I see in Frida Kahlo's art the influence of

Mesoamerica and her heritage.

The importance of the animals and the

symbolism of the vine with its thorns piercing

into her neck. I can imagine how trapped

she feels, how restricted and confined.

Her art gives a voice to all those feelings,

the dark unspoken ones that reside in all

of us.

Mosaic Mask

In the lecture this week we looked at La Venta and pieces of art that had been discovered there. One such art form is shown on page 31 (in the 4th ed.) of the Miller text. It is suppose to be an abstract mosaic mask made of serpentine blocks. It is a beautiful piece of work but I don't understand how it's considered a mask. I see nothing but blocks organized in rows and columns to make up a design. Maybe I am not looking hard enough, maybe I am missing something but I don't really understand the point of making a piece of art and then covering it up with clay and rocks. I wonder what the artist was thinking. Was this a ritual practice?

My perception of "Mexico".

When I began contemplating what I think of Mexico the first thing that came to mind was the depiction of factory workers; men, women and children suffering in the underpaid, mostly under U.S. companies, work force while the company maximizes it profits. I began thinking of the working conditions that these workers face and the harsh reality, that as long as corporations can operate in free trade zones; in countries that encourage and welcome big corporations (do to the revenues they bring) into the country, and do not enforce an equal employment act which provides workers with vital rights under that law and protection against mistreatment, nothing will change...

The following is a URL of a website that provides more information about sweatshops in Mexico: http://www.newint.org/easier-english/Garment/sweatmexico.html (copy and paste).

The next thought that came to mind was the splash of Cancun, Mexico. A place you can go to let loose, stay in luxury hotels on the white sandy beaches and eat authentic Mexican food while you sip on margaritas. All while the locals work in the service industry which provides this luxurious get away. And the ruins of the agent cities of the indigenous people become a tourist attractions

http://www.cancuncd.com/m_cancun_pictures/

I remember as a child traveling into Taiwan, Mexico. The dirt road stirring up dust and the children chasing our car with bead necklaces, small maracas and other trinkets they held, grasped in their hands, hoping we will stop and buy these goods they sell. The area was dirty and trash just lay scattered on the ground. The buildings weren't much more then plywood boards nailed together and sewage ran in the street. As a child this image resonated in my mind. I remember feeling the sadness and confusion of not understanding why they lived in such poor conditions. What I didn't understand then was that Taiwan is one of the poorest places in Mexico and that not all of Mexico lives in such an unimaginable environment.

My step-father having Mexican Heritage, it wasn't uncommon for my parents to hire Mexican men who stood on the sidewalk along the street in front of San Lorenzo Lumber in Santa Cruz, Ca. I watched these men work in my back yard my family along side and eat at my families table. My step-father spoke to them in Spanish, a language I do not know, and though he never said anything derogatory or resist, I knew that there was a difference between my step-father and these men who labored long and hard to earn the mere 9 dollars an hour my parents paid them.

My reality quickly changed when I entered the foster care system and many of the other youth the occupied the foster homes and group homes were Mexican Americas. Many of them had family members who migrated to the U.S illegally in order to find work and send money home to help support family still in Mexico. They told stories of poverty, something we hear about in media, but they gave this problem a face and voice. Now when I think about Mexico I think of a country that's people are largely supported by the money that migrant workers send home. I imagine the girls and boys that live with relatives while both their parents are away, working for their survival. When I think of Mexicans' I think of a strong and proud people that have lived through such adversity and yet remain unbroken, striving for a better future.

The Art of Being Me

THE ART OF BEING ME is captured in all the brilliance and wonder that is my daughter. It is her that allows me to see what I excel at and often times my weaknesses. She is a mirror to me and reflect through her eyes her happiness, her sadness, her worries, her hopes, her struggles, and her triumphs.

The art of being me is being dearing, being willing to step out of my comfort zone and let it all hang out. It's being brave enough to let the world see what i'm really made of, even when I just wake up. The art of being me is sometimes contradictory and it's putting on a mask of outer layers (clothing) to cover up how i'm really feeling inside

The art of being me is centered in my exploration of self. Sometimes even i can scare me and like with any great animal the instinct for flight is strong. As a child i always dreamed of being a bird, a bird could fly away and escape the danger, the threat and fear i faced every day.

The art of being me often happens in the kitchen. This is the place I create my magic. As you would add ingredients together to make a spectacular dish, life is much the same way, yet instead it is where i try on the qualities i see in others and see if they fit right. My recipes do include cook but often they are recipes of qualities: a cup of my mom, maybe 1/2 of my dad, a heaping 3 cups of my special aunt Carrie who knows just how to cheer me up when life is crazy and full of messes and a 1/3 of my grandma who taught me that learning is forever (one of the only things we still have when we die) and a pinch or 1 tablespoon of my grandfather who always taught me to fight for what I believe in. We are all recipes, little bits of others are backed into our crust.

The art of being me is that i am forever changing and yet even in the instability of change i remain, some how, sturdy. Strong in my convictions i stand tall like an old villa home. Wise from experiences and yet still full of learning. My walls stay the same, and my foundation never quivers yet i enjoy a new coat of paint on my walls and a fresh set of eyes to comment on my frames.