Tamastián

Tamastián hosts the sanctuary of El Señor de los Rayos, a beautiful Cathedral attracting pilgrims at all times of the year (but especially for the annual peregrination here from January 3 to the 12), which we visited one day with Chavo’s parents. Chavo’s cousin Nina drove us there with her daughter whom I held in my lap on the way there as she alternately munched on a warm egg taco and put her pacifier in her mouth (much like Maggie Simpson, we remarked, she actively sucked on it until she fell asleep in my arms). Once we arrived, we went down a white, painted path (for pilgrims to kneel on) until we entered the place. Chavo’s parents knelt to pray, and we walked up to the altar area and sat in the pews. I stared at the towering Virgin Mary figure to my right and wondered, as I have many times since coming to Mexico, about her immense importance here. After a while Chavo’s father guided us into the room of milagros, which was filled from floor to ceiling with different ofrendas of thanks to saints who, at one point or another, protected people in the community from suffering. One of the older ofrendas dates back to the 1911 and the most recent was from this year. Don Luis mentioned that long ago he had hung an offrenda in El Señor de los Rayos but he no longer could locate it. I forgot to ask him the reason why he had done so and when. Previous to entering this room, I had only read Jorge Durand and Douglas Massey’s book Miracles on the Border: Retablos of Mexican Migrants to the U.S. (Tucson, Arizona University Press, 1995); I hadn’t experienced a room so packed with retablos (according to its Latin etymology, retablo means “tabla detrás de un altar”(“tabla” meaning plank, board or table). In the Mexican context, these originated during the colonial era (16th-18th centuries) as a folk painting or drawing depicting some kind of divine intervention; the artwork is considered a form of ofrenda or offering to the saint responsible for producing the miraculous result, for saving the victim.

We walked around the room and there were many retablos of thanks for the graduation of a daughter or son from high school or college (not a few were schools located in the US – a handful from Illinois), or for their survival of a horrific accident or operation. As Chavo and I wandered amongst these popular expressions of artistic gratitude, I admired the sheer power and unifying force of religious belief in that room. My fascination with the gory quality of the works almost pulled me from painting to painting, from collage to collage and diploma to diploma. Sometimes it seemed to me that the more grotesque the event the higher its aesthetic appraisal. Some retablos included additional images of a bloody, bruised Jesus figure as if to recall that the person’s suffering was not in vain. Attached are two photos; one of a retablo painted in 1963 and the other from Lake Geneva in 1973 (in thanks for saving the victims of a truck accident). Interestingly, almost a week later, I would attend the Amador Montes exhibit entitled “Retablos” at the Museo Regional de Guadalajara, a contemporary reworking of the theme of the retablo incorporating Oaxacan (and Japanese, I think) themes. I will attach photos of his exhibit here and comment more here. Chavo and I attempted to discuss the meaning behind Montes’ use of the form of the retablo. Although I’m not sure we reached any elevated conclusions two days ago at the Museum, I’m fairly certain I’ll return to these questions at a future date during my stay in Mexico.