Saints and Social Change: A Q&A With Artist Laurie Buman

Discover how Laurie Buman’s art, heavily influenced by her travels in Mexico, shines a light on social issues through her captivating saint and botanical series.

Saint Monarca of the Milkweed

Duke and I popped into Everybody’s Coffee in our neighborhood of Uptown in Chicago — and were instantly captivated by the striking art gracing the walls. Laurie Buman’s works are a visual feast: wide-eyed saints with a hint of steampunk flair and Day of the Dead influences, each collage exuding a powerful spirituality. Among the holy figures were unique creations like a holy canine and the butterfly-infused Saint Monarca of the Milkweed, canonized straight from Buman’s imagination. We couldn’t help but be intrigued by the stories each piece told.

We reached out to Laurie a few months ago to learn more about her artwork and process. –Wally

Artist Laurie Buman

Let’s start from the beginning. What inspired you to become an artist and develop your style?

Since I was little, I knew I was an artist. I would draw from around 4 years old and always loved coloring and drawing. My parents noticed I had a natural ability to draw realistically, so they nurtured that talent. I received an art scholarship to the Milwaukee Institute of Art & Design and later finished my degree at the University of Milwaukee. Over the years, I took continuing education courses in design and art, earning a BFA [bachelor of fine arts degree]. I spent many years working as a designer full time, which consumed a lot of my time, but I’ve gradually increased the time I spend in my studio.

Saint Cabrini of the River

How does Mexico influence your art?

I’ve been traveling to Mexico since I was 17. My first trip was for Day of the Dead, and I was captivated by the landscape’s beauty and the culture. It’s very unlike Wisconsin, where I grew up. The people in Mexico are so welcoming and inviting, and their culture is rich in history, color and ritual. It draws you in. My art was influenced by these experiences, especially my Day of the Dead photography.

What are some of your favorite places in Mexico?

Oaxaca is very dear to my heart, with its intense culture and natural beauty. I also love Mexico City and Mérida. I’m excited to visit Chiapas in spring 2025, which has a rich indigenous culture.

Can you tell us more about your saint series?

The series started with Saint Catherine of Bologna, an incorruptible saint whose body did not decompose. I channeled her and created my first saint piece, and the series grew from there. I've created pieces addressing social issues like femicide and mental illness, each piece becoming a shrine where people can put their thoughts and prayers. The process is therapeutic for me, as it allows me to bring light into the darkness.

What’s your artistic process like?

I spend months thinking about a particular saint. I do extensive research, layer images in Photoshop, and bring in original photography and found objects that add dimension and meaning. For example, I use rosaries and milagros in my pieces and top them with hand-applied gold leaf.

Saint Kateri Tekakwitha of the Indigenous

What other themes do you explore in your work?

In the past two years, I’ve been focusing on the environment and global warming, creating pieces about monarch butterflies and bees. My latest work, Saint Kateri Tekakwitha, the first Native American saint, celebrates ecology. I’ve also been working on botanicals and cyanotypes, exploring themes of nature and spontaneity.

What are some of the biggest challenges you face as an artist, and how do you overcome them?

Keeping momentum can be challenging, especially when starting. Making connections and finding venues to show my work helps. Having a studio at the Bridgeport Art Center provides a monthly audience and a supportive community. It’s vital to share your work and feel inspired by those around you.

Tell us about 3rd Fridays at the Bridgeport Art Center.

All the resident artists open their studios, and there are galleries on the third and fourth floors. We always have a show or two going on. I have a small gallery called Galería Azul, where I feature a guest artist every two months.

Daffodils + Fireflies

How has your work evolved over the years?

As I’ve aged and grown more confident, my work has become more expressive. My experiences at the University of Chicago and the Bridgeport Arts Center have elevated my work and given me the confidence to be myself and share my ideas.

Night Sky

What do you hope people take away from your art?

With my saint series, I hope people feel compassion towards the subject matter and think about social issues. With my botanical pieces, I want people to delight in spontaneous moments and appreciate the beauty of our world, realizing how precious our planet is.

A Day of the Dead ofrenda by Buman at the Chocolate Museum in Mexico City, featuring Saint Agatha of the Forgotten Daughters

Are there any upcoming projects or exhibitions you’re excited about?

Yes, I have a Day of the Dead show at the Patrician Gallery in Wilmette and a potential show in December at the Chocolate Museum in Mexico City. 

Infant Saint Ben of the Pit Bulls

Is there a particular piece that holds significant personal meaning for you?

All my pieces are special, but Saint Ben of the Pit Bulls is very dear to me. I used to do pit bull rescue, and this piece commemorates a pit bull named Ben who had a significant impact on my life.

The Black Madonna of Light

What legacy would you like to leave as an artist?

I hope to have brought attention to social issues, brought light into the world and added beauty. If people said I reminded them of Frida Kahlo, that would be a great honor.

Anything else you’d like to share?

Just that I’m grateful for this opportunity to share my story. I love connecting with others who share a passion for travel and culture.

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Why Vitellius, the Little-Known Roman Emperor, Haunts Artistic Masterpieces

The legendary glutton pops up in numerous works of art throughout the centuries. Renowned classicist Mary Beard unravels the mysteries behind Vitellius’ ubiquitous appearances in artworks and sheds light on the significance of his portrayal. 

Most people nowadays aren’t familiar with Emperor Vitellius — but he was once well known as a depraved glutton.

Chances are you’ve never heard of Emperor Vitellius — he ruled the Roman Empire for just eight months in 69 CE during the civil wars that followed the overthrow of Nero. 

But despite his brief reign, Vitellius left a lasting impression — though not necessarily a positive one. Of course, that’s nothing out of the ordinary when it comes to Roman emperors. 

Like many of his cohorts, Vitellius was known for his vices, particularly his gluttony. His signature dish, the Shield of the Goddess Minerva, was a concoction that included livers of pipefish, peacock brains, flamingo tongues and lamprey innards. Umm, I’ll pass, thanks. 

Not surprisingly, the adjective “Vitellian” was once commonly used to describe something that was over-the-top and outlandish.

In addition to his gluttony, Vitellius was reputed to be a sadist, quoted as having said, “The stench of a dead enemy is wonderful. The stench of a dead fellow citizen is even better.” 

Mary Beard, a famous classicist, and author of the new book Emperor of Rome: Ruling the Ancient Roman World

And “in his spare time, he was a sexual pervert,” quipped Mary Beard, one of the most renowned classics scholars and author of the book SPQR, during a lecture at the Art Institute of Chicago. 

Beard didn’t get into it, but let’s just say Tiberius gave Vitellius the nickname Tight Ass — and it had nothing to do with being stingy. 

The Feast in the House of Levi by Paul Veronese, 1573

The painting has not one but two figures modeled after Emperor Vitellius!

Vitellius: The Where’s Waldo of the Ancient World

Despite his lackluster reputation, Vitellius’ image has been copied, reinvented and reincorporated into Western art for centuries. Beard explored the significance of this often-overlooked figure and why he continues to pop up in art even today.

Take, for example, Paul Veronese’s painting The Feast in the House of Levi from 1573. Painted in Venice for a religious order, it was originally intended to depict the Last Supper. But when the Inquisition objected to this representation because it included animals, a jester, Germans and a server with a bloody face, Veronese changed its name to another feast from the Bible.

Beard pointed out a figure in the painting who’s gazing across at Jesus, utterly transfixed. It’s none other than Vitellius. So what’s he doing in there? 

It’s revealing a major coup for Christ. “Here, Jesus is converting one of the most despicable, immoral Roman emperors ever,” she explained. 

But, strangely enough, that’s not the only Vitellius in the artwork. His face also shows up as a server. “This is a clever spin on Vitellius’ gluttony because here we see one of Rome’s biggest overconsumers being turned into a server himself,” Beard said. 

If you want to show depravity, as Thomas Couture did in his 1847 work The Romans in Their Decadence, you need look no further than Emperor Vitellius, whose face can be found below the topless woman on the left.

In Thomas Couture’s painting The Romans in Their Decadence (nicknamed The Orgy) from 1847, Vitellius creeps up again. He’s shown in the midst of a pile of drunken revelers, so comatose he doesn’t even notice the naked woman near him.

An American magazine declared this work “the greatest sermon in paint ever rendered,” Beard told us. It was even suggested that a reproduction of it should be displayed prominently in every school in the United States — naked woman and all.

The canvas is filled with sprawling, drunken revelers in various states of undress. While it’s showing a graphic depiction of Ancient Rome’s moral decline, there was also a contemporary message to it: People viewed it as an attack on the disparities of wealth in France at the time and the blatant immorality of the bourgeoisie.

Vitellius Dragged Through the Streets of Rome by Georges Rochegrosse, 1883

The emperor ruled only briefly, and met a gruesome end — beaten, impaled on a hook and thrown into the Tiber River.

“If you knew what happened to Vitellius at the very end, when he’d lost power — dragged through the streets, tortured, beaten to death, impaled on a hook and thrown into the Tiber — if you knew that, I think you’d see in this figure a strong hint that this scene of debauchery and the modern lifestyle it evoked was doomed,” Beard said. “A very nasty punishment was around the corner.”

This painting, by Jean-Léon Gérôme, was once known as Hail, Caesar! We Who Are About to Die Salute You — until it was spotted that the emperor was actually Vitellius.

And there’s Jean-Léon Gérôme’s 19th century painting of the gladiatorial games — a representation that’s said to have inspired director Ridley Scott’s Gladiator. It’s a painting known as Hail, Caesar! We Who Are About to Die Salute You. But if you zoom in on the emperor, it’s — sure enough — none other than Vitellius. There’s no doubt; it’s even got his name painted below him. 

The title changed to Gladiators Before Vitellius. “Now, learned pedants, of which I know there are some in the audience, may have spotted a historical problem here,” Beard said, “which is this is clearly in the Coliseum, but the Coliseum wasn’t yet built by the reign of Vitellius.”

The legendary Grimani Vitellius, which pops up in numerous paintings, has a shocking secret.

Busted! The Grimani Vitellius

So why does Vitellius keep showing up in artworks? 

For the most part, we can thank a bust that’s become known as the Grimani Vitellius.  

This famous ancient image of Vitellius was excavated in Rome in the early 16th century under the direction of Cardinal Domenico Grimani and was bequeathed by him to the city of Venice upon his death in 1523.

“Now, I am by no means the first to spot how ubiquitous the Grimani Vitellius is,” Beard continued. But what was the significance? “Why copy this image of Vitellius? What extra does it bring to your painting if you include him? What ideological or moral register is at work?”

The Grimani Vitellius bust became the perfect symbol of an amoral glutton — which is why it has been copied hundreds of times from the 15th century on.

Boy Drawing Before the Bust of a Roman Emperor by Michael Sweerts, circa 1660

The bust itself even appears in paintings, such as Boy Drawing Before the Bust of a Roman Emperor by Michael Sweerts, from the mid-1600s.

“You can say this is just a convenient visual source to copy,” Beard said. “But I think you miss a lot if you don’t also think `Vitellius.’ When people use recognizable faces in paintings, they usually do it for a reason. And they expect you to recognize it.”

There could be a darker intent in this work, Beard suggested. “Anyone who knew anything would surely have said, Why on Earth did they put this little innocent lad to draw that sexually perverted monster — even if he is the acme of the craft of sculpture. And I can’t help thinking … there are bigger questions about the potentially corrupting force of art.”

But that fat fuck is having the last laugh. The Grimani Vitellius isn’t even a portrait of Vitellius! Technical details, such as the way the eyes have been drilled, make it clear that it dates from the 2nd century and cannot possibly be Vitellius. 

The bust, also known as the Pseudo-Vitellius, actually depicts an unknown Roman probably from the 120s or 130s CE who, by coincidence, was unfortunate enough to look very much like the coin portrait of the emperor. 

A gold coin depicting Vitellius. The emperor’s depiction is what led to the mislabeling of the Pseudo-Vitellius bust.

Emperor Vitellius: The Art World’s Fascination With an Infamous Ruler

It’s fascinating to think that this bust, which was not even of Vitellius, spread like wildfire and has had such a lasting impact in art. 

So the next time you’re wandering through an art gallery or museum, keep an eye out for Vitellius. Thanks to Beard, I predict he’ll have a comeback. –Wally

3 Chicago Muralists Share Their Secrets

How is a mural made? That was the idea behind a recent exhibit at the Chicago Cultural Center. We did a Q&A with each of the featured artists: Cecilia Beaven, Miguel A. Del Real and Anna Murphy. 

Duke and I have always appreciated murals, but didn’t know a whole lot about what went into their creation. Are they gridded out? Are they done freehand? Do they use spray paint? Or are all these things, as I imagine, dependent upon the artist?

That’s why it was so cool to visit the Chicago Cultural Center and see Exquisite Canvas: Mural Takeover, an onsite installation sponsored by the Department of Cultural Affairs and featuring the talent of three local artists: Cecilia Beaven, Miguel A. Del Real and Anna Murphy. The experiential exhibit was held on the first floor galleries and invited visitors to meet the artists and watch their progress as they completed their works. (The exhibit ran from June 10, 2023 and closed on September 3).

Part of the idea behind Exquisite Canvas at the Chicago Cultural Center was to show the artists’ process of creating their murals.

Pro tip: In our opinion, you have a better chance of seeing an impressive art exhibit at the Cultural Center, which is free, versus the often disappointing and even laughable works displayed at the Museum of Contemporary Art.

The first room of the exhibit had a brightly colored geometric mural titled Perspectiva Perpetua by Miguel, who has a tattoo and calligraphy background. It depicted a man in the middle, staring intently ahead, with an Aztec jaguar on one side and a woman in profile with her eyes closed and her head tilted upwards on other other. Miguel was working on his mural the day we visited. It was pretty cool to have the opportunity to chat with him briefly. 

Miguel A. Del Real working on Perspectiva Perpetua

We admired his mural as well as the other two by Cecilia and Anna. Cecilia’s piece, Moon Bloom, references tenangos, a colorful style of embroidery that originated in the Tenango de Doria municipality in the Mexican state of Hidalgo.

Moon Bloom by Cecilia Beaven

Anna’s concept, Awakening, featured a resting tiger,  symbolizing the inner strength in each of us. She’s known for her photorealistic style and use of blue and gold paint.

Awakening by Anna Murphy

Seeing Miguel at work gave us a glimpse into the making of a mural, but we still had a lot of questions. So we decided to reach out to the artists to learn more. 

Fortunately, all three took the time to answer our questions, and their Q&As provided a fascinating glimpse into their creative process. –Wally

Cecilia Beaven

How did you get into art?

I remember drawing since I remember being myself. Creating images has always been an activity that fascinates me and it’s my favorite form of communication or expression. I started taking art classes when I was a kid, and I started doing art more professionally right after highschool when I went to art college.

How do you get your ideas for murals? What subjects do you cover?

I explore mythology through a very playful lens that allows for experimentation and speculation. I draw from Aztec and other Mesoamerican stories and combine their archetypal elements with fiction in a seamless way. I also include a self-representative character that inhabits these narratives and allows for reflection on my place in the making of culture and participation in it.

Which character is that?

The character that represents me is the woman figure with a big nose and short hair that you can see in a lot of my pieces.

Are they entirely planned out in advance?

They usually are. I do lots of sketches, color tests, and planning ahead of time, so when I’m on site creating a mural I know what steps to follow. There are a few decisions that get modified once I’m in front of the actual wall, but not many.

Do you draw them out on the wall?

Yes. The sketching technique depends on the project, resources available, and time limitations. Sometimes I work traditionally and follow a grid, sometimes I project my sketch, and sometimes I just freehand recreate my sketch.

Tell us more about your technique and the process of creating your murals.

I create a loose sketch on a sketchbook using non-photo blue pencil. Once I like where it's going, I ink it. Then I scan my drawing and get rid of the blue. I use photoshop to do color tests and once I’m happy with the color palette, I print it. I then mix paints that match my tones. 

On the mural site, I recreate my sketch on the wall (using a grid, freehand, or with a projector, depending on the project) and then start to apply my colors from the background to the foreground.

How long does it typically take to create a mural?

The time depends on the size of the wall and how detailed it is. But I work pretty fast, so I’ve completed small murals in one day and the largest ones in two or three weeks. 

How would you describe your style?

Playful, cartoony, absurd, mythological, self-reflective, bold.

What’s your favorite part about creating a mural?

I love using my whole body to create an image, to see something as big as me, or bigger, take shape as I move my body. I also love being on ladders, scaffoldings, and lifts. And I enjoy the mindset that creating a mural puts me in, I feel calm and focused.

What is your least favorite part?

Painting the lower part of the walls that require bending, kneeling or even lying down on the floor.

What message do you want people to get from your murals?

Ideally, I want people to experience happiness and a sense of hope.

ceciliabeaven.com

Instagram: @samuraiceci

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Miguel A. Del Real

How did you get into art?

It wasn’t until second or third grade. I was trying to replicate the Ninja Turtles, and I think that’s what really got me into drawing. And then around seventh or eighth grade and throughout high school, I got into doing graffiti letters. 

I stopped for a little bit when I went to Northern Illinois University, but then I came back into the city and started hanging out with old friends. And I started getting back into the arts, like with graffiti murals. 

I would say that’s what helped develop me as an artist, those years doing experimental work — that’s what led me to be taken a little bit more seriously as a professional artist. 

How do you get your ideas for murals? What subjects do you cover?

That’s tough. You do want to be respectful to where you’re painting, And I feel like that approach is what has helped shape some of the ideas or concepts. 

These past couple years, I’ve been experimenting more with the sense of consciousness. I don’t want to say spirituality or anything like that. But it’s just been more like depicting dreams, combining some abstract elements with figurative elements, patterns, heavy line work. 

Are they entirely planned out in advance?

I like to leave some breathing room. So I would say, when it’s a job that really requires that they’re more hands-on, they want everything planned out.

This particular one that the cultural center, they allowed a lot of flexibility, where I just gave them a rough sketch. And then out of that, I was able to change it and add things as I went, inspired by the space. 

Do you draw them out on the wall? Tell us about your technique and the process of creating your murals.

I just start sketching. Like at the cultural center, I sketched it with pencil. They wanted it with a brush — I couldn’t use any aerosol. Then you start blocking out sections with paint and color, and then you move on to details. 

When it’s a mural outside, I can use spray paint and I start sketching with the paint itself, just blocking in shapes. 

How long does it typically take to create a mural?

As fast as two and a half weeks to a month and a half.

How would you describe your style?

With my background in graffiti lettering, I use the chisel qualities of a brush, from thick to thin, combined with sacred geometry with shapes like circles, squares, triangles. 

What’s your favorite part about creating a mural?

It’s definitely the painting. Once you have the sketch done, the coloring of it — even though that’s where I struggle the most, where I go back and forth with colors. This is when it really starts coming to life. 

What is your least favorite part?

The sketching, because everything needs to be locked in precisely. So if something looks wrong, then that throws off the whole mural — everything needs to be mathematically divided. 

What message do you want people to get from your murals?

The common theme that I have, regardless of the different institutions and corporations that I’ve painted for, it’s always the message of transformation, evolving. Man fusing with spirit or nature.

delrealink.com

Instagram: @delrealink

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Anna Murphy

How did you get into art?

I received a BFA in painting from the University of Louisville in 2011. After many years creating fine art oil paintings on canvas, I painted my first mural in 2018, and fell in love with the large scale and community aspect of public art.

How do you get your ideas for murals? What subjects do you cover?

The central themes of my work include celebrating nature’s wondrous beauty and the divine connection we share with one another, Mother Earth and the animal kingdom. My spirituality is the driving force of my life and my art.

Are they entirely planned out in advance? Do you draw them out on the wall? 

Yes, I design the layout in PhotoShop, then project a line drawing of my design onto the wall. With a small paintbrush, I paint the outline of the design onto the wall.

How would you describe your style? 

With a traditional painting background, I merge the worlds of fine art and street art by bringing an emphasis on intricate detail into my large-scale public murals.

Tell us about your technique and the process of creating your murals. 

Hand-painted with brushes, my painting style uses a process similar to watercolor, building up thin layers of washes to create depth, texture and a lifelike quality.

What’s your favorite part about creating a mural?

Knowing that it will bring joy and inspiration to those who see it, for years to come.

What is your least favorite part?

Spiders.

What message do you want people to get from your murals?

The metallic gold background reflects our own divinity and the sacredness of life. The cobalt blue, a symbol of Earth, like Heaven and Earth together, this combination portrays the connection between the human and the divine. The cherubs are also a symbol of our connection to the divine, and guardians of our pure and spiritual nature. The bees act as a symbol of a higher frequency, community and a connection to all things. The flowers and plants, a symbol of Mother Nature’s beauty, represent a paradise that can also be found within.

annapmurphy.com

Instagram: @annapmurphy

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Chicago Cultural Center 

78 East Washington Street
Chicago, Illinois
USA

Artistic Depictions of the Virgin Mary: The Surprising Origins of Marian Iconography

The enigmatic allure of the Virgin Mary: From divine purity to unsettling symbolism, we explore the captivating myths and enduring appeal of the original Madonna. 

The Virgin Mary takes many guises in art over the centuries, from Queen of Heaven to the Sorrowful Mother whose tears have miraculous properities.

In art, God is often portrayed as an ancient, white-bearded man in flowing robes, a benevolent figure who watches over humanity from on high. Jesus, meanwhile, is typically depicted in various key moments from his life, such as his birth, crucifixion and resurrection. He walks on water and performs other miracles and has his Last Supper. 

But the Virgin Mary is a complex and enigmatic figure who wears many guises. Often cloaked in modesty, she’s seen as a symbol of hope, love and sacrifice. She’s portrayed as the ultimate role model for Christian women, the daughter of God, the bride of her own son and a regal queen. Her story is a richly woven tapestry of myths and symbols, each thread imbued with meanings that have been interpreted in countless ways throughout history.

As we delve into the realm of religious art and symbolism, we find her as a fertility goddess known as the Black Madonna, along with a loving mother whose tears and breast milk have magical healing powers. Amid the varied representations through the centuries, one thing remains certain: Mary’s enduring appeal as a divine figure. 

Mary, Queen of Heaven by the Master of the Saint Lucy Legend, circa 1495

Maria Regina: Queen of Heaven

Mary, the paragon of purity, couldn’t be left to rot in the grave like a mere mortal. So, the early Church fathers devised a bold solution: They declared that she had been taken up to Heaven in an event known as the Assumption, where she now reigns as a celestial queen. 

Popes viewed the Virgin Mary as a powerful propaganda tool. With their ties to the Queen of Heaven, they could legitimize their authority on earth and cemented the strong tie between Mary and Catholicism, centered in Rome: “The more the papacy gained control of the city, the more veneration of the mother of the emperor in heaven, by whose right the Church ruled, increased,” explains Marina Warner in her 1976 book Alone of All Her Sex: The Myth and the Cult of the Virgin Mary. 

The Coronation of the Virgin by Diego Velázquez, 1636

John VII was the first pope to have himself painted in prostration at the feet of the Virgin, in the basilica of Santa Maria in Trastevere in Rome. 

Madonna della Clemenza icon from the church of Santa Maria in Trastevere in Rome, 8th century. It’s the first to show a pope, John VII, prostrating himself at her feet (though it’s hard to make out now).

The coronation of Mary was first depicted in the 12th century, from an apse mosaic at Santa Maria to niches of French cathedrals, and became a favorite theme of Christendom. Christ is shown crowning his mother, switching the moment of her triumph from the Incarnation (when she conceived the son of God) to the Assumption (when she was taken up to Heaven). 

Coronation of the Virgin by Fra Angelico, 1435

The imagery of a divine queen worked well to legitimize not only popes but royalty and its system of inequality as well. “For by projecting the hierarchy of the world onto heaven, that hierarchy — be it ecclesiastical or lay — appears to be ratified by divinely reflected approval; and the lessons of the Gospel about the poor inheriting the earth are wholly ignored,” Warner writes. 

“It would be difficult to concoct a greater perversion of the Sermon on the Mount [Christ’s ethical code, focusing on compassion, selflessness, etc.] than the sovereignty of Mary and its cult, which has been used over the centuries by different princes to stake out their spheres of influence in the temporal realm,” Warner continues, “to fly a flag for their ambitions like any Maoist poster or political broadcast; and equally difficult to imagine a greater distortion of Christ’s idealism than this identification of the rich and powerful with the good.”

The Coronation of the Virgin With Angels and Four Saints by Neri di Bicci, circa 1470

The Bride of Christ: Incest Is Best?

As shocking as it may seem, the Virgin Mary was, for a while, depicted as the bride of her own son, Jesus. 

How could this have come about? Warner suggests the influence of Middle Eastern mystery religions, which played up males forming unions with females. The Canaanite god Baal coupled with his sister, Anat. In Syria, the shepherd Tammuz became the lover of the sky goddess Ishtar. The Phrygian cult featured Cybele and Attis, who died castrated under a tree. And Egyptian mythology tells the tale of Osiris, the god of the dead, who was chopped into pieces and put back together by his sister-wife, Isis. 

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RELATED: A pictorial glossary of the so-called pagan gods of the Old Testament

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The nuptials of these divine beings mirrored the joining of earth and sky at the dawn of creation.

You wouldn’t marry your mother, would you — even if she was the Virgin Mary?!

“Thus marriage was the pivotal symbol on which turned the cosmology of most of the religions that pressed on Jewish society, jeopardizing its unique monotheism,” Warner writes. “It is a symptom of their struggle to maintain their distinctiveness that the Jews, while absorbing this pagan symbol, reversed the ranks of the celestial pair to make the bride God’s servant and possession, from whom he ferociously exacts absolute submission.”

From this foundation, Cyprian of Carthage, in the 3rd century, accused virgins who flirted of committing adultery against their true husband, Christ.  

And then, of course, there are nuns, whose consecration ceremony includes getting a ring that designates them as a bride of Christ. Talk about polygamy on a mass scale!

But it wasn’t really until 1153, when Bernard of Clairvaux gave multiple sermons on the Old Testament’s Song of Songs — “that most languorous and amorous of poems,” as Warner calls it. In one of these, Bernard preached, speaking of Christ and the Virgin Mary:

But surely will we not deem much happier those kisses which in blessed greeting she receives today from the mouth of him who sits on the right hand of the Father, when she ascends to the throne of glory, singing a nuptial hymn and saying: “Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth.”

Pagan influences aside, I’m puzzled as to how this incestuous idea ever caught on among Christians.

The Virgin and Child by Dirk Bouts, circa 1465

Maria Lactans: The Milk-Squirting Mary

While Mary was exempt from Eve’s punishment of bearing children in pain, there was one biological function allowed her: breastfeeding. “From her earliest images onwards, the mother of God has been represented as nursing her child,” Warner says. 

The Virgin Mary depicted with squirting breasts?! This is one iconography I’ve got to milk for all its worth.

Where did this idea come from? “The theme of the nursing Virgin, Maria Lactans, probably originated in Egypt, where the goddess Isis had been portrayed suckling the infant Horus for over a thousand years before Christ,” Warner explains. 

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RELATED: In the New Testament, Mary wasn’t mentioned as being a virgin. Find out why early Christians insisted upon Mary being pure.

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Madonna Nursing the Child (Maria Lactans) by Erasmus Quellinus the Younger, circa 1614

Part of this symbolism derives from a mother providing much-needed nourishment: “For milk was a crucial metaphor of the gift of life,” Warner continues. “Without it, a child had little or no chance of survival before the days of baby foods, and its almost miraculous appearance seemed as providential as the conception and birth of the child itself.”

And, not surprisingly, Mary’s milk was miraculous. A favorite medieval tale, including a version in French by Gautier de Coincy, tells how a faithful monk was dying of a putrid mouth filled with ulcers. He reproached the Madonna for neglecting him, and chastened, she appears at his bedside: 

With much sweetness and much delight,
From her sweet bosom she drew forth her breast, 
That is so sweet, so soft, so beautiful,
And placed it in his mouth, 
Gently touched him all about,
And sprinkled him with her sweet milk.

As Warner writes, “Needless to say, the monk was rendered whole again.”

According to a 14th century legend, Saint Bernard prayed before a statue of Mary. It came to life, and the Virgin placed her breast in Bernard’s mouth, nursing him as she did the baby Jesus.

The Madonna’s miracle milk became a nearly ubiquitous relic in Europe. “From the thirteenth century, phials in which her milk was preserved were venerated all over Christendom in shrines that attracted pilgrims by the thousands. Walsingham, Chartres, Genoa, Rome, Venice, Avignon, Padua, Aix-en-Provence, Toulon, Paris, Naples, all possessed the precious and efficacious substance,” Warner says.

John Calvin, the church reformer, had a scathing opinion about these claims. “There is no town so small, nor convent … so mean that it does not display some of the Virgin’s milk,” he wrote in his Treatise on Relics. “There is so much that if the holy Virgin had been a cow, or a wet nurse all her life she would have been hard put to it to yield such a great quantity.”

The idea of a breastfeeding mother of God waned in the Renaissance, when high-born women found it indecent to do the job themselves and outsourced the task to wetnurses. Plus, it was deemed indecorous to depict Mary with her breast exposed with the increasing idea that a woman’s body was shameful. Mary, with the Immaculate Conception, was born without original sin and therefore avoided Eve’s curse — and by the 16th century, that included being exempt from suckling the Christ child.

Madonna in Sorrow by Juan de Juni, 1571

Mater Dolorosa: The Sorrowful Mother

The caregiving image of Mary gave way to a mother mourning her dead son, what’s known as the Mater Dolorosa. The cult began in the 11th century, reaching full fruition in the 14th century in Italy, France, England, the Netherlands and Spain. The culmination of this iconography? Michelangelo’s La Pietà.

La Pietà by Michelangelo, 1499

Again, we have Ancient Egypt, and the surrounding region’s myths, to thank for this representation. The Egyptian goddess Isis sorrowfully wandered the land, collecting the pieces of her dismembered brother-husband, Osiris. When she finds his coffin, she caresses Osiris’ face and weeps. 

And she’s not the only weeping woman of the ancient Middle East. Dumuzi, the shepherd and “true son” of Sumerian myth, was sacrificed to the underworld, tortured by demons (much like Christ later, during his Passion and descent into Hell). The goddess Inanna, the Queen of Heaven, weeps for him.

It seems likely that Christians picked up this iconography — spurred on by the horrors of the Black Death, when the bubonic plague swept the continent, wiping out one-fifth of the entire population. “It aroused penitential fever in a way never seen before, and gave the image of the Mater Dolorosa weighty contemporary significance,” Warner points out. 

Madonna in Sorrow by Titian, 1554

Once again, Mary’s bodily fluids have healing properties. “The tears she sheds are charged with the magic of her precious, incorruptible, undying body and have the power to give life and make whole,” Warner explains. 

This cult has lasted to the present day. Many of us have heard stories of statues of the Virgin that miraculously weep. 

“Contemporary prudishness has tabooed the Virgin’s milk, but her tears have still escaped the category of forbidden symbols, and are collected as one of the most efficacious and holy relics of Christendom,” Warner says. “They course down her cheeks as a symbol of the purifying sacrifice of the Cross, which washes sinners of all stain and gives them new life, just as the tears of Inanna over Dumuzi fell on the parched Sumerian soil and quickened it into flower.” 

The Virgin of Greater Pain and Transfer of Great Power

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RELATED: Learn more shocking things about the Virgin Mary!

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The Black Madonna of Monserrat

The Black Madonna: Our Lady of Montserrat

Most Western depictions of Mary present her skin as lily-white, untouched by corruption, despite the fact that she is undeniably Middle Eastern. So it’s all the more surprising to see the emergence of the Black Madonna, a dark-skinned version that became popular among the medieval Benedictine monks in Montserrat, Spain. 

The monks saw the lushness of their mountain as a mirror of Mary. As such, her icon took on aspects of a fertility goddess. 

But in a bizarre twist (or perhaps not, given that Mary was a Jew from Judea), the Virgin had dark skin, which led to her being known as the Black Madonna. In fact, she’s known locally as La Moreneta, the Little Dark One. The depiction spread to other places of worship, among them Chartres, Orléans, Rome and Poland. 

The Black Madonna of Częstochowa, Poland

“The Church often explains their blackness in allegorical terms from the Song of Songs: ‘I am black, but comely, O ye daughters of Jerusalem’ (Song of Solomon 1:5),” Warner writes. “[B]ut another theory about their color is even more prosaic: that the smoke of votive candles for centuries has blackened the wood or the pigment, and when artists restored the images, they repainted the robes and jewels that clothe the Madonna and Child but out of awe left their faces black.”

The shrine at Montserrat is one of the longest continuous cults of Mary, especially popular with newly married couples. Here she has dominion over marriage, sex, pregnancy and childbirth — odd for a virgin but not for a fertility goddess. 

The Black Madonna at St. Mary’s Church in Gdansk, Poland

A gruesome legend illustrates Mary’s power. A woman gives birth to a lump of dead flesh. But when she prays to Our Lady of Montserrat, it begins to move and is transformed into a beautiful baby boy. 

Madonna della Misericordia by Benedetto Bonfigli, circa 1470

Madonna della Misericordia: Our Lady of Mercy

In a merging of her roles as mother and queen, a new depiction of Mary emerged in Umbria, Italy at the end of the 13th century. The Virgin was given a massive cloak which she wrapped over the poor souls gathered at her feet. Towering over them and offering protection, this was the Madonna della Misericordia, Our Lady of Mercy. 

Madonna of Mercy by Sano di Pietro, circa 1440s

After the desolation of the Black Death in the late 1340s, this iconography of Mary became the most popular. Monks and laypeople alike would pray to this aspect of the Virgin, asking her to keep them safe from harm. 

The Virgin of the Caves by Francisco de Zurbarán, circa 1655

This Mary is often preternaturally large — and her son, Christ, isn’t anywhere to be found, “suggesting that her mercy, directly given, could save sinners,” Warner writes. But that cuts God and Jesus out of the equation and makes the Virgin a goddess in her own right. 

So while Our Lady of Mercy spread throughout Europe in the 14th and 15th centuries, it was officially declared heterodox (not in accordance with the accepted Catholic doctrine) and banned by the Council of Trent in the mid-1500s.

Dormition of the Virgin fresco by Frangos Katelanos, 1548

Divine Dominion Over Death 

The Virgin Mary has worn many guises over the years, from a gentle breastfeeding mother to imperial queen to tutelary goddess. 

“If travelers from another planet were to enter churches, as far flung as the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception in Washington, D.C., or the Catholic cathedral in Saigon, or the rococo phantasmagoria of New World churches, and see the Virgin’s image on the altar, it would be exceedingly difficult for them to understand that she was only an intercessor and not a divinity in her own right,” Warner points out. 

There are surely many factors that have led to Mary’s enduring appeal, starting with her co-opting of ancient mythology like the Egyptian goddess Isis. Many cultures find it fitting to worship the female spirit — something glaringly missing in the often-misogynistic views of Christianity. 

Detail from Assumption of Mary by Peter Paul Rubens, circa 1617

But Warner has a theory: “For although the Virgin is a healer, a midwife, a peacemaker, the protectress of virgins, and the patroness of monks and nuns in this world; although her polymorphous myth has myriad uses and functions for the living, it is the jurisdiction over her death accorded her in popular belief that gives her such widespread supremacy.”

She could be on to something. Think of the final words of the Hail Mary, the best-loved prayer in Catholicism: “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.” –Wally

Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera’s Fascinating Connections to Fallingwater

A seduction at the iconic Frank Lloyd Wright home. The influence of Frida’s home, the Casa Azul. Juan O’Gorman’s insulting mural project. And the Kaufmanns’ role in the Mexican artists’ success. We explore the artistic ties that bind these fascinating personalities.  

Frida standing with The Two Fridas

Imagine visiting Fallingwater, Frank Lloyd Wright’s iconic masterpiece. You’re surrounded by stunning natural beauty, and the architecture is simply breathtaking. 

But what if I told you that two of the most famous Latin American artists, Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo, were also friends with the Kaufmann family, who commissioned and lived in the home? It’s a story that’s as fascinating as the house itself.

“When [Levy] returned to his bedroom, there was Frida — waiting for him!”

— Hayden Herrera in "Frida: A Biography of Frida Kahlo"

E.J., Edgar jr. and Liliane Kaufmann at Fallingwater, their now-legendary weekend home designed by Frank Lloyd Wright

The Kaufmanns: A Family of Taste and Distinction

Edgar Jonas Kaufmann, or E.J. to his friends, was the head of a well-known Pittsburgh department store family. He was a highly respected businessman, aesthete and philanthropist who, along with his wife, Liliane, turned the family retail empire into a center of culture and fashion. 

Fun fact: The surname Kaufmann fittingly means “merchant” in German. 

As lifelong patrons of the arts, E.J. and Liliane enjoyed spending time with architects, artists and other creatives. Their only child, Edgar Kaufmann jr. (the lowercase “jr.” was his preferred abbreviation), inherited his parents’ love of art. He was particularly interested in modernist design, and he believed that functional objects could also be works of art.

Diego Rivera standing with a study of his mural-that-was-never-to-be, Man at the Crossroads. Rockefeller, who commissioned it, found it to be a bit too Communist for his tastes.

The family’s weekend home, Fallingwater, was filled with a formidable collection of artworks and objects. If the Kaufmanns weren’t already familiar with the socialist works of Mexican artist Diego Rivera, they most certainly became aware of him when his unfinished mural, Man at the Crossroads, caused a major controversy in 1933. The mural, which featured a portrait of Vladimir Lenin, was commissioned by the Rockefeller family, but they were so outraged by the inclusion of the Marxist leader that they had the mural destroyed. (Rivera’s re-creation, Man, Controller of the Universe, is on display at the Palacio de Bellas Artes in Mexico City.)

Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera had a lot to thank the Kaufmann family for in helping them gain fame.

When the Kaufmanns Met Frida and Diego

It’s possible that the Kaufmanns were introduced to Rivera by John McAndrew, the newly minted curator of the Department of Architecture and Industrial Art at New York’s Museum of Modern Art, aka MoMA. McAndrew visited Fallingwater in 1937 to document the house for the upcoming exhibit, A New House by Frank Lloyd Wright on Bear Run.

Fallingwater has a surprising connection to Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera.

It’s not hard to imagine that McAndrew would have talked about Rivera to the Kaufmanns during his visit to Fallingwater. McAndrew had previously traveled and studied architecture in Mexico, where he was inspired by the country’s rich cultural heritage. 

E.J. and Liliane were drawn to the rustic charm of Casa Azul, Kahlo’s childhood home in the Coyoacán neighborhood of Mexico City. The Kaufmanns saw it as an antidote to city life and wanted to create a similar sense of peace and tranquility at their weekend home, Fallingwater.

Frida Kahlo at her home, Casa Azul, which provided inspo for Liliane Kaufmann.

They appreciated the objects that Kahlo had filled her home with, including sculptures by the self-taught Mexican artist Mardonio Magaña. Four of these sculptures are on display at Fallingwater, and a reproduction of one is available for purchase at the Fallingwater museum store. (Completing the loop, a photograph of Fallingwater hangs in the permanent collection at Casa Azul.)

One of the works by Mexican artist Mardonio Magaña found at Fallingwater

In the 1930s, E.J. and Liliane became patrons of Rivera, and later of Kahlo, his wife. For nearly two years, E.J. provided Rivera with a monthly stipend of $250, totaling $5,000. That’s equivalent to about $86,000 in today’s dollars. Although Rivera never ended up being commissioned to paint anything by the Kaufmanns, he and the couple were friends, and two of his works are on display at Fallingwater.

Look for Diego Rivera’s Profile of a Man Wearing a Hat hanging in the guest bedroom at Fallingwater.

Torrid Siesta (El Sueño) by Diego Rivera, in the passageway that leads out to the guesthouse at Fallingwater

Profile of a Man Wearing a Hat originally hung in E.J.’s private Wright-designed office at Kaufmann’s sprawling Pittsburgh department store. And Torrid Siesta (El Sueño) was first placed in E.J.’s study on the third floor of the house but was later relocated to its current location on the enclosed bridge that leads out to the guesthouse.

Liliane Kaufmann found Frida Kahlo to be “most interesting.”

A Love of Latin America 

The Kaufmanns’ interest in Latin American culture grew, and in May 1938, Edgar jr. and Liliane took their first trip to Mexico City. The newly reestablished government of Mexico was eager to forge a national identity that promoted its pre-Hispanic heritage to American tourists. 

While there, Junior and Liliane visited Diego and Kahlo at their home and studio in the neighborhood of San Ángel, a modernist structure designed and built by their mutual friend, Juan O’Gorman. It was a place of creativity and conflict. While the couple were both artists, they had very different approaches to their work. Rivera was a well-known and successful muralist, while Kahlo was a more private painter who focused on self-portraits. 

Liliane wrote:

Yesterday we visited Diego Rivera at his home in San Ángel. It is a very interesting house inside and he is a very simple charming man. He showed us a lot of things and took us over to meet his wife who was most interesting. She paints also, very delightfully, and we had a swell time.

At the home and studio, Kahlo played the role of dutiful wife. She also served as Rivera’s secretary, entertaining and courting patrons for him. While Rivera enjoyed socializing with high society, Kahlo resented it. 

Don’t be sad, Frida! You’re about to catch a big break!

Frida Kahlo’s Big Break 

It was during this period that Kahlo retreated to Casa Azul, where she developed her commanding signature style. She had a difficult life. She contracted polio when she was 6, which left one leg thinner than the other. And when she was 18, she was in a bus accident that left her severely injured. She hid this by wearing long ruffled skirts, boxy shirts to conceal her surgical corsets and adorned herself with jewelry. Inspired by traditional Mexican indigenous clothing, her style came to represent a patriotic identity and a defiance of traditional gender roles.

Kahlo’s first big break occurred a short time after Liliane and Junior’s visit. In the summer of 1938, Hollywood actor and art collector Edward G. Robinson, famous for playing gangster types in film noirs, purchased four of Kahlo’s paintings for $200 each while vacationing in Mexico City. 

Edgar G. Robinson might have played tough types in the movies, but he was blacklisted in Hollywood as a Communist and helped launch Kahlo’s art career.

At the time, Kahlo was virtually unknown in the United States and she was always a bit shocked when anyone liked her work. She had often given it away for free, and she later wrote of the Robinson sale:

For me it was such a surprise that I marveled and said, this way I am going to be able to be free; I’ll be able to travel and do what I want without asking Diego for money.

When the French writer and founder of the Surrealist movement, André Breton, included Kahlo among its canon, she refused the label. She said, “I never painted dreams; I painted my own reality.” 

But she did understand the power of marketing. Breton introduced her to Julien Levy, a New York gallery owner who specialized in being the first to present avant-garde artists to American viewers. When Kahlo met him, she knew that he could help her reach a wider audience.

We wish we could see your reaction to Frida Kahlo’s My Birth.

In November 1938, Kahlo’s first solo show at Julien Levy Gallery in New York marked a shift in her artistic career. E.J. and Liliane were in attendance and purchased two of her paintings: My Birth (1932) and Remembrance of an Open Wound (1938). The latter was lost in a fire at the country home of Edgar jr. and his companion, Paul Mayén, sometime in the 1980s. The exhibition was a great success, and Time noted that it was “the flutter of the week in Manhattan.”

The Kaufmanns invited Kahlo and Levy to visit Fallingwater. Biographer Hayden Herrera recounts that Kahlo’s visit was one for the books:

The gallery owner Julien Levy, who seems to have gotten lucky with Frida Kahlo at Fallingwater

Once Levy took Frida to Pennsylvania to visit his client and friend Edgar Kaufmann Sr., who, Levy said, wanted to be Frida’s patron. The train ride was everything train rides are supposed to be — a slow but inexorable buildup of erotic anticipation. When they arrived, however, Frida flirted not just with Levy, but with their elderly host and son as well. She was very cavalier with her men, Levy recalled. She liked to play one off against the other, and she would pretend to one suitor that she thought the other was a nuisance or a bore. At bedtime, Levy and the senior Kaufmann tried to wait each other out so as to spend the last moments of the evening in romantic solitude with Frida. When she retired, Fallingwater’s complicated double stairway [the exterior steps up to the guest room] served as the stage for the evening’s drama. After biding his time until he thought everyone was peacefully asleep, Levy emerged from his room and started up one side of the staircase. Much to his astonishment, he found his host climbing the stairs on the other side. Both retreated. The same confrontation took place several times. In the end, Levy gave up. But when he returned to his bedroom, there was Frida — waiting for him!

Liliane and Junior’s continued travels to Mexico laid the groundwork for the fittingly titled Below the Rio Grande, a shoppable exhibit at Kaufmann’s flagship store, which introduced consumers to Mexican antiques and folk art. Some of these items were later incorporated into Fallingwater’s décor. 

Nearly a dozen small pre-Columbian objects can be found in the guesthouse. These were likely gifted to the Kaufmanns by Rivera, who was a passionate collector of pre-Columbian art. During his lifetime Rivera amassed over 50,000 pieces, many of which are housed at the must-visit Anahuacalli Museum in CDMX. 

Landscape: Jalapa, Mexico by José María Velasco hangs in the bedroom of the guesthouse at Fallingwater.

One of the guesthouse bedrooms features a large oil painting by José María Velasco, a mentor to Diego. The work, entitled Landscape: Jalapa, Mexico, hangs over the bed. Velasco’s artistic endeavors are so esteemed that the Mexican government considers them national monuments. This painting was acquired by the Kaufmann family around 1937 for $500. In 1954, it was hanging in E.J.’s suite at the William Penn Hotel in Pittsburgh, and was moved to its current location by Edgar jr. in 1960.

Juan O’Gorman, whose mural commissioned by Edgar Kaufmann Sr. featuring prominent Pittsburgh tycoons below a toilet, was deemed too controversial for the Young Men’s and Women’s Hebrew Association

Kaufmann’s Rockefeller Dreams and Botched Mural

Pittsburgh society was dominated by wealthy families like the Carnegies and Mellons. This made it difficult for the Kaufmanns, who were Jewish, to achieve positions of power and influence. Despite lobbying for many public works projects throughout his life, E.J. saw few of them come to fruition. 

In 1940 he invited the socialist architect, painter and muralist O’Gorman to Pittsburgh to submit a proposal for murals for the interior walls of the Young Men’s and Women's Hebrew Association, of which he was president. 

As a guest of the Kaufmann family, O’Gorman spent a weekend at Fallingwater, which he later described as “one of the most beautiful buildings in the world.” 

When it came to the mural, though, O’Gorman clearly missed the brief: His preparatory sketches for the project portrayed Pittsburgh tycoons Andrew Carnegie, Henry Clay Frick and George Westinghouse as the kings of a polluted plutocracy that arose from consumer capitalism. As if that wasn’t enough, O’Gorman further emphasized his sentiments by prominently featuring an open toilet and a roll of toilet paper above the tableau. 

O’Gorman’s proposed mural was clearly at odds with the organization’s mission to celebrate the moral development of youth. As a result, the project was rejected and O’Gorman returned to Mexico City. As compensation for the failed project, E.J. sent the artist a check to subsidize a mural at the Biblioteca Gertrudis Bocanegra in the town of Pátzcuaro, Mexico. 

Even though he kiboshed Juan O’Gorman’s Pittsburgh mural, Edgar Kaufmann footed the bill for this astounding mural in Mexico.

Divided into four sections, the mural vividly depicts the history of the Purépecha people. The first shows the indigenous people before the Spanish conquest; the second, the arrival of the Spanish and the beginning of the conquest; the third shows life after the conquest, when the Purépecha were forced to adopt Spanish customs and religion; and the fourth shows Gertrudis Bocanegra, the martyred heroine of the 1820 War of Independence, her white dress smeared with blood from her execution by firing squad. 

Frida Kahlo’s What the Water Gave Me

Edgar Jr.’s Artful Encounters, From MoMA to Madonna

Edgar jr. traveled with McAndrew to Mexico in 1939, looking for works of art to include in the MoMA exhibit Twenty Centuries of Mexican Art. The pair recognized Kahlo’s talent, and the show, which opened on May 15, 1940, featured no fewer than three of her paintings: The Two Fridas (1939), What the Water Gave Me (1938) and The Wounded Table (1940). 

The Wounded Table by Frida Kahlo

In 1943 Junior purchased and donated Self Portrait With Cropped Hair to the MoMA. The painting is part of the museum’s permanent collection and was conceived shortly after Kahlo’s divorce from Rivera. It’s thought to be a reflection of her feelings of anger, sadness and independence after the separation. Kahlo’s oversized charcoal gray suit (surely Rivera’s) and short haircut are symbols of her rejection of traditional femininity, while the scissors she holds suggest her decision to take control of her own life.

Self Portrait With Cropped Hair by Frida Kahlo shows the artist after her divorce from Diego Rivera, wearing one of his suits and having chopped off her locks to resemble his hairstyle.

After his parents died, Junior brought Kahlo’s My Birth to his apartment in New York City. The painting is a deeply personal and imaginative work of art, depicting Kahlo’s birth from a dead mother.

According to Fallingwater director Justin Gunther, Edgar jr. had a dry, ironic sense of humor. Case in point: He kept the painting hidden in a closet in his New York apartment, and would only reveal it to his guests at the most unexpected moments. He loved to see the look of surprise on their faces when they saw it for the first time.

Madonna purchased My Birth from Edgar jr. She says you can’t be friends with her if you don’t like it.

In 1987 Edgar jr. sold the painting through his dealer to the pop star Madonna. Although worldly, he didn’t know who she was when he met her, and had planned on selling My Birth to her for just a little more than what his parents had originally paid for it. But his dealer told him, "We can do better than that,” and quoted a much higher figure.

Madonna was later quoted in Vanity Fair saying, “If somebody doesn’t like this painting, then I know they can’t be my friend.” –Duke

Gio Swaby’s Fresh Take on Textile Portraits

The Bahamian artist is redefining portraiture — and Black women representation at museums like the Art Institute of Chicago — one stitch at a time. 

Gio Swaby’s textile portraits feature confident Black women, mixed fabrics and loose strings to juxtapose strength with so-called imperfections.

When you think of portraits, a few formats probably spring to mind: painting, photography, life drawing. But textiles?

That’s the medium Gio Swaby is rocking. The Bahamian artist uses textiles to create stunning portraits of powerful Black women. 

“Textiles are a great way to connect with people because they’re so familiar.

Everyone has some sort of relationship with textiles, whether it’s through clothing or bedding or whatever. It’s something that we can all relate to on some level.”

— Gio Swaby

New Growth Second Chapter 11 from 2021

New Growth Second Chapter 9

Textiles were in part chosen for their familiarity, their approachability. Museum-goers can feel intimidated by fine art paintings, Swaby explains. The average person often thinks that they haven’t learned how to “properly” view a work of art. 

But textiles don’t have that baggage. They’re comfortable; they’re part of our everyday lives. 

“I think that textiles are a great way to connect with people because they’re so familiar,” Swaby says. “Everyone has some sort of relationship with textiles, whether it’s through clothing or bedding or whatever. It’s something that we can all relate to on some level.”

The Gylavantin’ series created in 2021

A Love Letter to Black Womanhood 

Born in 1991 in Nassau, Bahamas, Swaby grew up with a seamstress mother who taught her how to sew and inspired her artistic vision. She studied art at the University of the Bahamas, Emily Carr University of Art and Design and OCAD University, and now lives and works in Toronto, Ontario in Canada. 

Swaby has described her work as a love letter to Blackness and womanhood, a celebration of personal style and identity, and a challenge to the stereotypes and expectations that often limit the representation of Black women in art. Her exhibition Fresh Up, which we saw recently at the Art Institute of Chicago, is her first solo museum show. 

With each stitch and thread, Swaby masterfully brings to life the beauty and complexity of Black women in a way that’s both breathtaking and empowering. 

Another Side to Me Second Chapter 3 from 2021

Flipping Embroidery on Its Head 

How does Swaby create her portraits? It all starts with a photo session. Swaby meets with her subjects, who are mostly Black women she knows personally or admired from afar, and engages them in a conversation about their lives, their dreams, their struggles and their joys. She then captures them on camera in a moment of self-awareness and empowerment, using natural light and simple backgrounds to highlight their features and expressions. She also impresses upon the subjects that the hairstyle, clothing and jewelry are essential elements of their personal style and identity.

“An important aspect for me is to ask the sitter to choose their own outfit,” Swaby tells us. “I think it’s so important to make that person feel comfortable. I want them to choose what they feel the most beautiful in and what makes them feel the most powerful.”

Going Out Clothes 3 from 2020

Once an image is chosen, Swaby transfers the images to fabric using a sewing machine. Yes, she actually does it all on a sewing machine! She uses a freehand technique that allows her to improvise and experiment with different colors and textures of thread. 

“If I am feeling energized, I’ll start with the face or the hands,” Swaby says. “And if I’m not feeling the vibes, I will start with something that’s a little bit easier. Like if there’s a lot of stripes on the outfit. That’s pretty straightforward.”

Detail from the Gylavantin’ series

She also uses different types of fabric, such as cotton, denim, silk and velvet, to create contrast and depth. 

Swaby says that she works intuitively and quickly. “I don’t like to overthink things. I like to just go with what feels right in the moment. What I want to capture is their true essence.”

Another Side to Me 2 from 2020

The final step is to flip the fabric over and present the reverse side of her work. This is where Swaby’s process becomes radical. Instead of hiding the stitching process, she exposes it and celebrates it. 

“I wanted to have some moments of surprise, a new appreciation for the irregularities, the loose threads, the places where I lifted up the canvas before moving on to another area,” Swaby says. “I think there is beauty in imperfection. Why not celebrate it?” 

Pretty Pretty 7 from 2021

She explains that this is a way of honoring the labor and care that goes into each portrait, as well as embracing the vulnerability and humanity of her subjects. It’s a way of challenging the expectations and stereotypes that often limit the representation of Blacks in art. She wants to show them as they are: beautiful but not idealized, complex but not exoticized, powerful but not threatening.

Pretty Pretty 5

The first time she displayed the underside of a stitched rendering was with her Another Side to Me series. “As textile-based makers, this is the part of our work that we tend to conceal,” she says. “I’ve always found a kind of beauty in these ‘flaws.’” 

The New Growth series on display at the Fresh Up exhibit in Chicago

A Fresh Take on Collaboration for Fresh Up

Swaby’s exhibition Fresh Up is not just a collection of her works, but also a reflection of her vision and involvement. Swaby collaborated with the curators of the Art Institute of Chicago to create a show that showcases her range and diversity as an artist. The exhibition brings together seven of Swaby’s recent series, such as Love Letters and Pretty Pretty, along with approximately 15 new works, including her largest work to date, a commission for the U.S. embassy in Nassau.

An illustrated catalogue includes an interview between Swaby and Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Nikole Hannah-Jones, as well as essays by the curators and contributions from Swaby herself. 

Swaby joined the Art Institute team to stage the show and write the descriptions of the art. At the talk Duke and I attended with our friend, Ivan, the museum’s staff kept gushing about how awesome it was to work with a living artist, to have the opportunity to install an exhibit with the artist’s input. 

The feeling was mutual: “Being able to work with the conservation team was one of the most exciting parts about having this exhibition here and being able to be here in person to see how it all works,” Swaby says. 

Love Letter 8 from 2021

The title of the exhibit, Fresh Up, is a Bahamian phrase used as a way to compliment someone’s style or confidence — elements Swaby wants to highlight in her subjects. It’s a phrase that exudes positivity, joy and self-love. 

“Life has so many variations — why not have this moment of representing and being able to celebrate many different kinds of people and also highlight the fact that Black women are not monolithic?” Swaby says. “We are all different, unique individuals.” 

Sew true! –Wally

Standards of Beauty (and Ugliness) in African Art

From scarification to the ideal male and female, discover what Westerners get wrong about how Sub-Saharan sculptures and other works of art are viewed in their own cultures. 

A ritual dance in Guinea, Africa features a Baga nimba or d’mba headdress, seen in the upper right corner, which represents the ideal fertile woman.

Westerners have collected African art for centuries. But do they really understand it? Who determines what is beautiful and what is ugly in African art? Can viewers judge art solely by the standards of beauty in their own culture?

That’s the question a recent exhibit at the Art Institute of Chicago sought to answer. The collection was massive, taking up six or so rooms, filled with over 250 works of art from dozens of cultures across Sub-Saharan Africa. 

The idea is to put art in its cultural context. How did the local communities view these works of art? And how were they used? 

“For some African cultures, scarification, including on the face, is a way to enhance someone’s beauty — especially that of a woman. ”

There’s often a religious aspect to these works. “So the art is not made just to be art,” says Constantine Petridis, chair and curator of arts of Africa at the Art Institute. “It’s art that serves a purpose, serves a function and has a meaning. And that contributes in a very deep and integral way to the survival and the wellbeing of both individuals and societies.” 

Much of this art is literally thought to save lives: It guards ancestors’ remains or fends off evil spirits. 

A Mangbetu woman in 1913 wearing a halo hairstyle with ivory pins, popular in the Democratic Republic of the Congo

African Art Viewed Through an African Lens

It’s time we reevaluated standards of beauty — and understood that what’s attractive or powerful to a Western audience could be very different than that of a Sub-Saharan group. 

“The hope is also to erase prejudices and preconceived notions that have, for a very long time, prevented people from appreciating this art,” Petridis says.

Let’s take a look at some of the commonalities found throughout African art — and see that beauty is more than skin deep.

Male guardian reliquary figures with the heads of children but muscular bodies of adults. Teeth have been sealed behind the eyes to help the statues act as intermediaries with ancestors.

Masculinity is depicted with youthful, muscular bodies and large hands and feet. 

In many African cultures, the ideal male figure is tall and lean, with long limbs, an elongated neck and muscular calves. Why? These physical attributes are deemed necessary to transport heavy loads on the head and to work hard in the fields.

“A youthful appearance in general connotes fertility and also good health and the capability of doing hard work,” Petridis says. 

Large hands and feet are seen as representing the energy and endurance needed on a hunting expedition. 

A statue of the Chokwe mythological hero Chibinda Ilunga, a legendary hunter, made in Angola in 1850

These physical characteristics are often depicted in African sculpture to emphasize physical prowess — essential in a society where men are responsible for hunting, farming and other demanding activities.

A ndop portrait figure of King Mishe miShyaang maMbul, made about 1770 in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. The oversized head symbolizes intelligence.

Works of art depicting male beauty aren’t just for aesthetic appreciation, though; they serve a vital purpose.

“All of these attributes represent or express political and religious authority, and as such, these objects would have been placed on an altar to serve to fight physical as well as metaphysical threats,” Petridis adds. 

A depiction of Kaatyeleo, the Ancient Mother, who nurses babies with the milk of knowledge and evokes authoritative power

The feminine ideal is voluptuous — big belly, rounded hips, a large butt — and sometimes sports a long neck.

The ideal female figure has been a subject of fascination and inspiration for artists throughout history, and African art is no exception. In African sculpture, the ideal female figure is often depicted as having a curvaceous body with wide hips and full breasts. These features are seen as symbols of fertility, femininity and maternal strength.

A portrait of a queen, the wife of King Njike, from early 20th century Cameroon. It once stood in front of the royal palace.

While the exact proportions of the ideal female figure vary between African cultures, there are some common elements frequently seen across the continent. For example, in West Africa, the ideal female figure is often portrayed with a prominent belly and rounded buttocks, while in East Africa, the focus is more on the breasts and elongated neck.

The curvaceous figure of the ideal woman is seen as a reflection of her role as a caretaker and nurturer, responsible for raising healthy children and maintaining a strong family.

An ikam crest mask from Nigeria depicts the fantastical hairstyles girls had created for their initiation into womanhood. Incidentally, these “beautiful maiden” masks were worn by men.

Female figures are frequently depicted with intricate hairstyles and elaborate jewelry, which are seen as a reflection of high status and beauty.

A mwana pwo or pwo mask from Angola is more realistic than other depictions of beauty in African art. It features elements a Westerner wouldn’t consider attractive, including extensive scarification and chipped teeth.

Scarification is considered beautiful. 

This particular aspect of beauty is probably the most difficult for Westerners to grasp. (Then again, look at our obsession with tattoos.) Scarification, a form of body modification that involves creating designs or patterns on skin by cutting or branding, has been practiced for centuries.

Originally used as a post on a veranda in Nigeria, this carving is of a senior royal wife was created by a famous artist, Olówé of Ise. The scarification indicates her high status.

For some African cultures, scarification, including on the face, is a way to enhance someone’s beauty — especially that of a woman. 

Ogo Esu, god of the marketplace, the only orisha, or deity, consistently represented in human form. In Nigeria, his followers would dance with a staff like this, which has a phallic headpiece and cowrie shells associated with wealth.

Morality is synonymous with beauty.

In many African cultures, the concept of beauty is closely tied to morality and ethics. This is reflected in the use of a single word to describe both beauty and goodness. Likewise, the same word is often used to convey ugliness and immorality, highlighting the deep connection between physical appearance and moral character. 

A mbwoongntey, a cup used for palm wine in the Congo

Smooth skin is attractive.

While scarification has been a long-standing tradition in African art, the idea of smooth skin as a standard of beauty is also prevalent. In many African cultures, smooth, flawless skin is considered attractive, healthy and a sign of good hygiene. To achieve that look, some sculptures are polished to a bright shine using leaves or stones. 

But the idea of beauty extends beyond the individual. “A smooth surface is a metaphor for smooth, harmonious social relationships,” Petridis explains.

On the flip side, crusty, rough surfaces are seen as ugly.

A group of dancers from Guinea wearing Bamana Komo helmets with elements from the hyena, a nighttime scavenger.

Ugliness is tied to nature, the wilderness and animals, whereas beauty is connected to humans, the village and community. 

Nature spirits are thought to cause misfortune, illness and even death. Some sculptures were designed to be so strikingly beautiful they would lure in spirits, and the figure would take possession of them, avoiding the trouble they would have otherwise caused. 

“The sculpture becomes an abode, a home for the spirit, and it will receive offerings in order to keep it happy, and therefore remedy the problem in question,” Petridis explains.

This Baule monkey figure from the Côte d’Ivoire features a baboon-headed man representing a bush spirit and untamed wildness.

There’s a duality common throughout Africa: culture vs. nature, community vs. the wilderness. As such, idealized beauty is always presumed to be of human origin, associated with the realm of the village and society. 

At the other end of the spectrum, ugliness correlates with the wild and untamed realm of the jungle outside the boundaries of the village. The works that are deliberately created to be ugly reflect the widely shared belief that coarse and asymmetrical animal-like forms correspond with bad character, malignant magic and death. 

This dichotomy reflects the central role of community and social harmony in African cultures — and the threats that come from the untamed, uncontrolled and unpredictable aspects of nature.

This ngolo mask from the DRC features antelope horns to convey courage, while its protruding eyes signal aggression in the hopes of discouraging outsiders from approaching a boys’ training camp.

“Artists who intend to instill fear through their objects may represent ugliness by mimicking or referencing animals, especially powerful and fearsome ones,” Petridis says. “Additional features will be incorporated into fantastic compositions that comprise elements sourced literally from the natural world — actual animal parts: hides, horns, teeth, fur.”

Ugliness in African art has a power of its own. “They turn it into a dark, dangerous object, an object that inspires fear and terror and therefore also power and authority,” he continues. 

Antelope horns sit atop a nkisi figure from the DRC that depicts a blacksmith from folklore. It held great power and was created to protect an entire village.

Some art has elements of both beauty and ugliness and is meant to astonish. 

Petridis refers to this as “awesome art,” what Westerners might call the sublime. They are meant to both fascinate and terrify.

Nails are driven into a nkisi nkondi, like this one from the DRC, to atone for transgressions. If someone breaks an oath made to the figurine, it’s said to come to life to mete out justice.

“In a literal sense, it refers to objects that are meant to be awe-inspiring. They will literally stop you in your tracks,” he says. “And these objects are considered to be both beautiful and ugly, both terrorizing and attractive at once.”

A large d’mba shoulder mask used during ceremonies features scarification and pendulous breasts — aspects of the feminine ideal among the Baga people of Guinea.

Beauty Is in the Eye of the Beholder

When judging African art, see where there are overlaps or differences from your own preconceived notions, Petridis suggests. Always keep in mind that African art should always be viewed through the language and vocabulary of the culture it comes from.

“Beauty is essential and important and critical in the arts of Africa as well,” he concludes. “But it’s not necessarily the beauty that you as an outsider would see in it.” 

To avoid imposing your own tastes and preferences on art objects, you have to be open to learn and read about the culture in which they function, and what meanings and purposes they convey. And that new understanding is a thing of beauty. –Wally

Crazy, Cartoonish, Controversial: The Art of Mu Pan

A Q&A with the avant-garde artist who creates elaborate hellscapes of violence and monsters and has been featured in the horror film Midsommar. 

Me Like Sushi by Mu Pan, 2015

Monkeys and human-headed crows eating sushi off a screaming woman. A multi-armed Christ shooting machine guns. A yak-headed samurai slicing a cowboy in half. Countless battles between bizarre beasts. Oh, and a creepy mural that foreshadows the dread to come in the horror flick Midsommar. 

“Every monster I draw is actually a self-portrait. ”

— Mu Pan, American Fried Rice 

Looking at the scope of his elaborate artworks, you notice certain themes: Mu Pan holds a cynical and misanthropic view of human nature and society. His paintings are used to express his anger and frustration with the issues he cares about, such as racism, colonialism, U.S. politics and pop culture.

Yes, if there’s one thing the artist Mu Pan isn’t afraid to be, it’s provocative.

Mu Pan’s epic-scale nightmares depict violence, gore, sex and, yes, humor. His art is like if Hieronymus Bosch and Henry Darger had a half-aborted fetus. 

Rabbits by Mu Pan, 2020

He challenges viewers to confront their own prejudices and to question the narratives they’ve been told.

“Drawing and painting are for me the most obvious ways to claim justice,” Mu Pan says in his book American Fried Rice. “I use creation as a pretext to highlight everything I dislike such as violence, conflict or lies.”

When Duke and I saw Mu Pan’s work, it was love at first sight. 

The artist at work

A Brief Bio of Mu Pan

The artist known as Mu Pan was born in Taichung City, Taiwan in 1976. He grew up there and emigrated to the United States with his parents in 1997. He studied at the School of Visual Arts in New York City, where he obtained a bachelor’s degree in illustration in 2001 and a master’s in illustration as visual essay in 2007. He lives and works in Brooklyn.

“Now I’m just bitter,” Mu Pan says in American Fried Rice. “I hate everybody equally. I’m not American, but I’m also not Chinese anymore. I’m glad I have both and I don’t have both.”

From the Compendium of Materia MUdica by Mu Pan, 2020

We were intrigued. So we reached out to Mu Pan to see if he’d answer some of our questions. To our surprise and delight, he obliged us. 

Some of his responses are head-scratchers — but that’s part of why we’re so fascinated with him. –Wally

Detail from The Loyal Retainers Part VI: South China Sea, 2016

Q&A With Mu Pan

What influences your artwork? 

Ancient art — the less sophisticated the better. Anything that has no Western influence. 

I used to be so into Japanese woodblock prints, but now I don’t feel anything for them anymore.

I listen to audiobooks while I work. 

When I was younger, I was influenced a lot by Louis Cha. Now I’m more into Mo Yan. Most images I make are stolen from books. 

I also get influenced by Hong Kong and Japanese cinema from the ’80s and ’90s.

Whale Explosion by Mu Pan, 2018

What artists do you love? 

I don’t love any living artists. I kinda hate them. Cuz they all make much more money than me and I don’t think my talent is less than theirs. They are just businesspeople. I can tell you I hate Murakami the most. And yes, I said that.

Also, I hate their fans to like my work. 

My favorite dead artist is Henry Darger. When I get frustrated and depressed, I think of him, then I can keep going on.

Momlego Egg by Mu Pan, 2023

What part does folklore play in your art?

I am more into history than folklore. 

Mu Pan’s Dinoasshole Chapter 1 by Mu Pan, 2016

There’s a violence to your art but also a playfulness. Can you talk about that?

My violence is cartoon. I am a very peaceful person indeed. I just have too much anger. And when I am angry at someone or something, I just purely wish the person would die in the most painful way.

And I hate being pretentious. I don’t believe that there is anyone in this world who doesn’t enjoy vengeance and violence. Our history is made of that, and even the Bible is full of violence.

I see that being fake and nice is worse than violence, and I still believe that violence is the ultimate method used to solve problems. Just look at the U.S.  government — they rely on violence and power. And they are pretentious as hell.

Mu Pan’s studio. Even though there are two works in progress, he told us he can only work on one at a time.

Tell us about your process. 

It really depends on how I feel. I don’t like to do small pieces, cuz I like to show off my strength that others don’t have — especially doing tiny figures on a big scale. I like to do things that people are not willing to, and I will not be submissive to anyone. You can call that stupidity, and I admit that I am stupid. 

Each piece takes a long time to make, because I don’t prepare — neither do I like to make any sketches. Sketches are for products, illustrations or to feed a dumb audience. I draw as I think, and I often erase everything I did the day before.

Life is too short. Being myself is more important than making others happy.

From the series Shit History of China by Mu Pan, 2010

You were born in Taiwan and identify as Chinese. How does your heritage influence your worldview?

I am Chinese because my father is Chinese, and so was his father and his father before him.

My grandfathers fought the Japanese, and we were never colonized. 

If you ask Bruce Lee if he is Chinese, he would say yes for sure — even though he was born in San Francisco and raised in Hong Kong. 

I don’t give a shit about Western ideology. 

Be There Soon by Mu Pan, 2023

When did you first get into drawing? 

Since the first time I could make a mark on a piece of paper with a pencil.

Mu Pan created the ominous mural featured in the movie Midsommar.

Tell us about your collaboration with Ari Aster, director of Midsommar. 

Ari is a cool guy. I met him when he asked me to make the opening image for Midsommar. He is very busy and I don’t get to talk to him much. But we have been friends ever since then.

I asked him for a favor to write the forward of my book.

Magical Mystery Tour of the Chapel of Jimmy Ray

A glimpse into the glittering and colorful legacy of the self-taught expat artist Anado McLauchlin at his house outside of San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. 

There’s no denying that a visit to the Chapel of Jimmy Ray will be a unique experience.

When planning a trip, Wally and I seek out quirky sites that are in close proximity to where we’re visiting. That’s how I first came across the Chapel of Jimmy Ray on Atlas Obscura — followed by an intensive image search on Instagram. I shared the fantastical artwork with Wally but was getting worried our itinerary was filling up. He said we’d make the time. 

And, really, how could we pass up such a weird and wonderful attraction during our stay in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico?!

Don’t go expecting to see a chapel, FYI. It’s actually a 2.5-acre complex literally filled with the unusual art of the late Anado McLauchlin. 

The Casa de las Ranas might be too crazy for other people, but Wally and Duke would be more than happy to call it their home.

Since it isn’t exactly easy to find, we hired a driver to take us there. The mosaic wonderland is located at the end of an unpaved dead-end road in La Cieneguita, a small town about 30 minutes from San Miguel de Allende. Our hotel arranged the ride, but when the driver doubled the price on us, we sent him packing — a move we’d later come to regret. 

Upon our arrival, Wally and I were welcomed by trusted artistic assistant Carlos Ramírez Galvan. We met up with another couple and were greeted by a tall bespeckled man with an impressive long white beard, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat. This was Anado’s husband, Richard Schultz, and not unlike a mystical shaman, he was adorned with baubles and charms. Wally thought he looked like the poet Walt Whitman.

Richard leads the tour, which starts at the memorial for his late hubby.

Life’s Rich Tapestry: Anado’s Memorial

We were about 10 minutes late and the tour had already started, so be sure to get there a bit early. 

It started off at Anado’s memorial, which includes a 50-year-old olive tree that he and Richard purchased and planted when Anado was diagnosed with colon cancer. The design and theme was originally proposed for the chapel at the Puerto Vallarta Botanical Garden. However, the garden didn’t have enough money to fund it, Richard told us. 

So, Anado decided to use it as his memorial. The assemblage depicts two Trees of Life and portraits of Anado and Richard in profile. Between them is a blue glass heart and above them are a pair of colibríes (hummingbirds), which are considered sacred to many Mesoamerican cultures. 

A lovely mosaic of the lovebirds

Many of the small pieces of tile used in the construction of the mural come from Dolores Hidalgo. The nearby village is known for the production of brightly colored tin-enameled Talavera tiles — and for Father Miguel Hidalgo, who, on September 16, 1810, rang the church bells from his parish and set the Mexican Independence movement in motion. 

Additional tiles were sourced from Cuernavaca, Morelos. These arrive in ¾-inch squares and need to be cut by hand using a tile nipper, which allows the artists to break off small pieces of the material in a controlled fashion.

To the right of the memorial is a likeness of the Aztec god Xochipilli, (pronounced So-chee-pee-lee). Xochipilli was a benevolent god, a gender-fluid combination of both male and female traits. His name contains the Nahuatl words meaning Flower Prince. He was the god of art — as well as male sex workers. 

Richard pointed out how other indigenous societies like the Lakota Sioux have third-sex individuals who identify as two-spirit and hold sacred roles as teachers, healers and keepers of traditional knowledge among their tribes. Even the Zapotec muxes (mu-shay), who are born male at birth but assume matriarchal roles and female dress, are celebrated in parts of Mexico. 

“Usually, they get stomped out any time religion’s involved, whether it’s Evangelical, Catholic or Muslim,” Richard said. “Being two-spirit doesn’t mean they’re gay, or trans — they’re simply two spirits in one person.”

Anado referred to this as the Arch to Nowhere because at the time there was nothing built beyond it. Now it leads to the gallery (and outhouse).

Anado’s fascination with world religions, especially those honoring the pre-Columbian pantheon, can be found throughout the grounds. There’s a small colorful shrine embellished with pieces of mirror and tile that pays homage to the Virgin of Guadalupe, the venerated patroness of Mexico.

Anado and Richard met the old-fashioned way: in an AOL chat room.

Picking Up the Pieces: Anado’s Fractured Life

Central to the complex is the namesake Jimmy Ray, a mosaic rendering Anado created in honor of his father, with whom he had a troubled relationship. Anado’s given name at birth was James Rayburn McLaughlin III, and his father was James Rayburn McLaughlin Jr. Anado’s father was a doctor and a scoundrel who always had a mistress. He had two sons outside his marriage and died in a plane crash returning from the Caribbean with one of his mistresses. 

“Anado’s mother learned of her husband’s death while watching the local news on TV,” Richard told us. “In life, there was always anger towards his father because the whole family knew what was going on.”

This mosaic is of Anado’s philandering father, the Jimmy Ray the chapel is named for.

One of the reasons Anado named his compound the Chapel of Jimmy Ray (his father’s nickname), was partly as a healing process, to recognize and forgive his dad for being a flawed human being, and to stop internalizing everything his father had done.

Anado was born in Oklahoma City on May 24, 1947. At the age of 20, he was drafted into the Navy during the Vietnam War. As fate would have it, he was stationed in San Francisco. A self-proclaimed product of the Summer of Love, he visited the bohemian Haight-Ashbury neighborhood every chance he could to participate in the crosscurrents of creative expression and social tolerance among the hippies. 

Once Anado got out of the Navy, he returned to Oklahoma City and opened the only head shop in town and was arrested for selling Zap Comix, which local authorities considered to be part of the counterculture movement.

Shortly thereafter, Anado enrolled at the School of Visual Arts in Norman, Oklahoma, where he intended to pursue a career in art. However, he was frustrated by his professors, who told him that his works were “too decorative.”

Screw you, School of Visual Arts in Oklahoma! We think Anado’s work, like this take on a Catrina, is pretty rad.

He left Oklahoma and moved to New York City, where he lived for about 10 years and became a performance artist. Anado made most of his money driving a taxi and was part of the Chelsea Hotel crowd, performing with the likes of Patti Smith and Lou Reed. 

Before meeting Richard, Anado was part of the Rajneeshpuram, the sex-forward cult featured in the documentary Wild, Wild Country.

By the late ’70s, friends were committing suicide and overdosing on drugs. So Anado made the decision to travel to India and join the ashram led by the sex guru Osho Rajneesh. He was rechristened Anand Anado, which means “Blissful Silence” in Sanskrit. Rajneesh relocated to the U.S., founding a controversial community in Oregon, and Anado followed him there.

If you’ve heard about Rajneesh, it’s probably because of the 2018 Netflix documentary Wild, Wild Country. When we asked about this, Richard said Anado wouldn’t watch it because he didn’t share the views of the people who were interviewed from the commune (or, as many would call it, cult). “He felt that they didn’t represent what the everyday person was doing there and that they were part of the problem,” Richard explained.

Anado left the commune and relocated to California. In 1998, he met Richard in an AOL chat room. Richard was a former art history teacher residing in Noe Valley, a neighborhood in San Francisco, and Anado was living in Lagunitas. Suffice to say, sparks flew and Richard eventually became Anado’s husband and muse.

Richard and Anado moved to Mexico and built their colorful home together. Sadly, Anado died of colon cancer in 2021.

A couple of years later, Anado and Richard visited San Miguel for a few days. They returned in 2001 to look for a place to retire and saw a listing in the local newspaper. The property was in poor condition and had been on the market for a while. The price was right: “You have to pay cash when you buy property in Mexico,” Richard explained, “and it was within our budget.”

Anado died of colon cancer in 2021.

The Gallery at the Chapel of Jimmy Ray is itself a work of art.

Memory Box: the Chapel of Jimmy Ray Gallery

Our group followed Richard down a curved staircase flanked with mosaic-covered snakes.

The metaphorical focal point of the property is the Chapel of Jimmy Ray Gallery, a space that showcases an eclectic mix of Anado’s work as well as rotating exhibitions by guest artists who are friends of Anado and Richard. Its exterior features a subversive fountain with an anatomically correct luchador who perpetually “pees” into its basin. 

This fountain outside the gallery is fed by water coming out of the luchador’s bright red penis.

Standing outside of the gallery is quite possibly the most beautiful outhouse ever built. It’s a rounded and thoroughly embellished structure with glass bottles embedded into its terracotta-hued mortar walls, multicolored snake door handles, shiny glass spheres and an Indian chief finial. Anado cheekily referred to it as the Caca Mahal (a play of the Taj Mahal with the Spanish word for poop). It’s a waterless toilet that uses evaporation and decomposition to compost human waste. 

What a throne room! This could very well be the coolest outhouse ever.

We caught the tail end of a show that featured the works of three female artists: Meryl Truett, Ann Chamberlin and Leigh Hyams. We ended up purchasing a piece by Chamberlin of a group of dazed-looking men hiding out in trees called Men in the Fresh Air. Her expressive works are inspired by traditional hand-painted devotional images known as retablos. 

We especially loved the work of Ann Chamberlin, including We Are Angry 2022, featuring multiple women with blunt bob haircuts, wearing sleeveless canary yellow dresses — and all wielding machetes!

A cool side room has a shrine of sorts to Anado

One of Anado’s works is a monumental skull covered in mosaic tiles and cobalt blue bottles titled Time Is Not the Enemy — note the clocks placed in the eye sockets.

On either side of the gallery space are a pair of Día de los Muertos sculptures, a giant bejeweled calaca (skull) and a take on a Catrina. 

A secondary outbuilding, named Casa Kali, showcases some of Anado’s early works, as well as those of his assistant, Carlos.

Destiny Calling: Casa Kali and Coltrane

The first outbuilding Anado and Richard added to the grounds was dubbed Casa Kali and was built as an office. It now holds many of Anado’s early sculptural creations as well as those of his assistant Carlos. 

A gnarled creation by Carlos was one of our favorites and was adorned with a multicolored headscarf and cowrie shell necklaces and held a menacingly large scythe.

This giant, grumpy-looking wood sculpture was made by Carlos’ kids. They named him Coltrane.

As we wandered toward the main house, we passed a monumental effigy head nicknamed Coltrane. It was made from twigs and branches by Carlos’ kids one summer. Wally asked if he was constantly being added to, and without missing a beat, Richard replied, “Or being put back together.”  

One section honors the couple’s kitties who have gone on the Great Litterbox in the Sky. Another mosaic honors their dead doggies.

Good Fortune: Tarot and Other Murals of Kismet Street

An outer wall is covered by an elaborate large-scale mosaic installation called Kismet Street. The name came from a vivid dream Anado had while living in the East Village in the ’70s and features a series of vignettes that took years to complete. 

The politically charged Big Hands features two outward-facing palms. The left hand with blue eye and brick wall represents the United States, while the right-facing green hand with brown eye represents Mexico. The inspiration for the piece was a quote attributed to the Mexican President Porfifro Díaz: “So far from God, so close to the U.S.”

One half of Big Hands, with skulls and a nod to a brick wall to symbolize the United States.

We stopped to smile over yet another unusual aspect of the wall. “We were given a Tyrannosaurus Rex head,” Richard said. “Anado combined it with a platter and turned it into Quetzalcoatl, the plumed serpent.” 

Only Anado could take a T. rex head and platter and turn it into the snake god Quetzalcoatl.

A recurring theme that can be seen throughout the estate in Anado’s art is snakes. Richard explained that snakes are sacred animals to many indigenous cultures around the world, from Asia and the Americas. They’re close to the earth and are often associated with wisdom, healing and knowledge. The Judeo-Christian tradition, of course, had to demonize them (think of the serpent in the Garden of Eden).

Xoloitzcuintli dogs are said to shepherd the souls of the dead, which could explain why Anado chose one for the mural honoring his deceased friend David Wojnarowicz.

Another mural on Kismet Street is of a hairless Xoloitzcuintli dog, and was made by Anado in memory of his former roommate, David Wojnarowicz. David was an activist and mixed-media artist in New York, who died from AIDS-related complications in 1992. Early in his career, he was part of the street art culture and created Mayan dog graffiti around the East Village where he lived. In Mesoamerican religious lore, the Xoloitzcuintli leads the soul through the underworld to its final resting spot.

Other murals were inspired by tarot cards, which Anado read. The Emperor and the Empress have no clothes and were made, in part, from cut beer and wine bottles. The Emperor has a beer bottle penis, which has broken off more than a few times by the couple’s dogs’ excitedly wagging tails. 

A section of the wall features mosaics inspired by the tarot. This one is the Empress, a card depicting maternal influence.

The Lovers features a trio of entangled snakes, which represent the invisible holy energy yogis believe resides at the base of our spines. In tarot, the card depicts the choices we make in life and love, and the consequences of such choices. 

Snakes are a recurring theme in Anado’s mosaics, including this one, inspired by the Lovers card in the tarot deck.

The Hanged Man depicts a young Anado hanging around in New York City in the ’70s. 

“Respectame,” says Anado’s mother in the last mosaic on Kismet Street — a healing work of art that was his favorite of the bunch.

The Fool honors Anado’s beloved mother. She’s looking down at her husband and saying, “Respectame” (Respect me). It was Anado’s favorite piece, Richard told us. He liked the idea of his mom standing up, as she never did during her life. In tarot, this card starts the deck and represents the beginning of a journey.

Two pet memorial walls (one for cats and the other for dogs) are dedicated to Anado and Richard’s beloved companions over the years. They were designed by Anado and completed over a period of two years by Mosaics in Mexico, a mosaic mural-making workshop led by artists Julie Richey and Ana Foncerrada. 

The second part of the tour offers a glimpse inside Anado and Richard’s home.

Casa de las Ranas: Anado and Richard’s Fairy Tale Home

Our tour ended at Casa de las Ranas (Frog House). While renovating their home, which was in a ruined state when he and Richard purchased it, Anado referred to it as a tadpole that they transformed into a handsome prince, earning the residence its name. I found it especially fitting, as the well-known Mexican muralist Diego Rivera aka el Sapo-Rana (Toad-Frog) was born in the nearby capital city of Guanajuato. 

The dining room at la Casa de las Ranas

The house itself isn’t that big — but there sure is a lot going on inside!

The Rosewood gang couldn’t resist getting a photo taken in the kooky casa.

The kitchen at Richard and Anado’s home

Like the rest of the compound, the mosaic images covering the walls were created from pieces of mirror, tile, ceramics, and salvaged and recycled materials. Everywhere we looked there was something fantastic to be discovered. 

The workshop offers a glimpse into the method of Anado’s madness.

Anado had plenty of materials to work with — everywhere you look there are quirky items.

Various artistic inspirations, including Trump’s micropenis

Religious iconography in Anado’s garage workshop

The tour ends in the garage workshop, filled with containers of paint, folk art, necklaces, and odds and ends. Wally bought a bracelet of mismatched beads to remember our time here. 

The Chapel of Jimmy Ray is a journey to an artsy, whimsical world. You’ll feel a bit like Alice in Wonderland.

Final Tips for Visiting the Chapel of Jimmy Ray

1. Make an appointment — through your hotel.

Because the Chapel of Jimmy Ray is Richard’s home and a museum of sorts showcasing Anado’s work, visits are by appointment only. We had emailed Richard weeks before to make a reservation but never heard back. Luckily, the concierge at our hotel in San Miguel was able to connect with him and secure us a spot.

Maybe the trick is to get Richard on the phone. Try giving him a call at +52-415-155-8044.

2. Arrange transportation so you don’t get stranded.

As mentioned, we were upset with being overcharged for our ride out there, and made the mistake of dismissing our driver after he dropped us off. As a result, we found ourselves stranded after the tour. When we tried to connect with a taxi service or Uber, the wifi and cell service was too spotty. Fortunately, the kind-hearted Richard took pity on us and asked Carlos to take us to our destination, the natural hot springs of La Gruta. 

The best option might be to have a driver stay there, so you’re ready to head back after the tour.

3. Be sure to get there on time, if not early.

Our driver showed up late, and by the time we got into the Chapel of Jimmy Ray complex, it was 10 minutes past the appointed time, and Richard had started the tour. As such, we missed some of the background about Anado and the property.

4. After the tour, visit La Gruta Spa and the Sanctuary of Atotonilco.

While you’re in the area, stop by La Gruta, where you can soak in hot springs grottos with locals. And then head down the street to the Sanctuary of Atotonilco, a UNESCO World Heritage Site known for its amazing murals from the 1700s. –Duke

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Chapel of Jimmy Ray and la Casa de las Ranas

Temazcal 3
37893 La Cieneguita
Guanajuato
Mexico

 

Woodcarvers of Oaxaca Carve Out Their Niche

Manuel Jiménez is credited with starting the alebrije tradition in Oaxaca, but we’re smitten with the playful creations of Martín Melchor Ángeles.

Don Manuel Jiménez is credited with bringing the alebrije tradition to Oaxaca, and shifting the medium from papier-mâché to wood.

On our fifth day in Oaxaca, Wally and I were picked up outside Casa Antonieta, the hotel we were staying at, by folk art expert extraordinaire Linda Hanna. Having done our research, we knew that Oaxaca was famous for its brightly painted collectible wooden figures and that Linda was the perfect guide to explore the region. We were on the road by 9:30 a.m. and en route to San Antonio Arrazola, a small pueblo where the tradition began. 

These wood carvings are the newest of the local crafts yet draw on generations of skill. Even the capital’s fútbol (soccer) team, Los Alebrijes, is named after the locally produced wood carvings, which are an important source of income for their indigenous makers. According to Linda, prior to the 1940s, the region produced utilitarian items such as wooden spoons and molinillos, a utensil used to froth drinking chocolate. 

Alebrijes are believed to have been modern offshoots of nahuals, human-headed animal amulets worn by the Zapotec.

The origin story that Linda has heard often and which she believes to be the most credible involves a Zapotec tradition: Every baby was given a small nahual or nagual (pronounced “na-wal”) amulet to wear around their neck from the day they were born. These tokens took the form of animals from the 20-month Mesoamerican zodiac and were protective talismans symbolic of an individual’s alter ego that accompanied them throughout life.  

Don Manuel is no longer living, but his family carries on the woodcarving legacy.

Don Manuel Jiménez: The Alebrije Story Begins

“Manuel Jiménez was a peasant farmer who would be out there in the fields,” Linda told us. “And I think these people are, you know, born with a machete nearby. So carving is almost inherent in their DNA, and he was probably out there whittling away. He didn’t want to be limited by the size of the creatures, so he started making them bigger. At some point he had a bunch of them and would come into town, sit on some street corner, trying to sell them, probably not too effectively — until an American saw his work and was very impressed.”

Alebrijes take many forms but are mostly animals nowadays. Jiménez liked to do human faces, inspired by an ancient Zapotec tradition.

If you’re into alebrijes even half as much as Wally and Duke, consider having Linda Hanna take you on a tour of woodcarving artisan workshop homes.

We call Jiménez and his cohorts woodcarvers — but a lot of their craft involves painting. Alebrijes are known for their surprising mix of colors and patterns.

Jiménez, with the assistance of the foreigner, took these objects and presented them to the offices of the Tourist Council in Mexico City. The closest thing they could compare them to were the fantastical creatures Pedro Linares had been making out of papier-mâché, so they decided to also call these surreal, vibrantly colored wooden adaptations “alebrijes,” too. 

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What’s an Alebrije? Learn more about our favorite Mexican artisan tradition.

Click here

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About 45 minutes later, we were welcomed to Arrazola by a giant acid green praying mantis sculpture and a sign commemorating the town as la Cuña de los Alebrijes, the Cradle of Alebrijes. A short time after, we arrived at our destination, the museum workshop of the Jiménez family. Known locally as Don Manuel, the patriarch died in 2005 and is often credited as the father of Oaxacan alebrijes.

A fun sculpture of a giant praying mantis in Arrazola, the Cuña, or Cradle, of Alebrijes

As we parked and got out of Linda’s car, we noticed a man outside the studio enclosure with a converted bicycle grinding a metallic object against a spinning rust-colored disc. When we asked Linda what he was doing, she replied that he was a knife sharpener and it looked like he was working on a pair of scissors.

The charming courtyard at the Jiménez home, workshop and store

In the courtyard, a group of small, weathered and anatomically correct diablitos (little devils) playing guitars hung along a roughly textured stucco wall. 

Inside the workshop are framed photographs, newspaper articles and nahuales. One with a man’s face and mustache was sitting upright like a dog, another, ears back, crouched, appearing ready to pounce. A brightly colored figurine of Dante, the dog from the Pixar movie Coco stood atop a well-worn table.

The taller (pronounced “tie-yair”), or workshop, is operated by Don Manuel’s sons, Angélico and Isaías, and contains a small museum with glass display cases of their father’s work. They still sign Manuel’s name to their work — supposedly to honor his legacy. 

The patriarch specialized in nativity scenes, animals and nahuales. There’s even a children’s book, Dream Carver, that tells the story of a young woodcarver who breaks with a generations-old artistic tradition, inspired by the life of Don Manuel. 

A display case of some of Don Manuel’s works and the children’s book based on his life

There’s a shop/museum connected to the workshop.

“When these started selling, Jiménez tried to keep it a secret — which is impossible in a little village,” Linda said. “They know everything about you, good and bad.”

It wasn’t long before campesinos (farmers) in the nearby pueblos of San Martín Tilcajete and La Unión Tejalapan caught on and decided to carve and sell their products to tourists and collectors from North America and beyond. A new artisan tradition was born. 

When you see this mural, you’ll know you’re about to enter Don Manuel’s complex.

El Tallador de Sueños Museo-Taller
Álvaro Obregón #1
San Antonio Arrazola
Santa Cruz Xoxocotlán, 71233
Oaxaca
México

While we were in Arrazola, we stopped into Taller de Alebrijes Autóctonos, a massive store filled with colorful carvings.

Shopping Break 

In addition to Don Manuel’s workshop and museum, Arrazola has a concentration of shops on Calle Emiliano Zapata. Wally and I stopped by Taller de Alebrijes Autóctonos, a massive establishment with a vast selection of alebrijes. Linda had mentioned that a few artists use syringes to apply dots of acrylic paint to the surface of their creations. Sure enough, I noticed a woman working on a piece who was using a syringe to embellish a small wood carving.

Taller de Alebrijes Autóctonos
Emiliano Zapata #2-B
San Antonio Arrazola
Santa Cruz Xoxocotlán, 71233
Oaxaca
México

Martín Melchor Ángeles, our favorite alebrije artisan

The Story Continues: Martín Melchor’s Magical Menagerie 

The moment I first saw the work of Martín Melchor Ángeles on the Instagram feed of Mexico City-based freelance journalist Michael Snyder, I knew I’d found someone special. 

Our next stop was the taller of Martín Melchor Ángeles. A dusty, rose-colored wall sported a hand-painted sign with one of Martín’s signature dalmatians wearing a red shirt and blue pants riding a bicycle. 

Martín’s distinct whimsical handcarved animals include a menagerie of creatures: giraffes operating mototaxis, dogs on bikes, alligators in libraries, cows on stilts and more. His wife, Hermelinda, makes handsewn costumes for the figures on stilts. 

These are the alebrijes on stilts that Duke and Wally bought at Melchor’s workshop.

The stilt walkers were included as part of a collaborative exhibit, Transcommuniality, by multidisciplinary artist Laura Anderson Barbata, which made an appearance at the Museo Textil de Oaxaca in 2018. The traveling exhibit includes interpretations of stilt walkers’ costumes found around the globe, from the moko jumbies of Trinidad and Tobago to the Zancudos de Zaachila in Oaxaca.

In fact, while walking through Oaxaca Centro a couple days earlier, Wally and I happened upon a parade with these performers. We marveled at how they danced around, tied onto wooden stilts. They’re known as Zancudos, which comes from zanco, meaning “stilt” but also evokes “mosquito” — a reference to the insects’ long legs. The male performers, some dressed in masculine garb, some wearing dresses, are impressive to watch.

Part of the fun of a folk art tour is seeing the handicrafts at various stages of production.

At Martín’s shop, it was difficult to decide between the pieces. But ultimately, we decided upon a bull dressed as a tiliche in colorful scraps of cloth. This character makes an annual appearance at Guelaguetza, a celebration of indigenous culture held in Oaxaca de Juárez, along with an alligator in fanciful Tehuana dress wearing a lemon yellow huipil tunic paired with a long bougainvillea pink skirt.

If for some reason you don’t want to make a trip to Martín’s studio (and want to pay a lot more for his work), we found a couple of his pieces in town along Avenida de la Independencia at Andares. But not only is it cool to meet these artisans and see their workshops, you’ll find the prices much cheaper than those at the stores.

The sign at Martín’s home and workshop shows his playful style, often with animals on bikes or in mototaxis.

Martín Melchor Ángeles
Andrés Portillo #2
San Martín Tilcajete
Oaxaca
México

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Wally and I wished that we had allotted extra time in Oaxaca to coordinate a second day trip with Linda. Her involvement with and passion for the region’s indigenous artisans deepened our understanding and appreciation of the process. Having her as both driver and guide took the stress of transportation out of the equation. Plus, her familiarity with and ability to contact the creators prior to us visiting their workshops ensured that they had pieces for us to see and purchase.

If you’re interested in Mexican folk art, Linda can introduce you to local artesanos and take you to see their workshops. Send her an email at folkartfantasy@gmail.com. —Duke