scaling the barricades

Chamber music is the people's music.

Or it once was. You certainly would not know it today. Its current image is of snooty liberal elitists sipping Chardonnay and eating organic goat cheese. And that is too bad because the beauty of chamber music belongs to everyone.

Quartet is a rather mediocre film (even with the presence of Maggie Smith). But it includes one of the most brilliant summaries I have heard about the tragedy of elites corralling types of music as their exclusive preserve.

Tom Courtenay's character describes the true character of opera to a group of students far more interested in rap than in opera.

Originally, it was people like you went to the opera. Casual clothing, they took food, they took alcohol, they threw things. Anyway, that was a long time ago that rich people took over the world of opera with their fancy dress, and they took the soul out of it, they made it something that it's not.

Every year I come to San Miguel de Allende for the chamber music festival, I think of that soliloquy. Even though the audiences here do not wear fancy dress, they often wear their best. And the vast majority, many who may know very little about music theory, do know the imposed strictures of theater etiquette.

If a piece has more than one movement, you applaud only At the end of the piece. Applauding at any other time would expose that little secret that you grew up in a trailer house in Wyoming, rather than Manhattan (as all of your friends believe).

And always give a standing ovation, but only at the end of the full performance, no matter how perfect or indifferent it may have been -- as if you were still in high school and your best friend Lisa has just disemboweled "Feelings."

(To be fair, several brave souls broke convention tonight and gave a standing ovation for The American String Quartet's rendition of Dvorak's string quartet #3. It was applause well-deserved.)

Audiences at concerts are every bit as stylized as the social set in an Edith Wharton novel. Think of The Age of Innocence.

It was not always so. Admittedly, chamber music had its birth in aristocratic drawing rooms. But, through the 18th and 19th centuries, it was played for popular audiences who would stomp and applaud anything they liked -- even in the midst of a movement, let alone at the conclusion of the movement.

For a brief moment this afternoon the stylized theater etiquette was steamrolled by the joy of the people.

Amit Peled is known as one of the world's best cellists. The fact that he plays the cello Pablo Casals played is a rather telling credential. He is also a teacher at the Peabody Institute in Baltimore.

He brought six of his international (The States, Czech Republic, Taiwan, Spain, Cuba, and China) to perform at the festival. He combined his Cello Gang with six of Mexico's best cello students to form an ensemble a dozen strong.

With only a few hours of practice as a group, they performed this afternoon at a free concert for the public. A large portion of the audience was Mexican. Some were students. Some were family members. But most were people who had come to hear good music. Many had never before attended a concert.

None of the pieces on the program made any demands on the assembled ears. They were strong pieces, but easily accessible. Bach's "Air on the G String." Piazzolla's "Melody in A minor for Bandoneon and String." Klengel's "Hymnus for 12 Cellos." Strauss's "Pizzicato Polka."

One cello is beautiful. A dozen are celestial.

But, the showstopper was Villa-Lobos's "Bachianas Brasileiras Number 5 for Voice and Cello." The "voice" belonged to Rosario Aguilar, who had won a competition to perform with the ensemble.

The piece gave her adequate space to demonstrate her range and control. And, even though a portion of the piece had her soprano voice impersonating a violin (when, of course, the violin was developed to imitate a soprano's voice), she performed it flawlessly.

So flawlessly that the audience could not withhold their approval. Applause flowed freely between movements, eliciting frowns from the socialized set.

I am with the clappers. The people should reclaim chamber music and show approval the moment it occurs. It is the perfect medium for developing a palate for the appreciation of serious music.

You might consider joining me next year here in San Miguel de Allende. We will storm the diatonic scale together and reclaim the people's music.

Listeners of the world, unite. You have nothing to lose but your chords.

the ball is in play

You girls may want to take a break. The boys and I are going to have a chat.

Of course, you all are free to listen in.

In my travels, I have encountered some interesting techniques to entertain men while they tend to the necessary business of emptying their bladders.

Guys regularly encounter the most common diversion. Usually, in sports bars. Portions of the newspaper are posted at eye level to allow a quick read while doing what needs to be done. I have seen several variations on this. Magazine articles. Newsletters. Even an occasional campaign piece.

All are rather clever because they are utilitarian. You can learn something simply by visiting the men's room.

The most irritating development has been the appearance of advertisements. It makes using a urinal no more interesting than sitting in a bus reading the commercial cards.

The most interesting device i had encountered was in the officers/NCO club in Greece. Someone had tacked a mimeographed sheet above the urinals giving nicknames to particular -- I guess you would call it styles. "The Thunderer" was my favorite.

But something far more clever has eased The Thunderer off of the front page. it has been replaced by the novel accessory I discovered in each urinal at a shopping center in San Miguel de Allende. It combines necessity with the Mexican love of football.

I guess the object is to create a stream sufficient to put the ball in the net. But, like some Sisyphean curse, the ball merely spins and spins. Never making a GOAAAAAAAAALLLLLLL!!!!!

Boys never grow up. I guess that is why we have toys in our restrooms.

OK, Steve. You told us you were going to tell us about the music that has drawn you to San Miguel de Allende. Instead, you give us two toilet jokes. When are you going to get off the pot?

Soon. I promise. Soon.

I attended my third concert tonight. Concerts four and five are tomorrow. I think I have enough material to share with you.

And I will. Eventually.

don't call it graffiti

Some people hate it. Others love it.

And you can tell by the words they choose to describe the art form where they stand on that divide.

The haters call it graffiti. The lovers call it street art. Or urban muralism. Or, with a nod at reconciliation, post-graffiti art.

The rift tends to be generational. Young people find it cool. Older people are prone to call it vandalism. If that is true, even though I fall easily into the senior citizen camp, I am a traitor to my race. I like the stuff.

The street art in San Miguel de Allende started as a problem. Like many cities, bored teens (almost exclusively boys) started tagging walls in town. It was rather minor, but when the UNESCO-designated central was tattooed with narcissistic signatures, the authorities got worried.

At about that same time, a resident American artist, Colleen Sorenson, saw two very talented young artists arrested just outside of her neighborhood, Guadalupe, for painting what she thought was a very interesting piece of art. Enraged that artists were being arrested for merely painting, she devised a plan.

She knew street art would never be appropriate in the central area with its historical heritage. But her neighborhood had lots of blank walls that had the possibility of being enlivened with murals. And, if the walls were made available for murals, the taggers might be drawn to painting something more formal.

So, she approached the city government. After surviving the usual bureaucratic struggle arguing that the murals would be a tourist magnet for the Guadalupe neighborhood, she had her project.

But there were some restrictions:

• No painting could be done without the permission of the property owners.
• None of the murals could be visible from the historical district.
• The murals could not be advertisements for commercial establishments.
• Political content was prohibited.

With those restrictions in mind, Muros de Blanco was launched with a fiesta where young public artists were invited to paint the first volunteered walls. Colleen is persuasive.

That was 2013. Since then, there have been additional fiestas and more walls painted. Other walls have been painted, as well,without the need of a fiesta.

Word has spread world-wide of this project. Even though Mexico and San Miguel de Allende were late comers in urban muralism (South America has been a leader), artists from Canada, The States, Brazil, Japan, France, Costa Rica, Switzerland, Kenya, Spain, and other countries breeze through town and spend a few days creating some outstanding art -- and some not so outstanding.

Urban muralists know they work in a transitory art form. The sun and moisture will destroy most of the murals within a year or two, what the artists bittersweetly call "the life of a wall." Murals painted on metal, stucco, or brick will last longer.

But, eventually they will all be replaced by new mural painted either by local or foreign artists. Colleen spends a good portion of her days enticing home owners to volunteer their walls for a project that has brought new life to Guadalupe.

The brief tenure of the murals remind us of our own eventual deaths. And, just like our lives, they provide joy to others while we live.

Let's take a look at some of the murals. I will not add much commentary. That you can provide for yourself.

Remember the rule about no political content? This mural rather shatters the rule. The Communist Manifesto is hardly neutral politically.

And the ban on commercial content? Gone.

But life is not all politics (fortunately) or commerce. Sometimes, it is pure beauty.

Or just pure art.

With a little Magritte thrown in for flavor.

Most of the pieces avoid rank sentimentality, but not all. The left side of this mural is quite good. The right side looks like something off of a Mexican Mother's Day card.

And some are merely whimsical.

Or sublimely surreal. Dali would appreciate the rhinoceros.

Decay creates its own art form. Colleen informed us that photographers love to shoot details like this. So, I did.

This dragon has a fascinating illusion of illumination.

Comic book art with an heroic twist. Notice the post-production pixelization on the woman. My mother would approve.

Or this life-morphing piece.

I included this mural because of its technique. The artist projected an outline and then used aerosol paint to complete it.

This piece is nicknamed "road kill," I call it "hello, kitty."

Young artist from Queretaro and a Canadian friend created this mural. It depicts The Beast -- the train that brings children refugees through Mexico to the United States from Central America. The children are represented as fleas on dogs acting as the train. The mural was painted before The Beast was known internationally.

Everyone's favorite is this mural. Painted by the Mexico City artist Sego. It honors the leader of the farmers who stood up to the cartel in Michocan, and who was jailed by the federal government for his troubles. Painted on a metal door with aerosol.

If the goal of the Muros en Blanco project was to turn the Guadalupe neighborhood into something new, it worked. It is always hard to say if the murals drew new businesses to the neighborhood or if the new businesses reflect the spirit of the murals.

Either way, Guadalupe is becoming known for its restaurants, its emerging art galleries, and a boom in new construction.

My friends Todd and Shannon introduced me to the murals as we drove by them a few years ago. I never followed up on foot. I should have.

Even for those of you who see these murals as graffiti, let me suggest that you should come see them in person. You just may switch to the other side of the divide.  

game of thrones

In Mexico, nothing goes to waste. So to speak.

tuesday in the park with steve

I like chaos.

That is one reason I travel. To shake myself out of routine. Mingling in crowds. Talking to strangers. Being beset with odd noises and aromas.

But, I also like tranquility now and then. On each of my trips, I look for a place where I can sit in peace to read a book and sip some tea.

In San Miguel de Allende, there are two obvious candidates. The first is the jardin -- the town's main square.

It is an immaculately-maintained pocket park. Plenty of benches. Some shaded by well-trimmed ficus like French soldiers ready for inspection.

Some people believe a person who stays long enough at Piccadilly Circus will eventually bump into everyone they know. If that is true, people on their way there first pass through the jardin.

The park is great for watching the vagaries of our race -- especially, some of Mexico's privileged class. But it is far from tranquil.

Opening a book seems to be the universal lantern in the tower for every vendor, tourist, and beggar to interrupt my reverie. At least, the frequent ringing of the city's church bells are a melodic diversion.

I brought my Ted Kooser poetry book with me. I was in the middle of his "An Old Photograph" about an elderly farm couple ("How far apart/ they sit; not touching at shoulder/ or knee, hands clasped in their laps/ as if under each pair was a key/ to a trunk hidden somewhere,/ full of those lessons one keeps/ to oneself.") when I was pulled back to the park by a woman's voice.

I looked up to see a sour face. Fir a moment, I thought I had conjured up Kooser's farm wife. She was dressed as if she was auditioning for a role in Richard Lander's former blog.

"Get that thing out of the jardin," she said pointing at me. Or, at least, I think that it what she said. Bitterness clipping her syllables.

Now, I had many things with me. And none of them were disposed to leave the jardin at just that moment.

I smiled in my smarmiest manner, and pleasantly answered: "I'm sorry. I do not remember marrying you."

My humor was lost on this righteous crusader. Apparently, strewn pearls were not to her liking.

"I'm talking about that." She then nudged my cup of mint tea with the toe of her combat sandals. Had she had a Carrie Nation touch, she would have kicked it over.

"It is a corporate act of aggression against the citizens of the planet." For a moment I thought she was going to launch into a Jeremy Corbyn diatribe.

Then, it hit me. My tea was in a Starbucks cup. I have encountered this particular cultural stereotype before. Attempting any rational discourse would have been as futile as asking her her thoughts on NAFTA or President Trump's proposed reform of legal immigration. After all, she had already concluded that I would be on the same curling team in heaven with Osama Bin Laden and Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi.

So, I once again smiled (this time the Oscar Wilde cynical smile), and told her: "I am staying right here. My cup is staying right there. And the Starbucks on the corner will still be there long after you are worm food."

I returned to my Kooser. She must have left because when I next glanced up, she was gone. Probably shuffling off to save an uncaring world one cup at a time while exponentially increasing the sales of Starbucks coffee by other accostees seeking a market retaliation.

I read two more poems, threw away my empty cup, and strolled to my second spot of tranquility. This one truly did offer a refuge from the throbbing rhythm of San Miguel de Allende's central area.

Benito Juarez Park. It is a mere three or four blocks from the jardin, but it may as well be four miles away.

The park is the perfect place to read poetry. Even though it has several play areas for children, it is large enough to find benches in the shade far from the madding crowd.

Its design is in the Frenck style -- built around a river ravine with diagonal paths intersecting at fountains. A botanist could spend hours merely identifying the various specimens.

But I was there to read poetry. And read I did.

There is far more to San Miguel de Allende than its touristy jardin. Benito Juarez Park is one of those places for me.

Now, refreshed with some Kooser, I am back to the chaos.

we are not amused

San Miguel de Allende is not Disneyland.

I do not know how many times I have heard the comparison. Probably, hundreds. Always delivered with a sardonic sneer, as if the speaker had just found something mildly unpleasant on his sole.

I suspect I have been guilty of that particular sin once or twice. But, the metaphor not only suffers from the handicap of being a cliché, which would be reason enough not to use it. But it is simply wrong.

The Disneyland comparison is just another variation on the long-running "Is it authentically Mexican?" debate that swirls around almost every conversation concerning Mexican towns. Well, discussions amongst foreigners. It is a concept that does not seem to bother Mexicans in the least.

I love good debates. But the "authenticity" discussion is a manufactured issue. And, like most manufactured issues, the resolution is simple.

Not to sound too tautological about it, but if a place is in Mexico, it is authentically Mexican. Because it is in -- Mexico.

That is true of Cancun or Mexico City or San Cristobal de las Casas or some tiny village in the Sierra Madres that can be reached only by a 17-mile footpath and whose residents can scarcely scrape out a subsistence living from the exhausted soil of ejido land.

Mexico is a multi-layered country. In that sense, there are many Mexicos. All of them authentic.

The "authentic" argument is not really what it seems. The subtext for many of the "this is, that isn't" list makers is a bit of old-fashioned Freudian projection. They have a notion of what Mexico should be and are then offended that there are places that do not live up to their expectation.

San Miguel de Allende is a perfect example. It played a central part in Mexico's war for independence from Spain. And it remained a thriving mining center until the mines ran out just about the time of the revolution. When the mines died, so did San Miguel de Allende.

Well, almost. The town came within one rasping breath to becoming just another amongst the other ghost town that litter Mexico's highlands.

San Miguel de Allende dodged that destiny by re-inventing itself as an art coven. From art colony, the next morph was easy. Tourist and retirement haven. All to assist finance its new life style.

It has now become a victim of its own popularity. On the weekends, the sidewalks and the streets are more congested than my arteries. On those days, it does look like Disneyland.

But San Miguel de Allende definitely is not Disneyland. And I am here as its attorney to put that calumny to rest.

May it please the court. My name is Steve Cotton and I am here on behalf of my client San Miguel de Allende. The question before the court is whether San Miguel de Allende is different than Disneyland. We contend that it is.

This is the evidence.

Disneyland blocks off its amusement park to keep out vehicle traffic and to let pedestrians roam freely to spend money.

In Disneyland, characters in costume greet guests.

Disneyland is a place where any girl can dress as a princess.

Disneyland has vendors offering colorful doodads of questionable utility.

Disneyland has a castle -- Cinderella's castle -- that acts as the theme park's logo.

Disneyland even has a train.

And food carts.

And ethnic food offered al fresco.

The place would not be Disneyland if there was not an almost-Nordic obsession with cleanliness and order. After all, it is not Six Flags.

I will not mention the young Mexican couple I saw with matching Mickey and Minnie sweatshirts. Nor the three occasions I saw young girls wearing mouse ears. Both of those observations might undermine my point that San Miguel de Allende is not Disneyland.

Members of the court, I rest my case.