Studio: international art (60.1914)

The Colour Lure of Mexico

Everywhere there is movement, movement of men
and of women and of variegated little brown
tumbling children not usually overburdened with
clothes.

Climb any of the hills that encircle the City of
Mexico, and the pictures are too many for the
memory to hold. But one impression comes so
frequently as to be stamped
indelibly on the mind’s
tablets: the impression of
witchiness. At a street
corner, perhaps under a way-
side shrine, a party of women,
weary and travel-stained, are
resting with bundles. It is
the peaked hats associated
in our childish minds with
witchcraft that gives a curious
fillip to the mind, a weird
coupling of religion with
sorcery. Again, up on these
hills, often and often, one
sees silhouetted against the
setting sun these heavily
laden witches toiling over
the steep places. Great bags
are on their shoulders, men
witches as well as women,
therein differing from our
children’s books, for the
real witch would conjure
some one else into carrying
the load.

In the Plaza of the cathe-
dral of Mexico City—the
scene of so much recent
bloodshed—we took a tram-
car that carried us through the
midst of fascinating city life.

Adorable markets with the
little stalls shaded by faded
red umbrellas, and surging
around, through, and about
the ever-shifting kaleidoscope
of humanity; a very prismatic
humanity at that, with much
brown skin, red and yellow dresses, gay beads and
dangling earrings; queer little shop doorways with
graceful green vines growing out of suspended oyas;
in every block, many wide archways giving fascinat-
ing glimpses into pink, blue, and green patios glow-
ing with flowering shrubs and parti-coloured babies.
And then to the Viga Canal, down which to the
city in the early morning comes a gay procession

of flower, fruit, and vegetable-laden boats, which
supply the city for the day. On a misty morning
one can see Corot effects in the soft grey light, and
picturesque flat boats being poled along by white-
clothed, big-hatted boatmen between the two rows
of tall, thin, French-looking trees that line the
banks. Between these tall trees move more of the
witchy folk, ■ heavy-laden, or
stepping out right gladsomely
along the path that follows
the canal. And by moon-
light, when the shadows
darken and all is more unreal
than before, one can realise
the pictorial charm of the
Viga Canal.

It is not so easy to work
in Mexico City proper,
though the material is not
lacking, so we moved nine
miles farther out to a very
old town called San Angel.
On the way is another
charming old place called
Coyoacan, which boasts of a
beautiful church, on whose
roof, or in its various in-
teriors and shrines, in its
garden, and kitchen, and
school, one could find
material for many a picture.
An old-fashioned stone
bridge crosses a stream at
Coyoacan, where, in the
shadow of grand old trees,
the women wash and gossip,
and where one might pamt
with some security. Coyoa-
can also has a market. The
only trouble with Mexican
markets is that they are
always closely surrounded
by pulque shops, wrhich are
no places in which to seek
refuge from the curious on-
lookers and sketch.

Our destination, San Angel, boasts of two very
delightful places of abode. We chose San Angel
Inn for the beauty of the old house itself, and for
its wide verandas facing the great volcanic peaks
of Popocatepetl and Ixtaccihuatl. One can always
find gardens galore, and patios to paint in, and this
one at San Angel Inn was a delight. Flowers and
vines and trees there were in profusion, quaint old

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