to emulate is fundamental. To notice and underline the absence of women in creative spaces is also necessary in order to investigate the causes or reasons for it, with the ultimate goal of alleviating the problem and promoting creativity. Thus, both things must happen: we must discover women’s presences so that today’s women can see their own reflection in the mirror of the past, and ultimately climb upon the shoulders of their predecessors to continue growing; and we must also see women’s absences and the real social reasons behind it. The mere act of taking into account the sex of the people involved in an artistic process does not mean that it is feminist research per se; it must also involve a critique of the status quo and the will to change it. The vast majority of folk art studies make no mention of men and women. There are some that record who made the objects, and that is something in itself. A few clearly indicate the sex, when possible, of those involved in the creative process, and some go even further to register varied forms of creating. A basic first step is the signaling of difference itself in a field that it has been totally averse to attributing any difference—in color, form, material, or subject matter—to gender. Attention must be paid to the various roles carried out by men and women in the creative process, and to the way the products represent gender (when this is even possible). If the art of the Huichols is to be studied, for instance, it is important to see what the men do and why, and what the boys and girls and women do; it is also important to see how each is represented in the art, and in turn, to study the codes each uses to communicate their weltanschauung through the art. In many communities worldwide gender genealogies emerge. Girls generally follow in the steps of their mothers and grandmothers; such clearly identifiable models are often a requisite for the creative learning process to take place. But it is not always easy to find female models for developing creativity. It is likely that men are not useful for emulation by women; I believe they are not usually able to help girls develop their authentic creativity, precisely because they are different—their sensibility is distinct, and men speak of the world in accordance with how they see it, and that is determined by their social status, both in the private and public spheres. Frequently, then, when women emulate men’s creative processes, or when they try to see male artistic tradition as if it were their own, they end up feeling alienated. That women are able to express themselves with their own voice, and not someone else’s, is essential. They must be able to recognize themselves in their own artistic legacy, and this is why it is fundamental that they know their creative heritage. Gender differences in folk art can be presented, in very general terms, in the following way: there is a separation or differentiation between the type of art created by men and women, and hence specialization by gender occurs

8

Introduction

in the creative process; there are objects that are only created by men, others only by women, and still others that are made by both without distinction, either together in collaboration or separately. Women often make embroidery, weavings, and clay objects; men carve wood, ivory, make masks and copper objects. A man or woman might make the same object, but present differences in the products. Sometimes men take the role of the “helper” or “assistant” and other times women do; the more creative part of the process falls to men or to women depending on the type of objects they make. Very often, men and women produce a single object in collaboration, with a clear division in the work involved. In the case of wooden Mexican alebrijes,10 men cut the wood and women paint it, and the same thing happens with cardboard ones (although this is not fixed and is gradually changing over time). With some clay figures, on the other hand, it is the women who model the pieces and the men who paint them. Clay and fibers are women’s specialties and have been for centuries; they work little with metal and woodcarving. To be more specific about gender differences, however, it is necessary to focus on a particular type of creation in a specific place and time. BODY AND CREATIVITY It is possible to make statements about gender differences that manifest in the artistic creation process because there are clear tendencies. The differences are there, and they are multiple and diverse. The opinions proffered around this issue over many decades have also been numerous. To the question, then, of whether female creativity exists, and in particular female creativity in folk art, we do not yet have definitive answers. We are starting to gain glimpses of something that could certainly be called female creativity, however. In studying women artists and their work, we might assert that their creativity is often very closely linked to maternity and mothering. Their creativity can manifest better if there are no small children to look after, whether they don’t have any or if other people look after them. A direct relationship occurs between the female body and creativity.11 It can also be seen the other way round, though: instead of being an impediment to creativity, we might see motherhood as affirming women’s creative potential and giving them an advantage, rather than the disadvantage it might appear to be. Clearly, women have visually explored pregnancy and the presence of children throughout history much more than men. The connection between reproduction and creativity is thus fundamental for women; it doesn’t manifest in the same way for all women, but rather is multifaceted.



Introduction 9

A historical and universal creativity does not exist; creativity is always cultural and historical. We can observe several constants, however, that allow certain generalizations to be made. First, we can see that women have shared and still share certain characteristics with each other—certain peculiarities toward creativity. For example, it is perhaps possible to say that they have a greater capacity and greater need to talk about themselves and for selfrepresentation; one only has to take a look at the history of art and literature to notice that self-portraits and self-referentiality are recurrent among women artists. There is no doubt that women portray more women than men, both visually and verbally. In the visual arts, including in folk art, they depict many more women than men. Even though male artists have looked at women and used them unceasingly as models for their art, women artists have done so (use female models) even more. Women and children are the quintessential subject matter for female artists. Women’s culture is largely a culture of the body. This is, to a certain extent, why it was believed for so long that women are nature while men are culture. This is a false division, of course, and women are just as much culture as men—only in a different way. It is probable that women’s sensibility is fundamentally shaped by the subaltern condition in which they live. While it is true that the idea of a woman’s sensibility has been used by the patriarchy to devalue female creativity, I also think that through feminism, it is possible to rescue the idea.12 This book consists of four chapters. In the first, I approach artisans and artists in Izúcar de Matamoros, Puebla, in Mexico, to observe and describe the production of polychromatic clay pieces that are characteristic of the area, and to examine their life conditions. Of course, I focus specifically on the women artisans’ point of view. The polychromatic clay-making tradition in Izúcar is more than 250 years old, and it has continued to renovate itself over time and to incorporate innovation. For this chapter, information has been gathered through books and articles, as well as through interviews with several significant female artisans. In my readings of these varied sources, I have paid special attention to gender differences both in the creative process, and ultimately, in iconographic representations of humans in the clay pieces. The second chapter concerns the Maori women of New Zealand and their flax-woven baskets. While Maori basket weaving is a traditional art, it also involves innovation. All of the weavers I studied are from the North Island and the majority are from the city of Auckland. Here, I describe the production process, the meanings and significances, as well as the distribution and consumption of this valued Maori art. The third chapter was written in collaboration with Kanae Omura. Her participation in the research was absolutely crucial since she, in addition to

10

Introduction

knowing better the realities of Japan and Japanese culture, was able to use Japanese for interviews. The study here is of the men and women who create two very special Japanese objects. The first of these are the famous and traditional lacquer products of Takayama, a small semi-rural town in the Gifu prefecture. The other is the Hagoita, or the decorated paddles of Tokyo, which also comes out of a long tradition, although with considerable innovation. This chapter’s lens is focused on the men and women involved in the process of creating these exceptional objects, and I try to underline the differences. In the fourth and final chapter, I tell the story of the Abayomi project, which is a cooperative of black women in Rio de Janeiro. There, I present the results of an ethnographic study I carried out in Brazil on a group of black women who, among other things, create exclusively black rag dolls, using only the scraps left over from textile factories and Carnival. Theirs is a creative project aimed at generating a profit that will improve the artists’ lives—but it is also eminently political and enjoyable. Distilled within the Abayomi project, one can observe highly charged issues of politics, ecology, racialization (specifically blackness), gender, social class, and identity. And on top of all of this, the objects have enormous aesthetic value. The traditions of the enslaved African population transported to Brazil emerge in this eminently innovative project. Three continents, four countries, four geographical locations, distinct ethnic /racial and gender realities, all set in one historical time, share the space of this book. NOTES   1.  John Michael Vlach and Simon J. Bronner (eds.). Folk Art and Art Worlds, Logan, UT: Utah State University, 2nd ed., 1992, p. XV.   2.  Idem, p. XVI.   3.  Idem, pp. XVII, XXXI.   4.  Joyce Ice, “Feminist Readings of Folk Material Cultural Studies,” in Katherine Martinez and Kenneth L. Ames, The Material Culture of Gender: The Gender of Material Culture, Winterthur, DE: Henry Francis du Pont Winterthur Museum, 1997, p. 233.  5. María Caterina La Barbera, “Interseccionalidad, un ‘concepto viajero’: orígenes, desarrollo e implementación en la Unión Europea,” Interdisciplina 4 (8), 2016, pp. 105–122. Pdf. María Caterina La Barbera, “Intersectionality and Its Journeys: From Counterhegemonic Feminist Theories to Law of European Multilevel Democracy,” Investigaciones Feministas, 8 (1), 2017, pp. 131–149. http://www .academia.edu/33712546/Intersectionality_and_its_Journeys_from_Counterheg emonic_Feminist_Theories_to_Law_of_European_Multilevel_Democracy. Consulted September 1, 2018.



Introduction 11

  6.  Kimberle Crenshaw, “Demarginalizing the Intersection of Race and Sex: A Black Feminist Critique of Antidiscrimination Doctrine, Feminist Theory and Antiracist Politics,” University of Chicago Legal Forum, 1989 (1). https://chicagounbound. uchicago.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1052&context=uclf. Consulted November 15, 2018.   7.  Elinor et al., eds. Women and Craft. London: Virago, 1987.   8.  See Rozsika Parker, The Subversive Stitch. Embroidery and the Making of the Feminine. London: The Women’s Press, 1996.   9.  For an in-depth discussion about women’s creativity, see my book, Desnudo y arte, Bogotá: Desde Abajo, 2018. 10.  Fantastic and monstrous zoomorphic figures. 11. See in the bibliography among many other texts: Batterton, 1989; Danto, 1999; El cuerpo aludido, 1998; Fontanel, 2001; Gill, 1989; Giraldo, 2010; Nochlin, 2006; O’Reilly, 2009; Price and Shildrick, 1999; Bracaglia Tobey, 1991; and Rubin, 1986. Other books, articles, and web pages have been published on maternity in art, for example, http://parfumdelivres.niceboard.com/t5803-la-mere-et-la-maternité -danslart?highlight=maternit%E9. Consulted March 25, 2016. 12.  This idea has its detractors: see, for example, Katy Deepwell, ed. New Feminist Art Criticism I, p. 6, who argues against a female sensibility.

Chapter One

Trees of Life Polychrome Clay Figures and Women’s Work in Izúcar de Matamoros, Puebla, Mexico

Situated in the midst of the Puebla’s scorching sugar cane fields, the community of Izúcar de Matamoros, roughly 45,000 inhabitants, specializes in the production of polychromatic clay objects: incense burners, trees of life, death-candle holders, and an infinite number of other figures. From a feminist perspective, I show here how the experiences and creativity of some women in this artisan community develop. What does this mean? First, during my research, I deliberately sought out women who dedicated themselves to creative clay work. Specifically, I focused my gaze on them, had to push aside those men who were constantly “stealing the microphone” and putting themselves first. As with any analysis, it is necessary to limit one’s terrain, given that it is impossible to include everything. Usually, however, this type of research ignores women to focus on men. In this sense, then, I am choosing to practice a certain “gynocentrism.” Beyond seeing these women, I also wanted to hear them—to allow them to tell the stories they wanted to tell. Indeed, at heart of my work is the very fact that I have gone to speak with these artists: in doing so, I give recognition to the importance they held, hold, and deserve. I hope that this recognition, in itself, might empower them. This type of work contributes to a transformation of the artistic landscape in the sense that it both completes it and renders it more complex through the visibility of the female gender and its art. I’d like to think that it also changes the very work of the women involved in this labor, and of the men that surround them, as much for those who make the art as for those who view it, think about it, and write about it. Thus, I aim to highlight the lives of these female ceramic artists who have not received the same level of recognition as their male counterparts, and to bring their work to the forefront. To better understand the art form and the women involved in its production mainly during the 2009–2010 period—during a global economic crisis—I explore 13

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the gender differences that manifest both in the process of creating and in the iconography of the artworks. Feminists Cooper and Cliff [Susie Cooper and Clarice Cliff] demonstrate the ways in which women ceramic designers of the 1930s in Britain challenged the patriarchal boundaries of the pottery industry, helping to change the nature of women’s engagement with ceramics. Their legacy as designers has been considerable, and this is due in no small part to the fact that they signed their own wares, designed shapes as well as decoration, and in the case of Cooper, owned the company. . . . Feminist critiques of culture and history provide a range of critical tools . . . to unpick the complexities of key patriarchal structures which relate to women and ceramics. The relationships between ceramics and feminism are fruitful avenues for further investigation, not least because of the longevity, pervasiveness and complexity of women’s engagement with this area of cultural activity.1

With its flat geography interrupted only by soft hills, Izúcar—often referred to simply as Matamoros2—is dotted with churches and former colonial convents. It is surrounded by sugar cane plantations interspersed with ubiquitous fields of maize. Colonial culture permeates the fourteen neighborhoods that trace their roots to the pre-Hispanic era. The mestiza society that dwells there has largely forgotten its indigenous languages, but it nonetheless seeks to keep the pre-Columbian world alive through historical memory. It is a town not known for its beauty, though it does appear to be quite dynamic—a place where art and folk art have flourished. There are roughly twelve registered workshops there, and perhaps six more unregistered ones, housing approximately sixty artisans. In the neighboring and more elegant Atlixco, almost no folk art is produced, as its dozens of garden centers provide a strong source of income for the majority of the population. While Izúcar of course sounds like azúcar,3 this is not how it derives its name,despite being a center for sugarcane production. Rather, it stems from the pre-Hispanic Nahuatl name, Itzocan, meaning the place of obsidian. The residents of Itzocan were great jewelers; they crafted highly sought after ornaments for the body: earplugs, lip rings, chest plates, necklaces, bracelets, axes, small and large knives all made of jade, jadeite, serpentine, quartz, alabaster, and obsidian. When a field is plowed in Izúcar or in neighboring areas, obsidian knives and blade-pieces, and even uncut obsidian, can still be found near the surface.4 The principal mining sites in the area are limestone, gold, silver, lead, copper, gypsum, iron, and coal, which are not fully exploited; and, of course, there are large sites of clay deposits. Some families produce sculpted wax candles (cera escamada) as well as crowns of palm leaves. The ornate wax candles are made for the Brotherhood of the Santísimo by the artisan don Miguel Magno Rodríguez and his fam-



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ily in the Mihuacán neighborhood. They are also made by the López family and a few others.5 In referencing these “families,” it is clearly impossible to determine what work is done by the men, what is done by the women, and what, if any, is done by the children. What we can say with certainty is that this is a collective endeavor, and that by expressing it in terms of “familism,” any inherent sexism is hidden.6 In 1998, the governor of Puebla designated the folk art of Izúcar as “Cultural Heritage of the State of Puebla.”7 Likewise, the “most traditional and long-standing trees of life in all of the Mexican territory” are also created there, according to Manuel Sánchez Cruz.8 Actually, Metepec, in the State of Mexico, and Izúcar still dispute the origin-date of the trees of life, even though Metepec received the “collective trademark” in January 2009. After three years of administrative paperwork, the secretary of tourism awarded the recognition to Metepec’s Unión de Artesanos y Alfareros Árbol de la Vida Asociación Colectiva [Union of the Artisans and Potters of the Tree of Life Collective Association], comprised of 295 male and female folk artists.9 The tree of life is a polychromatic clay candelabra with three or four candleholders. It features Adam and Eve, the Archangel Michael, and the requisite serpent—the symbol of sin—in the middle. According to Sánchez Cruz, unless these three figures are present, it cannot be considered a tree of life. In the past, these objects were primarily used in religious ceremonies. Today they are also present in the offerings for the Day of the Dead, and they are given as wedding gifts as symbols of fertility and good omens for the bride and groom. Incense burners are used not only to burn incense but also resin. Sánchez Cruz notes that only three families fabricated polychromatic pottery in the Huaquechula neighborhood: the Flores Sánchez family (father, grandfather, and great-grandfather), the Castillo Orta family, and the Mercado Castillo family, with Heriberto Castillo as the head of the latter. The Flores family, Sánchez Cruz contends, has the longest-standing tradition in all of Mexico: they have been making trees of life and incense burners for 250 years, and yet they have not received a single official acknowledgment in all that time. Juan Macouzet also confirms that Aureliano Flores was the first in the community to make polychromatic clay folk art products. Lenore Hogan Mulryan affirms that trees of life could have originated in Izúcar de Matamoros, and later evolved into candleholders and incense burners.10 For Snoddy Cuéllar and Rodríguez Lazcano, the Francisco Flores family was the most important one, and Aureliano Flores, the father, was the pioneer; in this same text they suggest that polychromatic pottery from the Castillo family emerged much later. The authors also argue that what primarily distinguishes the Flores and Castillo families is the paintwork of the pieces, and

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that the work of the Castillo family is much finer.11 Finally, in her book on the pottery of Acatlán de Osorio, Puebla—where they also make trees of life, among other objects—ceramics specialist Louana M. Lackey argues that the trees of life are typical of Izúcar de Matamoros.12 Nonetheless, some of the people in the community that I interviewed, such as Virginia Morgan and her children, asserted that for many years the Flores family only fabricated functional clay objects, like pots and griddles. According to this view, they were simply clay griddle makers, and it was not until the nineteenth century that they started to make trees of life and other polychromatic pottery pieces for ritual or religious use.13 Sánchez Cruz explains the process for preparing the clay as follows: to make the figures, first the clay must be kneaded with water, left to dry for a few days, rolled out and kneaded again. It is sometimes modeled with wire, left to dry for seven days, and then fired in the oven, decorations and all. Once dried, it is painted white using a mixture of lime and prickly pear, which acts as a sealant, and afterward is painted with either industrial or natural dyes. The paintbrushes are made from rabbit hair. Finally, a shiny industrial varnish is applied.14 At the end of the nineteenth century—as far back as official records and memories reach—the Orta Uroza family was among the first to fabricate polychromatic pottery in the neighborhood of La Magdalena. Doña Catalina Orta, who was married to Mr. Agustín Castillo, taught her six children: Heriberto Castillo Orta (who was married to Ma. Luisa Balbuena Palacios); Isabel (married to Gustavo Mercado Mentado); the late Agustín (married to Teresa); the late Alfonso (National Arts and Popular Traditions Prize/Premio Nacional de Artes y Tradiciones Populares, 1996, married to Martha Hernández); Andrés (married to Eva Velásquez); and the late Gloria (married to Abel Acevedo). Almost all of them became potters. Furthermore, the children of these couples also continued to make clay figures. Alfonso’s children, for example, continued to work as potters, in the style of their father. However, of Isabel Castillo’s almost forty grandchildren, only two, Gregorio and Geovanni, carry on the tradition of working with clay. A UNIQUELY CREATIVE FAMILY OF ARTISTS Virginia Morgan Tepetla (Vicky), born in Izúcar in 1960, is an artisan; her children, Geovanni and Gregorio, in addition to working with polychromatic clay like their mother, sometimes consider themselves artists. Vicky began working with clay after marrying Gregorio Mercado Castillo, the son of Doña Isabel Castillo, over thirty years ago: Gregorio, of course, came from a wellknown family of artisans and folk artists. At first, Vicky only shaped little



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flowers, fruits, or marbles—that is, the minor decorations for the pieces—but upon her divorce eight years later, she became fully involved in the process, including the final painting. It was her mother-in-law, Isabel Castillo, who taught her the craft while her husband was finishing his degree, and even today, the two women get along well together. At the time, Vicky had not received a formal education, and it was not until she was older and divorced, after her children were teenagers, that she finished primary and secondary school in the National Institute for Adult Education (INEA). However, her son Gregorio went to university, and the younger boy, Geovanni, finished high school and now holds a diploma in computing. Geovanni is in charge of everything Internet- and digital photography–related for the family, in addition to being an exceptional artist; he wanted to finish a degree in computer engineering at the Technological University of Izúcar but that has not been possible. Because their home in Izúcar had been loaned to them, in 2016 they moved to Cholula, Puebla, where they all continue to work. The clay they use is bought and delivered from San Francisco Tepango, Puebla. At one time, Vicky prepared the clay by herself, but later her children began to do it as well in order to learn the process. When it’s brought in stone form, they beat it with a hammer and sift it. The remainder is put to soak and ferment, and then all of this mud is also strained. They mix the dry, sifted clay with the mud, and then knead it to gain the consistency desired. Then, they model the clay and set the pieces to dry for approximately a week. In a well-heated oven—Vicky uses a wood-burning one—the pieces are fired for thirty minutes to an hour, and later left to cool for four hours. After, they are bleached with vinyl acetate (lime, prickly pear juice, and resin are no longer used to whiten the pieces) and left to dry. Once they have cooled, they are decorated with industrial acrylic paints, since nowadays no one uses natural dyes. They use not only primary colors, but also combine them, and they use store-bought paintbrushes rather than making them from animal or baby hair, as they once did and as they still do in other places. Generally, they make a sketch of the piece first. Most frequently, they make religious pieces. They are Catholics—believers—but they do not attend Mass: “We believe in God but not in the people,” Vicky declared to me. When I met them, they were breaking with traditional religious themes and creating other designs that they could eventually submit to competition; the competitions and prizes given through the National Fund for Handicrafts Development (FONART) are substantial. They mentioned that many designs in these competitions are copied, but that they themselves never did so, as this would demonstrate a lack of creativity and imagination.

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Trees of Life

One of the greatest problems for folk art has been the well-known tendency of artists to copy each other; this, of course, makes it difficult for those interested to ascertain whom the original idea came from. In this family, the painter is the one who signs the work; the grandmother signs her pieces when they are exclusive. The children sign with their full name, but she does so only at times; at others, she uses her initials. Before the people at FONART recommended that they sign the pieces, they left them unsigned. However, when they hire others to help with the painting, as is the case, for example, when they have a high number of orders and hire an entire family to help, Vicky is the one who signs the pieces as they are under her orders, and, in the end, she corrects any defects in the work. In terms of housework, Vicky generally takes care of it alone; although her two sons participate a little, she still does the majority of the work. Vicky also takes care of the family’s finances. In the workshop, all three of them do the modeling and the painting. However, each has his or her specialty: Gregorio generally does the modeling, while Geovanni takes care of the painting, and thus usually signs the pieces in the end. The largest piece Vicky makes is twenty-five inches, as she actually specializes in miniatures. It was the women who taught the children: “They set us on the road,” Gregorio says. Now, they each make their own designs in line with their own creativity, but they agree that the most important thing is that the pieces be done well. When the sons want to, they create something different, like clay sculptures. They create “handicrafts and folk art” of polychromatic clay—this was what they call it—but at the same time, they also want to make art. They only use molds as a template, as all the pieces are ultimately modeled by hand. “There are pieces that are traditional, they are folk art, but they aren’t marketable on a large scale,” says Gregorio. For him, the most commercial and largest market was the folk art market. One author, Ernesto Eduardo Figueroa, described it as follows: “By folk art I mean here the ‘good’ kind, not the kind that has been made miserable due to commercialization, but rather that shares in a penetrating and wise sense of reality and, as a consequence, expresses an inclusive vision.”15 Their workshop is called “Xmucane,” after the Mayan goddess of creation, creator of human beings. Neither Vicky nor her sons shy away from asserting that there are many differences between the way women and men work. The colors are quite different; Geovanni suggests that while they use the same colors to start, he combines them in a way that is quite different: “My mother’s are brighter while mine are more reserved, more serious.” For example, when observing the difference between Alfonso Castillo’s work and his sister Isabel’s, one could see that he used darker, “flatter” colors; the difference resided in the fact that her colors were happier. They also suggest that

Figure 1.1.  Vicky Morgan, Eagle Knight Candelabra, 2009. Photo: Manuel Ortiz Escámez.

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the modeling styles are different according to gender. Vicky says that women include more detail, more little figures, while her sons do so only when asked. Women, Gregorio affirms, pay closer attention to detail. The modification of the colors differs from one person to the next, however, regardless of their sex. While both Isabel and Vicky use vibrant colors, for example, they don’t adjust them in the same way. “My Granny,” says Geovanni, “infuses her pieces with soul, and that’s what I like about her; she handles the clay quickly and gracefully.” There were also clients who would return to Vicky because of what she “imparts in” her pieces, because of what these pieces “transmit.” The four of them work collectively: Isabel (the grandmother), Vicky, and her two sons. One of the grandsons might create a piece, but then their grandmother decorates, paints, and signs it. Clients suggest what they would like, and this is not a problem; they can order a piece with certain colors, for example. However, they cannot tell them how to combine the colors. They discuss with the clients whether or not they like one thing or another. They might say that they do not want Adam or death, and that they prefer angels and other things. Gregorio adds that if forty pieces with the same design were ordered, he thinks they should make forty; his mother, however, thinks they should make forty-five, so that there would be some extras. This is another difference in their vision of the work. They are rather reticent to show their work process to others because those people could then open their own workshops and become competition. The grandmother, Isabel, taught the family almost entirely by herself. When she is asked to fill large orders, her grandsons help her. According to them, Isabel and Alfonso were equally skilled, but he would leave the community—he went to exhibitions, he was more adventurous, he liked to travel—and this helped him; he participated in competitions. There are styles that have been lost over time; women made designs that were quite different from the men’s—Noah’s arks, for example. What Vicky most enjoys making are nativity scenes in miniature. She sells her work through brokers like FONART, where she now only goes once a year. They also have permanent clients in Denmark, Boston in the United States, and Holland, as well as a Mexican client who used to live in Oaxaca but moved to Mexico City; all of these are retailers. With the economic crisis, though, sales dropped considerably. They also sell pieces in Mexico City, Puebla, Atlixco, and in the United States. They are sometimes invited to do demonstrations; they have been to Puebla for this purpose. Somewhere on the Internet I saw a Frida candleholder signed by Isabel Castillo. In the interview, Gregorio told me that it was commissioned to Isabel, but that he was the one who actually made it, under her instruction. She then painted and signed it.



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Geovanni explained his feelings about women as follows: “For most of my life I have been learning the art of pottery in my grandmother’s workshop, and I have had the need to express what I see and feel of what people transmit to me. But I was unable to achieve this, as I could not find the perfect person to inspire me to capture that through clay. With time, however, I was able to master the use of the paintbrush and the clay.”16 As an artist, Geovanni began to specialize in miniature trees of life, and they are exquisite. There is one that is four inches tall with five candleholders and a woman below, in the center, in the place that is normally reserved for Adam and Eve. “One day a woman came into our workshop and I realized that I needed to capture what she inspired in me, and from that moment on I have not stopped thinking that women are one of my best sources of inspiration; I have called this piece Elena-Tree Candelabra, with birds of paradise, sea and land animals, in honor of the woman who inspired me to make it.”17 When I asked him why he designed her with a dress on, he replied, “I put her in regional dress because the first time she came to our workshop she was wearing a dress embroidered in white . . . with flowers, if I remember correctly, and I really liked how she looked and this was one of the reasons I designed her with a skirt, and I decorated it like a traditional outfit because it would look good.”18 It is dark; the background is in blues, purples, greens, and whites, and it is painted in some places like the Talavera pottery of Puebla. Despite the colorful flowers and animals, it was a serious-looking piece. There was another miniature “candelabra” that was quite similar, but to which other things had been added: On the first the baby, on the second the animals; on this one I placed sea creatures, some lilies, and changed the decoration a little and also there is an animal. It is on the right sight of the sculpture, a crab and its pincers hold a paintbrush—I hope this gets noticed—well, I am that crab . . . , I feel that the crab was the most appropriate because of its pincers. The baby, . . . Elena surprised me by telling me she was already a mother and she sent me pictures . . . and other works came to mind. At the moment I have one drawn on paper, but the rest are stored in my mind and I have not forgotten them. . . . I put the lilies there because I heard Elena mention that she likes them and I do as well and they are a flower that is so simple and yet still beautiful and I like, as I said, the simplicity of the lily.19

Vicky makes cute pairs of Charros and China Poblana skeletons; some of them are quite typically poblana, since she paints them in a style reminiscent of Talavera pottery from Puebla. Geovanni mentions that each of the diverse forms of painting the pieces have different names: “petatillo,” “cross-hatch,”

Figure 1.2.  Vicky Morgan Tepetla painting a Charro, Izúcar de Matamoros, Puebla, 2017. Photo: Geovanni Mercado Morgan.



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Talavera, wavy, eyelash, small-waves, shadowed or blurred, marked or branded, filled in, leaf, and others.20 Regarding the skin color of some of the figures, like Adam and Eve or the Virgin of Guadalupe, Vicky says that they are chosen according to the particular taste of the client. There are four different skin tones ranging from pinkish to dark brown.21 She mentions that European buyers, especially those from Denmark, prefer light-skinned Adam and Eves, but that they had also made darker-skinned ones. They had even been asked to make them grey-haired or with two children. Although the Virgin of Guadalupe is brown-skinned, they often make her white because there are people who prefer her like that. In Izúcar there are thirty to forty people who have been gathering from the different workshops in the community to form the “Asociación Marca Colectiva” (Association for a Collective Brand) for polychromatic pottery. Vicky served as president for a time, but in August 2009 when the group voted for the president, secretary, and treasurer, Vicky was not elected to any of the posts. It remains to be seen how this collective will work; however, as of 2018 it has not been legally recognized. A LIVING LEGEND: ISABEL CASTILLO Not far from Vicky’s old home sets the house of Doña Isabel Castillo. A woman with a robust and imposing voice, she speaks with the weight of all her eighty-two years. I hesitated in asking her age, but she quickly responded that she didn’t mind telling; what was important was whether or not she could still work, which, she emphatically and proudly claimed, she still could do, and she enjoyed it. It had been fifty-two years since she had become independent from her parents; she started helping them when she was nine. This is a woman confident of her position within the art community. She is married to Gustavo Mercado Mentado, who is a truck driver; together they had four daughters and seven sons—“as long as the plant produced,” she said. Only two of them were potters, along with their wives. The rest all had another profession. Her daughters were not potters, “because this work is a little rough,” and she argued that there was nothing like having a profession because you could still earn your paycheck if you were sick, whereas this wasn’t true in her line of work. For Castillo, being an artisan was not a profession so much as it was probably just a craft. It was her mother’s father, Mr. Simón Orta Cocoma, who taught her mother, Doña Catalina Orta (born ca. 1910 and deceased sixty-two years later), to work the clay in order to earn a little money to “help herself.” She enjoyed the work and began making figures for All

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Saints’ Day—trees of life and candelabras. Isabel’s father, Agustín Castillo, was a farmer and didn’t work with clay. One day, Mr. Samaniego from Puebla, who had an antiques shop, came to Izúcar to look for Mr. Aureliano Flores. On this trip he saw Doña Catalina selling in the market and he quickly bought one of the pieces she had for sale. After this he went to her house to find her and told her that each month he would come and buy the figures she made: little angels, small dolls for girls and boys, dancers (“alférez” he said they were called), trees of life for weddings, candleholders, and incense holders. Doña Isabel could generally be found sitting a few yards from the street, with the door open and a half-painted tree of life on the table.22 When she started, Isabel worked alone, though later she worked with her children and grandchildren. Moreover, she had been traveling for about twenty years: “I go abroad, to the United States, when they contract me to give workshops in Art schools—from Washington even up to Canada. I spend two days in each school; there are so many places I have visited!” She would go for a month, or a month and a half, depending on the circumstances. She always traveled with one of her daughters or sons, though her husband had never gone with her. She had not travelled to Europe or Asia, but her pieces had traveled as far—all the way to Denmark, Switzerland, even Japan. “I haven’t been,” she said. “It’s one thing for my pieces to go and quite another for me to go!”

Figure 1.3.  Isabel Castillo painting, ca. 2016. Photo: Geovanni Mercado Morgan.



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She makes candelabras or whatever she’s asked for. She doesn’t use molds, except for the skirting so that it comes out hollow. She has more than one hundred different designs. Each night, as she’s watching television, she “multitasks.”23 Now, she buys the clay already milled and sifted from someone who has a machine to do it, which costs more, but she can no longer find someone to pound it for her. She doesn’t work from previously drawn designs, but rather does everything directly on the clay. She says that her mother made Fridas, and she also claims that the pieces were unique in their painting but not in the form. She makes all sizes, but the miniatures are difficult for her due to vision problems. She now prefers to make five- or ten-inch ones. Only relatively recently did she start signing her pieces. Since they weren’t important to her, she didn’t keep the diplomas that she was given. Her brother Alfonso, however, “became quite popular” and the prices for his pieces went up. For a similar piece, she would sell for 1,500 pesos and Alfonso for 5,000. “He would go to exhibitions, but we didn’t. It wasn’t important to us, but it was to him. He went to Guadalajara, which was what he wanted. And his pieces were expensive because he was well known.” Now Isabel recognizes that her mistake was not participating in competitions; she had been told her designs would be stolen there, but it was an error. “It doesn’t hurt me anymore,” she says, fully aware of her worth. But before, when she wanted to send her eleven children to university, she needed to sell more (the two sons who now work with the clay are the only ones who did not continue their studies after secondary school). Isabel was in charge of the housework—the cooking, the laundry. When she had small children at home, she would hire a young woman to help her. Her husband would also help with the cleaning, but he was always busy because he would package the pieces. Her daughters would also help her clean the house. She asserted that each person creates in his or her own way, independent of his or her gender; rather, the differences she sees between herself and her brother Alfonso are in their designs, as these are quite distinctive. He favored darker colors and more expensive pieces. “In order for me to trust a person to paint my pieces, they need to have worked in painting for three years, but he would hire anyone, he would give anyone a job. But he made the mistake of lowering his quality. This was his error.” Isabel makes the finishing touches if she sees that there are any defects in a painted piece. The global economic crisis affected her significantly. Before the crisis, she could never fabricate enough. The lowest point was in 2009. Her husband had been the administrator: “He used to do the accounts, now he only recounts,” she laughs. But their eleven children help them out financially; Isabel comments ironically: “It’s a good thing for me I had so many of them, since they are yielding such benefits.”

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She prefers to decorate in blues and blacks, her favorite colors. Ninety percent of her pieces go abroad (to the United States) and the rest are sold in Mexico—in Izúcar itself as wedding presents, or to FONART. Each time she goes abroad with her son and daughter-in-law, for example, they each carry two pieces of luggage full of figures, and they sell them in the schools where they are doing demonstrations. What is left over, they sell in local artisan shops; everything must be sold. She believes Mexican people like her work, but they aren’t normally going to buy pieces that cost 1,500 pesos.24 They would only do so if it was for a wedding present, for instance, or as a gift to a doctor who had cared for their child. “When someone loves his or her work, because I do love my work, she or he begins adding different things to the trees of life, and everything changes.” She is constantly creating new designs. She wants to make a Death figure with a cat; she does many figures of Death because that’s what sells the most. For her, for her clothes, she never liked bright colors, just blue and black. She uses birds of all kinds as decoration, such as Australian parakeets or hummingbirds; she also uses various fruits, flowers, and lilies. The tree of life, she said, is paradise, that’s why there is an abundance of everything. The Death figures were generally more traditional, but even they were changing. Before, they were simpler: they would use varnish to protect or make the pieces shinier; now they use shiny or matte porcelain enamel. However, in general, they are ordered without shine. Isabel said she makes traditional things, but modified, with new designs. She forms dancing figures of Death that are truly beautiful, and playful. She decorates these candelabra with flowers and birds, some affixed with wire, which makes the pieces seem lighter, airier, and she paints them in a variety of color combinations. One has three candle holders and she might use a bright green on the back that is slightly visible in the front; the skirt of the dress opens 330 degrees and the edge is wavy, giving a sense of movement. The skirt has rows of mainly geometric designs, painted in diverse shades of blue, purple, black, green, and red, with some additional details in yellow. On the skull face there appears a smile, alongside long hoop earrings and hair pulled back into a bun. It’s true that the bun resembles the one typically worn by Frida Kahlo, but it’s also worth remembering that Kahlo didn’t invent that hairstyle, rather that she wore it in a way that many Mexican women did and do. Indeed, Isabel Castillo said that her mother used to wear the same hairstyle. The dress the dancing Death is wearing appears to be traditional, at first, but it is actually fairly eclectic. The artist simply painted it in the way she wanted; it is not modeled from a single regional dress, but ultimately it is reminiscent of many. Isabel comments that the Death figures that sell best



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are the ones that are sixteen inches tall and cost around 1,500 pesos, as well as some simpler ones that are one foot tall and cost 500 pesos. In general, the style of painting in Izúcar is unmistakable; it tends to be coarse, with the usual details in fine lines, but with thick brushstrokes. How-

Figure 1.4.  Isabel Castillo, Dancing Death, ca. 2012. Photo: Eli Bartra.

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ever, Isabel’s paintings and decorations are very fine. They are perfect in every aspect. As Juan F. Macouzet says: The Castillo family is, today, a question mark that burns the tongue: what is art? Who are the artists? What should those who would be artists do? What conditions prevail and reign over art? The enormous originality and creativity of the family sows doubt on the nature of art, whether their work is considered “folk art” or a lower art. Their originality has already created classic models of an incredible perfection.25

It is worth pointing out that the best folk artists in the country are constantly pursuing perfection, and that this notion of perfection pierces the very being and the actions of some extraordinary people. Juan Quezada from Mata Ortiz, Chihuahua, for instance, a creator of magnificent clay pots, is an artist in search of perfection. Many members of the Castillo family embody this quest, and Doña Isabel is no exception. She won the thirty-fourth Contest for the National Grand Prize in Folk Art and, in 2009, won the sixth National Contest of Masterpieces, “Living Legends.”26 Without a doubt she is a “Living Legend”: through her art, she expresses herself with a powerful voice of her own. A FOLK ART ENTERPRISE Another of the excellent artisans of Izúcar is María Luisa Balbuena Palacios, who was born in the nearby village of Tepeojuma, which lies between Atlixco and Izúcar, but now lives in the Barrio de Santa Catarina.27 She is a woman of almost seventy years with a sullen bearing; she was married for twenty-five years to Heriberto Castillo Orta, the older brother of Isabel and Alfonso, but they have been separated for at least eighteen years now. She has six children. The three older ones (two daughters and a son) are married and do not work in pottery; however, the other three (Ulises, Zuleica Magali, and Jorge) do. María Luisa started with polychromatic clay in 1969 when she got married. Her mother-in-law was Catalina Orta: “The one who really promoted folk art was Catalina, with her trees and animals for All Saints’ Day,” María Luisa says. “Since there was this machismo, among men, we women, let’s say, would do a little in the background, and so we never developed, work cleaning houses, and the men always went about representing everything, and we were forgotten,” she added, in her peculiar way of speaking. Her husband, who was twenty years older than she was, gave her the sense that she was stupid. These days, she says that it “feels great not having someone tell her what to do.” At first, people told her she wasn’t very good with

Figure 1.5.  Isabel Castillo, Death—Catrina Carrying Her Daughter, 2009. Photo: Geovanni Mercado Morgan

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clay, but she thought that if she went to work cleaning houses she wouldn’t be able to sustain her children. The young people in the family emphasize frequently that they are the fifth generation of polychromatic clay artists. María Luisa hopes future generations—like her granddaughter—will also become artisans, in addition to what they are studying, “because it is a beautiful, noble craft, that really helps women.” Her sons and daughters had all completed at least secondary school. As with other artisans, María Luisa confirms that after she was separated she did everything herself, but little by little her children had begun to help her, including her sons, who would help out by painting candelabras after coming home from school. Rumors and gossip are prevalent among family members. We know how important they are in small communities everywhere. Today, they are on good terms with the entire extended family, though they are not as close with other artisans. However, they say that they do have artisan friends from other families, and they get along well with artisans such as the well-known Elfego Vázquez, whom some people deeply dislike. María Luisa and her husband were originally married under common-law property rights, so when they separated, he left her with significant debt. When they were together, she worked as his wife and a mother, and in addition, since they had some land, she planted flowers, sold them, and also sold food. In addition to all that, she also worked as an artisan. Her husband only worked as an artisan. One can see clearly that she is a woman who has suffered in order to get ahead, and this became a recurring topic throughout our conversation. She reads well but has difficulty writing. She had also taken a course in Bancomer, in Puebla, on how to properly package her goods, and so her pieces had begun to cross borders, heading to Germany, France, and Canada. Without a doubt, she has an enterprising spirit. When she was with her husband, they worked together. He would say, “Do the birds for me, do the flowers, do the fruit, the little animals, I’ll do the candleholder.” Now, she has someone who occasionally helps her out—that is, someone on the payroll. She only does the glazing when there are orders for it, as it is much more “laborious.” It would seem, therefore, that María Luisa has had two clearly defined stages in her life as an artisan: married and separated. With her husband, she lived a sort of prolonged childhood, but after separating, she entered adulthood. She still does the housework, though a nephew helps her, and she cooks daily. Each member of the household now does his or her own washing and ironing.



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For her clay pieces, she prefers to use the wood-burning oven, though her children sometimes use the gas one. There are differences in the finishing according to the two methods. With the wood-burning oven, the pieces achieve a lovely red tone. It takes between thirty minutes to two hours with wood, while with gas it takes up to six hours—but gas is cheaper. Wood costs between 40 to 60 percent more than gas. In addition, to use the wood-burning oven, the artisan needs to be present the whole time to tend to the fire. Using the gas oven, though, allows the artisan to save both time and energy. The family no longer uses natural dyes, unless a collector asks for it. The clay is from San Andrés de Aguatenco, which lies between Puebla and Morelos. They acquire it in a natural state, in stone, and they grind and prepare it. The men in the family would do this job, though each individual would knead his or her own clay according to his or her desired consistency. María Luisa likes her clay lighter—she feels that it doesn’t hurt her hands as much—while her children like it harder. The children usually do the firing because it is heavy work, though if María Luisa wants a particular firing, she does it herself. She works in collaboration with her children. Their work, she says, is more refined. They almost always draw their designs in pencil first, but with more traditional pieces, this is no longer necessary. They use molds as support mainly for decorations. They confirm that for the people of the area, even in the state, some of the larger pieces seem expensive, costing approximately 6,000 pesos. A Latino/a from the United States, however, could easily buy these more expensive pieces as gifts, as could politicians or other wealthy people. Nonetheless, they make smaller souvenirs most. What sells best are trees of life and incense holders, and commercially, small pieces and candelabras. Izúcar does not have any shops for this kind of folk art, and there is little support from the municipal president. María Luisa sells pieces from her workshop, although sales are sparse due to low tourism. Most buyers seek items for resale. At one time, she only sold to people from abroad—the United States, Germany, or Canada. Now, however, they also have national buyers. These buyers order dozens of identical pieces for first communions or various other celebrations. María Luisa does not want to join the Collective Brand Association, even though she was invited, because, she says, her brother Joaquín Balbuena is there and he is very difficult. Her son, Jorge, remarks that behind the association is the Institute for Folk Art and Popular Industries, and an association should have a physical and moral identity. They don’t see the benefits or advantages, he continued, and they don’t know how much they would have to pay, or if they’d have to pay more taxes. He prefers the idea of “appellation

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of origin,” because they are certain that trees of life originated in the Izúcar region and not in Metepec. María Luisa hadn’t received any prizes, but she had received certain recognition. She participates in local fairs, like the one put on by the National Support Fund for Companies in Solidarity (Fonaes). None of them had ever left the country. María Luisa doesn’t really have a figure she enjoys making most; she likes all of them. Favorites? “They would be favorites for the client,” she said. Her models number over two thousand, she asserts. Two thousand? Of course, if you count the minor variations, the different color combinations and such. She shows her clients photographs of her designs, or discusses the designs with them, so that they can choose what they like. What she does not like making are the new figures with colored hair; what she definitely will not make is The Santa Muerte, since, she said, it is witchcraft. She made Death so as to not be afraid of it: “Death is purity that brings glory; it isn’t bad.” She added, “We should respect Death, but not venerate it.” The pieces that come out of her and her children’s workshop, called “Casbal” or “Artesanías Castillo Balbuena,” are signed almost exclusively with the initials CB. They have never made Fridas, they say, which is curious, because Fridas are generally made all over the place at the slightest opportunity. In terms of the differences between men’s and women’s work, María Luisa asserts that women want their pieces to stand out more. They add more decorations, and with some elements are more meticulous. The colors are also very different, she suggests. She likes them bright, not dark, and not matte. Furthermore, she likes to finish her pieces with porcelain enamel; the enamel protects the pieces, but she also prefers it aesthetically, “because that way they are shinier.” “We are all different,” María Luisa contends. “Not all women are the same. Some are heavy-handed, whether they are a man or a woman.” She mentions that she doesn’t discriminate against anyone, but that she thinks tastes vary. “My mother often uses fiery colors, and that gives her pieces more life,” Jorge said, “for example, intense blues.” One can see plainly a series of constants that the artisans tend to indicate as clear gender differences in work processes and outcomes. Indeed, this highlights an existent dilemma in the art world: each individual artisan selfexpresses, communicates, and creates in his or her own way—but there are nonetheless issues shared by those of the same gender. Some artisans make characters from comics, or from Japanese Manga. María Luisa makes little figures, religious images, and angels, as well as photo frames or pencil holders. In passing, she makes an interesting comment on the value granted to tradition: “I think that tradition is like our clothing.” Because she needs to earn money in order to eat, it is not always in her best interest to submit pieces to a fair or contest, since the costs of entering need



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to be covered. She has to dedicate at least two months to making a piece, then invest in the transportation . . . she does not see the point. Her son Jorge once competed in a FONART contest, but had not been able to compete again. “Look, sometimes I would be overcome by such a huge depression that I had no desire to work” and “I’d say to myself: what am I going to do, let myself die, or keep working?” She mentions that many people have helped her. “I tend to think that if I can sell the pieces, it is because they are good.” María Luisa’s other son, Ulises, suggests several times, upon seeing my interest in women artists, that “if it were not for the women, this would not exist.” He has a tree of life with only one candleholder, about six inches tall, with an Adam and an Eve. It is interesting that he made them with dark skin, since folk art often represents them as pink skinned. Because they wore loincloths, the two markers of sexual identity were Eve’s long hair and breasts. In this workshop, they also make non-religious pieces. For instance, they made a few candelabra for prickly pear candles that were decorated with eyecatching, round, colorful fruit, and with birds of various colors. In this way, they attempt to attract buyers that do not necessarily want religious objects. In general, they make pieces that are heavy, thick with decorations, and roughly painted. What their work shares with almost all the artists in the area, though, is the backdrop of the pieces, or part of it: they create a base of finely painted, parallel, contiguous lines that intertwine—a design called petatillo. WIDOWHOOD: THE IDEAL STATE FOR WOMEN? Another artisan who, along with her husband, learned from Isabel Castillo is Leonila Lucrecia Ramos Miranda. She was born in the early 1960s, and has just become a widow after thirty years of marriage to the well-known artisan Pablo Perfecto Cuateta Ramos. He died at age fifty-three from the effects of diabetes and hypertension: “How he loved his drink, he didn’t look after himself,” Leonila commented. Their workshop was called “Cuateta Ramos,” after his name, but the name worked well for her, too—coincidentally, it was also her maiden name and, of course, it was her children’s (two sons and a daughter) surname. She decided to maintain the name to keep alive the memory of her husband. Now, one finds her trying to get back on her feet, alone, with some of the clay figures that he had left behind and that she had painted. Her husband started working with clay when he was around eighteen years old. In the beginning, she was not at all interested in it. At that time, in the 1970s, there were about three people, aside from her children, working with Doña Isabel. They had lived in Mexico City for roughly eight years while he worked for a bus company. Pablo did not want their son to be educated

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Figure 1.6.  Leonila Ramos painting, 2011. Photo: Geovanni Mercado Morgan.

in the city, though, so when he was six years old they returned to Izúcar to work with Doña Isabel. Leonila helped Pablo by modeling the pieces’ decorations for many years, from 1986 until 1992, when he and his brother joined together and created their own workshop. Pablo and Leonila Lucrecia had two sons and a daughter together; neither of the sons worked with pottery, while the daughter helped her mother. Their father had told them that, along with their degrees, they should have a trade: “Folk art is beautiful work, you do it at home, you don’t rely on anyone, and you can do it whenever you like,” Leonila Lucrecia said. She rents her house now, as she does not own her own. Now, she needs to move the workshop forward. Pablo had taught her to stroll through the city of Puebla so that clients would see her. Now, though, there are very few sales. The El Parián shops in Puebla still buy their work. The Amparo Museum also bought from them at one time, but since they required receipts and Leonila did not have any, they stopped. They had also gone to Tepoztlán to sell the pieces her husband made. Occasionally, tourists come looking for clay objects. They have been invited to exhibit their work in the Technological University of Izúcar, and they have also sold their pieces in nightclubs. She mentions that they receive no help



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from the municipal president or from the local cultural center. She belongs to the Collective Brand Association, and they have many projects. Her daughter wants to go to the Naval Academy to study. She is also studying music: “She is a bag of tricks,” her mother says. Her sons and daughter also help her in their free time. They bring the clay in stone form from San Andrés Acteopan, and then Leonila and her sons prepare it. It is heavy and they have to whip it and strain it. They prepare it, knead it, and then they let it rest for roughly a month. She knows how to complete the whole process. Their production is highest during the hot months because the clay dries better then. They fire all the pieces together, as many as they can, in order to save money. Her wood-burning oven holds around two thousand pieces, and she puts in hundreds at a time. It is better to fire the clay during the dry season, as it’s harder to work the pieces if they are damp. She continues to use the designs her husband made. They make the tree of life, but each of them adds a different Adam and Eve. Leonila makes them standing and brown skinned. Both the decorations and colors vary, and they frequently use fluorescent colors. Her husband would decide on the colors and tell her to paint them a certain way. Now, while she could make all the decisions herself, she wanted to keep doing things the same way: “We should not lose what he taught us.” She doesn’t see a difference between the ways he worked and how she works. They no longer use natural dyes, opting instead for pure acrylic and storebought paintbrushes. Leonila had been taught how to prepare the paint and make brushes from dog hair, but she doesn’t do so now, since it is more practical to simply buy them. She does not make sketches beforehand, though her husband did. We can see a difference there. The night before we spoke, her daughter had made a lily. Lilies continue to appear, in their full splendor, throughout various expressions of folk art. “We do not want the artisanal culture to die,” and thus they hope that the association will bring benefits. “I leave the workshop in your hands,” her husband had said before dying. That was his dream: that the workshop would continue to prosper. She prefers to make miniatures, and needs help making the larger pieces, although she is going to start making them. Nonetheless, she thinks that painting the tiny pieces is the hardest. She most enjoys making borders for the figures; it is the style they use most in their workshop, although of course they also make petatillo, or branching. In general, they leave the pieces unvarnished, without any shine, natural—unless they are asked for something else. In terms of the housework, she does all of it. When her husband was alive, he would help a little—sometimes. He used to say that his artisanal work

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yielded greater benefits, so it was better for him to concentrate exclusively on that. Leonila had reached a crossroads in her life. As a widow, she both desired and felt morally obligated to maintain her husband’s workshop. Moreover, this was the craft that she knew and practiced. Her children told her to leave, that it would be better to find another business, but for now, she wants to continue making pottery in the “Cuateta Ramos” workshop. AN ENDURING CREATIVE INHERITANCE In a very large, beautiful, and comfortable home—undeniably one of the best in the Barrio de San Martín Huaquechula—lived Alfonso Castillo. Now, his widow lives there, Doña Soledad Martha Hernández de Castillo (she is emphatic that this is her name).28 She is around seventy old. The couple had three daughters and two sons, all of whom continue to dedicate themselves to crafting polychromatic clay pieces; they are all extraordinary artists. None of them have university degrees, only secondary school diplomas. Doña Martha, thin, elegant, amiable in the Puebla style, opens her house, her workshop, and her exhibition space to me. She is dynamic, communicative, and also very busy. The walls are full of photographs, awards, and

Figure 1.7.  Leonila Ramos, little candelabra, clay, 2009. Photo: Manuel Ortiz Escámez.



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prizes containing the history of this family that, without a doubt, was the most famous in the community, and deservedly so. At first, like Leonila, Martha was uninterested in working with clay, but because her husband came from a family of established artisans, she learned with him when they married. She was seventeen and Alfonso was twenty-two. When they were starting out, she had assumed they would earn some money through their art, and she was not wrong. With time and a lot of work, they did. The whole family is native to Izúcar. She mentions that her mother-in-law, Doña Cata, was the one who first started to sell her little pieces, though she also worked in the fields. Martha tells me that they would bring the whitener used to bleach the pieces from Spain, and that they would first fire the pieces, then whiten them, and then paint them once they had cooled—as the entire community would do. This is how they have always done it—only the materials have changed over time. When it was time to prepare the whitener, she said the smell was terrible; yet after a short time, she was preparing it herself. In the beginning she only made flowers, skirting, and filling, as her husband would not let her do anything else. Then, one day, one of his sisters, Gloria, let her paint an entire piece. When he saw it, he thought that his sister had done it, but when she told him that it had been her, he began to trust her. Between the two of them, they were able to make the workshop prosper. When money was tight,29 they would buy cows, make cheeses and creams, and she would go sell them. Two of her daughters live in the United States, and Doña Martha often visits. Her daughter Verónica, born in 1967, earns a teacher’s salary in San Antonio, Texas, teaching a group of women to work with clay. The group is called “Esperanza” (Hope). She teaches them to make a glazed pottery that is not related at all to the Izúcar style. Occasionally she teaches them small details typical of Puebla, like the Talavera style, but little else. Martha and her famous husband Alfonso’s careers followed quite a lengthy trajectory. They participated in exhibitions throughout the United States, as well as in multiple Mexican locations. Now that Alfonso has passed, Martha continues to sign pieces with the name of the “Alfonso Castillo Orta Workshop,” and she continues exhibiting and giving talks all over the place. They had always had house workers to help them in their home and take care of the children. As for the designs, she continues to make some that her husband made in addition to making new ones. She does not work from sketches; they never did. When she had an idea for a certain piece, she would explain it and then make it directly with the clay. She explains that each one of her sons and daughters paint in different tones, and she does as well. In general, they use paler tones than others—more serious—tending toward dark colors and

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earth tones, like the ones Alfonso used. This is perhaps because they were similar to the tones of the natural pigments that they once used. According to Martha, her son Poncho uses even darker colors. She said she prefers the colors to be strong.

Figure 1.8.  Martha Hernández, Izúcar de Matamoros, 2017. Photo: Roberta Toxtle.



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The family has created a great deal of Fridas; they even have a clay skull with painted reproductions of Frida Kahlo’s pictures on it. It is also worth mentioning that the family made their trees of life collectively; only the smallest pieces were made individually. In the workshop they complete the entire process: they prepare the clay, make the pieces in an ad hoc space, and paint them in another. They use a gas oven. Today, their primary sales are in major tourist centers throughout the country, especially places frequented by foreign tourists—for example, Oaxaca, Puerto Vallarta, and Cozumel, but not Acapulco, since the tourism there is primarily national. As an artist, Martha has managed to come out ahead, in spite of the overwhelming weight of her famous, deceased husband’s shadow. There is an exhibition space in their home that houses an incredibly beautiful tree of life, in pinkish tones. It was made by Aureliano Flores, the first in the Flores family to make the clay figures. It is a real shame that there is no museum in Izúcar, no matter how small, that would show a collection of the best pieces the community has made and continues to make daily. Almost all of the women I had the opportunity of speaking with were either separated or widowed (with the exception of Isabel Castillo). Perhaps it is not a coincidence. Even though the influence of their respective (now absent) husbands was still strong for each of them, the fact is that each of them now find themselves at the head of a workshop, deciding what will be made there. Furthermore, I would like to point out an important difference in the way in which men and women represented nudes. The men make sculpted female bodies with large breasts, long hair, and with arms outstretched to seductively caress the head, as can be seen in pieces by Heriberto Castillo Orta, or in those by Geovanni and Gregorio Mercado Morgan. The women, however, represent female nudes, such as Eve or the sirens, more innocently—with smaller breasts and with their arms hanging down. Isabel Castillo had an Adam and Eve in which Eve’s waist is small, her hips wide and her breasts of average size, while Adam’s body is sculptural, like a woman’s, one might even say androgynous. In short, clear differences in the representation of nude bodies were easily perceptible. I would like to close by presenting an outstanding artist whose work surprised me from the first moment. She represents an exception in many senses; she does not belong to any of the old or well-known families of artisans. Candi Leticia Domínguez was born in 1987 in Izúcar to a peasant father and a mother who used to sell fruit; she is single. She began to work with clay in 2001, and remarks, “The decoration of each and every piece reflects the feelings that we have in that precise moment.”30 She molds elephants, jaguars,

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and of course, trees of life. Her workshop started in 2013 and is called “Dulce arte” (Candy Art), which is how she signs the pieces. It is made up of three young women (Candi and her sisters), as well as two or three adolescents that are learning and helping, all family. They do not pay rent since her parents own the house. Candi worked for about ten years with an artisan, Tomás Hernández, and was paid a weekly wage. In his workshop, her sister would make the figures, and Candi would paint them, but the artisan signed them. Then, she quit working with clay. Her family and friends, however, saw that she was very talented, and told her to go back being an artisan. The three sisters prepare the clay that they buy, but only one makes the figures and the other two paint them. There is a very clear division of labor among the three artisans. Candi makes the designs and paints; she is an exceptional painter. They use a wood-burning oven because they have not been able to afford one that uses gas. The wood oven is more difficult to work with because the heat is not even; hence they have less control over it. Also, because the floor is not flat, the pieces break more easily. Candi definitely believes that there is a difference between the work of men and women; there is a specific sensibility. The colors men use are darker,

Figure 1.9.  Candi Leticia Domínguez, candelabra for three candles, Izúcar de Matamoros, 2017. Photo: Manuel Ortiz Escámez.



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more bluish, and opaque. Women pay more attention to detail and, additionally, they are more careful with the pieces, while men are clumsier. Candi says that she does not copy anything, that she invents every design. But they also make the figures the buyers desire, even using the colors they want. This relatively new project developed by young women is very encouraging for the artisans of Izúcar. They produce a first-class art, and it also represents the promise of continuity for folk art in the town. In general, the figures from Izúcar could be characterized by great audacity in their color combinations. It seems as though anything goes. The pieces generally contain anthropomorphic figures, mythical or religious, such as angels, saints, virgins, Death, Fridas, or even sirens that are half anthropomorphic, half zoomorphic; the decorations are primarily vegetable or animal, and they are frequently made using molds. It is difficult to know who was the first to make a certain design, since we can see some that have been made by different people, sometimes in the same extended family—but at other times we can’t. It seems pertinent to note that frequently, too much is demanded of folk artists. It is imperative that they produce high-quality objects that are original and almost perfect, if this is possible; that they innovate without losing the tradition; that they know how to plan, commercialize, and market their work; to protectively pack it; that they learn to use computers; smart phones, and that they participate in current contests and competitions. Is too much being asked of them? NOTES  1. Cheryl Buckley, “Ceramics.” Compiled by Fiona Carson and Claire Pajaczkowska. Feminist Visual Culture. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2000, p. 183.   2.  The full name of Izúcar is “Izúcar de Matamoros.”   3.  Azúcar, in English, is sugar (TN).   4.  Message from Manuel Sánchez Cruz (†) to Geovanni Mercado, November 8, 2009.   5.  Manuel Sánchez Cruz, Izúcar en su historia, Izúcar. Author’s edition, 2004, p. 305.  6. Margrit Eichler, Nonsexist Research Methods: A Practical Guide. London: Routledge, 1991, pp. 8, 114–118.   7.  Manuel Sánchez Cruz, Izúcar de Matamoros y sus barrios prehispánicos, n.p. Author’s edition, n-d, pp. 9, 35–39.   8.  Manuel Sánchez Cruz, Izúcar en su historia, p. 306.  9. http://ciudadanosenred.org.mx/metroaldia.php?cont=1&info=6868 (Consulted January 22, 2009).

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10.  Lenore Hoag Mulryan, Ceramic Trees of Life: Popular Art from Mexico, Ceramic Trees of Life: Popular Art from Mexico. Los Angeles: Fowler Museum, 2003. 11. Elizabeth Snoddy Cuéllar and Luis Fernando Rodríguez Lazcano, “Where It All Began: The ‘Tree of Life’ of Izucar de Matamoros, Puebla,” in Lenore Hoag Mulryan, Ceramic Trees of Life: Popular Art from Mexico. Los Angeles: Fowler Museum, 2003, pp. 50–79. 12.  Louana Lackey, The Pottery of Acatlan: A Changing Mexican Tradition. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1982. 13.  Interview with Virginia Morgan and her two children, Gregorio and Geovanni Mercado Morgan, in their workshop. Barrio de San Martín Huaquechula, Izúcar de Matamoros, July 8, 2009. 14.  Manuel Sánchez Cruz, Izúcar en su historia . . . 15.  Ernesto Eduardo Figueroa, “Árboles de la vida. El árbol de Alfonso Castillo Orta,” in Juan F. Macouzet, Ernesto Eduardo Figueroa and Magdiel Pérez, El arte de la familia Castillo. Ecos desde un vientre de barro. San Miguel de Allende: Indigo, 2005, p. 24. 16.  Interview with Geovanni Mercado, August 4, 2009. See photographs at: http:// picasaweb.google.com/geovanni.morgan. 17. Idem. 18.  Interview with Geovanni Mercado, August 5, 2009. 19.  Interview with Geovanni Mercado, September 29 and 30, 2009. 20.  Interview with Geovanni Mercado, December 18, 2009. 21.  Interview with Virginia Morgan, March 17, 2010. 22.  Interview with Isabel Castillo Orta in her house in the Barrio de San Martín Huaquechula, Izúcar de Matamoros, July 8, 2009. 23.  In the interview, Castillo uses the colloquial phrase “con un ojo al gato y el otro al garabato” which literally translates to “with one eye on the cat and the other on the doodle” (TN). 24.  Nineteen pesos to a dollar. 25.  Juan F. Macouzet, El arte de la familia Castillo. Ecos desde un vientre de barro, p. 11. 26. Martha Hernández, the widow of Don Alfonso Castillo, obtained second place. These prizes are given by the Secretary for Social Development (Sedesol), the National Fund for Handicrafts Development (FONART), and as the government has limited resources even for these meager prizes, the Fondo Cultural Banamex A. C., and the Fundación Pedro y Helena Hernández A. C. and the Fundación Alfredo Harp Helú also contribute. 27.  Interview with María Luisa Balbuena in her workshop, Barrio de Santa Catarina, Izúar de Matamoros, July 11, 2009. 28.  Interview from March 17, 2010. 29.  The phrase in Spanish reads “cuando venían las vacas flacas,” which literally translates to “when the skinny cows came” plays with the fact that when money was tight, they made dairy products to sell (TN). 30.  Interview with Candi, August 3, 2017, in Atlixco, Puebla.

Chapter Two

Art Weavers Maori Women of Aotearoa (New Zealand)

In a far away country (far away from where? you’ll rightfully ask) there was once a group of uninhabited islands.1 Between the fifth and fourteenth centuries, migrants from various Polynesian islands arrived in the land that the Dutch would later call New Zealand. Even today, one of the most fascinating aspects of this country is the strong presence of the Maori culture.2 According to tradition, the Maori people came from a mythical place called Hawaiki—something akin to the Chicanos’ mythical land of Aztlán. They came in successive migrations, in seven large canoes, from which the seven great foundational tribes arose. The first European explorers, such as Abel Tasman (a Dutch man who reached the “land of the great white cloud” in 1642) and Captain James Cook (who landed in 1769 and returned several times), refer to encounters with the Maori in their writing—similar to chroniclers who detailed what they found in pre-Hispanic Mexico; both explorers describe the Maori as “fierce and proud warriors.” In New Zealand, unlike in Australia with their Aborigines, the Maoris have not been reduced to a few “examples” that are largely excluded from modern life and relegated to the worst lands in the nation (though, without a doubt, most of their land, and the best of it, has been usurped). Rather, the Maori presence is everywhere—in cities, in government, in politics—there is even a Maori party. In the media, there is a Maori television channel that uses both Maori and English, both official languages in Aotearoa, or New Zealand. In fact, there has been a great resurgence of the Maori language, which is now beginning to flourish again after centuries of domination. The Maori culture, or maoritanga, is incredibly powerful, even though it represents only a small percentage of the country’s population. Nonetheless, over time, they have had to migrate to the cities to integrate—generally doing so from a disadvantaged position within the labor market, and leaving their tribes and homelands behind. 43

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The strong presence of the Maori people in New Zealand society is not the result of a benevolent gesture from the dominant groups, but rather the result of perpetual struggle; the Maori have fought hard for the place they deserve within their territory. After British intervention, New Zealand first became a colony with the signing of the Treaty of Waitangi in 1840. Even today, this treaty continues to be disputed, and it remains a root of division. Before delving into the terrain of Maori women and their art—the main subject of this chapter—allow me to make a brief aside. It is perhaps important to note that with respect to women’s presence in the public sphere, New Zealand is a rather peculiar country. Women were given the vote in 1890—making New Zealand the first country in the world to do so. In 1947, when women in Mexico were still not allowed to vote, New Zealand had a female secretary of state, Mabel Howard, who was a member of Parliament from 1943 to 1969. Later, Helen Clark of the Labour Party3 served as prime minister from 1999 to 2008. In 1949, Iriaka Matiu Ratana became the first Maori woman to represent her people in Parliament. This does not mean that equality existed or exists between pākehā4 and Maori women. Discrimination against the Maoris is strong—as is discrimination by men against women of all colors. Maori art interested me long before I arrived in the South Pacific. Specifically, I wanted to know what type of art or tasks women dedicated themselves to—what artistic objects did they make? When I arrived, luck was on my side, as I was rather quickly able to gain access to the works of this culture and to learn something about what they have, and what they create. As a result, I have been afforded the opportunity to transmit all this to others. In the beginning, I had imagined that the Maori people would live in communities much like the Indian villages or black villages in Mexico, and that I would therefore have to go searching for these rural communities over the length and breadth of the island. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Such communities—that is, villages that are predominantly Maori—do exist, of course. For instance, in the heart of the North Island, in Rotorua and its surrounding area, lies a tiny village adjacent to Rotorua called Ohinemutu (which means “the place of the young man they killed”), and in this village there is a handicrafts workshop. Historically women did not carve wood at all (woodcarving being one of the principal arts of the Maoris), however in the present day, there are women in the workshops of this village. Nonetheless, they are still prohibited from carving the wood for the marae.5 Maori performances are held in various cities throughout the country, in places like history museums, for example. Such performances could be considered folkloric. They consist of dances (haka) and songs in Maori, but they seem to be saying, “Come, come see how exotic, how different, how savage,6 and how amusing our indigenous people are.” They proudly teach aspects of



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their culture: judging from the Maori television channel, which seemed to constantly broadcast these folk performances, they appeared to enjoy performing these traditional songs and dances. They also frequently run programs on how to teach them to children. And, of course, among the groups that put on these performances, there are many of great quality and professionalism. To me, the situation seemed to present somewhat of a paradox: if they did not draw this type of attention to themselves, then they would be ignored; and yet, when they are spoken about—when they demonstrate their culture like this, it is as though they are being presented like monkeys in the zoo. Maori men and women and their culture are everywhere, though in some places more prominently than in others. In short, it was not necessary to travel to rural communities far from cities to encounter them. I learned immediately when I first went to a workshop that it was impossible to use the concept of folk art to describe Maori artistic creations. Men and women alike rejected this concept, and as a result, the term does not appear in almost any of the texts that refer to their art, especially if a Maori has written it.7 As such, I will not be using it either. In their book, authors Blumhardt and Brake discuss artwork by artisans, asserting an opposition to arbitrary divisions between art forms. They suggest that the rigid separation between art and folk art is troublesome, as it neglects to attribute value to folk pieces even when they demonstrate strong mastery of the craft. They stress that in Japanese, there is only one word to describe all of those activities that have so arbitrarily been divided into fine and applied arts in other languages and cultures.8 In reality, though, I would point out that there is actually more than one word in Japanese to distinguish clearly between these activities: the fine arts are called bijutsu, and they call folk art either kougei or mingei. It would be lovely if what the authors said were true, but sadly, it is not. Indeed, the divisions between the arts are as arbitrary as the divisions between the sexes, as Margaret Mead argued so long ago: her exhaustive research in the South Pacific demonstrated that many of the traits normally attributed to femininity or masculinity, like clothing, mannerisms, and hairstyles, are assigned by society, and are only tenuously linked to biological sex.9 MAORI ART The indigenous appears before the white man via what he lacks and his/her violated rights. It is also crucial that he be presented as the original creator of his own culture, as a means of admiration and esteem. From this point of view, the circulation of his artistic creations could help to promote, on the one hand,

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a concept of indigeneity based not on compassion, but rather on a respect for a different cultural universe, and on the other hand, solidarity with the right to express it.10

Dozens of books have been written on Maori art, and as expected, they are luxurious, illustrated in full color, and expensive. There is one text in particular, by Deidre Brown, which represents the kind of book that is usually published, and that is the opposite of—and contrary to—what I think it is important to publish. That is, Brown’s book highlights a collection of objects that have been photographed one after another. The objects are discussed in full detail, but the people that made them are notable only in their absence. This isn’t a question of unnecessarily or unintentionally gendering the process of creation, which has been done exhaustively, but rather that neither men nor women appear at all. This is a recurring phenomenon; we also have the example of Jim Timings’ book, which mentions “the village carves the bone,” and yet, once again, the people are absent. Who makes up “the village”? Richard Wolfe’s book is also worth mentioning because he uses the term “folk art,” which the Maori people do not use. Further, he does not record the names of the Maori artists, nor the dates. He refers to the art as vernacular— low, non-academic, and of a working class with no education. In short, it is a text that comes little recommended, and even less so if one actually wants to learn about the work of Maori artists. On the other hand, there are books I would highly recommend, like the one by Elizabeth Eastmond and Merimeri Penfold, Women & the Arts in New Zealand: Forty Works 1936–1986. Unfortunately, the text is dated and only discusses art up to the year of its publication, which is now some time ago. Nonetheless, it represents a feminist vision of art, and further, it considers all forms of artistic expression—painting, sculpture, and engraving, along with the Maori arts of cloaks (kākahu), carpets, and skirts—without differentiating between folk and elite art forms. Another text of interest is Terence Barrow’s (1978), even though it is also dated; it focuses on male wood carvers. As I said, without a doubt, this was and still is the art form considered most important among the Maoris. A book by Taylor (1988) similarly only focuses on carvers of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The Arts in Aotearoa New Zealand (1994), by the Beatson couple, is interesting because Maori women appear. In New Zealand Women Artists: A Survey of 150 Years (1986), Anne Kirker includes women painters or sculptors, but not the traditional Maori arts, although certainly some of the women she mentions are Maori. Phelps, in Art and Artifacts of the Pacific, Africa and the Americas: The James Cooper Collection (1975), does not mention the fiber baskets that the women make; however he does describe the process through which the harakeke fibers, which are also used to make kākahu cloaks, are



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prepared. In Whaowhia: Maori Arts and its Artists (1977), Archey does not mention women at all. Maori arts principally fall in the categories of music, literature, performing arts, wood and bone carving, visual arts, tattooing, and fiber weaving. Particularly distinguished for their singularity and the perfection they achieve are the arts of carving and tattooing, activities performed by men.11 Women have always dedicated themselves to the weaving of fibers; in the present, though, the rigid gender boundaries between these activities are being erased, and more and more men are learning to weave. Terence Barrow states that “all Maori objects were made to fulfill a practical or symbolic function”; perhaps it is still true. 12 If, as has been discussed, in the field of modern Western art, form and function are irreconcilable adversaries, in indigenous art they are allies: aesthetic work does not culminate in the pure revelation of beauty, but rather seeks, through this discovery, to help things, which are beautiful, to function.13 Today, though, many of the objects the Maoris make are for tourism—for consumers that use them, primarily, for decoration. People do still use the baskets (kete), though not for keeping food, but rather as handbags. The cloaks, skirts, and mats (whãriki) are also used, along with the carvings. THE KETE WHAKAIRO WOMEN WEAVERS14 Gendering the contemporary indigenous debates occurs within the indigenous communities, and although they are argued in other contexts, like in the debates of Western feminism, indigenous women undertake an analysis of colonialism as the central starting point of an indigenous feminism.15 As soon as I arrived in Auckland, my goal was to find Maori women, and to learn their arts. I discovered that they would weave flax fiber to make bags, baskets, flowers and wall decorations, as well as cloaks (the best also have kiwi feathers) and a variety of objects like mats. The baskets interested me primarily because they are similar to Mexican folk art that has no practical function. That is, they have no function in the sense that, for the most part, they have lost their original function of keeping or transporting objects, and serve now more than anything as beautiful objects with significant cultural meaning to be admired and hung on the wall, or sometimes used as handbags. Regardless, they are highly valued by Maori men and women.16 A well-known specialist and author of numerous texts on the Maori techniques of creating objects from fibers writes, “Special care is taken with the kete whakairo due to the knowledge and skill required to make them, and for

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their relationship with the artist, parent or loved one who made it; and perhaps as a sign of pride in cultural identity.”17 Judy Te Hiwi is a raranga18 weaver who was born in Kapiti Coast but who now lives in Birkenhead on the North Shore of Auckland. Birkenhead is a residential lower-middle class neighborhood surrounded by tree-lined hills. Judy belongs to a Maori tribe (iwi), the Ngāti Hako, though she does not speak the Maori language. She is sixty years old, and started weaving in 1982, when her mother-in-law taught her. She is separated and has one biological son, five adopted children, and a granddaughter. She works teaching fiber weaving in three prisons, two for men and one for women. Judy carries out the entire weaving process with traditional techniques, from collecting the flax, or New Zealand hemp fibers, to extracting the fibers, to collecting and making the natural dyes (even though synthetic dyes are also commonly used now), and to weaving the material for the kete or the cloaks. There are more than two hundred varieties of flax, but the most frequently used for weaving are the species called harakeke, kiekie, and pingao; the first of these is the preferred type, as it is the strongest and most abundant. For Judy, the most difficult pieces to make are the cloaks with coral feathers used by men in ceremonies. Indeed, these have always been the most

Figure 2.1.  Kete, 2008. Photo: Manuel Ortiz Escámez.



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prestigious objects to weave, and she only does them by request. It can take between one and three months to weave one, compared to the day or so that it generally takes to weave a basket if the fibers are already prepared. A few yards from her house there is a park that used to be an empty lot. It is two and a half hectares and filled with all kinds of plants. In particular, the flax used for weaving is grown there alongside the trees and plants from which dyes and fixers are derived; the flax is a plant native to the land. Judy had asked the municipal government to give this land to the community, precisely so that she and the prisoners she taught could extract the materials that they had planted there. This is thus the larger project of the park: for the prisoners to learn the entire process of weaving with flax fibers. In parallel, the park also serves as a space for cultural and recreational activities. Dressed simply in pants and a T-shirt, Judy explains to me in detail the whole process of preparing the fibers. Women who are menstruating, according to tradition, are not allowed to cut the leaves as these will dry out: “The toxins that leave their bodies travel to the plant and then the plant dies,” she said. Judy still strictly adheres to these beliefs. In the past, she said, women who were menstruating stayed together and were not allowed to do anything, not even weave. This is why the best weavers, according to her, were elderly women who no longer menstruated—those who had already gone through menopause.19 Originally, the baskets served primarily to carry and store food, and to properly separate the items from each other for storage. Each item would have its own basket, and thus there were as many as seventy different baskets, each with its own name.20 Today, though, the baskets are primarily “luxury” objects, given that they are fairly expensive. Judy works in various parts of her house, which she owns, and where she has lived for more than fifteen years. It is a space full of children’s and young people’s things. The dirtiest part of the work is undertaken in the garage: extracting and softening the fibers by hitting them with a flat stone called patu muka, and dyeing them. For the weaving, however, she sits in the living room at night, with the television on for company. She is an extremely intelligent woman, communicative, with boundless energy, and highly generous with her time and her work. At the entrance to the house there was a sign that read: ESKADALE PAA HARAKERE • Varieties of harakere (NZ flax) • Pingao (golden sand sedge) • Plants for natural dyes A joint venture between North Shore City & Nga Toio Trust (Arts of the Earth).21

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This sign demonstrates the importance that raw plant material has for the arts. As is evident from the fact that Judy does not advertise her own work as a weaver on the sign; she prioritizes the care and the extraction of the harakere over her own work. Her tools are relatively simple: a piece of obsidian that she extracted from a larger stone, a mussel shell, and a “camelia” stone—all of which are stored in a broken Tupperware container. The process is as follows: she cuts the mature leaves of the flax with a knife or a mussel shell; she removes the fibers using the shell; she washes them and soaks them, boils them, and then leaves them to dry for three months. Afterward, she beats them with the larger flat stone, and finally she twists them with her hands or against her leg to remove the threads. Her favorite dyes, and the ones she uses most often, are those that Pendergrast considers to be the traditional colors: red, black, brown, and yellow, along with the natural color of the fiber itself. She creates her own designs using traditional patterns as often as new ones. In other words, she makes the traditional geometric designs with traditional colors, as well as her own combinations with other modern colors, like purple or green—though she always uses geometric patterns. Eric Schwimmer wrote, “One may ask why these cloaks, often with extraordinary stitching and aristocratic beauty, were never decorated with the well-known curved designs of the Maori. The reason must be that the curved design was associated with a special and sacred symbolic significance, and therefore it lay outside the domain of women.”22 This fact contrasts with an idea that Judy Chicago—as well as Lucy Lippard—expressed some time ago: that women in the visual arts demonstrate a clear tendency toward curved lines and rounded forms. Judy only makes objects for orders. She finds it difficult to put a price on her work for other people, unlike other weavers who know immediately how much they want to charge for a bag. Even when she was selling some items that an elderly man had given her, it was difficult for her to put a price on them. In the end she waivered, and she ended up selling the items too cheaply because she did not want to have to put a price on them. She has participated in four exhibitions in twenty years, which is relatively few. She also participated in the creation of woven panels (tukutuku) decorated with cross-stitching for the walls of several marae. These panels were collectively made, with eight women working together for three weeks. They slept in the marae and completed the weaving over the course of many exhausting days. The women would arrive onsite find the material ready for them; on these occasions they did not prepare it themselves. Additionally, all of their cooking and cleaning was done for them so that they could dedicate themselves fully to weaving. “But that was the end of an era,” Judy com-



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ments; “It is not like that anymore.” The designs on the panels are generally geometric, with diamonds, ladders, and both horizontal and vertical lines. Her grandmother had been a weaver, and Judy thinks that the tradition of weaving is being lost. She believes that what she does is art; it is also artisanal, of course—but it is art. In her home there are various baskets that were made on the islands of Polynesia, which she calls simply “the islands,” and she comments that they are much better weavers there. The work is similar, but for her it was superior. And, at times, they use a fiber that can only be cut in summer. Their weavings are of two types. First, there are ones that have a practical function, but also an aesthetic one. This can be seen in the bags, baskets, cloaks, panels, mats (whãriki), and hats. Then there are objects that are purely ornamental, such as flowers and wall decorations. In fact, these objects ride the line between traditional art and more modern art that can be found exhibited in galleries. I visited Shona Tawhiao’s home and workshop in a rather rushed manner, as I was only given an hour to interview her. She is a timid young woman, thirty years old, and a successful fiber designer and weaver. She lives in the Avondale neighborhood in West Auckland, in a modest house with her husband, who worked in animation, and their three daughters. Adorning the living room wall was a stunning rectangular tapestry (papakirango) of red and black flax. Tawhiao had started weaving about fifteen years earlier with her mother and grandmothers. She studied formally in a school, the Unitec,23 for two years and learned the traditional method of weaving. Now, though, she makes all types of weavings—some traditional, including some of the designs she learned from her grandmother, and others that were more modern. In contrast to Judy, she uses commercial dyes; however, she completes the rest of the process, from the extraction of the fiber to selling the pieces, herself. She belongs to a cooperative run by two women, Mirima Evans and Ranui Ngarimu, called “The Art of Maori Weaving.” Her work as an artist is governed by that belief that “we have to look to the past before we can move forward.” As far as she is concerned, what she does is art, but she says that other people consider it handicraft. Today she has her own web page https:// www.worldofwearableart.com/2016/12/shona-tawhiao-modern-fashion -from-traditional-maori-weaving-techniques/ (Accessed June 10, 2018). In her designs, Shona represents a perfect example of tradition and modernity combined. She weaves modern bodices and hats (with an industrial cloth ribbon that features Maori designs), dresses, bags, and cloaks, and she sells her products in exclusive clothing boutiques and shops. In fact, she is not the only woman who makes these kinds of products; I noticed that there was another artist, named Donna Campbell, who also makes articles of clothing, such as skirts, dresses, and bodices, from flax fibers. She also combines

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the traditional with the modern, and sometimes even with the digital, in an interesting manner. Shona also makes baskets with traditional designs that sell very well, and she sometimes makes pieces for hotels. She made table runners for the Westin Hotel in Auckland; she also did the panels for the walls of a marae, as well as some lampshades. She makes few items without dyes—that is, with natural fiber—and she uses commercial dyes almost exclusively. In 2008, Shona exhibited her work in a gallery, but she isn’t able to do this frequently. She works primarily from orders made by telephone. Her prices range from 300 dollars for a blouse (one of her bodices sells on the Internet for 700 dollars), 60 dollars for a hat, and 70 for a bag.24 “It’s good to be around other weavers as it makes it easier to learn things that would otherwise be quite difficult,” she says. She does not like doing public demonstrations, as she says it makes her “feel like an animal in a cage.” She insists and repeats, “Everything I do is from the past.” She speaks little Maori. As Erenora Puketapu-Hetet has said, “The Maori have a different concept of time, which means that we cannot be separated from our ancestors or from the generations yet to come. Our past is our future and it is also our present, like an eternal circle.”25 She also stated that, “It was the laughter of a group of women working together that first made me start weaving” (Puketapu-Hetet).26 During the inauguration of an exhibit on Maori art, I met Margaret Rose Ngawaka. She is quite a character, with a force and a way of acting, gesticulating, and speaking that could easily be mistaken for Mexican. She is extremely extroverted, very happy, strong, chatty, and almost exuberant. She was born in Wairoa, and has been married for over thirty years to a fisherman with whom she has two sons and five daughters. She self-identifies primarily as Maori, belonging to the iwi NgatiPorou/Rongomaiwahine, and only secondly as a New Zealander. She uses her husband’s last name. She lives on a small island called Rangiahua off the coast of Great Barrier Island, which belongs to her and her family, and where they have a seafood (crab, shrimp, and mussel) business. They are self-sufficient in that they have their own electricity generator and well. They are Mormons, and her husband is even a minister, though she is not a fundamentalist and ignores some of the stricter practices. She also speaks little Maori, but is trying to learn, and her speech is laced with many Maori words—as was the case with everyone I met. Margaret Rose completes the entire process from cutting the flax leaves up to the final weaving. Although she is an excellent weaver, she claims that she is still learning. She extracts the fibers, softens them, then boils them and dyes them—or sometimes she does not boil them. She uses both natural and industrial dyes. She then puts them to dry in the least humid place possible—



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this is easier in summer—for approximately four weeks. Her designs are, in general, what she terms Maori-modern. Indeed, her career has taken off rapidly, as she only began weaving some eleven years before we met, and yet her work is exhibited widely. She says she must carry it in her blood; she had found out that her great-grandmother was a weaver—although it was her aunt, who had learned from her grandmother, who taught her. She uses traditional techniques and weaves traditional objects like baskets or skirts (piu piu), along with purely decorative modern items. Recuperating innovative weaving traditions is important because, in a small way, it challenges dominant ideological systems that consign “authentic” Māori culture, a vital force in all aspects of our lives, to a golden but forever-lost past. Another, perhaps more valuable, reason for centralizing these currently marginalized hybrid taonga is to honor the tīpuna27 who made them.28

Margaret Rose’s work is hybrid in form: it represents a renovation of traditional weaving. She finds herself in a process of creative innovation that, in a truly postcolonial future of Maori culture, might represent what Te Manakura calls “innovative and hybrid tradition.” In 2008, she exhibited her work in Auckland as well as in New Mexico. In April 2008, she participated in a collective exhibition of Maori art, “Te Hei Mauri Ora,” in Auckland’s cultural center “Art Station.” The exhibit included painting, sculpture, and fiber textiles. She exhibited a cloak (korowai), a traditional skirt (piu piu), and paintings. Thus far she had only participated in Maori art exhibitions, but she was interested in exhibiting her work in mixed exhibits. Margaret Rose owns a little gift and souvenir shop in Port Fitzroy, Great Barrier Island, which sells objects designed and made by her, including woven baskets. Additionally, she has been writing stories since she was a child, and she had even written a novel; she says that while she was raising her children, this was all she could do. However, she did also teach fabric dyeing and silkscreen printing in schools for many of the years when she was raising her family. She belongs to an association called “Toi Iho Maori Made,” which in its information pamphlet defines itself as “a registered trademark of authenticity and quality for Māori arts and crafts.” The association has approximately three hundred members, almost all women, and they meet once a year. The members take their work to these meetings and share and exchange ideas. The association also publishes a quarterly journal, and their office positions rotate between members every two years. “You have to feel comfortable with what you are,” Margaret Rose declares. For her, the difference between a basket and something that can be exhibited

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in a gallery comes down to price. She sells baskets in her region, but if she sells the same ones elsewhere, they are more expensive; this is how she sums up the difference between “folk” arts and fine arts. That said, she feels that she is an artist. She believes that the few men who now practice weaving are perhaps somewhat feminine—but she couldn’t say whether there is a difference in the way they weave. In accordance with the Maori customs, the first basket woven in your life should be given as a gift or buried. This is how I received a basket from Judy and another from Margaret Rose. I felt truly honored. Margaret Rose published a book in 2013, Kete Whakairo: Plaiting Flax for Beginners. A UNIVERSITY WORKSHOP In traditional Maori society, only the women in the family (mother, grandmother, aunt) learn to weave. Nevertheless, since approximately the 1980s, there have been schools and workshops where one can learn traditional weaving. One of these workshops is at the University of Auckland, where they teach diverse traditional techniques for making textiles and ceramics, including

Figure 2.2.  First kete made by Margaret Rose Ngawaka. Photo: Manuel Ortiz Escámez.



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many Maori techniques. The coordinator of these workshops is Danite Bonica, who is Maori, and a woman named Alicia teaches traditional weaving. Despite focusing on traditional technique, the workshop welcomes innovation; one student wove a traditional cloak, for instance, but used synthetic material. They also make bedrolls (whāriki) in the workshop, which are used in Maori culture as shrouds for the dead. These mats are of a particular design, and are generally not made with dyes, so the fibers retain their natural color. Similar mats are also used for sleeping, though the designs are different in this case. One author notes that today, the mats are placed beneath the coffins of important people, as well as below the mattress.29 Similarly, in Mexico, bedrolls or mats (petates) are also used both as shrouds and for sleeping. The University of Auckland’s workshop functions primarily during the temperate months, and it attracts students from around the world, including Mexico. DISTRIBUTION: THE OTARA FLEA MARKET The price assigned to the women’s woven products depends on whether they are destined for a gallery, a boutique, or the market. Occasionally, a single object is created to be sold either in a market or to a gallery, and thus the price varies significantly depending upon where it ends up, as Margaret Rose has mentioned. However, it is more common for products to be distributed and consumed in different places, depending on the quality of the work. There is usually direct distribution from the weaver to the people acquiring the items. The Otara Market in Auckland takes its name from the neighborhood where it is located. It is considered an “ethnic” market (and they say it is also quite dangerous) because the people who frequent it are primarily from the islands of the South Pacific, and also there are stalls with Maori objects. Among these, one finds the basket-sellers; Aroha Savage could be found tending one of the stalls. While Aroha does not speak Maori, she knows that her name, Aroha, means love. She has been weaving bags and other objects, like flowers, for over twenty years. At her stall she sells her own work along with the work of a friend. It is interesting to note that the business cards she has on display read, “Traditional and Contemporary Art Creations,” and also “Maori Weaving. Fine Art.” In this market, though, the bags and baskets are not as high quality as those found in luxury boutiques or even in the airport; nonetheless, there are some stalls that offered high quality objects. A wide variety of Maori objects—like carved wood or bone—can be found in the many tourist shops all over the country. Although, notably, woven baskets are generally not found there. This is likely because they are too expensive, and thus do not make good souvenirs.

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TRADITION AND INNOVATION, AUTHENTICITY AND QUALITY Kane Te Manakura’s conference paper, mentioned above, references the seldom-discussed relationship between traditional art and innovation, which, he contends, results in the creation of hybrid objects. The author seems reluctant to use the term “hybrid art,” claiming it is overused; nevertheless, for lack of a better expression, he ends up using it. I have usually opted for syncretism when discussing the combination between fine and folk art. In this case, though, that term would not be useful since the author is referring to a combination of forms and materials taken from the Maori tradition on the one hand and from various European societies on the other. I fully agree with the author’s statement that: “The taki (challenge) is to centralize a tradition of innovation and (sometimes wild) experimentation that is often marginalized in cultural memory, and to go beyond the ‘savage paradigm.’ Recuperation of indigenous traditions of innovation is essential to confidently navigate toward the future and to honor our tīpuna.”30 Thus while a combination of tradition and innovation—which produces hybrid art objects—may not seem to fit the parameters of “authenticity” that are often paradigmatically proscribed, such hybridity should be considered authentic. Existing paradigms usually mandate that objects should be merely traditional, inherent to a culture, and without external contamination. However, as Kane Te Manakura implies, innovation—and thus hybridity—is, and always has been, inherent to indigenous art. Certainly, the women’s flax-fiber weavings represent a continuing Maori tradition—they are created by following ancestral techniques, and with designs from Maori culture—but more accurately, they represent a recovery of tradition that has intrinsically integrated modernity. The creation of woven objects had dropped significantly in earlier decades, but recently, there has been renaissance in everything related to Maori culture. This, in turn, has led to the reevaluation of the art, and the baskets are particularly highly valued. They are extremely popular among both the Maori and the general public. Indeed, they epitomize the assimilation of tradition and modernity: both the baskets of yesteryear and the contemporary backpacks or purses (as the baskets are used today) are woven using the same autochthonous materials and using the same traditional techniques. They represent a clear example of hybrid art. Margaret Rose’s work often appears as though it is distancing itself from the “authentically Maori,” or more aptly, from Maori tradition, so that it can be considered as contemporary fine art even while coming from a Maori artist. These issues of tradition and modernity intersect very often in the production of folk art. In the field of basketry, this is true of the baskets produced by the



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Wounaan and Emberá indigenous groups of Panama, where traditional forms merge with modern designs. Basket-making there has ceased to be purely utilitarian, and has instead moved into a field of folk art directed toward tourism and collecting. Of this basketry, Margo Callaghan notes, “Many collectors consider the hösig di to be the best contemporary baskets in the world.”31 We also observe similar phenomena in the polychromatic clay objects of Izúcar de Matamoros, México, in the lacquers of Japan, in the Hagoita, and even in the Abayomí dolls of Brazil, although these are a newer creation. While their roots and origins anchor all of these art objects in the past—in the traditions of their community—they have been transformed over time: they are firmly imbedded in the modern, even while maintaining the traditional. Returning to Maori art practice, Raranga is a symbol that evokes ancestral tribal memories; it is also the symbol of the survival of Maori culture, and as such it conjures feelings of unity and fraternity or sorority: “In order to truly understand the spirit of weaving, the tauira32 needs to work with a weaver who understands these principles and is ready to share their knowledge.”33 The woven bags are predominantly rectangular in shape. The designs are always geometric, and can be found either with uniform weaving or with a variety of fibers that give diverse color tones. It is through a combination of fibers dyed with different colors that various designs are made: crosses, stars, diamonds, squares, and ladders. The bags of natural colors perhaps dominate. In these, the design appears more subtly since the fibers are of the same natural color, unless the artist uses natural fibers of different tones for different braids. Some bags maintain a flat weave that is entirely smooth, while others feature a raised design. The handles may be long, though traditionally they are short; this varies depending on what is fashionable at the moment. The oldest examples, those that can be seen in museums, generally have short handles, while those made today tend to have longer handles so that they can be hung from the shoulder. From my perspective, it is not possible to undertake an analysis of the iconographic representation of men and women in the designs, simply because the designs themselves do not afford such a discussion. The sizes of the bags also vary considerably; some are very small, only a few inches, while others are quite large, up to two feet. In terms of the colors, as I mentioned above, traditional Maori red and black tend to be privileged. Nonetheless, today one can also find purples, greens, ochres, browns, and blues. Artists still tend to use natural colors, using vegetable dyes extracted from tree bark or plants, but today, industrial dyes are also popular. Sometimes decorative items are fastened to the bags, such as shells, feathers, flowers, or tassels. The edges of the bags are usually smooth, though they are sometimes pointed or jagged, with the peaks upward facing or sometimes downward facing. All these bags have a particular stamp of identity; they

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could not be made anywhere else. At the same time, though, a basket is a basket and looks very much like any other, even if it was made on the opposite side of the world. But these baskets are not like that. While some baskets might look more alike than others, and some of them could even be confused with others from a different geographic region, in the case of the Maoris, I do not think this is possible: the baskets are unique in their elaboration. In fact, it appears that each basket has its own history; this becomes immediately evident when speaking with the weavers. They discuss when and how they made each basket, and they discuss the basket itself—whether or not it is well made, whether or not they like it. They narrate a story that is intrinsic to each basket, both those they have made and those made by others. When it is not one of their own baskets, they discuss who made it, and when, where and how it was acquired. The stories behind each basket become an integral part of them. It is likely that, in some sense, this has to do with the market. Or as Davis says (in reference to other authors) of the objects that people collect and fetishize, a souvenir “does not function without an additional narrative that ties the object to its origins and creates a myth surrounding those origins.”34 The main difference between a simple kete, which is used only for storage, and a kete whakairo is that the latter is very colorful and is intended for special occasions, as well as to cover and adorn walls. They think of the kete as a vessel of wisdom or knowledge, so a kete as a gift represents much more than just a bag. Kete whakairo holds information and history about the area where they were made. The different patterns, which can be symbols, may represent aspects of the tribe, the food, the weather, the area where the weaver lives, whether that be, for instance, by the sea, a bush, a river, or a mountain.  For the Maori people, it is important not to view these objects separately from their sociocultural, symbolic, ritual, mythic, and spiritual contexts.35 Objects take on meaning and value when they are inserted within the context of their origin. This does not mean, however, that the market economy and individual economic needs hold no sway over the exchange-value for these diverse creations. To be sure, these objects are created as merchandise to be circulated, and their exchange value is dictated both by their use-value and their symbolic value. I would like to think that in our world, one day we can live according to other parameters, as Margaret Mead hoped: “Whereas now we have one standard of behavior for men and another for women, we will one day have only those that express the interests of individuals endowed with many different qualities. There will exist ethical norms and social symbols, an art and a way of life compatible with each set of qualities.”36



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NOTES  1.  The Flying Conchords (the most famous comic duo in New Zealand) once said about their country: “Don’t expect much, you’ll love it!”   2.  The 2006 census indicates that the Maori people number 565,329 and represent between 14 and 15 percent of the total population.  3. Liberal center-left party; this is one of the principal political parties in the country. The other is the conservative National Party of New Zealand.   4.  Maori word to designate those with predominantly European ancestry.  5. Marae is the principal home of the Maoris. It is both temple and meeting house. This is where they have performances that consist in song and dance with a bellic tone. In general they are wood constructions made of cut carved pillars, as well as walls covered in panels woven of the fibers that the women make.   6.  See the important bibliography by Roger Bartra about savages, in particular a small book about indigenous people in Europe: Historias de salvajes (Mexico: Siglo XXI, 2017).  7. Ngawaka’s book Kete Whakairo: Plaiting Flax for Beginners (Bloomington: Trafford, 2013) is an exception which uses the concept of “folk art” on a couple of occasions.   8.  Doreen Blumhardt and Brian Brake, Craft New Zealand: The Art of the Craftsman (Auckland: Reed, 1981), p. 3.  9. Margaret Mead, Sex and Temperament in Three Primitive Societies (New York: Harper Collins, 2001, first ed. 1935). 10. “El indígena aparece ante los blancos a través de sus carencias y de sus derechos violados; es fundamental que se presente también como el creador original de una cultura propia, como término de admiración y estima. Desde este punto de vista, la difusión de sus objetos de arte podría ayudar a promover, por una parte, una consideración del indígena basada no en la compasión, sino en el respeto a un universo cultural distinto y, por otra parte, la solidaridad con el derecho a expresarlo.” The usage of the general “male” pronoun is exclusionary. Readers should also apply this to women. Ticio Escobar, La belleza de los otros: Arte indígena del Paraguay (Asunción: Centro de Documentación e Investigaciones de Arte Popular e Indígena del Centro de Artes Visuales/Museo del Barro, 1993), p. 313. 11.  See, for example, Damian Skinner, The Carver and the Artist: Maori Art in the Twentieth Century (Auckland: Auckland University Press, 2008). 12.  Terence Barrow, Maori Art of New Zealand (Auckland: Reed-The UNESCO Press, 1978), p. 23. 13.  Ticio Escobar, op. cit, p. 41. 14.  Bag or basket of flax fibers or New Zealand hemp. 15.  Linda Tuhiwai Smith, Decolonizing Methodologies. Research and Indigenous People (London-New York-Dunedin: Zed Books-University of Otago Press, 2005), p. 152. 16.  Ticio Escobar notes that in “between the Ache, both the use of baskets and their production is the terrain of women.” And adds, in accordance with Pierre Clastres,

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another thing that also prevails in Maori culture is “the opposition baskets=female and bows-and-arrows=male as a symbol of the sexual division of labor,” op. cit., p. 48. 17.  Mick Pendergrast, “The Fiber Arts,” in Maori Arts and Culture. Edited by D. C. Starzecka, Janet Davidson, and A. T. Hakiwai (London: British Museum, 1996), p. 123. 18.  This is the Maori word for the techniques of fiber weaving. 19.  Erenora Puketapu-Hetet also speaks of these beliefs about women, their menstruation, and the fiber-weaving process Maori Weaving (Auckland: Longman, 1989), p. 30. 20. Erenora Puketapu-Hetet, op. cit., p. 47. 21.  Types of linen/flax. 22.  Eric Schwimmer, The World of the Maori (Auckland: Reed Education, 1977), p. 92. 23.  Unitec Institute of Technology. 24.  These prices are in New Zealand dollars. 25.  Erenora Puketapu-Hetet, op. cit., p. 5. 26.  Well-known weaver and promoter of Maori culture (1941–2006). 27. Taonga: treasure, something highly valued. Tāpuna: ancestors. 28.  Kane Te Manakura, “From the Margins of Te Whare Pora: Embracing Traditions of Innovation in Māori Textile Legacies.” In Proceedings of the Maturanga Taketake: Traditional Knowledge Conference 2006, p. 140. Edited by J. S. Te Rito (Auckland: Printstop, 2007), http://www.maramatanga.ac.nz/sites/default/files/TKC -2006.pdf. 29.  Don Stafford, Tangata Whenua, The World of the Maori (North Shore-New York: Penguin Group, 2008), p. 53. 30.  Kane Te Manakura, op. cit., p. 133. 31.  Margo M. Callaghan, La cestería de la selva de Darién: Canastas de los indios wounaan y emberá de la selva de Darién de Panamá, 5th ed. (Panama: Artes Visuales, 2017), p. 94. 32.  Student, apprentice. 33.  Erenora Puketapu-Hetet, op. cit., p. 2. 34. Coralynn V. Davis, “Can Developing Women Produce Primitive Art? And Other Questions of Value, Meaning and Identity in the Circulation of Janakpur Art.” http://tou.sagepub.com/cgi/content/abstract/7/2/193. Consulted April 22, 2012. 35.  Suzanne P. MacAulay, “Field Aesthetics.” p. 4. www.sas.upenn.edu/folklore/ center/gatheringplace/macaulay_paper.doc. Consulted April 20, 2012. 36.  Margaret Mead, op. cit., p. 295.

Chapter Three

From the Sober to the Saturated Japanese Shunkei Lacquers and Edo Hagoita Co-authored with Kanae Omura

Both pluriculturalism and the deep wounds of various migrations invariably mark our present century; the collaboration of Kanae and I stems directly from the realities and complexities of this present.1 Unlike the experiences of many, our transculturalism has been voluntary and pleasurable, and not the product of hunger or violence. This study has been carried out by two academics, one Japanese and the other Mexican, and as a result, the insider’s gaze and the outsider’s gaze are closely entwined throughout our research.2 These combined perspectives, we feel, add an interesting and unusual dimension to our work. By and large, a text is able to offer an interpretation either from within or from without, but ours offers both at once. Yet, no one, absolute, “universal” art history exists. It is always possible to reexamine the state of Japanese art and its history from a viewpoint distinct from what has preceded [sic]. It is important that we not be afraid of new ways of thinking or new hypotheses, that we not neglect a constant reexamination and rethinking, and that we always attempt to continue our analysis from a plurality of angles. (Chino Kaori, 2003)

In this chapter we consider the shunkei lacquers, from the town of Hida Takayama in the Gifu Prefecture, and decorated paddles, or Hagoita, from Tokyo. In approaching these art forms, we center our attention on the gender divide and the importance of women throughout the artistic process. We have selected two art objects that are completely different from each other: the shunkei lacquers are authentic works of Japanese folk art that are highly praised—almost venerated. This is true to such an extent that in the nineteenth century, lacquer work began to be called “Japan” in Europe, much like ceramics or porcelain are called “China.”3 The Hagoita, on the other hand, are 61

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not considered “authentic”: one wouldn’t find them included on a list of traditional national handcrafts, and instead, they are highly regarded only locally. However, for our purposes, both are folk art objects that emerged out of the noble classes and have through time become “popularized”—removed from their original class. The Takayama lacquers, of rural origin, are characterized by their simplicity, elegance, delicacy, and sobriety; they are monochromatic and are almost entirely without decoration of any kind. The Hagoita, of urban origin, are the exact opposite: they are highly decorated, overloaded—almost Churrigueresque, complex, full of information, and overwhelmingly multicolored. They absorb elements of popular culture, like Kabuki characters, and transform them into visual popular art. It is curious to note how in different parts of the world, certain objects, songs, or regional representations of folk art and culture are erected as national emblems. The lacquers we discuss are a symbol of the Japanese nation, while the Hagoita are not. Apparently, the lacquers were actually introduced from China, while the Hagoita are Japanese, though some claim that the hanetsuki game, played with rackets, also came from China. Even so, the decorative Hagoita are eminently Japanese. A few words on the state of folk art in Japanese museums are necessary in order to give context to the issue at hand. In the National Museum of Tokyo, all the lacquers on exhibit are signed, and all are signed by men. The matter of signatures is a curious phenomenon to consider in relation to folk art; it often arises when these items are brought into museums—that is, when they are first regarded as “art.”4 In the National Crafts Gallery of Tokyo and the Nippon Mingeikan (the Japanese Folk Art Museum in Tokyo), the latter dedicated almost exclusively to the Mingei Movement, all the objects on display have also been signed, except in the case of the most antique works. In the Edo Shitamachi Crafts Museum of Tokyo, there are fifty photographs of well-known artisans in the city; none of whom are women. As a comparison, in the Museu do Folclore de Rio de Janeiro—at least in the photographs on display—there are fifty-four artisans, seventeen of whom are women. Even while women artists are not represented in Japan’s museums, though, in reality, we can see that women are indeed physically present and creating folk art—even if they do not frequently occupy leading roles. In the Gallery of Arts and Crafts in Kyoto we found three women giving a demonstration of their work: one painting ceramics, another doing lacquer work, and a third weaving baskets and parasols.5 It is impossible to discuss folk art in Japan without referring to the Mingei Movement (Folk Art Movement) that was initiated by Sôetsu Yanagi (1889– 1961) in the first half of the twentieth century, and which largely developed in the late 1920s and 1930s. Yanagi opposed traditional art history because it



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inevitably established a “cult of genius” which, he asserted, was always “the history of heroes and not of the common people.”6 Sôetsu Yanagi7 was also against the modernization of Japan and the fullscale individualism it generated. He promoted instead the art of the people, of the artisans—art that served the general public and ordinary people—a utilitarian art that had nothing to do with pure aesthetics. He believed that folk art was an indispensible part of a full life, and this is why it was so important. It is precisely the practical aspects of folk art, however, that generally result in it being considered inferior. Like many proponents of folk art, such as Mexico’s Dr. Atl (1875–1964), Yanagi maintained a view of folk art that was equally romanticized and unreal; for him, the art of the Japanese people was comprised of simple products rather than works of genius. He believed, in general, that common folk were also the consumers of folk art.8 According to Yanagi, this type of art constituted the “culture of great masses of people”: it is what the masses made for the masses, in contrast to the fine arts, which were made by the few for the enjoyment of the few.9 The folk arts were “things made to be used by regular people in their daily lives.”10 Brandt has noted, though, that “Mingei was successful in the 1930s urban marketplace, but not because Japanese housewives—much less because the masses—appreciated its everyday utility, or even the ‘healthy’ nature of a lifestyle based on folk-craft aesthetic” (Brandt, 2007, p. 122). The similarities between the Mingei Movement and the folk art movement occurring in postrevolutionary Mexico during that same period—the late 1920s and 1930s—are striking. It was in this period that folk art came to be viewed as the authentic art of the Mexican nation; both authenticity and Mexicaness became glorified through folk art. According to Brandt, folk art in Japan was at once “affordable and decorative, because of the authenticity that attached to its association with the rural, native past, and because its appreciation signaled sophisticated tastes. The fact that Mingei was first admired by male cultural elites provided a further reason for its cachet among bourgeois men and women” (Brandt, 2007, p. 123). These claims about Japan’s Mingei Movement could be applied perfectly to the folk art scene in postrevolutionary Mexico. The issue of nationalism was as strong in Japan during those years as it was in Mexico. The way Yanagi classified folk art is quite unusual. He divided it into two categories: folk art and artistic handcrafts. The first included industrial and guild arts, while the second included aristocratic and individual arts.11 Ultimately, the products that interested Yanagi were anonymous, cheap, manufactured, used by the masses, functional in daily life, and representative of the region where they originated. Yanagi maintained that what character-

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izes folk art, aside from its simplicity, is its tradition and not its individuality. As such, he suggested, “there are no examples of folk art that have been signed by their creator.”12 Nevertheless, today, individualism has become a fundamental part of much folk art. As we know, and as we will see, in Japan, tradition and modernity (with its implied individualism) are not always in opposition; rather, they often go hand in hand. You can see this in many examples in this book. Yanagi lucidly affirmed that “now that capitalism has killed off folk art, the only path forward is through the system of trade unions.”13 To our thinking, this is entirely true and can be seen today in the proliferation of associations (some official and others not) and cooperatives that have opened as survival mechanisms within the ferocious world of competition and commercialization. One undeniable result of the Mingei Movement has been a greater effort to create space for folk art within the arts in Japan. This is seen today in the proliferation of folk art galleries and museums, as well as in two laws that were passed after 1950. The first of these was the Act for the Protection of Culture (Bunkazai-Hogoho) of 1950, rectified in 1954, by the Ministry of Education (Sato, 1996). The second was the Act for the Promotion of Traditional Folk Art (Dentouteki Kougeisangyono Shinkounikansuru Horitsu: Densan-Ho) passed in 1974 by the Ministry of Economics and Industry.14 The passage of the Bunkazai-Hogoho law was originally motivated by the fire and destruction of the mural at the historic temple of Horyu-ji in the village of Ikaruga (Sato 1996, 183). The goal of this law is basically to protect and conserve both tangible and intangible national treasures of Japan. The lacquers appear in the intangible category (Living National Treasure) not as objects but rather as a traditional technique (waza) that must be conserved. While Bunkazai-Hogoho was created by a national cultural concern, Densanho, the second law referenced above, was certainly the product of a fastgrowing economy and the rapid disappearance of traditional cultures. In accordance with this law, the Association for the Promotion of Traditional Crafts Industries was created in 1975. It recognized 198 objects as “traditional craft industries” and promoted the Official Recognition of Master Craftsman designation. For an object to be considered by the Ministry of Economics, Trade, and Industry as a traditional craft or artisanal product, and thus eligible for protection under the law, it must meet the following criteria: (1) The object must have a principal use in daily life; (2) The object must essentially be handmade; (3) The object must be produced through traditional techniques that have been used for at least 100 years; (4) The materials used must be those that have traditionally been used; and (5) The industry must be regional in nature.



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In Japan there are 4,592 master craftsmen. Among these, only 520 are women—just over 10 percent. The shunkei lacquer of Takayama was designated as a national traditional craft in 1975, and 21 master craftsmen of the trade (none of whom were women) were named. The Hagoita is not designated as a traditional craft at the national level; however, for the last twenty years it has been recognized at the prefecture and local levels. The associations at these local levels produce certificates of authenticity for those objects that meet the requirements. They also organize exhibitions and activities abroad, and they promote the creation of what they call “modern traditional folk art” (sic).15 The Hagoita is folk art traditional to the metropolitan area of Tokyo, with 504 masters (at the time of writing, there were no data on how many were women) and various market-locales, such as Taito-ku, where Torino-ichi, the largest market for Hagoita, grew, and Sumida-ku, which was the starting point of the “3M” in 1987.16 At the end of the nineteenth century, since Japan had no industrial products for export, it exported raw materials and folk art to Europe, generating a strong reputation for Japanese art on the European continent. As a few authors have mentioned, an important factor in the rise of Japan’s folk art was its participation in the 1873 Universal Exhibition in Vienna.17 At the same time during the Meiji era (1868–1912), an emphasis on westernization was underway. It was perhaps as a result of this westernization, coupled with rapid industrialization, that there was increased interest in the search for Japanese identity. This, in turn, was manifested through a growing attention to folk art. The Mingei Movement then continued to strongly promote the folk arts—so firmly, in fact, that the impact survives to this day. Robert Moes argues, “The Japanese have never recognized the basic distinction between ‘art’ and ‘fine art’ (painting, sculpture, architecture) on the one hand, and ‘folk art’ or ‘applied art’ (ceramics, metalwork, textiles, woodwork, lacquer, basketry, paperwork, etc.), on the other, that we make in the West.”18 We do not agree with this argument, however, since in existing Japanese literature, museums, galleries, and even in daily life, we can clearly verify a breach between the two spheres.19 We do argue, nevertheless, that the author is correct in asserting that this distinction is totally arbitrary.20 We would contend that there are handicrafts, which have a primarily practical and utilitarian function, and that there are also the folk arts, a denomination used for objects that are eminently “ornamental.” Indeed, there are certainly various differences between handicraft and folk art, but the boundary is frequently hard to locate. One such difference, for example, would be that the former places greater emphasis on technical aspects than on creativity or the communication of ideas.

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In terms of the two examples we discuss here, we suggest that both are folk art given that their value today is primarily aesthetic. In the case of the shunkei lacquers, the issue of technique is relevant since it is the reason the pieces are so extraordinarily beautiful—though the lacquers do almost always have a practical function as well. As Jo Okada suggests, “All folk art requires technical skill, but perhaps none so much as the lacquers, where technique determines everything.”21 In reference to the Hagoita, the question of technique is still undoubtedly fundamental, although these objects perhaps allow for greater expression of imagination and creativity. SHUNKEI LACQUERS FROM TAKAYAMA AND WOMEN AS SUPPORTING ACTORS Much research has been conducted on the Japanese lacquers and their fame throughout the world; many texts on the subject have been published both in Asia and in the West. As such, our intention now is simply to present a brief approach to this artistic process, in a specific geographical area, while attending closely to questions of gender and asking where the women are.22 There are more than twenty distinct types of lacquers that are regarded as traditional Japanese folk art.23 Several of these bear the name Shunkei, such as the Awano-Shunkei from the Ibaraki prefecture or the Noshiro-Shunkei from the Akita prefecture. We have chosen to focus on the Takayama-Shunkei for purely aesthetic reasons: they are simple and elegant in a way that contrasts strongly with the Hagoita, which appear to be the complete opposite. Attempting to find women within the long process of the lacquers’ creation is like trying to find a needle in a haystack. They are there—but they are few. In one video shot in Tokyo in 1975, two women working with wood appear briefly, although one of these women is “sewing” strips of wood together to close the box they are working on (this is strange in itself, since women are generally not part of this process).24 The origin of the Takayama-shunkei dates back to 1606, during the era of the feudal lord Kanamori. His son, Shigechika Kanamori, is recognized today as an important figure in the development of the traditional tea ceremony. He was also the one to give the name “shunkei” to a plate that had been made by two craftsmen, the carpenter Kizaemon Takahashi and the lacquer worker Sanaemon Narita, from Takayama. He gave it this name because the plate had similar coloring to a famous teapot called hishunkei. It was only at the beginning of the twentieth century that red shunkei began appearing, as historically, only yellow lacquers were made. There are approximately forty lacquer craftsmen in Takayama. Apparently, only a few



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decades ago (roughly the late nineties) there were as many as 250 lacquer craftsmen in that town, 31 of whom were nationally recognized masters.25 While the process of creating Takayama lacquers differs from person to person, it is long and difficult for everyone. In fact, it is actually three separate processes. One group carries out the extraction of the lacquer, another group makes the wood pieces, and finally, specialists complete the lacquering itself. Creating a piece of lacquer-ware without any decoration requires as many as thirty-three different steps; if the piece has some decoration, it can take up to seventy. In general terms, the process is the following: first, the sap of the urushi tree (rhus verniciflua) is collected an average of twenty times a day over five days via incisions in the tree’s bark that cut down to the endodermis layer. A tree that is less than fifteen years old will produce five ounces of sap, after which it usually dies.26 Unlike other lacquers, the urushi requires heat and humidity to harden. The piece of wood that will be lacquered is obtained from cypress or chestnut. It is then coated in a mud paste mixed with lacquer, known as tonoko, and then polished. Afterward it is painted yellow or red (chakushoku), and then it is coated with soy juice (shita-nuri). Next, successive layers of lacquer are applied, and the piece is left to harden for long periods of time in a type of wooden cupboard that is built especially for the purpose (kaitenki or kaiten-buro). The interior of the cupboard rotates electrically. The work must be done in the hot, humid season, and thus almost no work is carried out in winter. If the pieces are to be decorated, the decorations are painted before the final lacquer application. For the final step (uwa-nuri), special clothing is used that does not give off any fibers, and the area is kept as free of dust as possible. The lacquer is very toxic, but the craftsperson must simply get used to it; some people are unable to do this job because their skin does not develop a resistance. At the end, the finest pieces are also polished with ashes made from burned deer horn (shiage-migaki). Brushes made from women’s hair are preferred for the lacquer application—and if the women are underwater divers it’s even better, since their hair is less greasy. The interviews we conducted allowed us to get a closer look at the process of shunkei as well as at some of the gender relationships that can be perceived within it. In Takayama we met the master craftsman Hiromi Takimura and his wife Keiko; they are themselves an institution because of the level of development of their lacquers—which are true marvels. We also visited Toshifumi Suzuki, an eminent craftsman from a family that has been dedicated to making shunkei for no less than fifteen generations. We also found a woman who resides in Tokyo who was new to the craft of drawing on the lacquers, and who was the only one we found who did this kind of work for the Takayama

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shunkei. Each interview was special for a different reason, and all led to a deeper understanding of the process of shunkei creation. AN ODD COUPLE In the outskirts of Takayama (70,000 hab.), in the Gifu prefecture, one can find the lovely home of Hiromi Takimura and his wife Keiko. We interviewed them on a tremendously snowy February 7, 2006, when the temperature registered just 20ºF. The house was located on a hill, offering a spectacular view of the city—the exquisite tastes of these artists would allow for nothing short of remarkable. Hiromi came from a family of shunkei lacquer craftsmen (which was the main activity in the city, along with woodworking), and the tradition continues since his son also works in shunkei elaboration. Next to the house was the ample workshop where Hiromi has worked for over thirty years. We sat together on the floor of their Japanese-style living room on a heated electric rug, with the cups of green tea they had brewed for us, while a Siamese cat with enormous blue eyes wandered in from time to time. We began our chat under the attentive eyes of a collection of maneki nekkos (those kitten figures that wave with one elevated paw) observing us from their shelf. There, the figures were accompanied by the telephone, fax machine, and the object inevitably present in any Japanese space: the clock. No house, office, classroom, store, hotel, ryokan, or any other space was not complete without a clock. Early in the conversation, the question of women in the lacquer-making process was raised, and Hiromi—in jest—said that he prefers that women stick to having babies! Over the course of the conversation, however, we realized that his wife was indispensible both to his life and his work. Hiromi was born in 1940 in Takayama and has always lived there. His wife was also from the area. They have been together for about forty years, and they have one son and one daughter. Even though his father was a lacquer maker, Hiromi decided at fifteen to go study with a master, Tani Ichiro, whom he said he respected very highly. He became independent in 1965, but his first workshop burnt down. Most people become independent after five years with their master, but his father had told him to stay for ten years so that he could learn the craft as deeply as possible. There were also women working with Tani, but they abandoned lacquering as soon as they married. In general, craftsmen tend to work for folk art shops, but Hiromi does not. He makes agreements directly with the woodworkers for his wood supply, since the shops would usually be the ones to organize the work process. He creates his own designs. First he makes them in cardboard to see how they’ll



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turn out, and then Keiko intervenes with ideas and suggestions for the design. He buys the lacquer and stirs it himself until it turns black. This town is one of the only places where those who apply the lacquer also stir it; in other places this is a separate process undertaken by other people. Women generally participate in the process by applying the soy to the pieces; however, Keiko only polishes and cleans the wood, and then polishes the lacquer at the end. “It is a job that is not visible, but this is what my wife helps me with,” says Takimura. He does not want his pieces to be painted with soy because this means less lacquer is used. The soy layer renders the wood less absorbent, and as a result, the lacquer peels more easily later. One of the defining features of shunkei is that the lacquer is transparent, thus allowing the veins of the wood to show underneath. However, Takimura’s lacquer is not as transparent as the typical shunkei because he does not mix it with oil. He created his own style of working the lacquer. When mixed with oil it’s easier to work with, but the lacquers become weaker and do not adhere as well to the wood. He attempts to use the traditional designs that have existed in Takayama for many years while also developing new designs. He teaches his son traditional designs, but does not teach him new ones, he told us, because his son must develop his own style. Generally, Hiromi makes the same type of object for a number of years before changing to something new. When he has an order, he interrupts his typical cycle and works for roughly four to six months on the order. When he has an exhibit of eighty pieces, he needs to have at least as many duplicates so that he can substitute the ones that are sold. He does not alter his personal style in accordance with the galleries where he exhibits his work. In Takayama, he had only shown his work once. His wife believes that one must be very brave to show his work in the village because of the existing rivalries. Takimura criticizes the mentality of the local people because they talk a lot about culture, but he contends that they are not very culturally aware: they are always “in the fold,” and if someone tries to break out, they are coerced into staying. For example, he makes bowls, which are not traditional in the town, and he is criticized for it. He makes some pieces that have been made century after century, and others that are innovations, like the bowls. They find themselves permanently trapped in a web between tradition and modernity, in constant tension. If people ask him for something in particular, he does it. And when they criticize his work, they do not speak to him, but rather to his son. In 1997, Takimura exhibited his work in Germany in a joint exhibition on Japanese folk art. At first, the organizers did not want lacquers, but ultimately they ended up buying them all. Unfortunately, Keiko became ill before the exhibition, and the couple could not attend. They have never left Japan because they are afraid of flying. He speaks only Japanese, but he has had to

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learn Internet language. He exhibited his work in Saitama, Japan, in March 2006. They generally do two or three exhibitions a year, and some of these are in conjunction with their son, who began working with lacquer when he was eighteen. Their son is married to a nurse whose salary keeps the family afloat economically while Keiko takes care of their grandson. Hiromi helps with the housework, especially since his wife became ill. The pieces he is working on cannot clash with the pieces that sit on the dining table; there must be harmony between them. He claims his work is utilitarian: he is a craftsman, and what he does must be useful for people’s daily life. A vase, for example, is utilitarian because it serves a functional purpose. He thought that it was the material that decided the matter, and the lacquers were meant to be used. He most enjoys making plates. Both he and Keiko inspected every finished object meticulously to ensure that it has no defect. For Takimura, there are two types of lacquer craftsmen: those who make the utensils necessary for the tea ceremony, which are considered of the highest order, and those who make objects for everyday use. He had learned to do the former, but ultimately decided to dedicate himself to the latter. Because of the strict rules for making the tea ceremony utensils that don’t permit creativity, he opted to abandon them in favor of everyday objects. When we asked if his work is art, craft, or folk art, he had to think for awhile. His lacquers were expensive—they were unique objects that he signed. In this sense, he could be called an artist. He said that he signed them so he could be held responsible for any problems that might arise with the pieces after they’d been sold, and so he could complete any repairs necessary. His wife is in charge of public relations, and she mentions that the objects are purchased by all kinds of people. Some buy them as wedding gifts, for instance. He criticized those who advertise their work, but she replied that those who do not advertise did not sell. “I’ve never thought of doing anything other than lacquers. If I were to be born again, I would choose lacquers again,” he said passionately. A LIVING HISTORY Toshifumi Suzuki is another master of Takayama shunkei creation. He is directly descended from the lacquer-maker Sanaemon Narita, who had created the first piece of shunkei. In 2006, this rather timid man, who was approximately fifty years old, allowed us to look around his spacious workshop inside a large house, and we had the opportunity to chat and observe him at work. He warned us that he would only be able to spend an hour with us, though after that hour was up,



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Mr. Suzuki continued to talk casually with us and canceled his other appointment. Moreover, he invited us to return the next day so that we could observe how he applied the last layer of lacquer to some plates. It is a delicate operation that requires a dust-free area, and so he asked us to remain completely still. It represents a great honor to be allowed to watch this part of the process. The shunkei technique, Suzuki explained to us, is quite simple—even primitive—but for this very reason, once you begin the journey, it is quite profound: since the lacquer is transparent, it is impossible to correct errors once they have been made. He learned the craft when he was eighteen, and he has one son and one daughter, though neither is continuing the family tradition. He thinks it is difficult to live solely off of lacquer work; his wife works in a ryokan27 and on the weekends helps her husband. He accepts orders for lacquer work, but he also always makes extras in order to stock in reserve. If a shop suddenly requires lacquers, they go to him because they know he usually has some ready to sell. He signs some of his pieces as Yoshikata (his family has always had two surnames)—the more valuable ones—but the simplest (from 5,000 to 6,000 yen)28 he does not sign. He recreates the designs his ancestors made, but also, like Takimura, also creates new ones and even experiments, for example, with the colors. He uses black, yellow, and green, which in itself is an innovation. Changing the colors is difficult because it requires using other instru-

Figure 3.1.  Toshifumi Suzuki, platter, Takayama, 2006. Photo: Manuel Ortiz Escámez.

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ments and different temperatures and humidity. He believes that others have wanted to introduce changes, too, but because it is so labor intensive to do so, they do not. Takayama is the only place where there are associations of shunkei lacquer craftsmen. Suzuki had been the director of an association of craftsmen in the 1990s, and was still a member of that group (the leadership rotates). Other places outside of Takayama have isolated craftsmen who are not part of any group. Suzuki’s wife’s family never had any connection to lacquer making. She took up this work when she was twenty, but she has never been interested in making lacquers herself, or in signing them—she is content helping. Suzuki believes that his daughter’s character would serve her well as a craftswoman, but she had not committed to it. He would like to participate in more exhibitions, but it is very expensive to do so, and thus difficult. He has had three in department stores in other cities, but in those cases, the companies requested his work, and they paid for everything. After observing Suzuki and gaining a deeper look at the process of creating shunkei, we realized that women are almost always present, and they undertake significant tasks in the process, yet they are never the protagonists. ON HER OWN Upon seeing some lacquer pieces painted with designs, we thought that perhaps they had been made by a woman (they seemed to us the strokes of a woman’s hand). When we followed the thread, we found Fusae Tabi, who lives in Tokyo and with whom we were able to talk. Interestingly, we were able to clearly establish from the start an empathy arising from gender. She is a cheerful woman who was born in Tokyo a little over fifty years ago. She only started painting lacquer in 2005, but had started painting on glass a year earlier. One day she gave a glass object that she had painted to a friend; the owner of the Lacquer Museum in Takayama saw it and liked it. He asked her to try painting some lacquers. She did not think she could at first, but she accepted anyway. Economically speaking, the craft was not well paid. She earned 500 yen for each little plate she decorated, and she was only sent a few sets of thirty pieces each. Since she was a child she had wanted to be a fashion designer; it started with her dolls. As an adolescent she took a correspondence course in clothing design. After finishing high school, she entered a design school and graduated



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Figure 3.2.  Tabi Fusae, painted little platter, Tokyo, 2006. Photo: Manuel Ortiz Escámez.

when she was twenty. A friend then asked her to design fabric for kimonos, and this is what she did for some years. She was married several times and had one child. She changed her work patterns when her son started primary school; she wanted to spend more time with him, so she began working on the designs at home. This change meant that her earnings diminished, so she worked as a waitress in the evenings at a Japanese restaurant. She also had to look after her mother, who had Alzheimer’s, and she spent what free time she had drawing. One of her aunts, who was learning the technique of glass painting, taught her. It is exceptionally sad to discover time and again that the lives of women in the world of folk art—though not exclusively, of course—are determined by their romantic relationships. Moreover, they must organize their work, when possible, around their children or even around the care of the sick and elderly. It is hardly necessary to point out that distribution of tasks is gender based, and that it is women who, almost always, are charged with the domestic ones; yet it is still overwhelming to confirm time and again that it is only true exceptions who manage to escape from these circumstances. At first, the owner of a lacquer shop asked Tabi to paint two or three different designs as a trial, but she wanted to offer a greater variety and did five. She was nervous doing the lacquer designs, since painting on glass, plastic, or paper is quite different from painting on wood. She has only seen a fully finished shunkei with her designs once when she bought a piece as a gift. Tabi also teaches classes on glass painting to a few female students who come to her house. Her dream is to earn enough to live from her drawings,

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since her age prevents her from working for a company. She survived on the money she received from the government for taking care of her retired mother. She would, of course, have liked to participate in exhibitions, but so far had had no luck. She enjoyed painting on glass more than the lacquers because she lacked confidence with the shunkei. When she draws them, she calls her friends and asks which one they think is the best; sometimes they tell her the opposite of what she thinks, and so she gets confused. When we asked what she thought of the Hagoita, she replied that she it is not right to use them as decoration, as they are meant to be toys for girls. Thus arises, once again, the idea that folk art should be first and foremost useful, and not merely ornamental. However, she adds that the artisans decorate them with love, and that feeling is what she liked most about Japan. She has seen many exhibitions of ancient Japanese art, and thinks that the emotions that Japanese artisans once imbued into their decorations is now being lost. Her grandmother was an expert flower arranger (ikenobo), and her uncle was a graphic designer. She regrets not having learned this art from her grandmother. When she was a child, though, she did not want to learn something so formal, which is why she hadn’t learned. Tabi thinks that there are feminine and masculine drawings. Even though she draws flowers, which could be seen as feminine, she feels that the character of her drawings is masculine because her lines are strong. In general, she does what she is asked, but she tries to express herself within the parameters that she is given. For example, when she designed clothes, she always made three types: one exactly as she was asked, another with some small changes, and a third that was completely different, but that she thought was better suited to the person who had placed the order. She felt very satisfied when the client chose the third option. She does not consider herself an artist. Her uncle once told her that she would never be anything more than part of the company she worked for—a cog in the machine—and that she would have no individuality. Obviously, she is waging a strong battle against this idea whenever she has the chance. When the shunkei museum asks her for several pieces with the same design, say bamboo, she does it, but paints each one differently. She complies with what the customer requests, but at the same time she attempts to express what she feels. In societies so highly developed as Japan, it seems much more impressive when someone chooses to submerge him or herself in the world of folk art, with its ancestral techniques that are modified so slightly over the centuries. Practically the only aspects of “modernity” that have been incorporated into the process of lacquer-making have been the cupboards that rotate automatically as the pieces dry inside, as well as the use of electric vacuum cleaners to remove the dust from the pieces before the final layer of lacquer is applied.



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HAGOITA FOR JAPANESE GIRLS We turn now to the world of decorated paddles, Hagoita, that are made from the lightweight wood of the paulownia tree. Their original function of the paddles was for a game that is similar to badminton (hanetsuki), but without a net, that is played primarily by girls and women. For the game, a shuttlecock (hane-ume) is made from the berry of the soap-tree (mukuroji, scientific name sapindus mukurossi). The berry (called the soap berry), less than half an inch in diameter, is covered in bird feathers painted with vivid colors to look like flowers. The game involves keeping the shuttlecock in the air; whoever allows it to fall loses and is marked on the face with a line in Chinese ink. Once someone’s face is entirely covered in black, the game is over and that player is the loser. It is not considered a sport but rather simple entertainment for women. The paddles are given to girls when they are born, or at New Year when the game is usually played. They were apparently also used as votive offerings, and were placed in temples to ward off evil spirits and to bring happiness. Sizes range from eight inches to five or six feet, and prices range from 4,000 yen for the smaller ones up to 250,000 yen, or even more. It was between 1804 and 1829 that they began to be drawn with Kabuki characters, a custom that continues to this day (Edo Oshi-e Hagoita). The exact period when Hagoita were first made, and in particular, made with decoration, is uncertain—although it appears to have been in the Edo period (1603–1868). The game, however, dates from at least the fifteenth century. The first time Hagoita appears in text is in Kanmongyo-ki, the diary of the Imperial Prince Sadafusa, compiled between 1416 and 1448.29 There are also various antique engravings that show girls or women playing hanetsuki, but they are from the nineteenth century. The artist Kunisada (1786–1864), has an engraving, circa 1850, showing two girls playing with Hagoita. There is also an engraving by Georges Bigot from 1886 showing women playing hanetsuki (Edo-Tokyo Museum). The game undoubtedly began as entertainment for the upper classes; it then spread to the women of the rich merchant class, and finally, slowly became popularized. In the twentieth century, girls played hanetsuki in various parts of the country and in both cities and in villages. The Hagoita market in Asakusa was established during the Edo period more than 350 years ago, around 1658. A FAMILY OF CRAFTSMEN . . . AND CRAFTSWOMEN There are only five atelier-shops in Tokyo that specialize in Hagoita; in Asakusa-bashi there are various shops that sell Japanese dolls, as well as the decorated paddles. We went to visit Noguchi Toyoo in February of 2006, at

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his atelier-shop called “Musashiya Hozan” in Tokyo’s Ryogoku neighborhood. He was born in 1950 in that same neighborhood. He told us that due to the damage caused by World War II, there were no documents remaining about the history of Hagoita manufacturing there. He belonged to the fifth generation of Hagoita makers in his family. He had started when he was twenty-two years old. When we spoke, Toyoo’s son was twenty years old, though he was not sure if the son would continue with the craft or not. To manufacture Hagoita, one actually needs very little in terms of materials; expenditures usually make up 20 percent of the total cost. Hagoita making is more profitable in the villages because costs are much lower there than in Tokyo. Noguchi’s most expensive Hagoita, for example, costs 600,000 yen. They are made with silk, some of which is imported; he buys silk from a company in Kyoto that imports it from China. They are fabrics used especially for making typical Japanese dolls. The colors red and pink are the most prominent colors because they are made into more female than male dolls, and because they are given as gifts to little girls, people generally prefer them to be female characters. It is a family business that he works in with his wife and mother, though occasionally parts of the process are contracted out to other workers. Noguchi’s mother is eighty-four years old; she is originally from the countryside. She cannot yet retire, so she continues to work for her son. She works primarily on the hair for the silk figures, a task typically reserved for women. Noguchi’s wife does the oshi-e, that is, she covers the various cardboard figures with silk, fills them with cotton stuffing, and glues them all together. The demand for Hagoita is fairly low, primarily due to the change in style of Japanese houses. People no longer have a special place to keep them, as they did in the typical Japanese-style houses, where there was always a wooden beam that was ideal for placing things like Hagoita, so they could own many. The small Hagoita are now sold with a stand, so that they can be displayed on any surface because most houses no longer have this beam for display. Nonetheless, it is now generally not possible to have enough space for very many. Another reason for the decrease is that there are actually just fewer young girls, since the population as a whole is drastically declining. Hagoita are made in four steps. First, the wooden racquets are made (Itazukuri) and are bought in order to be decorated. Next, someone draws the faces and the general design (menso); the menso-shi are those who make menso, and they are the ones who generally have the greatest level of control over the work. Normally, one must have had ten years of practice before becoming a menso-shi. The third step involves people—usually women—to make the stuffing (oshi-e). The fourth and final step requires assembling the oshi-e into one single piece (kumiage), and then the master (man or woman) attaches this figure to the wooden Hagoita with copper nails (toritsuke).



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The technique of oshi-e was probably introduced in Japan via China. In the seventeenth century it was called isho-e, meaning “picture of dresses,” perhaps because they used the same fabric used for kimonos. They say that oshi-e were first created by women of the court and those of the Samurai class. The most representative figurine is of Empress Tofukumon-in, Hidetada Tokugawa’s daughter.30 At the beginning of the Edo period, the oshi-e became popular due to books like Hana musubi nishikie awase (joined flowers, fixed brocade), which was published in 1736. At the end of the Edo period, women of the working class began to make ema (votive offerings) from oshi-e as to bring as offerings to the temples. Patricia Fister comments that oshi-e, along with embroidery, were excluded from the history of Japanese art because they were made by women who lacked official artistic training.31 This work was not considered something “professional,” but rather a “pastime” for women—even though each menso-shi needs ten oshi-e-shi (the people who make the stuffing). Noguchi had to go to study with another master in order to learn the entire process, since his father had only been a designer. He bases his designs on ancient Japanese drawings; one of the most difficult aspects of the process is adjusting them to fit into the rectangular form of the racket. Kabuki dictates certain rules for the design and the colors of the characters. The wisteria maiden, for instance, must wear a kimono with wisterias. The flower must be painted on the cloth; however, this is not always done because it is more expensive. Noguchi belongs to the Doll Association, which also includes members who make Hagoita. He thinks of himself as a craftsman and not as an artist; he does sign his pieces, but he uses the craftsman family surname: Hosan. His customers are varied, though they are principally people looking for a present for a newborn baby girl. There are also collectors, as well as those looking for gifts to take with them when they travel abroad. At one time, it seems, having a Hagoita with one’s favorite Kabuki character would have been equivalent to acquiring a picture of a film or pop idol today. Women are predominantly the buyers. The Hagoita are traditional; the innovation stems from the characters painted on them. Due to copyright rules, one cannot make dozens of Hagoita with the image of a famous television actor, for example. This type of figure can only be made by special order—multiples of the same person cannot be sold in the shops as this would make the shop or artist vulnerable to a lawsuit. The Traditional Folk Arts Association in Tokyo organizes a yearly fair in Asakusa. This represents the largest sale of the year: almost everyone attends. Noguchi participates in this fair; he has also been to an exhibition in Chicago, and he mentions that it was interesting to see the reactions of people of Japanese descent there—he had noted that the elderly were more appreciative than the young.

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A MASTER CRAFTSWOMAN Almost by accident, and when we had already lost all hope of finding a Hagoita craftswoman, we met Akiko Goto in her shop, “Harimaya.” Named for a Kabuki family, this shop was over 150 years old. Goto was sixty-five when we met. She was somewhat taciturn at first, but by the end of our visit we had developed a rapport with her, and she became kind, friendly, and open to continue talking with us. She told us that she started making Hagoita when she was almost thirty years old, and that she had dedicated over thirty-five years to their fabrication. Her in-laws used to make them, but because she was initially busy raising her two daughters, she did not become involved right away. Her husband makes typical Japanese dolls. Neither of their two daughters plan on following the family business. Goto gets up at half past four every morning and works until seven. She needs sunlight for the details, and so she works on those later. She has breakfast and leaves at nine for her shop, which opens at ten and closes at six in the evening. She works as both craftswoman and cashier. She also cleans and tends to the customers. In short, she does everything. “My husband,” she told us, “does not do any housework. He is very busy.” Goto goes to bed at nine every night. She wants to live to be eighty-eight so that she can receive the prize that the government gives to those who have spent the most time dedicated to their crafts. She works 360 days a year, resting for just five days during the New Year celebration. She said that if she didn’t complete at least one Hagoita per day, she wouldn’t make enough to eat. The twenty-inch Hagoita generally takes two days to make, if she has some parts of the process already prepared. She now uses glue that she has special-made; though in the past, she used rice glue. Goto took up the craft when her older daughter started primary school and her grandmother could care for the children. At first she worked from home, but once the older daughter enrolled in secondary school she began working in the shop. She wanted to work—though even if she hadn’t wanted to, she claims her father-in-law would have demanded it. Since his own daughters refused, he said his daughter-in-law had no choice. As a result, his own daughters were homemakers while Akiko was happy doing the Hagoita work, because it offered the freedom to live in any part of the world as long as she had the instruments she needed to work. Both she and her husband work in the shop, each on their own thing, in the back room. This craftswoman had decided to draw the Hagoita characters with a movement that was distinct from those that already existed, and thus she designs her own full-body figures. This way, she won’t have competition from others because hers, she contends, are the best. She works alone and does all stages



Figure 3.3.  Akiko Goto, Hagoita with Kabuki Character Fuji Musume (dancing wisteria maiden), 2006. Photo: Manuel Ortiz Escámez.

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of the process herself, even painting the faces. Other places buy pre-printed faces from Taiwan in order to lower costs, but she does not. One of the most difficult things for her is finding the appropriate fabric; she said that when she travels, she is always looking for fabric, and when she finds some she buys it in bulk. The Japanese tradition must be maintained regardless of the desire for profit. This is why, even though it is expensive, the Hagoita must be made properly, since it is generally people “in the know” who buy them. The ones Goto sells cost three times what other people charge: “It’s like the difference between a 100 percent cashmere sweater and an average, commonplace one.” One of the most notable things about Akiko’s Hagoita—something we did not see others doing—is that she reproduces the works of famous painters. She had reproduced the painting Wind by Shoen Uemura (1875–1949), the painting Selflessness by Yokohama Taikan (1868–1958), and Yayoi by Itu Shinsui. This is how she obtains a highly evocative syncretism between folk and fine art. She told us that her work is even in the British royal household, because volunteers from a boat that the British Crown had for disabled people had come to her shop and bought something. One of the volunteers really liked one of the more expensive Hagoita, so she lowered the price, and it went to England. About twenty years ago she participated in an exhibit in Los Angeles, California, but that had been her only overseas exhibit. In order to make the designs, she would go to watch Kabuki and observe the actor’s movements until she felt inspired, and then she would capture this in her drawings. She also would go to Noh theatre. The faces of the women she draws are traditional Japanese faces, not the “modern” ones done in other workshops. This modern form consists in making the eyes rounder—more Western in shape. Akiko believes that the main difference between craftsmen and craftswomen is their sensitivity. Her opinion is based in the fact that she knows the work of many Hagoita craftsmen—those who had been in her workshop as well as others. There was a certain way of parting the hair, or a way of placing the underclothes of the kimono so that they just barely peaked through; these are things, she believes, only women know. Another difference between men and women’s work is that men draw harder facial expressions, and once their designs are done, they would not change them. However, women would make changes—they are more flexible. Though she might copy from a model—a painting—she would alter it. Sometimes she completely ignored the design and did something totally new. Women know what clothes female figures



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should wear and Akiko believes that this was where one can see the impact of women’s sensitivity on the process and product. She said that she doesn’t know of any other craftswomen who make Hagoita. She spends quite a lot of time teaching oshi-e. She has twenty students between the ages of thirty and eighty. She also feels she is a craftswoman, but of a lower level because her teacher had told her that once she reached a level of mastery, she would have to go back to the beginning, or she would never grow. She is never satisfied with her work; she always wants to improve it, and this is why she feels she is still a beginner and not a master. They have a salaried assistant in their shop who is also a craftsman, and who helps them with customers. He has been there since he was fifteen, and he started before Akiko was married. He helps nail the oshi-e onto the racket; sometimes he doesn’t ask her what color she wants, and she might not like his choice, but she doesn’t want to rob him of his work, so she stays silent. She belongs to the Hagoita Shopkeeper’s Association, but not to the National Traditional Folk Arts Association. She will likely never be accepted as part of the latter because her work is not “traditional” enough for them. She thinks that there is a lot of rivalry among the craftsmen of different shops. Very few do the entire work process themselves, and most just sell what others made. Goto once created a collection of eighteen relatively small Hagoita representing works of Kabuki and costing 50,000 yen each. She sold them for 1 million yen at the Kabuki-za. The largest Hagoita she had ever made was a little less than six feet tall and had cost 50,000 yen. In terms of sales, the fair at Asakusa is crucial: in three days there, she can sell an entire year’s work. There is also a shop on the outskirts of Tokyo that sells her Hagoita. She signs the pieces, but with the name of the shop; this means that there is no way to know who really made them. This is perhaps why none of the other craftsmen we talked to knew that a master craftswoman even existed. Her work is, to a certain extent, anonymous; as is the case with much folk art, in the end, she remains invisible. Could her work as a craftswoman be a parody of the notorious invisibility of women’s domestic work? The late craftsman Hideo Hiroshima once stated in an online interview that it is primarily women over seventy who buy the Hagoita; women who are thirty or forty—middle aged women—do not buy them.32 The craftsman Ikuo, however, believes that women of all ages buy them. Every time we were able to interview craftswomen, in addition to easy and fluid communication, there was an immediate empathy established between us, no doubt because of our shared gender.

Figure 3.4.  Akiko Goto, Hagoita with Kabuki Character, 2006. Photo: Manuel Ortiz Escámez.



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THE LITTLE MUSEUM In the old Mukojima neighborhood of Tokyo, there is a tiny Hagoita museum. The sign outside says that it is also a “Model Shop.” One finds an exhibition of sixteen antique Hagoita, none of which are for sale. The other pieces there were all created by the craftsman Kogetsu Nishiyama. The museum is a family project. We speak at length with Atsuko Nishiyama, eighty, wife of the craftsman Kogetsu. She tells us that she does a bit of everything—that there is nothing she doesn’t do. She was born in Tokyo to a family who had nothing to do with Hagoita, but she was married to Kogetsu at twenty-two, and that was when she began helping the artisan. They have a forty-five-year-old son who also works making Hagoita. He does almost the entire process along with attending exhibits and tending to the museum. In contrast to Akiko’s shop, there are only Hagoita here; there are no dolls. Though Atsuko does almost everything, she never works on the designs, as one needed a special technique that she didn’t know: “The only thing my husband said to me when we got married was, ‘you must be calm, because otherwise you’ll affect my work on the expressions of the Hagoita characters.’” She still works on the hat strings, though in other workshops they simply buy these ready-made. They have an album with photographs of customers who had bought Hagoita and it is a treasure to them; they display it in their miniscule museum. Some people special order a piece for a daughter, for example, that will dance in a play and they want to have the same character on the Hagoita. They also make them as gifts for daughters or granddaughters, according to the tradition. Her husband enjoys giving talks about the craft and artisanship in schools and to children. He had lived in Asakusa until the war, but his house was burned and they moved to Mukojima. At one time, geishas would frequently pass by on the street in front of the house, but now there are very few; they used to come in with their patrons so that they would buy them a Hagoita, but this practice no longer exists. The Hagoita they make are quite different from others. For example, Atsuko’s husband paints designs on the fabric of the kimonos and also paints the backside of the rackets. He signs his own name as well as the name of the person it is for; in this case, they are not at all anonymous. Various articles about Kogetsu Nishiyama have appeared in important magazines; there is also a video (in which his wife also appears) and a book. Over the more than sixty years that he has been working, he has traveled to England (1978), the United States (1981), China (1981), France (1983), Thailand (1992), and Australia (1994), and he once received the prime minister of Germany (1986) in his workshop to show him his technique and his work.

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Atsuko Nishiyama tells us that they sell more Hagoita with female characters than with males. Each year they exhibit their work in hotels and department stores. The latter sometime ask for specific Hagoita orders, but since they have no catalogue, they have to go there to show them their work. If they are far away, they send photographs of their Hagoita for them to choose from. Both her husband and her son love going to see Kabuki. She, however, does not go as often. She hardly speaks about herself at all, and instead talks about her husband and her son. Only occasionally “the craftsman’s wife” comes up; she speaks about herself in third person. We, however, felt we were fortunate to find yet another invisible craftswoman. A WORKSHOP SPECIALIZED IN OSHI-E In the “Minimikawa” workshop-shop in Takasago, in the Katsushika neighborhood of Tokyo, they do not make Hagoita but rather simply buy and fabricate certain parts of the process; in short, they “embellish.” They do not make the designs, nor do they paint the faces; they are not menso-shi but only oshi-e-shi. Michie Nitta has worked there for over twenty-seven years, since she was twenty-three. She started oshi-e when her children began kindergarten and she needed work. She lived nearby and so she commuted by bicycle. She hadn’t known how to make them, and really had had nothing to do with Hagoita before, but she learned to love the work. Her specialty became the oshi-e details. The other woman who works here is Yoshiko Minimikawa, the wife of the owner and master, Ikuo Minamikawa. She tells us that she started doing oshie when she married, thirty years ago. She has two children, neither of whom continues the craft. Throughout the Hagoita making process, up to five or six people might participate. Here, they cut the cardboard, make the stuffing, and mount everything on the wooden racket. She selects the fabrics and decides on the combinations. They have to buy large quantities of fabric because they only use the parts of the fabric that feature interesting designs, and then the rest of the fabric is thrown away. They might use fabrics with traditional or modern designs, depending on the type of Hagoita. To find the latest trends in kimonos, she goes to young women’s coming-of-age parties. She also tries to pay attention to current European fashion. They talk to us about the two types of Hagoita representing women: the classic and the modern. Among the classic models, there are some that have been awarded the seal of traditional metropolitan folk art, and these are more expensive than those without the seal. Among the former, there is a new



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model that features the sleeves of the kimono hanging beyond the racket so that they are more striking. The faces vary from one type to the other, especially in the eyes. In the modern, the eyes are rounder, as was mentioned before. Young women tend to buy the more modern Hagoita, while older people tend to prefer the classics. The craftswomen who make them also tend to prefer the classic models. When Ikuo Minamikawa, Yoshiko’s husband, enters the room and the conversation, he dominates both. Both his wife Yoshiko and Michie fade into the background, and his wife gets up to get the tea, serves it, and sits down behind him. She practically stops speaking; she disappears. Ikuo was born in the Sumida neighborhood, but says that there were many fires there during the wars, so he moved to Katsushika. It is basically only the three of them, but if the work piles up, they have to send some of it out. He has been the director of the Hagoita market in Asakusa for more than ten years. He mentions that they once sold more Hagoita for men, but that they no longer do so because those who used to buy them each year had either died or could no longer afford them. Now, customers prefer female characters. Prices ranged from 3,500 to 700,000 yen. The most popular were those that cost 18,000 yen; these same Hagoita, if purchased from a department store, would cost almost double. THE HAGOITA CHARACTERS The female characters represented on Hagoita are almost always depicted with a passive, expectant attitude—that is, with an inexpressive or slightly sweet, indifferent gaze. Their clothes and hairstyles might vary, but their faces remain the same. They are frequently a mere decoration, showing how beautiful both the women and their clothing can be. Even the dancing women’s faces are inexpressive, although for the craftsmen, it didn’t seem that way. Kogetsu Nishiyama, the craftsman of the Little Museum, asserted that each woman had to have a different expression, since the face of a geisha, a housewife, a princess, or a servant could not be the same. Men, he continued, were given stronger expressions, and these were much more varied. They had more expressive faces, and often they appeared angry. Neither of the male or female characters directly faced their observers, but rather were always looking off to the side at a forty-five degree angle. This is all the case, to a certain degree, because in Kabuki, where the characters originate, women almost always maintain a frozen expression. The men, however, move their faces and their eyes more; they are more expressive. Only older women move their faces more. Even though Kabuki women often cry, their faces still do not change.

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A woman named Okuni Kabuki established Kabuki theatre in the seventeenth century; it was in the year 1600 that this performance and entertainment style came to be called Kabuki. It is curious that Okuni used men’s clothes. After Okuni, the continuation of this theatre style was undertaken only by women, and was called Onna Kabuki. In 1629, women were prohibited from acting, and so it became briefly a form of theater performed only by thirteenand fourteen-year-olds, called Wakashu Kabuki. In 1652 it was completely prohibited for a second time, but in 1653 it was once again permitted, although with severe limitations.33 Since then, it has been a type of theater in which only men perform, and they interpret the roles of both sexes. The men who specialize in the roles of women are called onnagata. The craftsmen and women can depict whatever characters a customer asks for, and there are an almost infinite number to choose from. In the principal plays, there are the lead characters and the secondary ones, and then there are also dance characters.34 However, among the most common are Sukeroku (a male character), Kagamijishi (two lions, one with a large red mane and the other white), or Sanninkichisa (a play with three characters, two men and a woman, all with the same name). Among the most common women characters are Sagimusume or Fuji Musume (dancing wisteria maiden). According to Mishiyama Kogetsu, the most representative Kabuki characters are KyoGanoko Musume Doujoji from a dance, and Benkei from the play Kanjincho. The colors that distinguish the costumes of the Kabuki characters are reproduced exactly on the Hagoita. The delicacy and refinement of the theater’s decoration is not integrated into the paddles, however. In addition to the Kabuki characters, various real and imaginary subjects have been represented on Hagoita. In the 1930s, many “Modern Girls” were made, and also Shirley Temple or Norakuro, Betty Boop or Kurobe. In the 1940s, General Douglas MacArthur himself made an appearance on the Hagoita. Nowadays, Hagoita are often made with nontraditional figures such as Snoopy, the Mona Lisa, Hello Kitty, rabbits or dogs with kites in the form of clowns, or television actors, sumo wrestlers, athletes, the Japanese Royal Family, or singers or politicians of the moment—both national and international, like George W. Bush. CLOSING REFLECTIONS After having closely examined two examples of Japanese folk art and the women and men who create it, we realized the importance of technical perfection to achieve the right aesthetic of the objects: the greater the technical skill, the greater the aesthetic value of the objects. Perhaps there are some



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folk art pieces that do not require such technical perfection, but for the lacquers and the Hagoita, it is essential. As a result of the constant and persistent invisibility of women and their work, it becomes necessary to focus solely on them in order to bring them to the fore. In Japanese books on folk art, women are almost entirely absent. Occasionally they appear as embroiderers or weavers, though in other texts they are not even mentioned. Women take a secondary role, they do not “appear” as artisans; their names are missing, their faces are fleeting, their bodies are hidden, and their work is as well. Meanwhile, men are both visible and named; they are present everywhere. This is why, in our work, we sought out women. The shunkei lacquers are the epitome of “Japaneseness,” for their simplicity, discretion, elegance, beauty, and technical perfection. It is not for nothing that they have been the pride of the nation for hundreds of years. They are of foreign origin, like much of what exists in Japan, but it is in this that they reach a level of supreme artistic excellence. The Hagoita represent—in a highly developed and modern Japan of the twenty-first century—a conjunction of efforts to achieve survival of ancient popular culture by making it current visual culture. For all these efforts, though, this object will inevitably end up, and in a not-so-distant future, behind the glass of a museum as a relic of the past. Their “Japaneseness,” in this case, is highlighted above all in the representation of women in kimonos and traditional dress. It thus becomes plausible to assert that the Japanese identity, par excellence, is represented fundamentally through women in traditional clothing, as an archetype—much like the figure of the China Poblana in Mexico.35 NOTES   1.  This chapter was written in collaboration with Kanae Omura and was published in a different English version as “Gender and Japanese Folk Art: Shunkei Lacquers and Edo Hagoita,” Journal of Gender Studies 10, Tokyo, Institute for Gender Studies-Ochanomizu University, 2007 and in Spanish with the title “Arte y género en Japón: lacas shunkei y Edo Hagoita,” Estudios de Asia y África 44, no. 3 (140), Mexico City, El Colegio de México, September–December 2009.   2.  Kanae Omura is a Japanese Mexicanist who has lived for long periods of time in Mexcio; Eli Bartra is a Mexican who submerged herself in Japanese culture for several months while in Japan between 2005–2006.   3.  Yoshida Mitsukuni, “Lacquer,” in The Traditional Arts of Japan 4, Lacquerware, p. 6.   4.  For an important discussion of art and aesthetics in folk art, both in general and in Japan in particular, consult Brian Moeran’s 2013 text.  5. January 2006.  6.  Sôetsu Yanagi, El arte popular japonés, p. 5.

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  7.  Since 1990, various critical studies of Yanagi’s work and the Mingei movement have been undertaken. See, for example, Takenaka, 1999; Kanetani, 2000; or Kikuchi, 2004.   8.  Sôetsu Yanagi, op. cit., p. 7.   9.  Ibid, p. 103. 10.  Sôetsu Yanagi, Folk Crafts in Japan, p. 197. 11.  Ibid, p. 198. 12.  Sôetsu Yanagi, Folk Crafts in Japan, p. 13. 13.  Sôetsu Yanagi, Folk Crafts in Japan, p. 208. 14.  On legal questions surrounding folk art and lacquers, see Masami Shiraishi, “The Modernization of Japanese Lacquer Art,” in Japanese Lacquer Art: Modern Masterpieces, pp. 15–23. 15.  http://www.kougei.or.jp/english/promotion.html (consulted May 13, 2009). 16.  3M refers to Master Craftman, Museum, Model Shop. “Model Shop” is a type of small teaching museum where they demonstrate the process of elaboration for the object as well as being a shop. 17.  Haino, 1994; Mitsui, 1999. 18.  Robert Moes, Mingei: Japanese Folk Art from the Brooklyn Museum, p. 11. 19.  Doshin Sato, 2000. 20. Idem. 21.  Jo Okada, “Introduction,” p. 9. 22.  For a brief history of shunkei lacquers, see Yoshida Mitsukuni, The Traditional Arts of Japan 4, Lacquerware, pp. 126, 127. 23. In the book compiled by Nicole Rousmaniere, Crafting Beauty in Modern Japan, lacquers are discussed, but there is no mention at all of the shunkei. 24.  Video “Hida-Shunkei Lacquerware,” Tokyo, 1975. 25.  http://www.b-zenjapan.com/crafts/gifu_02.html. 26.  Sawaguchi Shigeru, Urushi-Work. 27.  Traditional Japanese hotel. 28.  Around 50 USD. 29.  Hagoita, Kites and Tops. 30.  Patricia Fister, Kinsei no josei gakatachi: bijutsu to jendā (Japanese Women Artists of the Kinsei Era), pp. 93–95. 31.  Ibid, p. 96. This exclusion continues to this day. Understandably, the Hagoita are not present in books about Japanese fine art, but often they are not present in books on folk art either. See Edmund de Wall, Tímeless Beauty, in which their absence is telling. 32.  http://www.edocraft.com/products/harashima/creator.htm (Consulted April 9, 2009). 33.  Ruth M. Shaver, Kabuki Costume, pp. 39–40. 34.  For example, in 1832, Ichikawa Danjuro selected eighteen Kabuki plays as the principal ones: Fuwa, Narukami, Hudou, Uwanari, Zôhiki, Kagekiyo, Shibaraku, Kanjincho, Sukeroku, Uirouri, Yanone, Oshimodoshi, Kanu, Nanatsumen, Kenuki, Gedatsu, Jayanagi, and Kamahige.



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35.  The China Poblana is, along with the Charro costume, currently one of the most representative outfits of Mexico. It consists of a skirt embroidered with sequins—often depicting the eagle and serpent of the national coat of arms—an embroidered blouse, a shawl (rebozo), and a wrap (fajilla) at the waist. The origin of this eclectic costume is unknown.

Chapter Four

The Moon’s Smile Folk Art and The Abayomi Project

Repetition and copying the work of others are embedded structurally in folk art.1 They have been a part of its nature, more often than not, but there has also been a struggle against it. Creation can include emulation, but it must also overcome the original model, i.e., make advances towards creation. In handcrafts—but not only limited to them!—one who creates is an author! And being an author strengthens one’s autonomy. Therefore, looking, imagining and creating mold the interlocked process of continuous development without an end. To imagine in order to be able to create another perspective. To look in order to be able to imagine another creation. To create in order to see and imagine differently and to make change happen!2

This quote from Edla Eggert reminds us precisely of the fact that artisans embedded in the world of folk art are perpetually confronted with the challenges of copying, repetition, and authorship. We saw this in the case of the polychromatic clay figures of Izúcar, where this problem is acute. It is also present, without a doubt, in the case of the Maori woven baskets of New Zealand, as well as in the two very distinct objects we studied in Japan: the shunkei lacquers and the Hagoita. In any artistic expression, though, I believe that it is precisely the act of going beyond imitation—making the jump to original creation—that gives autonomy, power, and change. The Abayomi dolls of Brazil are a clear example of this. Undoubtedly, Brazil is not the only place in the world where the moon smiles. In this part of the southern hemisphere of America, the earth is a sticky type of hot, but when the sun shines, it sparkles. Here, music courses through the body from head to toe, and the rain is abundant and surprising; the tropics themselves are at ease here, and on display in their abundant splendor. 91

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This complex, pluricultural, and multiethnic society maintains a surprisingly rich visual arts culture that has vigorously manifested for years. Marvelous visual artists, both women and men, have been born in or have come out of Brazil. I suppose that judgments regarding a community’s relative richness or poverty of art—of folk art, more specifically—are as subjective as any evaluation of art itself. Upon entering the terrain of valuation, it feels as though I am walking on quicksand. For a time, I had thought that Brazil did not produce much folk art, and moreover, that there had been few studies offering even a minimal analysis of Brazilian folk art, let alone contemplating the gender divide in folk art production. When I began my preliminary bibliographic research, and even later when I delved into the academy and began personally contacting feminist academics to see if anyone was working on women and Brazilian folk art, the search was fruitless; it appeared impossible to find anyone. My interests at that time had been based in my work compiling an anthology of texts on women and folk art in Latin America and the Caribbean, and I thought it was necessary to include Brazil.3 Ultimately, I wasn’t able to incorporate it into the anthology. This is why, in part, I decided to personally enter the world of folk art in Brazil and to write my own text about it. I affirmed that not much had been written about the topic in that country after conducting an exhaustive hemispheric bibliographic search through various databases as well as in several different large archives where I was given the opportunity to do research. However, I did find one book that clearly designated the gender of the artists; this is worth mentioning here since it was a rare occurrence.4 Moreover, Sonia Missagia Matos’s Artefatos de gênero na arte do barro has now been published; this significant work represents an advancement in the field of folk art studies because it takes into consideration both artistic value and the impact of the gender divide on the art-making processes it describes. These two issues have been systematically absent in research on folk art all over the world.5 The artists—male and female, but above all the male artists—most recognized in Brazilian folk art already have been rescued from anonymity and can even be found in museums, particularly in the Museu Casa do Pontal and in the Museu do Folclore Edison Carneiro in Rio de Janeiro. These are the two most important venues; they house the best folk art collections in Brazil. The first has also published several beautifully illustrated books on its collection.6 Both of these physical museum collections and the books published on them, though, demonstrate clearly why it is still necessary to write about the women of Brazilian folk art, specifically. The collection in the Museu Casa do Pontal is almost exclusively focused on figurative ceramics. In reality, women make the majority of the ceramics in the country; however, in Masclenai’s book, of the fifty-four artists mentioned, only seventeen are women. Some of the men



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included are denominated Masters, while none of the women are—not even as the “exception.” The same phenomenon is visible in the Museu do Folclore Edison Carneiro. Of the names of the folk artists that appear in large letters on the wall—to rescue them, rightly, from anonymity—only a negligible number are women. We already know that when visiting the great museums of Western culture or reading books that discuss “great” art throughout history, women are practically absent. One might think that the case would be different when it comes to female representation in folk art—and yet it is the same, both in museums and texts. The Museu Casa do Pontal is, without a doubt, an exceptional place for several reasons. First, for its location: one used to find it in the outskirts of Rio de Janeiro in a beautiful house in the middle of a field. They have moved from there. It was difficult to access, and yet, there were consistently a large number of visitors.7 Second, the quality and quantity of the archive is remarkable: it has about eight thousand pieces, almost all of which are figurative ceramics, undoubtedly the best folk art in the country. Third, the museology is unique and highly interesting. The layout of the works is thematic, and the titles chosen are fitting. It starts with “Law and the News,” which displays figures representing judges, police, journalists, or people reading the newspaper. Next, there are “The Professions,” with street venders, the town square, the rendeiras (lace makers), and houseworkers. One finds that the themes and figures are distributed by gender; it is fundamentally women artists who make pieces representing that work. After “The Professions” comes “Life in the Country,” which, as the name indicates, exhibits pieces that represent different aspects of the development of life in the country— feeding animals, or riding horses. The next sections, “Hunting and Fishing,” “Life Cycles,” “Children’s Games,” “Sacraments,” “Weddings,” “Commemorations,” show the most important celebrations in Brazil. Following those one finds “Death,” “Maracatu,” “O cangaço” (the social banditry movement of cangaceiros), “Religion” and “Religious Syncretism.” Further, the museum also has a collections of masks, of mamulengo (puppets in popular culture), of games and entertainment, arenas and lots of animals, extraordinary art, and in a space separated from the other collections by a door, there is an extraordinary collection of erotic pieces by Adalton Fernandes Lopes, one of Brazil’s great artists. He died in Niterói, Rio de Janeiro, in 2005. There is also an entire wall dedicated to the exceptional clay paintings of Maria Lourdes Cândido, Maria Cândido Monteiro and Ciça, who I will discuss later in this chapter. The various titles selected for these exhibits illustrate not only the topics that Brazilian male and female folk artists tend to address, but also what the curators of the museum consider to be the most important aspects of folk art in Brazil.

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Now, the Museu de Folclore Edison Carneiro is found in central Rio de Janeiro; it forms part of the famous Palace of Catete, which also houses the Museum of the Republic. The Palace of Catete was the residence of the presidents of Brazil from 1897 to 1954, the year in which President Getúlio Vargas committed suicide there. In this famous space, then, one finds the relatively small but outstanding museum of folk art, housing about fifteen hundred pieces. It includes a special room of temporary exhibitions called the Sala do Artista Popular (Folk Artist’s Room). Once again, the majority of the collection is of figurative ceramics, and these are likewise found thematically organized—though perhaps not to the same extent as those in the Casa do Pontal. It is in the first room that, in my opinion, the best of the museum can be found: a collection of small ceramic figurines arranged to show the human life cycle. There, one also finds some of Adalton’s most sublime and elaborate pieces. The museum also houses pieces by Vitalino, Noemisa, Galdino, Manuel Eudócio, Celestino, Luiz Antonio, Antonio Poteiro, Tota, Maria de Beni, Ulisses Pereira Chaves, Maria Cândido Monteiro, Eugênia da Silva, Cícera Fonseca da Silva, Zé Caboclo, as well as other first-rate artists. No matter how hard one attempts to find and name women artists, they are a clear minority (as one can see from this list). Both museums suffer from the same problem: a lack of historical information about the exhibits. Dates and places are often notable for their absence. This is a common problem for folk art exhibits and museums everywhere; context tends to be ignored, and the displays become ahistorical. The times, places, and the people who made the objects do not appear to be of interest. Brazilian intellectuals in literature, visual arts, cinema, photography, and video have turned their focus time and again toward folk art in search of a national identity that corresponds with their longing for authenticity.8 Similarly, in Mexico, through the existing literature in various disciplines, especially philosophy, sociology, psychology, anthropology, and the arts, it becomes clear that the search for authentic “Mexicanness” has been obsessive and obstinate. “Brazilianness” has likewise been sought in Brazil. Both countries, therefore, have made use of the distinctive characteristics of their respective folk arts in their search for strong and unique national identities. To a greater or lesser degree, they make various handicrafts across Brazil, while in some places they produce folk art. The most significant of the Brazilian folk arts, as I mentioned above, consists of clay figurines. After these, the most mastered and original art is woodcarving. Some states are richer in their creation of folk art than others, as is the case in Mexico. In Brazil, like in many other places, one can observe what I argue is one of the greatest paradoxes of folk art culture: the publication of luxurious, expensive books highlighting folk art through rich, color photographs. It is a paradox—and



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can even be construed as offensive—that an art that is on the one hand so inexpensive, so looked down upon, and so impoverished, should on the other hand be included in the beautiful pages of an ostentatious book. Nonetheless, in a sense, it is a positive thing that these texts do offer folk art the attention it deserves, and, moreover that they reproduce the art well—carefully, beautifully—so that it can be appreciated as close to its original form as possible.9 I want to underscore that Brazil is possibly the only place in Latin America that clearly demarcates between handcrafts and folk art. Both are artisanal products, but the former has a more utilitarian function while the latter is primarily ornamental, though it may also have a magical, religious, or playful function. It is precisely the strong aesthetic element of folk art (or artesanato artístico as it is called in Brazil)—as opposed to handicraft—that converts the object into something properly artistic. Note, however, that the distinction is not found solely in the fact that handicrafts have a primarily utilitarian function—but rather in that folk art must above all have an artistic function that serves pleasure, sensitivity, emotions, knowledge, laughter, faith, and conscience—it must have an element that does more than just support the necessities of everyday life. In fact, the repetition of the same piece over and again often converts what was originally folk art into handicraft. In Mexico, a clear distinction between folk art and handicrafts does not exist. In both shops and museums, handicrafts and folk art objects are found together. In addition, the terms handicraft and folk art are interchangeable; speakers use both terms without taking into account the possibility of any difference between them. This is not the case in Brazil. In folk art museums, as well as in specialized shops, one finds almost exclusively objects that can be unambiguously characterized as folk art. Handicrafts, on the other hand, can be found in street markets, open-air markets, and in less sophisticated tourist souvenir shops. However, in my opinion, there are several interesting objects that should be considered handicrafts, and yet are valued highly as expressions of a truly Brazilian folk art. The first of these is the carrancas (a type of figurehead that is attached to the prow of a river craft) made by Ana das Carrancas de Petrolina in Pernambuco. She used to make the carrancas (figureheads) in clay and attached them to a flowerpot. They were made in series. As I see it, they are simply pots (flowerpots) in the peculiar shape of a boat, with a head on the prow. The other case would be thick clay pots with lids, produced in the city of Vitória in Espíritu Santo, used to make moqueca.10 These pots are thought to embody the most authentic and traditional soul of the Brazilian people, since their origin appears to be indigenous, and they are highly valued as legitimate folk art objects. They are even made in miniature so that they can be sold as a curiosity or as decoration. This phenomenon, in particular,

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which demonstrates the possibility of converting handicrafts into folk art by adding aesthetic value, is rather remarkable. In terms of Brazilian textiles, there exists a variety, although this is not the nation’s most important handicraft, and few end up being considered folk art. They are fabricated principally in Goiás, Minas Gerais, and Rio Grande do Sul. (They are not exclusively produced in these places, but certainly to lesser extent in other parts.) It is almost always women who are tasked with the making of textiles. It is primarily men who carve wooden objects in Brazil, as is the case with alebrijes in Mexico. In Ceará and Maranhão, wood carvers make religious statues, musical instruments, furniture, and kitchen utensils. However, one of the most original wooden objects made in Brazil are carrancas (head figures made for the prows of boats on the São Francisco River; see above). Originally they were placed on the riverboats for good fortune, but today they are merely artistic objects that are fashioned in a variety of sizes for sale in folk art shops. The island of Florianópolis in the state of Santa Catarina is also known as the Ilha das Bruxas (Isle of Witches). Legend has it that the Portuguese colonizers arriving there from the Azores Archipelago brought with them the idea that the seventh daughter born to any family would be a bruxa (witch), and the seventh son a lobishomen (werewolf). As a result, Florianópolis’s identity now manifests itself through figures (primarily made of clay) of witches and ugly old men representing the lobishomen. Unfortunately, these figures are fairly unattractive from an artistic point of view, and indeed, the legend is lovelier than its visual representation. The state of Minas Gerais, which was once one of the most prosperous mining regions in the world, is still rich today—though, now, its “riches” lie in its folk art, which is also the art of the poorest people. Here, a genuinely Brazilian art is made, consisting of a variety of solid wood objects and polychromatic clay figures. As in other places, it is men who carve the wood—primarily in the areas of Ouro Preto and Tiradentes—and women help paint when necessary. In the case of the figurative ceramics of the Vale do Jaquitinhonha, however, the opposite is the norm: women make the clay figures, and the men help when necessary. There are certainly a handful of men who stand out as clay figure makers, though, and, of course (or, unfortunately), they are ultimately much more visible than the scores of women who work in this craft. The pareja mineira, made of wood, is a rather singular creation and quite distinctive in the region. These painted, multicolored figures are comprised of a man and a woman each dressed as traditional miners from the nineteenth century. They come in a variety of sizes, from just a few inches to over three feet tall. One finds them displayed in front of houses or businesses as a



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decoration—and also because they represent the pride of the miner identity. Sometimes the carvings are exquisite, but in general, the need to make a living from their creation means that they are made in bulk, and thus the quality is, accordingly, not usually very good. This is also the case with little lamb figurines (with metal hooves and horns) and little multicolored chickens; they are produced identically in bulk, and ultimately could be considered more a handicraft than folk art. In this case, the distinction arises not because the figures serve a utilitarian function, but rather because their artistic value is scarce. Many wooden objects are carved without being painted; among these are animals of an inordinate size, like lions and cats that are more than three feet long. Because it is difficult and costly to transport these pieces, they are primarily sold to locals; however, it is worth noting that some of these are sold in folk art shops in large cities, and they do find foreign buyers from time to time. In addition to these multicolored animal and human figures, in the same state they also make extremely unusual pieces called namoradeiras. These are generally quite large—they can measure up to six feet tall—busts of women carved out of solid wood, and positioned as though the woman is waiting, usually with her head in her hand. They are brightly colored and, at first sight, they might seem rather shocking—they could appear to some to be rather tacky or in bad taste. Most namoradeiras are black women dressed to the nines with a sensual neckline, and they are placed in the windows of houses. They are said to be waiting for their suitors. Once again, these are extremely heavy pieces that cannot be easily transported. Now, though, the production of papier-mâché namoradeiras makes it possible to transport them more easily. They are also sometimes made with clay, though these—along with the papier-mâché pieces—are for me true monuments to bad taste. Where there is tourism, there are handicrafts and folk art. This is the case in the exceptionally lovely colonial town of Tiradentes, where they make traditional folk art from wood and clay, and where scores of neo-handicrafts11 have also sprung up—some with a certain grace and imagination, others not so much. They use gourds to make particularly lovely and original chubby dolls, which they paint in earth tones that make them stand out from the symphony of colors that dominate traditional Brazilian handicrafts. On the other hand, the thick female figures made of clay that are made in the town of Conceição da Barra de Minas, in my opinion, are truly horrible. Of all the things they make in Minas Gerais, the most important from an artistic standpoint are the clay figures from the town of the Vale do Jequitinhonha. There are only two places in the entire (enormous) country where high quality and extremely original clay figures are made: in the Vale do Jequitinhonha and in the municipality of Caruarú (Alto de Moura) in the state of Pernambuco, which is one of the most important centers for figurative art

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in the Americas. These clay figures recreate people and scenes of all kinds; they show various aspects of human life, from birth until death, as well as popular myth—everything is represented. Modern production of these figures in the northeast of the country stems from Vitalino Pereira dos Santos, Mestre Vitalino—who in 1963 died prematurely, in poverty, of a disease that had been found to have a vaccine 150 years earlier: smallpox.12 It was in 1947 that the painter Augusto Rodrigues brought the work of Mestre Vitalino, Zé Caboclo, and others to an exhibition in Rio de Janeiro, and they became known outside their place of origin.13 In the roughly half a century since then, this art has been intensely developed in the region, and now hundreds of people practice it. It seems to me that the same story is repeated across many places around the world. For example, it reminds me of the fabrication of “little devils” in Ocumicho. There, in the 1960s, a man named Marcelino started making them, and now scores of women have taken up their production. Or, this is also the story of Juan Quezada from Mata Ortiz in Chihuahua, who started making ceramics on his own, and now hundreds of men and women in the region dedicate themselves to making clay vessels. This, then, is what has happened in Brazil. I am not going to elaborate on this particular art here, though—despite the fact that it is one of the Brazilian folk arts that most interests me—because it is also the one that has already been well studied and recorded.14 More frequently than men, women have found in folk art a supplement to their family income—if not their entire income. Women have found the job convenient because it is relatively easy to balance with domestic work and childcare. Bobbin lace is particularly important in Brazil; as a folk art it is notable because it constitutes a true domestic industry for its level of perfection and sophistication.15 This is an art made exclusively by women. It is clearly colonial-Portuguese in origin, but for some reason it found fertile ground in Brazil, and not only has its creation not disappeared, as happened in Mexico, but it has actually been considerably developed. The principal locations for the production of this art form are Ceará, Santa Catarina, Algoas, and across almost the entire northeast: Pernambuco, Paraíba, Rio Grande do Norte, Piauí, Maranhão, and Pará. Moreover, it has come to symbolize a complex web of regional identities, in addition to Brazilian identity more generally. In Juzero do Norte, in the state of Ceará, I found Maria de Lourdes Cândido and her daughters, Maria de Soccoro and Maria Cândido Monteiro, and their marvelous clay “paintings.” They consist of small squares of painted clay with figures pressed on top. As an art form, it is especially attractive. They depict all kinds of scenes from daily and imaginary life: women and men swimming, dancing, playing music, visiting the doctor, working the earth, or



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dancing Bumba-meu-boi. As mentioned earlier, in the Casa do Pontal Museum, there is a wall featuring these works. Among the wide variety of folk art objects made across Brazil, it is worthwhile to point out that there are three clay figures, in particular, that are consistently made in many of the country’s ceramic-making centers: the Guinea fowl; the famous bandit Lampião, with or without his wife Maria Bonita; and the ox called Bumba-meu-boi. These figures can be found in all possible sizes and quality. The Angola fowl is simple, but has a peculiar rounded form. Most are made using molds and only some are the result of actual artists creating them by hand. The entire body of the fowl is painted with special white circles that have color in their centers. The same color is used for the entire hen, but the tone of the color might vary. For instance, if the color chosen is blue, then all of the white circles’ centers will be different shades of blue. The eyes are round, created by using three circles of different colors. All the Angola fowl are more or less the same. Lampião is perhaps the most famous and feared cangaceiro (social bandit) of all time. Without a doubt, he is a legendary historical figure of the first order in Brazil. Lampiãos and his wife, Maria Bonitas, exist in all possible forms of art. In folk art, clay figures representing them come in all sizes, but once again, though all of them represent a great popular myth and a hero of the Brazilian people, most are quickly and poorly made. Also called the King of Cangaço, Lampião was born in Pernambuco under the name Virgolino Ferreira (1898– 1938). He was a cangaceiro, an outlaw, vicious and merciless, who worked

Figure 4.1.  Angola fowl, clay, 2004. Photo: Manuel Ortiz Escámez.

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with his band of cangaceiros in the sertão (the arid region) in the northeast as a highwayman for a couple of decades; he died at the hands of the police, along with Maria and other members of the band, as a result of treason. Their heads were cut off and put on display in the Museu Nina Rodrigues in Salvador, Bahia, for thirty years. If he was a legend in his lifetime, in death he became a myth that has persevered until today. It is difficult to determine where legend begins and where history ends in the stories written about his life; both are passionately intertwined. Much in reference to his life is unknown, even the date of his birth. Some claim that it is 1897 and others, those who have seemingly investigated more deeply, say 1898. Indeed, this is what happens frequently with legends—much of what is “known” is found within a fog of uncertainty. The case of Frida Kahlo is similar in that, there were doubts about her exact date of birth for many years, and various episodes of her life continue to be shrouded in obscurity, distortion, and myth. In the end, many of popular representations of Lampião and Maria Bonita made during the last half century are surprisingly perfect. The now classic forms that Mestre Vitalino and Zé Caboclo made of them, for instance, are quite frankly marvelous. The Bumba-meu-boi are oxen with cow bells hanging around their necks and are painted in bright colors and decorated with ribbons in contrasting colors. They represent the principal character of the popular theatrical dance of the same name, which details the life, death, and resurrection of an ox. As with the previous examples, they come in a variety of sizes; some are even made with small holes in the sides so that they can be used as pencil holders. It is curious that these three examples (the Guinea fowl, Lampião, and Bumba-me boi), in particular, have come to be mass-produced. While they are interesting and amusing, they are undoubtedly cheap handicrafts for tourists. However, some of the representations, mostly of Lampião and Maria Bonita, are true works of art. These three images have come to represent the epitome of Brazilianness in folk art. Among the figurative ceramics of the northeast, the figure of the retirantes (people who abandon their land because of drought and/or poverty) is emblematic; they are the image of migration par excellence within folk art. The figures show a line of six people—elderly, young, male, and female, some with babies in their arms, some with bundles on their heads, and generally accompanied by dogs, cats, and donkeys. They are migrating from the sertão as a result of the terrible drought. The sheer number of retirantes that are made is astonishing, and they come in all sizes and from all places. These are certainly the fourth most produced pieces, after the three mentioned above. An important part of the northeastern identity is rooted in migration—they are eternal migrants. Their folk art represents a piece of their lives, their history, and in this way—fittingly—international tourism continues to scatter their lives around the four corners of the globe.



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Figure 4.2.  Lampião and Maria Bonita, clay. Photo: Manuel Ortiz Escámez.

All of these clay pieces, whether from Minas Gerais or Pernambuco, share one characteristic that gives them a completely different identity from similar figures in other parts of the world: the eyes. The human figures in Brazilian ceramics all have very distinctive eyes: they are extremely white, the center is of darkest black, and they are completely round.16 I have not seen in Mexico any ceramic figures with the same eyes. Even those that are not painted, like the ones made by Mestre Vitalino in the beginning, are still quite peculiar because he gave the figures fairly deep, round holes for eyes. Another ceramist who makes the eyes this way is Noemisa Batista dos Santos from the Vale do Jequitinhonha. His ceramics have a unique personal style; he is one of the most original artisans in the country. Some interesting objects that have not yet caught the attention of those who study such things—even though they are deserving of an in-depth study—are the paneau made by women in Recife, Pernambuco. The paneau are pictures made of vegetable fibers (quadrinhos de sisal) featuring little dolls of fabric scraps that are glued on to show scenes of daily life and to tell stories. For example, they might depict A fazenda (a ranch) or a Feirinha (a market). They are similar to Chilean arpilleras, though the materials used are different. The Chilean version uses pure fabric, not vegetable fibers, and the storytelling method is also different. The women who make these paneaus are grouped together in a cooperative, just like many of the hundreds and hundreds of others dedicated to the production of handicrafts and folk art.

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ART NAÏF In every country in Latin America and the Caribbean, poor people, and especially women, devise ways to find new forms of expression that manage, with some luck, to enter the market. This is how neo-handicrafts started being fabricated in bulk. Perhaps this is why naïf (or naïve) painting on fabric or canvas has greatly increased in general—and Brazil is no exception to this growing trend. In fact, it might even be one of the places where the socalled naïf, or “primitive” painting, is most abundant; the strong tradition of this type of painting in Brazil has led to the necessity of creating the Museu Internacional da Arte Naïf do Brasil (The International Museum of Naïve Art of Brazil) in Rio de Janeiro.17 The museum most frequently exhibited visual artworks, mainly by men, that utilize the so-called naïf or primitive style as a means of expression. It seems that the curators of the museum did not have a clear sense of what should be integrated into their archive, given that among the paintings displayed, one could find folk art objects such as Mexican painted amates (painted bark paper). It could be that the lines between folk art and naïf art are fairly hazy. “Primitive or naïf art is typically Brazilian and it is strongly linked to the national folk art,” claims one Brazilian author.18 To me, it seems that they happily mix paintings that are deliberately and consciously done in the naïf style with ones that may “appear” naïf, but that actually exhibit a community’s dominant form of expression; these are generally denominated as “naïf” by academics from outside the community and from other social classes. This is a polemical issue; I only mean to point out that in Brazil the naïf is enormously important as well as widespread, as it is made in many places. It is also quite interesting from an aesthetic perspective: it vibrates like the country itself. It is considered an expressive form by and for the people—for the working classes—both rural and urban. The only problem with this characterization lies in ultimately trying to describe this amorphous “people”; indeed, it seems that it is precisely when one doesn’t know to whom to attribute something, that thing is comfortably attributed to “the people.” It is from here, then, that the nationalist sublimation of the idea, naïf or “primitive” art in Brazil as an authentic expression of the Brazilian people arises! I don’t know if it was billed as “of the people” or not—though it would be worthwhile to find out—but for the 1998 Biennial, 480 works by 240 artists were submitted. Of these, 153 works by 93 artists were selected. The catalogue for the exhibition lists more than a third of these artists as women, which is significant, because if it were another form of visual art, the number of women would certainly have dropped drastically.19 In naïf painting, there have always, everywhere, been a large number of women. Now, it would be



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relevant to know the social class of the women in the catalogue, but there is no way of finding this information; we thus don’t know if the works came from working class women or if they were paintings by middle class women. Could it be that the mere fact that they are characterized as naïf means that they are popular (working class) art? This is often the case—naïf art and folk art are collapsed together—but I would argue that it is still worth investigating the actual social class of the artists. Those belonging to classes of significant economic resources but who deliberately decide to paint naïf paintings in order to disregard academic conventions and rebel against the norms of formal art should not automatically be characterized as folk artists—though they should of course be called naïf. THE BOOM OF THE COOPERATIVE It was in the 1970s that the cooperative system of production proliferated enormously in Brazil, perhaps thanks, at least in part, to 1971 legislation: the National Cooperative Law, passed under the military government of General Emilio Garrastazu Médici. In the first years of the twenty-first century, then president Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva created an inter-ministerial working group with the goal of modernizing and strengthening the cooperative sector.20 This method of organizing work has been successful in the country and cooperatives have continued to proliferate extensively, especially those run by women. It has been stated time and again that women are better at working in cooperation [than men].21 To know for sure, of course, we would have to consider all the cooperatives and associations that exist and determine whether there are more run by women or men; furthermore, there are other types of associations—informal ones, or ones of a different nature altogether, like NGOs or religious organizations. Properly taking all of these into account would considerably complicate the question. If it is ultimately true that women work better in cooperation than men, it is possible that this is due to the social disadvantages that they have experienced separately, but that they solve more easily when united. Or perhaps it is due to the fact that, in general, women are more physically fragile, socially speaking, and that they are stronger when they are united. The sector for the production and commercialization of handicrafts and folk art is no exception. Both men and women have organized diverse cooperatives and associations in order to better confront the economic problems arising from successive and interminable economic crises. It would seem, however, that in Brazil, there are more cooperatives formed by women than by men. These cooperatives have received a range of economic incentives from state-funded programs,

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in addition to international financing. In this way, cooperatives dedicated to folk art and handicrafts have developed and multiplied, primarily in the last two decades.22 The case I consider below represents an example of the enormous capacity that exists in Brazil to associate with others in order to achieve collectively set goals, in the struggle for survival—with specific political objectives or without them—often in relation to production and commercialization. ABAYOMI A Yoruba word that means “my present” or even “my moment,” Abayomi is the name of an association of black women that certainly is a political project, but that also creates very peculiar black rag dolls sem cola u costura (without glue or stitching). Millions of rag dolls are made across the world; perhaps no group of people exists that hasn’t made rag dolls as toys—surely with little girls in mind, to the envy of little boys. But the Abayomi rag dolls are not meant as playthings. Rather, they are only to be looked at—a decoration; they are “Fiapos e farrapos animados pela imaginação de femeninos pares de mãos”23 [Garnetted stocks and rags animated by female pairs of hands]. The group is called the “Cooperativa Abayomi” but it is actually an association, not a cooperative in the legal or fiscal sense. It belongs to the National Network for Reproductive Rights, the Network Against Violence Against Women, and the Network for Black Latino-Caribbean Women.24 It has received support from international financing agencies like the World Council of Churches, Women for the World Day of Organization, Mama Cash, and the Global Fund for Women. Craftswoman, educator, and member of the movement for black women in Brazil, Lena Martins invented the bonecas negras (black dolls). She made her first doll in 1987, in the neighborhood of Cidade de Deus, Rio de Janeiro, and the Abayomi project came together on December 21, 1988. The decision to make black dolls coincided with the commemoration of the 100-year anniversary of the abolition of slavery in Brazil (1988). The black movement at that time was very strong, and it enabled Lena’s personal self-discovery as a strong and determined black woman. The association, however, was not formalized until 1994. Lena spent a year making dolls on her own, perfecting the technique (the first dolls were just piles of rags without any artistic value) before joining together with other women she knew and who had liked what they had seen of her work. This is when they started making them together, originally thinking that they could export them. This was never possible, though, and the dolls were hardly even exported out of Rio de Janeiro.



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Lena was born in 1950 in São Luiz, in the northern state of Maranhão, and migrated to Rio de Janeiro when she was eight years old. I had the feeling, however, that she was more Cariocan [a native of Rio de Janeiro] than the samba. As a craftswoman, in order to survive, she made different kinds of clothes in addition to the more traditional Brazilian rag dolls.25 The association was consciously ecological in their material and construction choices: they used only recycled materials and did not use any machines, only scissors. The dolls were thus made entirely by hand using knots and by rolling up strips of different colored fabric. The materials used were all scraps from factories and from Carnival. They used cotton almost exclusively, though it was increasingly difficult to find it since factories had begun using primarily synthetic fibers. For this reason, they had to undertake special strategies to procure the raw materials, even though these would have been thrown in the garbage anyway.

Figure 4.3.  Lena Martins, 2013. Photo: Ana Paula Alves Ribeiro.

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In addition to making the dolls, the association gave courses and workshops, and they offered exhibitions and street performances such as “O cortejo brincante” (The Playful Parade). Women of all ages participated in the performances, and they came together through games, poems, tongue twisters, recipes, riddles, work songs, and lullabies. Edmundo Pereira wrote of “O cortejo brincante,” “No canto, no gesto, no passo, guarda um povo, expressa um povo, seu saber e seu contar”26 [In the song, in the gesture, in the step, resides a people, expresses a people, their wisdom and their narrative]. Of the eighteen women who had started in the cooperative, only three remained. The women who had at first involved themselves no longer participated in the daily operations of the cooperative. Aside from knowing how to make the dolls and participating the group’s other activities, all of the women also had a variety of other professions—teachers, psychologists, actresses, therapists, acrobats, trapeze artists—and they worked as such. The trapeze artists had left to dedicate themselves full-time to those jobs; they only collaborated from time to time with Abayomi—primarily for games, spectacles, and parades. The women who worked most at the cooperative still only worked part time—only three or four days a week. Everyone who entered the group brought something unique, and this was important to them. There was a workshop in which the participants made Abayomi baby dolls. They placed the materials in a manadala on the floor, and each participant expressed her desire to build a more just world while constructing her doll (in general, not very well). Through games, songs, and while exchanging ideas and feelings, each participant made a black rag doll. Ideally, twenty-five people participated. The workshop focused on reflection and consciousnessraising, with the goals of increasing self-esteem and becoming more aware of the injustice in the world. Lena Martins continues to organize these workshops in different venues. In 1995 they held an exhibition of Abayomi dolls in the Folk Artists’ Room at the Museu do Folclore Edison Carneiro in Rio de Janeiro. A catalogue was published for the event. The exhibition was particularly significant for the association, since it was held at one of the most prestigious museums in the country. Furthermore, in 2000 they received an award for successful women in Guadalajara, Mexico, granted by the Network for Education Between Women in Latin America and the Caribbean (REPEM) of Uruguay. The award entailed the publication of a chapter written about the association in a book.27 The group also staged the traveling exhibition “Ritmos de Brazil” (Rythyms of Brazil) in 2000 and 2001, as well as “Retalhos do Brasil” (Patchwork of Brazil), which was organized around five themes: “daily life,” which illustrated weddings, soccer, family; “work,” in the fields, for example; “the mythological jungle,” which featured the Saci-Pererê, the Cuca or the Canto



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da sereia28; “the sacred,” that represented saints as well as syncretic manifestations of the African and Catholic religions; and “the profane” in which they integrated popular festivals like Bumba-meu-boi, Carnival, or the Junina Festival. In 2004, UNESCO held a conference in Brasilia and ordered one thousand dolls. Nevertheless, despite having spent many years in the world, and despite having appeared in a number of spaces throughout the city and the country, these little dolls remained relatively unknown outside Rio. Lena decided to make black dolls because the majority of the dolls made in Brazil were blonde. The group consisted exclusively of women, not because men were not allowed to join, but because no men showed interest in forming part of the project. As a result, it was both a female organization and a feminist one, since it made a point of demonstrating the inequality and lack of opportunities faced by women, especially black women. Through the dolls, their collective work, and above all, through the internal work of the group, they sought together the self-esteem required to raise the local population’s consciousness of black women’s lives and significance in Brazil. All of the dolls, without exception, had to be black. Lena believed that they shouldn’t have faces because in Brazil there are many kinds of faces, and if they gave the dolls eyes and mouths this limited them too much. There was not just one black physiognomy, but rather there were (and are) multiple types, and it was better if everyone could imagine whatever they wanted. Lena insisted that all the dolls needed to be beautiful. She emphasized this. The aesthetic value assigned to the work that each member of the group did was as important as their political and ecological work. At one time, they would work in various locations all together, but in 2004 only four of them worked at the same time in the workshop; the others worked from home and usually only came together for meetings. The group included both married and single women, and Lena Martins was the only divorced woman. Her daughter also made dolls in order to earn extra income, and Lena sometimes worked with her grandchildren making the dolls. The children liked the capoeiras the most, but they didn’t have the necessary authorization to sell them as toys because they could be dangerous. For Lena, the dolls were more than just representations of humans—they were humanity. In Rio de Janeiro there had been no handicrafts or folk art that represented the city. So, they thought that the Abayomi dolls were strictly from the city with both African and European influence. Learning to master the technique necessary for making the dolls could take up to a year of continuous labor. If a woman left the group and later returned, she had to relearn the technique, as it would change quite a bit over time. The first dolls Lena showed and that people wanted to buy had long arms, a large chest, and full backside; the dolls later developed to have none of these traits.

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Figure 4.4.  Abayomi black rag doll, Trapeze Artist, Rio de Janeiro, 2004. Photo: Manuel Ortiz Escámez.

In general, the women achieved an aesthetic excellence that was unparalleled in Brazil when it came to rag dolls. Lena’s principal role was that of the organizer; she offered new ideas, collaborated in sales, and, of course, participated in the group’s activities. Once a week they all got together from 9 a.m. to 3 p.m. for what they called “Céu na terra” (Heaven on earth), in which they would drink coffee together and complete collective tasks. Having developed health problems that affected her arms, Lena hardly made dolls anymore. When we met, she was having tests done; they suspected it was carpal tunnel syndrome that, undoubtedly, was the result of years of working on the difficult task of tying knot after knot with her hands. The meetings were held in the cooperative’s headquarters, which also happened to be Lena’s home. It was situated among a group of little houses on the slope of one of Santa Teresa’s hill settlements. There, one could find Lena working, moving the imaginary threads of the cooperative as though it were a puppet in her expert hands. The workshop doubled as the meeting room, and next to it another small room, with a beautiful view, held the cooperative’s offices. A young woman, Ariana, had just been hired part-time to take care of administrative tasks, and she was also learning how to make the dolls.



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In 1999, the headquarters had burned down and this was a huge loss. Everything, including Lena’s whole history, was reduced to ashes: various documents, the press archive, photos, and videos. Moreover, all the supplies and materials held there—musical instruments, office equipment, and some four hundred dolls—were all lost. Lena had hoped to find someone who could, at the very least, invigorate the sales process—who had a clear vision of how to commercialize the group’s products in a just way—because she had no one who could do this work. They needed to be able to work with peace of mind. Quite often, the biggest problem for groups dedicated to art is the commercial aspect; if they don’t sell what they make, they cannot survive. The price of the dolls varied depending on whether they were bought directly from the cooperative or if they were bought from a shop, where they cost three times as much. The sizes ranged from a few inches (for those used as brooches) up to five feet. The smallest cost less than a dollar. Some had a small magnet on the back so that they could be stuck to a refrigerator or metallic surface; these were two to three inches and cost a dollar. The four to six inch dolls cost ten to twenty dollars. The prices increased as the size and the time needed to make the dolls increased; the most elaborate dolls cost more. Normally, 55 percent of the sale would go to the woman who had made the doll, another percentage toward the association’s expenses, and 5 percent to Lena, for copyright. They were relatively expensive dolls. The larger ones, from one foot or a foot and a half, were sold in different markets or fairs, university exhibitions, wherever they could. The majority, however, were sold in handicraft shops for tourists, though the best shops didn’t stock them, something that I found hard to understand since, in my opinion, they were an example of truly excellent and sophisticated folk art. The dolls offered a positive image of black women. Through playful and creative expressions, the dolls contributed to a wider recognition of the AfroBrazilian identity. They were said to stimulate reflection on racial, social, and cultural differences, and to awaken an affective memory in each person. They were also truly ecological, feminist, and antiracist. A wide variety of dolls could be made in the various sizes—all of them black, of course. They made angels, fairies, or circus performers such as clowns or acrobats. The acrobats were dressed in a variety of colors and their hair would be done in different styles. They were positioned with their head down and one leg over a trapeze, and the trapeze could be hung from the wall to display. They were quite lovely. Other types of dolls made included mythological beings, folkloric characters like Curupira (a figure with red hair and backward feet who goes around frightening people), saints, figures from daily life, people dressed in folkloric costumes for regional dances,

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witches (with a flowered cape, hat, underpants, and red-wine colored shoes, a long and twisty nose, a broom, and long, blood-red and silver hair), Xangô (an orisha from Candomblé), and Saci-Pererê (A mythical character in Brazilian folklore. He is a one-legged black playful youngster who smokes a pipe and wears a magical red cape). Now, after seeing several images of paintings by Frida Kahlo, Lena invented her own version of Frida, black of course, and very lovely. She would also represent people doing capoeira by attaching groups of three or four dolls practicing the martial art to a piece of wood. The small dolls that served as brooches, or those attached to a magnet, were dressed in a variety of clothing and colors, some with skirts, others in pants, but almost all of them were women. Actually, the only male dolls that I saw were either in the capoeira groups or as representations of folkloric beings. There were also many dolls dressed as brides. In general, all of the fabric used to make the dolls was very, very bright, one might even say garish.

Figure 4.5.  Abayomi doll, Saci-Pererè, Rio de Janeiro, 2004. Photo: Manuel Ortiz Escámez.



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Each of the dolls distributed had a tag hanging from it that said in both Portuguese and English, “Strengthening the self-esteem of a people. Black doll made without glue or stitching, taking advantage of material left over from the textile industry. Genuine Brazilian art developed exclusively by the Abayomi Cooperative.” Another said, “Black doll made without glue or stitching. Genuine Brazilian handicraft, exclusive of the Abayomi Cooperative, made with recycled material. Styles: circus characters, mythology, cultural and folklore characters, representations of everyday life. Sizes: 0.5 inches to 60 inches.” They knew that “the people” was not a neutral term: the “people” for them meant black and female, and they were aware of the way that the use of “the people” erased their specificity. Commonly, political and intellectual elites from Latin America and the Caribbean, to name only one example, thought of the people as “an abstract entity, an empty space”—but the women of Abayomi knew clearly who made up the Brazilian people.29

Figure 4.6.  Abayomi black rag doll, Witch, Rio de Janeiro, 2004. Photo: Manuel Ortiz Escámez.

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The Abayomi project was significant in more than one sense. Not only were the dolls interesting and beautiful, with unarguable artistic value, but there was also a very worthwhile political project behind it that represented something absolutely exceptional within the Latin American folk art scene. That is, this cooperative was different from the many others that existed in the region; their absolutely deliberate and successful merging of political and artistic work made them truly unique. There was no sign of fear that the political would contaminate their art, and indeed, it was quite the opposite: the political and the social were what gave their work meaning and substance. They expressed the worth of the Afro-Brazilian identity through the clothing of their dolls, such as the Jongo suit worn for a typical dance from Rio, and through their representations of capoeirists, orishas, and Rio’s folk characters of African origin: everything took on meaning through their art. They dedicated to projecting a positive image of being black. It was, to some extent, a Brazilian and female version of black is beautiful of the 1960s in the United States. For Lena Martins, her work in Abayomi represented a form of poetic activism. Both in relation to the identity conflicts that situate images of black people or blackness in a universe still marked by negative stereotypes or by localized dissent, and to the worry that the manifestations of African heritage must be strengthened in Brazilian culture, many myths on the question of color and race in the imaginary of the nation in Brazil are being questioned. 30

It is significant that this is a revaluation of a blackness that also occurs through the body. It might even seem paradoxical. The Abayomi dolls gave fundamental importance to corporality. As I mentioned before, they had no facial features, and as a result, their blackness was expressed in the color of their skin, their hair, and sometimes through their clothes; the bodies were “sculpted” magnificently up to the tiniest detail. If the representation of black women and men in the dominant white imaginary is that they are pure body, that they are more body than intellect, that they are muscles, sensuality, sex, and dynamism, “a corporality that fascinates and horrifies at the same time,”31 I have the distinct feeling that these dolls highlighted the beauty of the black body. In fact, it was exactly the body that the artists emphasized, seeing it in a positive way. A large number of the dolls were figures of action rather than of stasis, and it was precisely this corporal dynamism that defined them. I think the women start from what has always been conceived in negative terms and then work to question and redefine it: “The epidermal classification of individuals marks so profoundly the historical experience of the peoples of



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Figure 4.7.  Abayomi magnet, Rio de Janeiro, 2004. Photo: Manuel Ortiz Escámez.

America that, even today, the human body is linked to a moral and aesthetic code determined above all by their external features.”32 The Abayomi dolls locate their meaning in trying to keep alive and present in memory the ignominious history of African slavery. It seems worthwhile to compare this historical-memory dimension of the Abayomi project to the publication of a book titled Para nunca esquecer: negras memórias/ memorias de negros (To Never Forget: Black Memories/Memories of Black People). In that text, even though it seems unbelievable, they have forgotten to include women.33 In this case, the almost complete absence of women is surprising since the book was ostensibly designed to specifically repair the damage of a selective and exclusionary racist memory. What is worse is that on the first page, they printed a portrait of Ana Zinga, Queen of Matamba, with her bare breast on display. This would be a magnificent image—if the book had included an equal number of men and women that lay bare body

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parts that are normally covered. This book will become, without a doubt, a sad memory. The Abayomi dolls, on the other hand, worked to repair this forgetting of women, especially black women, through a dynamic and playful reclaiming of black womanhood. This is what was so politically significant and beautiful in these dolls: that they were born from such skilled hands, and then that they remained to nourish both the senses and the reason of those who let themselves be seduced. I have offered a brief survey of some of expressions of Brazilian folk art, emphasizing the exceptional things I found. After investigating—and based on what my own experiences have taught me—I can affirm, though with some fear of being mistaken, that the wealth of folk art in Brazil leaves much to be desired. If it is compared to folk art in Mexico it is neither as abundant nor as interesting, and it does not reach the same levels of excellence as that of Mexican folk art. Having said that, and as I have tried to show, there are some extraordinary manifestations of this art in Brazil that are unique in their beauty and originality. It is also true, though, that they are scarce, especially if we consider the large geographic area the nation encompasses. Or it may be, perhaps, that nothing is the truth and nothing is a lie . . . and, all the same, the possibility exists that the moon only smiled for me. NOTES   1.  This text was originally published in Portuguese as “O sorriso da lua.” Antropolítica 21 (Niterói, Rio de Janeiro: Universidade Federal Fluminense, 2008), pp. 83–108.  2. Edla Eggert, “Women Weavers Recognising Their Craftwork.” Gender and Research 18, no. 2 (2017), https://www.genderonline.cz/uploads/ae64f644ef241546ea7ca135a42339b5e6c945d5_gender-2-2017-stat-4-eggert.pdf (Consulted March 21, 2019).  3. Eli Bartra, Crafting Gender: Women and Folk Art in Latin America and the Caribbean. London/Durham: Duke University Press, 2003, and Creatividad invisible: Mujeres y arte popular en América Latina y el Caribe (Mexico: PUEG/UNAM, 2004).  4. Mestres-artesãos, 2000.   5.  See Sonia Missagia Matos, Artefactos de gênero na arte do barro (Jequitinhonha) (Vitoria: Universidade Federal do Espíritu Santo, 2001).  6. Angela Mascelani, Museu Casa do Pontal. O mundo de arte popular brasileira.   7.  In 2016 the museum changed location, but the large number of visitors continues.  8. Catherine Arruda Fleury Ellwanger. Renda de bilros, reda da terra, renda do Ceará. A expressão artística de um povo (São Paulo: Annablume, 2002), p. 279.



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 9. See The Art of Brazilian Handicraft (São Paulo: Talento, 2002); Angela Mascelani. Museu Casa do Pontal. O mundo da arte popular brasileira. Rio de Janeiro: Museu Casa do Pontal, 2002. 10.  Moqueca: a dish typical to some regions in Brazil. 11.  This is my term for the handicrafts that spring up from one day to the next to satisfy tourist demand. 12.  Jose de Souza Martins, “Mestre Vitalino, Popular Art in the Conformist Imaginary.” In Heroes and Artist: Popular Arts in the Brazilian Imagination. Edited by Tania Costa Tribe. pp. 50–53 (Cambridge: Brazil Connects, 2001), p. 50. 13.  Angela Mascelani, op. cit., pp. 14–15. 14.  See for example: The Art of Brazilian Handicraft. São Paulo: Talento, 2002; Silvia Coimbra, Flavia Martins and Leticia Duarte. O reinado da lua: escultores populares do Nordeste. Pernambuco, Brasil: fundarde, 4th ed., 2012. 15.  See María Luiza Pinto Mendoça, Algumas consideraçoes sobre rendos e rendeiras do nordeste (Fortaleza: Universidade do Ceará, 1959). 16.  It seems that it was Manuel Eudócio Rodrigues (1931), from Alto de Moura, Pernambuco, a disciple of Mestre Vitalino, who first started making the eyes this way. 17.  As of December 23, 2016, this museum has been closed. 18. Oscar D’ambrosio, http://www.artcanal.com.br/oscardambrosio/artenaif.htm (Consulted April 17, 2017). 19.  Bienal Naïfs do Brasil 1998. 20. Carmenzina Mascarenhas. http://www.radiobras.gov.br/direto_planalto/mat planalto_100703.htm (Consulted June 15, 2005). 21.  For example, Ronald J. Duncan, “Women’s Folk Art in La Chamba, Colombia.” In Crafting Gender: Women and Folk Art in Latin America and the Caribbean. Edited by Eli Bartra (London/Durham: Duke University Press, 2003), p. 130. 22.  See Tereza de Souza, Uma estrategia de marketing para o artesanato do Rio Grande do Norte: o programa integrado de desenvolvimento do artesanato sob forma cooperativista (São Paulo: EAESP, 1991). 23.  Description of the work done by the Abayomi on their web page http://www .bonecasabayomi.com.br (Consulted July 14, 2012). 24.  Así se hace, pp. 41–42. 25.  Interview with Lena Martins in November 2004 at the Universidade del Estado de Rio de Janeiro (UERJ). 26.  “In songs, in gestures, in steps, it keeps the people, it expresses the people, their knowledge and their telling,” http://www.abayomi.com.br/cortejo.html. 27. See Así se hace. II Concurso Latinoamericano. 8 emprendimientos exitosos liderados por mujeres (Montevideo: REPEM 2002). 28.  Characters from Brazilian folkore. The saci, or more specifically the saci-pererê, is the most famous. He is a young black or mullato man who inhabits the woods, has only one leg, smokes a pipe and wears a red hat and cape. He is an evildoer who, depending on the area of the country, is more or less wicked. Several varieties of this legend exist. The cuca is a monster and the sereia a mermaid. 29.  José Murilo de Carvalho, cited by María Nazareth Soares Fonseca, points out: “Tthe images of the Brazilian nation constructed by the political and intellectual elites

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[. . .] is made up of rhetorical devices that describe the people as an abstract entity, an empty space, because it does not conform to the model they thought up for the country.” “Visibilidade e ocultaçao da diferença. Amagens de negro na cultura brasileira.” In Brasil afro-brasileiro, 2nd ed. Organized by Maria Nazareth Soares Fonseca (Belo Horizonte: Auténtica, 2001), p. 91. 30.  Maria Nazareth Soares Fonseca, op. cit., p. 113. 31.  Ibid., p. 93. 32.  Ibid., p. 90. 33  Emanoel Araujo, curator. Francisco Weffort et al., texts. Para nunca esquecer: Negras memórias/Memórias de negros. Rio de Janeiro: Museu Histórico Nacional, 2002.

Conclusion

Popular artistic practices from four corners of the world in three continents— two in the Pacific, one in the highlands of Mexico far from the sea, and the other in the Atlantic—have shown that folk art is one and the same, despite its enormous diversity. Similarly, women are consigned to one gender—the female—but each woman is distinct in terms of ethnicity, age, skin color, sexual preferences, and an endless number of other individual differences. Tradition and modernity are intertwined in all of the cases discussed in this text, but in each one this interaction manifests uniquely. It is undeniable that tradition and modernity are linked as much in the two developed societies studied, Japan and New Zealand, as in the underdeveloped ones, Brazil and Mexico. As such, we can surmise that this phenomenon is not clearly attached to a nation’s economic prosperity, and moreover, that it is not merely a regional trend: it is a global one. All of the artisans that appear in this text are hyperaware of the importance of recovering, preserving, and perpetuating the ancestral—to make it better known in the present as well as to project it into the future. However, in each situation and place, tradition has been expressed differently. For the Maoris, it is crucial for the survival of their ethnic identity. For Mexicans, it is more a historical/cultural matter: the folk art tradition that has already been carried through multiple generations must be maintained, keeping in mind the history of pre-Hispanic Mexico to preserve it. The black rag dolls of Rio de Janeiro, meanwhile, represent the cultural memory of slavery, since they say that it was originally slave women who created the Abayomi dolls while being transported to Brazil by ship. For those who make them now, it is crucial to never forget this disgraceful and racist history. In Japan, they attribute great importance to tradition particularly in relation to the creation and evaluation of art objects from one generation to the next. Their techniques thus generally come from the past, 117

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and indeed, some have barely changed through time. Each of the art processes observed here is centered in an urban location, even though the majority of these—Izúcar de Matamoros, Mexico, Takayama, Japan, and Auckland, New Zealand—are cities with relatively small populations, and only Rio de Janeiro and Tokyo are huge cities. Regardless, this indicates that it is not always rural communities that assign great importance to tradition. It is significant to note that in each of the expressions of folk art studied here, ethnic or national identity—Mexican, Japanese, Maori, or Afro-Brazilian—is a first-order concern. That is, ethnic or national identity is somehow incorporated into each of the folk art creations we have seen. In all of the cases studied, but especially in Izúcar where competition is intense, the artisans must produce high-quality objects that are both original and almost perfect, if this is even possible: they must somehow innovate without leaving behind tradition. Moreover, as artisans in the twenty-first century, they need to perfect and commercialize their work while learning and utilizing new technologies. The fact that their artistic work is “artisanal” does not mean that they can eschew the use of technology; on the contrary, each day, it becomes increasingly obligatory to master it for the marketing and commercialization of their products. For the Maori people, viewing an object within its sociocultural, symbolic, ritual, mythic and spiritual context is very important. Objects take on meaning and value when they are inserted within the context of their origin. This is also the case with the clay pieces of Izúcar de Matamoros, the Abayomi rag dolls, and the shunkei lacquer and the Hagoita of Japan. The origins of each, of course, are widely varied. Within every example I have selected, I have attempted to show by comparison the differences in the ways that men and women create art (although in the cases of the Abayomi dolls of Brazil and the woven baskets of New Zealand, it is only women who create them). Now, in conclusion, we can confirm that various differences between these creative processes do exist; I have been pointing these out throughout the text as they have as been intimated as often through the mouths of the artisans themselves as observed from my own perspective. My intention has been to make visible the women who are usually relegated to the shadows. When men are the master artisans, women end up as mere extras. But even when they are up front, participating in the creative process at the same level as men, the spotlight is still inevitably directed toward male artists. This has been the case with the polychromatic clay of Izúcar de Matamoros, and also with the female Maori basket-weavers who are still considered second-tier artisans compared to the great, male wood and marble sculptors. This has also been true for artisans in Japan, and is particularly clear in the example of the famous shunkei lacquers that are mainly cre-



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ated by men; but the women have always been there too, playing significant roles—one just needs to sharpen his/her eyes and ears to see and hear them. With the very unique Hagoita, though, the same happens: it is considered an eminently male art, although the women are certainly there—whether they are in the first or last row, they are there. The Abayomi dolls of Brazil present a singular example, since they were born at the hands of Lena Martins, became a collective, woman-centered project, and eventually returned to Lena’s hands as she continues in the creation of these magnificent dolls. I have wanted to unite, or reunite, art and feminism—perhaps offer a new version of an ill-fated marriage1—since, at least at first, they do not seem to form a harmonious pair, and their union has seen many ups and downs. In the same way, supposedly, art and politics can’t be mixed. However, this multifarious relationship between art and feminism (which is inherently political), complex and difficult, has been supremely beneficial in allowing us to approach the artistic processes under investigation more thoroughly and responsibly: it has allowed us both to make women more visible, and to better understand gender divisions throughout the artistic process. Here, I am referring to feminism not as a social movement but as a way of thinking—as an intellectual perspective and a method of knowing that does, of course, find its anchor and its origin in a sociopolitical movement. In the face of undeniable inequalities and hierarchical differences between men and women in artistic work (which was previously attributed, without any qualms, to the inferiority of women), neo-feminism arrived in the Western world in the 1960s to demonstrate clearly that art is neither universal nor neutral, but rather is historically determined. The neo-feminist movement thus initiated a radical transformation in our notions of creativity, excellence, and genius. The visual arts have undoubtedly been intersected by a group of factors (gender, social class, ethnicity, age, sexuality), as can be seen in the four chapters of this book. It is crucial to make these intersections clear; it is neofeminism that has made each of these factors visible, connected them, and called them intersectionality. Incorporating a feminist vision into my research on artistic processes of the past and present has meant making visible gender divisions and hierarchies, finding the women (often hidden), and studying them. Furthermore, it has required a conscious abandonment of the traditional triad of art: universality, neutrality, and eternity. Instead, the work of feminism requires that one continue deconstructing knowledge in order to allow for the construction of new histories and different aesthetics—ones that are richer, denser, and that can contribute significantly to our knowledge of the feminine imaginary, and through this, to our knowledge of female subjects that have been up

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until now, absent from history. Deconstruction has been more successful in art history than in aesthetics, perhaps because philosophy is one of the most androcentric disciplines and there has been little advancement in terms of folk art studies. One might recall what Judith Friedlander so succinctly said some time ago: Given feminist consciousness, we can hope that those who produce the recently recognized art will emerge from obscurity as individuals, instead of being reduced to the collective anonymity so characteristically the fate of traditional artists. Still, lingering questions must be raised, for it is not entirely clear that we see what our interest in folk art may mean for those women who happen to be carrying on our timeless, authentic female culture.2

The consumption of folk art has taken different forms from culture to culture and from epoch to epoch. Today, the laws of the market determine what is art and what isn’t, and what value art has not only as a consumer good, but also as an aesthetic object. Perhaps with time social consensus confirms or rejects the selections of the market—but more often, at least for now, the market’s opinion wins. The laws of the capitalist market determine tastes and fashions, what is valued and what is not. There has always been a paucity of research on art reception, thus making it difficult to know how it has impacted consumption at each historical moment. This is, perhaps, the most problematic area of the artistic process to study, and this book has fallen short in that regard. I hope that the mosaic, or the quilt, that I have offered here has been skillfully sewn, and that the threads and pieces of multicolored fabric ultimately do form a harmonious whole. NOTES 1.  This is a reference to an article by Heidi Hartman, “The Unhappy Marriage of Marxism and Feminism: Towards a More Progressive Union.” Downloaded from cnc.sagepub.com at Purdue University on March 30, 2015. https://web.ics.purdue .edu/~hoganr/SOC%20602/Hartmann_1979.pdf (Consulted November 20, 2018). 2. Friedlander, Judith. “Traditional Arts of Women in Mexico.” Heresies 1, no. 4 (Winter 1977–78). https://www.google.com.mx/search?q=Friedlander% 2C+Judith.+%E2%80%9CTraditional+Arts+of+Women+in+Mexico.%E2%80% 9D+Heresies%2C+Vol.+I%2C+No.4%2C+(Winter+1977-78).&rlz=1C5CHFA_ enMX792MX792&oq=Friedlander%2C+Judith.+%E2%80%9CTraditional+Arts+ of+Women+in+Mexico.%E2%80%9D+Heresies%2C+Vol.+I%2C+No.4%2C+(Wi nter+1977-78).&aqs=chrome..69i57.1269j0j1&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8 (Consulted November 19, 2018).

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Appendix Further Reading

Adachi, Barbara. “Prefacio por Jo Okada.” In The Living Treasures of Japan. Tokyo: Kodansha International, 1973. Alagoas rendeira. Rio de Janeiro: FUNART, Sala do Artista Popular 119, 2004. Álvarez González, Marta. The Art of Motherhood. Los Angeles: Getty Publications, 2010. Apostolos-Cappadona, Diane and Lucinda Ebersole, eds. Women, Creativity, and the Arts: Critical and Autobiographical Perspectives. New York: Continuum, 1995. Aratjara: Art of the First Australians: Traditional and Contemporary Works by Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Artists. Düsseldorf-Cologne, Germany: Kunstsammlung Nordrhein-Westfalen, 1993. Araujo, Emanoel, curator. Francisco Weffort et al., texts. Para nunca esquecer: Negras memórias/Memórias de negros. Rio de Janeiro: Museu Histórico Nacional, 2002. Archey, Sir Gilbert. Whaowhia: Maori Arts and its Artists. Auckland: Collins, 1977. Artesanato brasileiro. Rio de Janeiro: FUNARTE, 1978. Artesanato brasileiro. Rendas. Rio de Janeiro: FUNARTE, 1981. Artesanato brasileiro. Tecelagem. Rio de Janeiro: FUNARTE, 1983. Bartra, Eli, ed. with María Guadalupe Huacuz Elías. Mujeres, feminismo y arte popular, UAM-X/Unisinos/Obra Abierta, 2015. Bartra, Eli. Mosaico de creatividades: Experiencias de arte popular. Mexico: UAM, Collection Abate Faria 12, 2013. ———. Women in Mexican Folk Art: Of Promises, Betrayals, Monsters and Celebrities. Cardiff: Iberian and Latin American Studies, University of Wales Press, 2011. Baten, Lea. Japanese Dolls. Tokyo: Shufuno, 1986. Battersby, Christine. An Intimate Distance: Women, Artists and the Body. London: Routledge, 1996. ———. “Situating the Aesthetics: A Feminist Defence.” Edited by Andrew E. Benjamin and Peter Osborne. Thinking Art: Beyond Traditional Aesthetics, pp. 31–43. London: Institute of Contemporary Arts, 1991. 127

128

Appendix

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Index

Abayomi (rag dolls), 5, 10, 109, 113, 114; Martins and, 104–5, 105, 107–8, 112; politics related to, 104, 111–13, 115nn28–29; “Saci-pererê,” 106–7, 110, 110; “Trapeze Artist,” 108, 108; “Witch,” 111, 111 Acatlán de Osorio, Puebla, Mexico, 16 Adam and Eve, 15, 21, 23, 39 aesthetics, 47, 63, 66, 102; in Brazilian folk art, 95–96, 107–8, 112–13, 119–20; deconstruction and, 119–20; technical skill and, 68, 86–87 Afro-Brazilian identity, 112, 118 Akiko Goto, 78; on gender, 80–81; Kabuki characters by, 79, 79, 80–82, 82; selling by, 80, 81; signature and, 81 alebrijes, 8, 96 Alfonso. See Castillo Orta, Alfonso amates (painted bark paper), 102 ancestors (tīpuna), 53, 60n27 Angola fowls, 99, 99 apprentice (tauira), 57 arpilleras (fabric pictures), 101 Arte Naïf do Brazil, 102 Artesanías Castillo Balbuena, 32 art history, 61 art naïf (primitive art), 102–3, 115n17 Atsuko Nishiyama, 83–84

Auckland, 9, 47–48, 53; Otara Flea Market in, 55; Tawhiao in, 51–52, 60n24 authenticity, 1, 18, 53, 56, 61–63 azúcar (sugar), 41n3 Balbuena Palacios, María Luisa: “appellation of origin” and, 31–32; clay preparation by, 31; Collective Brand Association and, 31; contests for, 32–33; “Death” by, 32; firing by, 31; gender and, 28, 30, 32; nonreligious pieces and, 33; selling by, 30–32; tradition and, 32 Balbuena Palacios, Ulises, 33 Barrow, Terence, 46–47 baskets. See kete Batista dos Santos, Noemisa, 101 beauty. See aesthetics bedrolls (petates, whãriki), 47, 55 black dolls (bonecas negras), 104. See also Abayomi blackness, 10, 112 Black womanhood, 104, 107. See also Abayomi Blumhardt, Doreen, 45 bobbin lace, 98 body: creativity and, 8–10; epidermal classification and, 112–13 133

134

Index

bonecas negras (black dolls), 104 Bonita, Maria, 99–100, 101 Brake, Brian, 45 branching (petatillo), 35 Brandt, Kim, 63 Brazilian folk art: aesthetics in, 95–96, 107–8, 112–13, 119–20; AfroBrazilian identity and, 112; art naïf, 102–3, 115n17; clay figures as, 96–101, 99, 101; clay “paintings” as, 98–99; cooperative production, 103–4; handicrafts compared to, 95–96; historical information in, 94; imitation in, 91; male artists in, 92–93; in Museu Casa do Pontal, 92–93, 114n7; in Museu do Folclore Edison Carneiro, 92, 94; national identity from, 94, 102; neo-handicrafts in, 97, 102, 115n11; research on, 92; textiles as, 96; types of, 94–96; women artists in, 93–94, 98; wood carvings as, 96–97. See also Abayomi Brazilianness, 94, 100 Britain, ceramics in, 14 Bronner, Simon J., 1–3 Brown, Deidre, 46 Bumba-meu-boi, 98–100, 107 Callaghan, Margo, 57 Candi. See Domínguez, Candi Leticia Cândido, Maria de Lourdes, 93, 98–99 Candy Art (“Dulce arte”), 40 cangaceiros (social bandits), 93, 99–100 capoeiras, 107, 110 carrancas (figureheads), 95–96 Castillo Orta, Alfonso, 16, 20, 25, 36–37. See also Hernández de Castillo, Soledad Martha Castillo Orta, Isabel, 16–17, 23; in contests, 25, 28; “Dancing Death” by, 26–27, 27; “Death-Catrina Carrying her Daughter” by, 29, 29; designs of, 25–26; economics for, 25; gender and, 25; international

travel by, 24; multitasking by, 25, 42n23; painting by, 24, 24, 26–28; selling by, 26; signature by, 20 Catalina Orta, Doña, 23–24 cera escamada (sculpted wax candles), 14–15 challenge (taki), 56 Charro (Morgan), 21–22, 22 Chicago, Judy, 50 Chile, 101 China Poblana, 21, 87, 89n35 clay figures, 96–100, 99, 101; eyes in, 101, 115n16 clay preparation, 16–17, 31, 35 Cliff, Clarice, 14 Collective Brand Association, 23, 31 colors, 41, 112; of kete, 57; of shunkei lacquers, 66–67; of Suzuki, 71–72; Morgan and, 20, 23 competition, 42n26 contests, 25, 28, 32–33, 37 Cook, James, 43 Cooper, Susie, 14 cooperative production, 103–4 copying, 18, 41, 77, 80, 91 Crafting Beauty in Modern Japan (Rousmaniere), 88n23 crafts: creativity as, 6; definition of, 2 craftswoman, 72 creativity: body and, 8–10; female, 7, 8, 9; feminine, 3; gender genealogies of, 7; masculine, 3; as unpayed domestic work, 6 Crenshaw, Kimbelé, 4 Cuateta Ramos workshop, 33 cultural identity, 2, 47–48 culture, 4, 14, 64; Maori, 43–45, 53, 56, 59n16; pluriculturalism, 61, 92; popular, 62, 87, 93; visual, 87, 92; women’s, 9, 120 Curupira, 109–10 dances (haka), 44 “Dancing Death” (Castillo Orta, I.), 26–27, 27



Index 135

Davis, Coralynn V., 58 Death, 32 “Death-Catrina Carrying her Daughter” (Castillo Orta, I.), 29, 29 deconstructing knowledge, 119 deconstruction, aesthetics and, 119–20 decorative paddles. See Hagoita designs, 41; of Castillo Orta, I., 25–26; of Hernández de Castillo, 37; of kete, 57; of Tabi, 72–73; of Takimura, 68; of Te Hiwi, 50; of Toyoo, 77 Domínguez, Candi Leticia: background of, 39; division of work and, 40; on gender, 40–41; tree of life by, 39–40, 40 Doña Isabel. See Castillo Orta, Isabel Doña Martha. See Hernández de Castillo, Soledad Martha “Dulce arte” (Candy Art), 40 “Eagle Knight Candelabra” (Morgan), 19, 19 Eastmond, Elizabeth, 46 Edo period, 77 Eduardo Figueroa, Ernesto, 18 Eggert, Edla, 91 emigrants (retirantes), 100 Escoba, Ticio, 59n16 Eudócio Rodrigues, Manuel, 115n16 European ancestry predominant individuals (pākehā), 44, 59n4 exhibits, 53, 65, 69–70, 72 fabric pictures (arpilleras), 101 familism: Castillo families, 15–16; Flores Sánchez family, 15–16; Magno Rodríguez family, 14–15; Orta Uroza family, 16 female creativity, 8–9 feminine: art and, 3; drawings, 74; folk creativity and, 4 feminism, 3–4, 47; neo-, 4, 119. See also specific topics feminist methodology, 5–6 feminist point of view, 3–6, 13

Fernandes Lopes, Adalton, 93 fiber weaving techniques (raranga), 48, 57, 60n18 figurative art, 5 figureheads (carrancas), 95–96 Fister, Patricia, 77 flax, 48, 49, 60n19, 60n21; preparation of, 52–53 flax variety (harakeke), 46, 48 Flores, Aureliano, 39 Flying Conchords, 59n1 folk art: definition of, 3; feminism and, 3–4; gender and, 3, 6–8, 65; inferiority of, 6; in Mexico, 6; visual, 2–4. See also Brazilian folk art; Japanese folk art; Maori art Folk Art and Art Worlds (Vlach and Bronner), 1–3 folk culture, 4 folklorists, 1 FONART. See National Foundation for Folk Art Development Fridas, 25, 32, 39 functional, 2, 47, 65, 70, 95; clay objects, 16 game similar to badminton (hanetsuki), 75 Geishas, 83 gender, 74, 103–4; Akiko on, 80–81; Balbuena Palacios, M. L., and, 28, 30, 32; Castillo Orta, I., and, 25; class divisions and, 4; differences, 7–8; division, 3–5, 8–9, 45, 59n16, 119; Domínguez on, 40–41; folk art and, 3, 6–8, 65; hierarchies and, 3, 4, 5–6, 119; in Japanese folk art, 65; of Kabuki characters, 85–86; of Maori art, 46–47; Mead on, 58; Mercado Morgan, Geovanni, and, 18, 20–21; Mercado Morgan, Gregorio, and, 18, 20; nudes and, 39; shunkei lacquers and, 66, 85–86; of subjects, 9; Tepetla and, 18, 20; Toyoo and, 76 gender genealogies, 7

136

Index

general designers (menso-shi), 76–77 Glassie, Henry, 3 Goto. See Akiko Goto “gynocentrism,” 13 Hagoita (decorative paddles), 5, 10, 61, 87; Atsuko on, 83–84; classic models of, 84–85; construction of, 76–77; general designers of, 76–77; hanetsuki and, 75; for Japanese girls, 75; Japan related to, 62; Kabuki characters with, 75, 79, 79, 80–82, 82, 85–86; materials for, 76; modern models of, 84–85; museum of, 83–84; non-traditional figures on, 86; origins of, 75; selling, 81, 84–85; space for, 76; status of, 65; stuffing for, 76–77, 84–85, 88n31; 3M and, 65, 88n16; in Tokyo, 65 haka (dances), 44 handicrafts, 6, 91; neo-, 97, 102, 115n11 hanetsuki (game similar to badminton), 75 harakeke (flax variety), 46, 48 Hernández, Martha, 42n26 Hernández, Tomás, 40 Hernández de Castillo, Soledad Martha, 38; contest and, 37; daughter of, 37; designs of, 37; family of, 36–37; Fridas by, 39; painting by, 37–38; selling by, 37, 39, 42n29; whitener and, 37 high art, 2, 6 Huichols, 7 Ice, Joyce, 4 Ichikawa Danjuro, 88n34 identity, 94, 102; Afro-Brazilian, 112, 118; cultural, 2, 47–48; ethnic, 117– 18; of kete, 57–58 imagery, 6 imaginary, 86, 98–99; color and race and, 112; feminine, 119–20; social, 6 INEA. See National Institute for Adult Education

The International Museum of Naïve Art of Brazil, 102, 115n17 intersectional feminist approach, 4 intersectionality, 4, 56–57, 119 Izúcar de Matamoros, Puebla (Matamoros), 1, 9; clay preparation in, 16; colors in, 41; culture of, 14; designs in, 41; familism in, 14–16; name of, 14; trees of life in, 15 Japanese artisans, 2, 9–10 Japanese folk art, 45; Act for the Protection of Culture and, 64; Association for the Promotion of Traditional Crafts Industries, 64; 1873 Vienna Universal Exhibition of, 65; fine art and, 65; gender in, 65; handicrafts and, 65; individualism and, 64; in Japanese museums, 62; master craftsmen, 65; Mexican folk art and, 63; Mingei Movement of, 62–63, 65; space for, 64; women’s invisibility in, 84, 87; Yanagi on, 63–64. See also Hagoita; shunkei lacquers “Japaneseness,” 87 Kabuki characters, 75, 88n34; gender of, 85–86; from Goto, 79, 79, 80–82, 82 Kahlo, Frida, 26, 100, 110; Fridas, 25, 32, 39 kete (baskets), 47, 48, 49; colors of, 57; designs of, 57; history of, 58; identity of, 57–58; as Maori art, 56–58; by Ngawaka, 54, 54 kete whakairo, 47–51, 48, 59n14, 60n24; kete compared to, 58; Ngawaka and, 52–54, 54, 56 Kete Whakairo: Plaiting Flax for Beginners (Ngawaka), 54, 59n7 Kogetsu Nishiyama, 83–85 Lackey, Louana M., 16 lacquers, 66. See also shunkei lacquers Lampião, 99–100, 101



Index 137

Macouzet, Juan F., 28 Magno Rodríguez, Miguel, 14–15 Maori, 9, 59n2; folk art term use and, 45, 59n7; language, 43; maoritanga, 43–45; modern, 43–44; New Zealand and, 43; people, 44–45; performances of, 44–45; tradition, 49, 50, 51, 53, 54, 56–58 Maori art, 44; baskets as, 56–58; categories of, 47; gender of, 46–47; as “hybrid art,” 56; indigeneity and, 45–46; male wood carvers in, 46; quality of, 55; for tourism, 47; tradition and innovation in, 56–58; at University of Auckland, 54–55; without women, 46–47. See also kete whakairo maoritanga (Maori culture), 43–45, 53, 56, 59n16 marae (Maori temple and meeting house), 44, 50–51, 59n5 María Luisa. See Balbuena Palacios, María Luisa Martins, Lena, 104–5, 105, 107–8, 112 Marxism, 4 masculine creativity, 3 Master Craftman. See 3M Matamoros. See Izúcar de Matamoros maternity, 8 Matos, Sonia Missagia, 92 mats (petates, whãriki), 55 Mead, Margaret, 45, 58 Meiji era, 65 menso-shi (general designers), 76–77 menstruation, 49, 60n19 Mercado Mentado, Gustavo, 23 Mercado Morgan, Geovanni, 16–17, 23; Elena-Tree Candelabra by, 21; gender and, 18, 20–21 Mercado Morgan, Gregorio, 16–18, 20 mestiza, 14 Metepec, 15 Mexican arts, 63, 94–95 Mexicaness, 94 Mexico. See Izúcar de Matamoros

Michie Nitta, 84–85 Mingei Movement, 62–63, 65 Minimikawa, Ikuo, 84–85 Minimikawa, Yoshiko, 84–85 Model Shop. See 3M Moes, Robert, 65 Morgan Tepetla, Virginia (Vicky), 16–17; “Charro” by, 21–22, 22; colors and, 20, 23; “Eagle Knight Candelabra” by, 19, 19; gender and, 18, 20; housework by, 18; painting by, 21, 23; selling and, 20; on skin colors, 23 Museu Casa do Pontal, 92–93, 114n7 Museu do Folclore Edison Carneiro, 92, 94 Museum. See 3M mythical Brazilian character (Sacipererê), 106–7, 110, 110 naïf (primitive), 102 namoradeiras (wood-carved women busts), 97 National Endowment for the Arts (NEA), 1 National Foundation for Folk Art Development (FONART), 17, 42n26 National Heritage Fellowship Program of the Folk Arts Division, 1 National Institute for Adult Education (INEA), 17 National Museum of Tokyo, 62 NEA. See National Endowment for the Arts neo-feminism, 4, 119 neo-handicrafts, 97, 102, 115n11 New Zealand, 44, 59n3; Flying Conchords on, 59n1; hemp fibers, 59n14. See also Maori Ngawaka, Margaret Rose, 56; association for, 53; basket by, 54, 54; in exhibits, 53; flax preparation by, 52–53; selling by, 53–54 nudes, 39

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Index

O cortejo brincante (The Playful Parade), 106 Okada, Jo, 66 Okuni Kabuki, 86 Orell, Pauline, 6 originality, 6, 18, 28, 41, 91, 95–96 Orta, Catalina, 23–24, 28 oshi-e (stuffing), 76–77, 84–85, 88n31 Otara Flea Market, 55

36, 36; painting by, 34, 35; selling by, 34–35; tree of life by, 35 raranga (fiber weaving techniques), 48, 57, 60n18 regional dish (moqueca), 95, 115n10 reproduction, creativity and, 8 retirantes (emigrants, refugees), 100 Rio de Janeiro, 10 Rousmaniere, Nicole, 88n23

painted bark paper (amates), 102 pākehā (European ancestry predominant individuals), 44, 59n4 Panama, 56–57 paneau (vegetable fiber pictures), 101 papier-mâché, 6, 97 Parker, Rozsika, 4 Penfold, Merimeri, 46 Pereira, Edmundo, 106, 115n26 Pereira dos Santos, Vitalino (Mestre Vitalino), 98, 100–101, 115n16 petates (bedrolls, mats), 55 petatillo (branching), 35 The Playful Parade (O cortejo brincante), 106 pluriculturalism, 61, 92 Pollock, Griselda, 4 polychromeatic clay objects, 9, 13, 15–16, 118 Polynesia, 51 popular culture, 62, 87, 93 primitive (naïf), 102 primitive art (art naïf), 102–3, 115n17 Puebla. See Izúcar de Matamoros Puketapu-Hetet, Erenora, 52, 60n19, 60n26

Saci-pererê (mythical Brazilian character), 106–7, 110, 110 Sánchez Cruz, Manuel, 15 Santa Muerte, 32 Savage, Aroha, 55 Schwimmer, Eric, 50 sculpted wax candles (cera escamada), 14–15 self-portraits, 9 self-representation, 9 selling. See specific artists Shigechika Kanamori, 66 shunkei lacquers, 68–69, 73, 73–74, 87; brushes for, 67; colors of, 66–67; creation process of, 67; gender and, 66, 85–86; Japan related to, 61–62; as national traditional craft, 65; selling, 71, 88n28; Suzuki and, 67, 70–72, 71 signatures, 20, 71, 81 slavery, 104, 113, 117 social bandits (cangaceiros), 93, 99–100 social imaginary, 6 Sôetsu Yanagi, 63–64, 88n7 student (tauira), 57 stuffing (oshi-e), 76–77, 88n31; workshop for, 84–85 sugar (azúcar), 41n3 Suzuki, Toshifumi, 67, 70; association of craftsmen and, 72; colors of, 71–72; exhibits of, 72; platter by, 71, 71; signature and, 71; transparency and, 71; wife of, 72

quadrinhos de sisal (vegetable fibers), 101 Quezada, Juan, 28 Ramos Miranda, Leonila Lucrecia: clay preparation by, 35; continuity for, 33, 35–36; “Little Candelabra” by,



Index 139

Tabi, Fusae: designs of, 72–73; on gender, 74; painted glass by, 72–74; painted platter by, 73, 73 Takayama, Japan, 61–62, 66. See also shunkei lacquers Takimura, Hiromi, 67; criticism and, 69; designs of, 68; exhibits of, 69–70; tea ceremony utensils and, 70; transparency and, 69 Takimura, Keiko: design and, 68; polishing by, 69; public relations and, 70; selling by, 70 Talavera pottery, 21–23, 37 taonga (treasure), 53, 60n27 Tasman, Abel, 43 tauira (student, apprentice), 57 Tawhiao, Shona: selling by, 52, 60n24; website of, 51 technical skill, 68, 86–87 Te Hiwi, Judy: art of, 51; cloaks by, 48–49; designs of, 50; marae and, 50–51; selling by, 50; tradition for, 48–49, 51 Te Manakura, Kane, 53, 56 3M (Master Craftman, Museum, Model Shop), 65, 88n16 Timings, Jim, 46 tīpuna (ancestors), 53, 56, 60n27 Tokyo, 62, 77; hagoita in, 65 Toyoo, Noguchi, 75; designs of, 77; gender and, 76; selling by, 77; Traditional Folk Arts Association and, 77 tradition, 32, 65; innovation and, 2, 56–58; innovative and hybrid, 53, 56; Maori, 49, 50, 51, 53, 54, 56–58; modernity and, 51, 56, 64, 69, 117; for Te Hiwi, 48–49, 51 Traditional Folk Arts Association (Tokyo), 77 transculturalism, 61 “Trapeze Artist,” 108, 108 treasure (taonga), 53, 60n27

trees of life, 15–16, 21, 33, 35; Castillo and, 23–24; by Domínguez, 39–40, 40 tukutuku (woven panels), 50–51 Unión de Artesanos y Alfareros Árbol de la Vida Asociación Colectiva (Union of the Artisans and Potters of the Tree of Life Collective Association), 15 University of Auckland, 54–55 unpayed domestic work, 6 utilitarianism, 16, 70 Vale do Jaquitinhonha, 96, 97–98, 101 vegetable fibers (quadrinhos de sisal), 101 Vicky. See Morgan Tepetla, Virginia visual culture, 87, 92 visual folk arts, 2–4 Vitalino. See Pereira dos Santos, Vitalino (Mestre Vitalino) Vlach, John Michael, 1–3 whãriki (bedrolls, mats), 47, 55 “Witch,” 111, 111 Wolfe, Richard, 46 women: absence of, 6–7, 84; culture of, 9, 120; gender and, 3; invisibility in Japanese folk art, 84, 87; Maori art without, 46–47 women artists. See specific artists women clay artisans, 13–14 Women & the Arts in New Zealand: Forty Works 1936–1986 (Eastmond and Penfold), 46 wood-carved women busts (namoradeiras), 97 woven panels (tukutuku), 50–51 Xmucane. See Morgan Tepetla, Virginia Yanagi. See Sôetsu Yanagi

About the Author

Eli Bartra was born in Mexico, and received her PhD in philosophy from the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México (UNAM). She has been named a distinguished professor at the Universidad Autónoma Metropolitana-Xochimilco, Mexico City. A cofounder and former director of a research program on women, and a graduate program on women’s studies at the UAM-X, she is cofounder and currently the director of the PhD program in feminist studies. She is a member of the Sistema Nacional de Investigadores (SNI), and author of the following books: Desnudo y arte (Bogotá: Desde Abajo, 2018); Mujeres en el arte popular: De promesas, traiciones, monstruos y celebridades (Mexico City: UAM/Conaculta-Fonca, 2005), translated to English, and published as Women in Mexican Folk Art (Cardiff: UWP, 2011); Frida Kahlo: Mujer, ideología y arte (Barcelona: Icaria, 3rd.ed. 2003); and En busca de las diablas: Sobre arte popular y género (Mexico City: UAM/Tava, 1994). She is the editor of Crafting Gender: Women and Folk Art in Latin America and the Caribbean (Durham: Duke University Press, 2003), Debates en torno a una metodología feminista (Mexico City: UAM/Pueg, UNAM, 2nd ed. 2002), and the coauthor of Feminismo en México, ayer y hoy (Mexico City: UAM, 2000), among others. She has directed several special issues of journals, including Política y Cultura. Eli Bartra has written more than one hundred articles and book chapters, and has been a visiting professor at several universities in Europe, the United States, Japan, Brazil, and New Zealand.

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