What Are Alebrijes?

From the fever dream of Pedro Linares to the ultra-popular Oaxacan woodcarvings started by Manuel Jiménez, these fantastical folk art animals are sure to delight.

A winged dog alebrije on the workbench at the family home of Manuel Jiménez, who popularized the small, brightly painted, whimsical woodcarvings known as alebrijes.

I can clearly remember the first time I was introduced to Oaxacan woodcarving. It was the early ’90s and I was working for the Nature Company. We received a shipment of whimsical wooden frogs. I purchased a brightly painted one with an upturned head, saucer-like eyes, a cartoonish grin and exaggerated outstretched limbs more like a cat’s than an amphibians. Little did I know I was on my way to becoming a collector of this art form. 

“Pedro Linares fell ill and had a fever dream where strange zoomorphic creatures materialized in a dark forest chanting the word, “Alebrije… alebrije… alebrije.” ”

When Wally and I decided to venture beyond CDMX and visit Oaxaca, Mexico, I knew it’d be a dream come true for us. We are drawn to cultural destinations with vibrant histories — and this one included colorful carvings of arte popular: animals, devils, mythical beasts and skeletons.

Pro tip: I always pack bubble wrap and tape in our suitcase in anticipation of what we will inevitably buy. 

Three alebrijes from Duke and Wally’s collection

Object Lesson: Woodcarving’s Origins in Mexico 

To get a sense of history, like many things having to do with Mexico, we must look to the Spanish conquistadors who conquered the Aztec Empire. Indigenous craftspeople shifted, in large part, to creating Catholic objects of saints, angels, crosses and ornate altarpieces for colonial churches. Native Mexicans still made masks for ritual dances and festivals, and Dominican friars used them as visual aids to theatrically act out parables from the Bible as a means to sway the natives to convert to Christianity.

A lion mask from a Mexican woodcarver

Fast-forward to the construction of the Pan-American Highway in the 1940s, which enabled tourists to travel to rural pueblos and led to the increased production of art objects as souvenirs. Although Oaxacan woodcarvings, known as alebrijes (pronounced ah-lay-bree-hays), in their current form have been around for less than 50 years, they have become one of the most popular. 

Not all alebrijes are of fantastical beasts — but they do have unexpected colors and patterns.

This art form can be traced back to a single man, Manuel Jiménez, a native of the small village of San Antonio Arrazola. Today the legendary late artist’s compound contains a museum and workshop. His alebrijes are incredible objects that are a cultural jumble of real and imaginary indigenous folklore. It was a natural evolution that other families from Arrazola, as well as those from San Martín Tilcajete and La Unión Tejalapam in particular, applied their ingenuity to create and sell pieces as a source of income.

The first step in creating an alebrije involves a machete like this in the Jiménez family workshop outside of Oaxaca.

Bough Down: How Alebrijes Are Made

These folk art sculptures are considered a young tradition when compared to pre-Hispanic handicrafts such as weaving and pottery. The most popular choice for carving is copal, a softwood that’s easy to work with. Woodcarving involves using non-mechanical tools like machetes, chisels and knives. The exact positioning of the figure is determined by the shape of the piece of wood. Initial cuts are often made with a machete to form a rough idea of what the artist has imagined, while smaller knives and chisels are used to define the final form. 

After the object is carved, it’s sanded smooth and left to dry. Those that are carved from a large solid piece of wood can take months to dry. Details like wings, tails and ears are crafted in separate pieces from the main figure, which make them easier to travel with. 

Most alebrijes are carved of copal wood. These are drying on a roof at the home and studio of our favorite artisan, Martín Melchor.

The process is a family affair. Generally, it is the men who carve and women who paint. Some are embellished with bold, contrasting acrylic paints and ixtle fiber from the leaves of the maguey plant. They are a source of family pride, and most homes have a small area where finished works are displayed. 

It’s believed that alebrijes trace their roots back to the Zapotec tradition of tonas or nahuals, animal spirit guides, which often had human faces, complete with mustaches.

Motifs change, driven by the market’s appetite for novelty and the creativity and imagination of the individual who makes them. Most Oaxacan artisans simply call them figuras, wooden figures. It’s thought that they originally derived from tonas or nahuals, which refer to animal spirit guides from the Zapotec zodiac. But nowadays, these fantastic figures are more often than not referred to as alebrijes. 

A cute (?) devilesque papier-mâché alebrije Duke and Wally bought at a store in Chicago

Alebrijes: What’s in a Name?

The first alebrijes as well as the name itself are attributed to Mexico City-born artist Pedro Linares. In 1936 Linares fell ill and had a fever dream where strange zoomorphic creatures materialized in a dark forest chanting the word, “Alebrije… alebrije… alebrije.” 

Using his skills as a papier-mâché artist, Linares rendered the creatures from memory, mixing multiple animal body parts, such as the body of a snake, a rooster’s beak, bat wings, lizard legs and a fish’s tail. 

Alebrijes began as larger papier-mâché crazy creatures like this one at a mercado in Mexico City.

Jiménez, in turn, was influenced by the highly stylized treatment and colors he saw in the works of Linares — shifting the medium to wood and putting his own mark on the creatures. 

The economic growth created by the popularity of these colorful creatures has given many families the opportunity to have a better life in the poorest state in Mexico. Woodcarving has improved the lives of these villagers as evidenced by paved roads, better schools, streetlights and cell phones — none of which existed 20 years ago. 

Quality and prices vary widely. Choosing an alebrije is truly a matter of personal taste. It can be overwhelming, so go with your gut. And decide between a colorful chucherría, a small, simple folk object, or a larger labor-intensive fine art gallery-worthy piece. 

Many alebrijes now sport multiple intricate patterns.

When you’re in the Oaxaca area and want to visit artisans at their studios, book a tour with the delightful Linda Hanna. And when you see something you like, buy it — because you’ll probably never see anything like it again. Added bonus: The prices at a studio will be much better than at a store or even market. –Duke

The Marvelous (and Controversial) Murals at the Palacio de Bellas Artes in Mexico City

Make the rounds at the Palace of Fine Arts in CDMX’s Centro to see works from some of Mexico’s most famous muralists, including Diego Rivera, José Clemente Orozco and David Alfaro Siqueiros.

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This provocative mural was being renovated when we visited the Palacio de Bellas Artes and could only be viewed from across the way.

On our first trip to Mexico City, we only admired the Palacio de Bellas Artes from afar — namely, from the Sears across the street, which affords the best view of that gorgeous Art Nouveau dome, glowing in an ombre that starts with bright saffron and fades to pale yellow. 

Instead, we followed a scavenger hunt of sorts, rambling around Centro in a search for its most Instagrammable spots. 

The Palacio de Bellas Artes is more than just a pretty façade — there’s a gallery of famous murals inside.

This time, we planned to actually enter the Palacio de Bellas Artes, though we had no idea what lay within. Duke and I were pleasantly surprised to discover that the top floor was devoted to a gallery of murals from some of Mexico’s most famous artists. 

The inside of the Palace of Fine Arts in Mexico City isn’t too shabby, either. Be sure to get tickets for the mural museum when you visit.

We purchased our tickets on the ground floor, then climbed the grand staircases up two flights. The murals form a ring around the space, with the center open, letting you look down at the palace’s lobby or admire the murals from afar. When we visited, one of the murals was being restored and we could only see it from across the way.

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Sit and admire Diego Rivera’s kooky mural — which Rockefeller rejected.

El Hombre en el Cruce de Caminos o El Hombre Controlador del Universo

Translation: Man at the Crossroads, or Man, Controller of the Universe

Date: Date: 1934

Artist: Diego Rivera

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It’s a battle between capitalism, as represented by figures including Charles Darwin (the fellow with a white beard surrounded by animals)…

…and Communism, depicted on the righthand side, with Leon Trotsky, Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels all making appearances.

Fascinating fact: The original Man at the Crossroads was commissioned for the Rockefeller Center in New York City. But when Nelson Rockefeller got wind that it included a depiction of Vladimir Lenin and a Soviet May Day parade, he ordered it destroyed — before it was even completed.

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González Camarena’s mural moves from slavery to spiritual liberation.

Liberación o La Humanidad Se Libera de la Miseria

Translation: Liberation, or Humanity Frees Itself From Misery

Date: 1963

Artist: Jorge González Camarena

Fascinating facts: This is a re-creation of a no-longer-existing mural that had been painted on the Edificio Guardiola, where the Bank of Mexico placed its vaults. The first part shows a man tied up in a coffin and a nude tattooed woman to protest agrarian policies after the Mexican Revolution and slavery. The last section to the far right depicts a mestizo woman (someone of indigenous and European blood) — a radiant symbol of spiritual liberation.

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Siqueiros’ mural presents revisionist history, where an Aztec ruler isn’t conquered by the conquistadors.

Apoteosis de Cuauhtémoc o Cuauhtémoc Redivivo and Tormento de Cuauhtémoc
(Díptico Monumento a Cuauhtémoc)

Translation: Apotheosis of Cuauhtémoc, or Cuauhtémoc Resurrected and Torment of Cuauhtémoc (Monumental Diptych to Cuauhtémoc)

Date: 1951

Artist: David Alfaro Siqueiros

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The Aztec ruler Cuauhtémoc had his feet burned until he caved and told the Spanish where to find a treasure trove.

Fascinating facts: One panel shows a revisionist history, what the artist wishes had happened — that the Aztec emperor Cuauhtémoc had defeated the Spanish conquistadors. The other shows what really happened: The ruler was tortured by the Spanish, who burned his feet until he revealed the location of Montezuma’s treasure.

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Note the personifications of the wind blowing in this Art Deco mural fragment.

Alegoría del Viento o El Ángel de la Paz o La Aviación

Translation: Allegory of the Wind, or The Angel of Peace, or Aviation 

Date: 1928

Artist: Roberto Montenegro

Fascinating facts: This is the only portion of the original Art Deco work at the former Colegio Máximo de San Pedro y San Pablo that survived the humidity. It’s the oldest mural in the collection.  

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Man vs. machinery battle it out in Orozco’s bizarre and disturbing mural.

Katharsis o La Eterna Lucha de la Humanidad por un Mundo Mejor

Translation: Catharsis, or Humanity’s Eternal Struggle for a Better World

Date: 1935

Artist: José Clemente Orozco

A detail of La Chata, the infamous pug-nosed prostitute in Orozco’s mural

Fascinating facts: Orozco, like his contemporary Diego, was no stranger to controversy, as evidenced by this horrific vision of dystopia. The naked woman, wearing a massive pearl necklace, grins outward and opens her legs to a piece of machinery. She’s known as La Chata (Pug Nose) and has the dubious honor of being considered one of the most repulsive images in art. 

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Rivera’s mural panels poked fun at White tourists and played upon circus themes.

México Folclórico y Turístico and Dictadura
(Políptico Carnaval de la Vida Mexicana)

Translation: Folkloric and Touristic Mexico and Dictatorship (Carnival of Mexican Life Polyptych)

Date: 1936

Artist: Diego Rivera

There’s a lot to find offensive in these murals, from an officer depicted as a pig to a flag that sports a swastika.

Fascinating facts: Alberto Pani commissioned the series for his Hotel Reforma. But Diego, ever the shit-stirrer, inserted political motifs and unflattering representations of tourists. Pani “touched up” the offensive bits; Diego sued and won, and was allowed to restore his work. But the hotelier put the work into storage, where it remained hidden away until it was sold to the government in 1963 and installed at Bellas Artes. 

Murals are, by their nature, public works of art. If you’re in CDMX’s Centro neighborhood, take a quick spin through the murals of the Palacio de Bellas Artes — and see if you can spot all the controversial sections. –Wally

Palacio de Bellas Artes
Avenida Juárez s/n
Centro
Cuauhtémoc
06050 Ciudad de México
Mexico

 

Animal Symbolism in Pre-Columbian Pottery at the Museo Nacional de Antropología

The meanings behind monkeys, jaguars, ducks, bats, dogs and other animals in Mesoamerican myths as depicted in pre-Columbian artifacts at the National Museum of Anthropology in Mexico City.

A lot of the exhibits at the National Museum of Anthropology in CDMX depict animals — each of which held symbolic meaning for the ancient peoples of Mexico.

Something that’s always fascinated me about ancient cultures are the similarities in beliefs with other civilizations around the world. Despite being oceans apart, many shared highly developed civilizations and a deep reverence for the natural world. 

We saw this in action during our last visit to Mexico City, when we finally made it to the Museo Nacional de Antropología. The scale and scope of the galleries at the museum is dizzying. Wally and I don’t like to overdo it, so we spent half a day just wandering through the first floor. One of the highlights for me was the large number and variety of Mesoamerican animal-shaped effigy vessels on display. Like other ancient societies, the pre-Columbian peoples believed that certain animals embodied a spiritual energy in which sacred beings manifested themselves. 

“Conquistadors developed such an appetite for Xoloitzcuintli Mexican hairless dogs that they nearly ate them into extinction. ”

These ritual objects were not used in everyday life; they were often placed in tombs as burial goods. Animals played a key role at all levels of society and symbolically linked the three cosmic realms of the universe: the heavens, earth and underworld.

Aztec cosmology posited that time is cyclical — and that we’re in the Fifth Sun, the final cycle of the world.

Here Comes the (Fifth) Sun

According to the Aztec legend of the Fifth Sun, time is cyclical. Four suns, or eras, have passed, created by a different deity and successively destroyed. Each cycle included inhabitants who died or transformed into various creatures, including monkeys, turkeys, dogs and fish. Our present world happens to be the Fifth Sun. 

Brightly colored feathers were used in religious ceremonies.

The pre-Columbian people used animals for a variety of purposes. Parrots and macaws, for example, provided a source of food as well as prized blue-green plumage used to adorn headdresses. However, animals also held great symbolic significance. They served as cultural and cosmic metaphors based on their habitat and natural features. 

Ducks were particularly holy to Mesoamericans, as they moved between three realms: water, the sky and land.

Just Ducky

Birds symbolized the celestial realm, the sun and moon in particular, and were considered messengers between the natural and spiritual worlds. 

Ducks were particularly holy, perhaps because they ticked all the boxes: They can fly, walk on land and dive underwater, possessing the ability to travel freely between these different spheres. 

Ducks and related birds were also associated with the wind god Ehécatl (pronounced “Eh-heh-ka-tul”), one of the avatars of Quetzacoatl, the great plumed serpent. The deity was frequently portrayed with a duckbill-like appendage on his face, which he used to summon the winds. 

The Maya considered bodies of water to be pathways to the Underworld. Ducks and other waterfowl were ritualistically sacrificed, eaten and used to ward off demons.

This little guy represents a coatimundi, which figures in a Mayan myth that involved a decapitated head in the Underworld.

Coati Encounters of the First Kind

The coatimundi, or coati, are members of the raccoon family. They have distinct mask-like markings on their faces, resembling a combination of kinkajou, anteater, raccoon and bear cub. 

In the Popol Vuh, the sacred text of the Maya, a bat rips off the head of Hunahpu, one of the Hero Twins, and takes it to the ball court of Xibalbá (the Underworld) to be used in place of a rubber ball. A coati fashions a fake head from a calabash squash and places it on the shoulders of the headless hero. Hanapu’s brother Xbalanque places Hanapu’s head back on his shoulders, and the brothers succeed in defeating the Lords of Xibalbá.

Monkeys represented the good (luck and joy) and the bad (immorality).

Monkeys: Sacred Simians 

Spider and howler monkeys are the two most common species native to the tropical lowlands of Mexico. Playful and social in nature, these nimble primates live in the high forest canopy and are mankind’s closest living relative. They were symbols of good fortune and joy, as well as pleasure and immorality — the latter of which was punishable by death. Monkeys were domesticated and kept as pets by both Zapotec and Aztec nobility and weren’t used for food or sacrifice. 

The “leftovers” of the Second Sun cycle of the universe were turned into jabbering monkeys.

Ehecatl, the Aztec god of the wind, was associated with monkeys.

Monkeys were also associated with the Aztec wind god Ehécatl. According to the legend of the Fifth Sun, the disobedient survivors of the Second Sun, whose cataclysmic end included hurricanes and floods, were transformed into monkeys by Ehécatl. Deprived of the ability to speak, they were condemned to emit meaningless noises for the rest of their existence. 

A person’s spirit would hold onto a Xoloitzcuintli dog’s tail to be guided through the Underworld.

Dogs Truly Are Man’s Best Friend

Before the Chihuahua became the most popular dog breed from Mexico, there was the hairless Xoloitzcuintli (pronounced “Show-low-eats-queent-lee”). This breed got its name from Xolotl, the god of lightning and death, and itzcuintli, dog. To the ancient Aztec and Maya, the canine was created by Xolotl to guard the living and guide the souls of the dead through the perils of Mictlán, the Underworld. Deceased souls held onto the dogs’ tails as they led their owners through the afterlife. They were also bred as a source of food — in fact, the conquistadors developed such an appetite for them that they nearly ate them into extinction. 

The most common depictions of Xoloitzcuintles take the form of small ceramic vessels known as Colima dogs for the modern state of Mexico where they are commonly found. More than a few of these red clay objects are depicted with chubby bodies — this may be an indication that they were fattened up to be eaten.

Frida Khalo and Diego Rivera owned a brood of Xolos, and Wally and I saw a few sunning themselves at el Museo Dolores Olmedo, which houses a large collection of works by this famous duo.

Grasshoppers were associated with agriculture and fertility — but could also mean destruction.

The Grasshopper: the Insect That Sings for Its Supper

The name of Chapultepec Park, where the Museo Nacional de Antropología is located, comes from Náhuatl for “Hill of the Grasshopper.” This hill rises from the center of the park, was a sacred place for the Aztec and is where Chapultepec Castle stands. 

Grasshoppers were associated with agriculture and fertility and were associated with the period following the annual rainfall, which brought an abundance of the insects. 

In addition to their symbolic importance, the Aztec snacked on chapulines, cooking them on clay surfaces with spices. 

To the Mexica, they represented the duality of abundance vs. destruction: Drought triggers the solitary grasshopper to become social, changing color from green to yellow and black. Under such conditions, they move in swarms, devouring crops and vegetation.

Bats were paired with the Underworld, which was accessible via the caves they live in.

Bats Out of Hell

Bats are nocturnal creatures that travel the sky by night and hide in caves by day, which Mesoamericans believed were portals to the Underworld. 

The stuck-out tongue on this bat statue hinted at the creature’s blood-sucking nature and connected it to the practice of human sacrifice.

The Zapotec venerated the god Camazotz, who had the head of a bat and was associated with night, death and sacrifice. Most likely due to the sanguinary diet of the vampire bat, native to most regions of Mexico, where it feeds on the blood of mammals, the creature became associated with rites of bloodletting and human sacrifice practiced to honor the gods and secure bountiful harvests. 

A common symbol in ancient Mesoamerica, the jaguar was linked to power and protection from evil.

Jaguars Hit the Spot(s)

The jaguar was one of the most important sacred symbols of power, ferocity and protection from evil. According to Mexica lore, a jaguar and an eagle both sacrificed themselves to bring light to the world, and in doing so became gods. 

Jaguars were believed to have the ability to travel between the worlds.

The Maya connected the jaguar’s spots with heavenly lights.

The jaguar is closely associated with the “night sun” (the sun during its nightly trip through the Underworld) and darkness as well. As such, the big cat was thought to have the ability to move between the worlds of the living and the dead. The Maya venerated the feline, seeing heavenly lights in its spots. –Duke

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RELATED: Death Cults of Ancient Mexico

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Immersive Frida: An Incredible, Must-See Show

Compared to this amazing spectacle honoring the life and work of Frida Kahlo, the Immersive Van Gogh is a mere screensaver. 

If you’re in Mexico City, see Immersive Frida while you can!

We parted the strings of rope as we would a curtain, fittingly, from beneath one of Frida’s long Tehuana skirts, and were instantly transported into a magical world. 

Duke and I headed toward an empty round ottoman but we both stopped right as we were about to sit down — the seat appeared to be moving! 

After a few seconds, our vision adjusted and we realized it was just a trick of the eye from the projected patterns that filled the walls and drifted across the white sand covered floor. We laughed and took a seat. 

In the center of the gallery a circle of rope curtains bisected the gallery. These moved periodically, sometimes swirling, sometimes opening to reveal the other half of the exhibit space for dramatic vistas. 

Rings of curtain-like ropes open and close to reveal dramatic vistas across the room.

Other rope curtains were placed at either end of the main room, acting as screens for the projections of Frida Kahlo’s paintings. 

The show takes place at Frontón México, a large entertainment venue.

The spectacle Duke and I attended was Frida: The Immersive Experience (Frida: la Experiencia Inmersiva) held in Mexico City at Frontón México. This massive building, which once served as a jai lai court from the 1920s until the mid-’90s, reopened after a multimillion-dollar overhaul in 2017 as a multipurpose entertainment venue that includes a casino. It’s right across the street from the Plaza de la República and is a 12-minute walk to the Palacio de Bellas Artes, which we explored after the show.

Duke posing in the lobby

Frida in 360 Degrees 

Halfway through Immersive Frida, we decided to get up to discover what it was like in the curtained portion at the center of the room. The ropes spun in circles and it was like walking through a curved passageway with moving walls. Then we were inside the bower, with slashes of light illuminating the space. Above us hung a chandelier of sorts, a cascade of white paper flowers that shifted in color, sometimes glowing light blue or purple, interspersed with dark red lightbulbs dripping like drops of blood.

The chandelier shifts colors throughout the show.

After a bit of time here and wanting to see new perspectives, we emerged and found seats on the other side of the room, where we remained for the rest of the show. 

The creators of the exhibit took elements from Frida’s paintings — a bug-eyed jaguar mask from (Girl with Death Mask, 1938), a leaf, an alarm clock and airplane from (Time Flies, 1929), and (The Two Fridas) — cut them out and filled the screen with them. Then parts of famous paintings would peek out from the collage, and you have to constantly look around to see different objects: Diego’s eye here, Frida’s mustache over there, the leg of a deer behind you. There’s nonstop movement and animation, and even voice recordings of Frida herself, waxing poetic about her love for Diego. 

Elements of Frida’s paintings are isolated and presented as a moving collage.

Then elements from other paintings reveal themselves, like this one of Diego.

Immersive Frida includes some audio footage of the artist speaking.

Frida’s famous paintings truly come to life.

You’ve got to constantly look in all directions during the show — there’s something new to see everywhere you look.

A somber set of images, like the ones about the spinal injury that plagued the iconic artist most of her life, were accompanied by intense, moody music. At one point, Frida’s chest opened and a corset wove itself around her shoulders and torso to reveal a broken column within. But then the images would turn bright, as when nature scenes began to populate, and the music became optimistic, energetic, paired with happier imagery. 

A terrible accident Frida suffered as a youth informed many of her paintings.

One segment of the exhibit features nature scenes.

At the end of the show, be sure to explore both ends of the room. Beyond the curtains on the side you enter, there are two cool photo opps with elements from the show, along with a long monitor where you can write and have your scribblings show up as colored streaks. Through the ropes at the other end of the exhibit space are a line of interactive stations where crazy creatures created from aspects of Frida’s paintings react to your movements. The more you dance around, flail your arms and jump, the more fun it is to watch the character on screen mimic you.

The photo opps at the end of the show are worthwhile.

A series of interactive exhibits put a fun end to the amazing show.

We’ve seen the Immersive Van Gogh in Chicago. While it’s cool in its way, it struck us as one-note; the media felt more static and didn’t evoke much emotion. To be honest, even the interactive moments after the Frida show were more enjoyable than the $50 we shelled out for Van Gogh. And for only $17 a ticket, Immersive Frida is a steal.

It’s obvious the curators and creators of the show loved their job and greatly respect Frida’s legacy— that appreciation and dedication shine through every moment of the 45-minute spectacle. If you couldn’t already tell, we highly recommend going. If we lived in Mexico City, or if the show makes its way to Chicago, we would certainly come again. Immersive Frida is so rich in imagery, and, as we had to spin around constantly and crane our necks to catch all the different views, we know that inevitably there was much we missed the first time. –Wally

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Find Out More About Frida!

9 Fascinating Facts About Frida

La Casa Azul, the Frida Kahlo Museum

Hubbard Street Murals: Chicago’s Street Art Gallery

Wanna see some cool murals in Chicago? This stretch of Hubbard features street art done by artists from around the world. 

Pilsen or West Loop? Find out where the best murals in Chicago are.

Duke and I are obsessed with street art. We hunt it down and take pics of it wherever we go. 

But, as amazing as it would be to share your art with the world, it also strikes me that it must also be heartbreaking how ephemeral street art can be. Buildings get demolished (or simply change ownership), and the artists have no claim to their work. And how awful it would be to have your work obliterated — which definitely seems to be a trend, at least in Chicago at hip venues like Soho House and the Violet Hour. In many cases, we view murals nowadays as temporary canvases, able to shine all too briefly before they are painted over and another takes its place.

One of Wally’s favorite murals on Hubbard Street

I work near Fulton Market (West Loop is Best Loop, as we say), and on my lunch break, I will often walk along Hubbard Street, from Halsted to Ogden, to admire and photograph the murals. The one downside is that there’s no real path along the street — at times you’ll be trekking through weeds and bushes to see the sights.

Even the underpasses along Hubbard are covered with cool graffiti.

At first there were many remnants from the ’70s, faded and less artistic than the amazing works done by today’s muralists. But now, every time I pass by, more and more of the original murals have been painted over, replaced by more modern artworks. Hubbard Street acts as an amazing outdoor gallery, an open-air museum of some of the most talented street artists from around the world. 

¡Viva Chicago indeed! A fading luchador mural

The Hubbard Street murals blow Duke’s mind.

Great street art really packs a wallop for Wally.

I caught up with Levar Hoard, chief curator and managing director of the B_Line, a mile-long corridor of public art in Chicago’s Fulton Market District, who was kind enough to answer a few questions for us.

Levar Hoard heads up the Hubbard Street Murals project.

A Q&A With Levar Hoard of the B_Line

Tell us about the original project. When did it begin and what was its mission?

The original founder/curator was Ricardo Alonzo. When the murals started in 1971 (this year is our 50th anniversary), they were dedicated to environmental causes (pollution initially, then endangered animals). That went on to include many concepts like Mexican native art, abstract and other styles.

How did B_Line get involved?

We became the sole curators in 2017 after years of research and negotiation with the private train company that owns the walls (it's not a city project), and we legally assumed the license in perpetuity from Ricardo that was signed in 1971 with the railroad.

How do you find the artists? What’s the process with them?

We fly the world's most renowned artists to Chicago and also find Chicago’s best muralists, and discover new muralists, who we give their first commission to. 

As a privately run and funded organization, we subjectively select artists based on skill level, demonstrated competence with techniques and materials, and aesthetics. 

One of the artists flown in to create a mural

How do you decide where each artist is to paint, and when it’s time to paint over an existing mural?

It’s based on the condition of the wall. Most of the murals from 1971 are long gone, and we work to preserve or restore them where possible. Where it’s not possible or worthwhile, we recondition the wall and usher in a new era of art and artists that reflect the time we now live in — the M.O. of street art. 

What’s your favorite thing about the mural project? 

Meeting thousands of people that visit the murals weekly. 

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Be sure to check out B_Line’s Instagram feed for video interviews about their many projects and history: @blinechicago.

To learn more about the history of the Hubbard Street Murals, read this Reader article.

We also reached out to a couple of the street artists behind our favorite murals along the stretch of Hubbard. Here are their stories.

Nurture or Nature by the street artist duo Pipsqueak Was Here!!!

A Q&A With Pipsqueak Was Here!!!

The Amsterdam, Netherlands-based street artist duo known as Pipsqueak Was Here!!! told us about their experience with the Hubbard Street Murals:

We were in Chicago for a show with Vertical Gallery and had a few days to play around. Patrick Hull, who runs the gallery, introduced us to Levar Hoard, who curates the B_Line paintings. He helped us out with two ladders, and Patrick provided us with some paint.

We painted a girl holding a duck, a stencil we had with us because we planned to do a mural for the RAW Project, an incredible collective to improve the environment of elementary schools around the USA.

Our painting is called Nurture or Nature. The work, like most of our paintings, is a combination of a child with an animal. We combine these two to depict the relationship between human beings and the remaining natural environment. Most of our work is about how we treat the world and how, in return, it treats us.

Nurture or Nature poses the question, should we protect what is left or should we let nature take its course, whatever the consequences may turn out to be?

We really enjoyed being part of this wonderful project, as we found it incredible to see that they included and restored some of the paintings over 40 years old. It was an honor to contribute to such a rich tradition, and we were really helped by Lavar, Patrick and Margaux Comte, who took photographs while we worked.

We had an overwhelming response to this painting, and it really was fun being able to do something like this on such short notice.

Here’s a short time-lapse video of the mural creation.

The Hubbard Street mural painted by Stinkfish

A Q&A With Stinkfish

The artist known as Stinkfish told us: 

I got involved by an invitation by B_Line and through my gallery in Chicago, Vertical Gallery. 

I used a portrait of a girl in a workshop I did in Vienna, Austria. She had the mask because we were using spray paint. 

Then came COVID, and the piece took on another relevance and meaning. 

It was a good experience. It’s a nice place to paint. The project gave me the opportunity to see different styles, techniques and messages in the same place. 

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If you’re a fan of murals, you can’t miss the Hubbard Street corridor. This might be a controversial view, but I prefer these murals to those on 16th Street in Pilsen, another legendary stretch of street art in Chicago. With new artists constantly creating works of art, a walk along Hubbard is never quite the same, even just weeks apart. –Wally

The Male Nude in Art

A virtual tour of the Masculin/Masculin exhibit at the Musée d’Orsay in Paris, including works by Egon Schiele, Kehinde Wiley, Gustave Caillebotte and Pierre et Giles.

Le Berger Paris (The Shepherd Paris) by Jean-Baptiste Frédéric Desmarais, 1787

The perfection of the male figure was first seen through the lens of the Ancient Greeks. Their idealized depictions celebrated the male body as a reflection of heroic and athletic beauty. The few female sculptures that existed during this period were clothed and chaste in comparison. 

At some point the male nude fell out of favor, and the female nude became the central subject of objectification. Historically speaking, the typical viewer of artwork was male, and this display of the female physique for pleasure turned the female nude into an accepted object of male desire.

Imagine if you will then, how excited Wally and I were in Paris in the fall of 2013. We had decided to visit the Musée d’Orsay, and saw that its featured exhibit was Masculin/Masculin: L’homme nu dans l’art de 1800 à nos jours (The Male Nude in Art From 1800 to Today). The exhibition ran from September 24, 2013 to  January 2, 2014. 

We arrived with Wally’s parents, Dave and Shirley, in tow. When we mentioned that we were excited to see a special exhibit all about the male nude, the Shirl replied, “I don’t need to see that.” Her loss! Though we can’t say we weren’t a bit relieved; seeing galleries full of nude men with your parents could get a little awkward. 

Mercure (Mercury) by Pierre et Gilles, 2001

Nude Male Art Galleries Galore!

Inside, a larger-than-life banner featured a stylized work of French art photography duo Pierre et Gilles titled Mercure (Mercury), the heroic winged messenger and trickster deity of Roman mythology. 

Please note that, as you can imagine from the title, this post includes images of male nudity. 

Faune endormi (Sleeping Faun), a copy of the Barberini Faun, by Edmé Bouchardon, 1726

The Ideal Man

The exhibition is arranged thematically and began by introducing us to “L’Idéal classique, the Classic Ideal.” This concept has existed since the Ancient Greeks chiseled away at marble to depict perfectly sculpted male bodies (pun intended). In my humble opinion, though, these were rarely erotic — sure, they had rockin’ bods, but the statues’ minuscule, flaccid genitalia unappealingly evoke wilted zucchini blossoms.

One such exception was the life-size copy of the Barberini Faun by Edmé Bouchardon on loan from the Louvre. I can clearly remember seeing an image of the Barberini Faun projected onto a screen in my college art history class in its erotic, spread-eagled glory. The figure is a satyr, or faun — usually depicted as a creature half-man, half-goat but in this case referencing a follower of Dyionysus, the god of pleasure and wine. 

Seeing the sculpture in person felt voyeuristic — the viewer is allowed to gaze at something forbidden: a man sleeping, or perhaps passed out from all that wine. The nude form is lounging back, with his legs splayed, giving everyone a view of the goods. 

Académie d’homme dit Patrocle (Academy of a Man, Called Patroclus) by Jacques-Louis David, 1780

One of the first works of art we viewed was Académie d’homme dit Patrocle (Academy of a Man, Called Patroclus) by Jacques-Louis David, from 1780. 

Patroclus was a character from Homer’s Iliad who died fighting the Trojans. The painting was produced by David during his stay in Italy as a Prix de Rome laureate. Turned away from the viewer, the figure's accentuated muscles reminded me a bit of Michelangelo's studies for the Libyan Sibyl, Phemonoe, the finished result of which adorns the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in Rome. 

Horst in the Pose of an Ancient Greek Horseman by George Hoyningen-Huene, 1932

Gods and Heroes

The second theme, “Le Nu héroïque, the Heroic Nude,” also dates back to the Ancient Greeks. It was assumed that a hero had little need for armor, and that the strength of his body was the measure of his worth.

David by Antonin Mercié, 1892

Fléau! (Scourge!) by Henri-Camille Danger, 1901

Pushing Weights With Two Arms -2 by Eugène Fredrik Jansson, 1913

A noteworthy inclusion in this gallery was Pushing Weights with Two Arms -2 by Eugène Fredrik Jansson, a Swedish artist. He began his career painting atmospheric landscapes and cityscapes rendered in shades of blue, but in later years turned his focus to painting male nudes. Jansson became a swimmer and winter bather to combat the chronic health issues he’d suffered since childhood. He often visited Stockholm’s Flottans Badhus, the Navy Bathhouse, where he met sailors who served as the models for his paintings. 

Pushing Weights was a series of paintings by Jansson. In this particular one, a naked athlete stands near a doorway, his gaze fixed on a man, possibly Knut Nyman, Jansson’s “close companion,” lifting a barbell above his head. 

Based upon the homoerotic subtext, it’s possible that Jansson was a closeted homosexual and that the works he produced during this period reveal the strong attraction he felt for his subjects. 

Job by Léon Bonnat, 1880

The Naked Truth

The third theme focused on “Nuda veritas, sans complaisance, The Naked Truth Without Compromise.” The idea of the authentic nude abandons the conventions of classical perfection to portray the body in realistic accuracy. 

L’Age d’airain (The Age of Bronze) by Auguste Rodin, 1877

Homme au bain (Man at His Bath) by Gustave Caillebotte, 1884

What I like about Homme au bain (Man at His Bath) by Gustave Caillebotte is that it depicts a very private moment. A man is drying himself with a towel after a bath. His back is turned away from the viewer; he is neither posing for the painting nor has any intention of being seen.

David and Eli by Lucien Freud, 2004

The reclining nude male figure with the dad bod depicted in British painter Lucian Freud’s portrait David and Eli is his friend and studio assistant David Dawson. The dog is Eli, one of the artist's beloved whippets. Freud’s late nudes are noted for their uncompromising scrutiny of the human body. The artist utilized a technique known as impasto, where layers of paint and brushstrokes blend and converge to reveal the materiality of the flesh. The oil paint applied to the figure of David and the bedsheet beneath him was Cremnitz white, a type of white lead paint that Freud favored for its luminosity. 

Jeune homme nu assis au bord de la mer (Young Male Nude Seated Beside the Sea) by Hippolyte Flandrin, 1836

Vitalism: Naughty by Nature 

“Im Natur, In Nature,” the fourth theme is all about men en plein air, as they say in France. As the 19th century world became increasingly industrialized, academies across Europe favored realistic subjects, and people embraced vitalism, an anti-mechanical return to nature. This movement encouraged male nakedness during outdoor activities, including bathing, as a means to rejuvenate the spirit and increase virility. 

The Fisherman With a Net by Frédéric Bazille, 1868

There’s an underlying eroticism and intimacy to The Fisherman With a Net by Frédéric Bazille. Whether unintentionally homoerotic or not, the subject in the foreground of the painting is an athletic young man prepared to cast a net into a pond. He’s clearly positioned to show off his “assets” and looks every bit like a modern-day hipster — all that’s missing is a pair of skinny jeans and a PBR. Another man in a state of undress can be seen in the background. 

Mort pour la patrie (Dying for the Fatherland) by Jean-Jules-Antoine Lecomte du Nouÿ, 1892

This Mortal Coil

We continued wandering the galleries until we came to the one titled “Dans la douleur, In Pain,” which focused on the fragile balance of life and death. Man is not immortal; these works of art were a grim reminder of the shortness of life and the frailties of the mind and body. 

Kneeling Nude With Raised Hands (Self-Portrait) by Egon Schiele, 1910

Egon Schiele is famous for his raw figurative works. A protégée of Gustav Klimt, Schiele had a muse and lover named Walburga “Wally” Neuzil, who had previously modeled for Klimt. Schiele’s color palette and expressive drawings remind me of French artist Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. Where Lautrec elevated the world of underground nightlife, Schiele’s art was an exploration of the human condition, often depicting the twisted bodies and raw sexuality of his subjects. 

In Kneeling Nude With Raised Hands, Schiele offers himself up to the viewer. The angst of his contorted, angular body, jaundice-colored flesh and red-rimmed eyes certainly questioned the artistic conventions of gender, sexuality and morality of pre-war Vienna. His hands and limbs appear to be pressed firmly against an invisible surface, possibly a mirror, while the negative space outlining Schiele’s form serves as a window for his figure to float in space and time. 

L’Abîme (The Abyss) by Just Becquet, 1901

La mort d'Hippolyte (The Death of Hippolytus) by Joseph-Désiré Court, 1825

Homosexuality: The Object of Desire Laid Bare 

The final room explored the theme “L’Objet du désir, The Object of Desire,” and focused on the more contemporary subtext of homosexual desire and objectification. A notice outside stated that some viewers may find the artwork beyond too provocative or offensive — but of course Wally and I found this titillating and weren’t in the slightest bit deterred.

Der Wäger (The Wager) by Arno Breker, 1939

Upon entering the space, we were greeted by a life-size nude male bronze figure by German sculptor Arno Breker. Called Der Wäger (The Wager), the figure stands chest out, looking every bit like a vintage beefcake photo from the 1940s. His hand is placed on his hip in an unintended effeminate manner. The sculptor’s neoclassical style made him a favorite of Adolf Hitler, who felt Breker’s works embodied fascist Nazi ideology. 

Achille by Pierre et Gilles, 2004

David et Jonathan (Jean-Eves et Moussa) by Pierre et Gilles, 2005

La douche, Après la bataille (Shower, After the Battle) by Alexander Deyneka, 1942

La douche, Après la bataille (Shower, After the Battle) by Alexander Deyneka was inspired by a black and white photograph of presumably nude athletes that Soviet photographer Boris Ignatovich had presented to Deyneka. It took the painter five years to complete. The provocative work depicts a group of strapping young men taking a communal shower. The muscular back of an onlooker is seen in the foreground. For me, the painting brings back high school anxieties of showering and sharing the locker room with the wrestling team. There’s a tension between heterosexual aspirations and homoerotic desire. 

Death of Abel Study by Kehinde Wiley, 2008

Kehinde Wiley is a contemporary African American artist known for his large-scale paintings that highlight the image and status of young urban Black men in contemporary culture by placing them in scenes that are regal and European in origin. His photorealistic compositions reinterpret classical portraiture and are often combined with layered, vivid ornamental motifs. Gazing at the monumental Death of Abel Study — it measures a whopping 11 feet high by 25 feet wide — I couldn’t help but ask myself, is the man dead, being objectified, or both? 

Incidentally, Wiley was the first Black gay artist selected to paint a presidential portrait. He was commissioned in 2017 to paint a portrait of former President Barack Obama for the Smithsonian National Portrait Gallery.

The Most Beautiful Part of a Man's Body by Duane Michals, 1986

Le Sommeil d’Endymion (The Sleep of Endymion) by Anne-Louis Girodet, 1791

There really wasn’t anything too outrageous to be seen as we wandered through Masculin/Masculin, but it was refreshing to view the galleries of traditional paintings, sculptures and contemporary works that examined and objectified men for a change. –Duke

National Museum of Mexican Art: A Hidden Gem in Chicago

Remedios Varo, Frida Khalo and Diego Rivera are all part of the rich heritage of Mexican artists honored at this all-too-often-overlooked museum.

If you’re not all tied up, make a visit to the National Museum of Mexican Art in Chicago — it’s dog-gone great!

It’s one of our favorite fall activities. Every October, Duke and I make a trip to the National Museum of Mexican Art on the South Side of Chicago to see the ofrendas set up for the Day of the Dead. These altars for loved ones who have died are always colorful, touching and artistic — and, despite being tributes to the dead, they never fail to make you smile. 

An ofrenda to Diego Rivera, one of the most famous Mexican artists of all time

Plus, it’s an excuse to wander the Pilsen neighborhood to see its street murals and grab some tacos and tamales. Pilsen is known as a Mexican neighborhood, though the artists who once called it home got priced out and vacated to Logan Square (and have most likely been priced out again and moved on to the new up-and-coming enclave). 

When you visit the museum, be sure to take a walk through the colorful neighborhood of Pilsen and go mural-hunting.

We were unable to see the ofrendas this year because of that pesky pandemic, so we reached out to the museum to tell us a bit more about one of the most impressive cultural centers in the city and to share their favorite artists (the founder seems particularly fond of the Surrealists).

The gift shop at the museum is filled with great Mexican handicrafts.

When the museum reopens, be sure to visit. It’s a small space, so you could easily see it all in one visit. And the gift shop is an exhibition itself, filled with Mexican handicrafts, from brightly painted fantastic beasts to comical skeletons. If that’s not enough to entice you, admission to the National Museum of Mexican Art is always free.

Here’s a Q&A with the museum’s founder, Carlos Tortolero. –Wally 

Duke loves the National Museum of Mexican Art thiiiiiiiis much!

Wally in front of a cool exhibit with knitted fruit

How did the museum come about?

Founder Carlos Tortolero, a former high school teacher who’s now president of the museum, invited four of his fellow teachers and his sister, also a teacher, to form a nonprofit to create a museum in 1982.

CHema Skandal’s take on lotería cards depicts Donald Trump as “the Evil One.” After launching his political career by calling Mexicans rapists and drug dealers, we agree with that moniker.

What is its mission?

To showcase the richness of Mexican art from both sides of the border from ancient times to the present.

Laura Molina’s Amor Alien from 2004 is part of the museum’s permanent collection.

Tell us about Mexican art.

Mexican art is an amazing cultural tradition. From ancient times to the present, the manifestations of Mexican art have earned worldwide recognition.

Who are some of your favorite artists?

Artists who are deceased that I admire are:

• Saturnino Herrán

Saturnino Herrán, The Offering, 1913

• Remedios Varo

Remedios Varo, Simpatía (La Rabia del Gato), 1955

• José Celmente Orozco

José Celmente Orozco, The Trench, 1926

• Diego Rivera

Diego Rivera, detail from Dream of a Sunday Afternoon in Alameda Park, 1948

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READ MORE

Diego’s Amazing Museum in Mexico City

Dolores Almedo’s Home, the Largest Private Collection of Diego’s Works

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• David Alfaro Siqueiros

David Alfaro Siqueiros, La Marcha de la Humanidad, 1966

• María Izquierdo

María Izquierdo, Viernes de Dolores, 1945

• Frida Kahlo

Frida Kahlo, The Two Fridas, 1939

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READ MORE

9 Fascinating Facts About Frida Kahlo

A Visit to La Casa Azul, Frida’s House

Coyoacán, Frida’s Boho Neighborhood

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• Salvador Dali

• Rene Magritte

Living artists: 

• Patssi Valdez

Patssi Valdez, The Enchanted Garden, 2005

• John Valadez

John Valadez, Pool Party, 1987

• Marcos Raya

Marcos Raya, Girl With Prosthesis, 2010

• Nahum Zenil

Nahum Zenil, Con Todo Respecto, 1983

Murals have long been an important part of Mexican culture.

What’s special about the Pilsen neighborhood?

Pilsen has historically been a port of entry for immigrants from Europe and now from Mexico. There’s a dynamism of activism that has always made Pilsen stand out from other communities. Pilsen also has excellent restaurants and bakeries based on Mexican cuisine.

Skeletons are a popular motif in Mexican art — especially around Día de los Muertos.

What else is the museum used for?

The museum hosts numerous events during the year, from health workshops dealing with health issues like HIV, cancer and lupus, community fundraisers, immigration presentations, city-wide initiatives and, of course, presentations of authors, musical groups and theater.

Popocatépetl and Iztaccíhuatl by Jesus Helguera welcomes visitors to the permanent collection gallery at the National Mexican Museum of Art.

 

Lead White: The Deadliest Color?

Other ways to make white pigment paled in comparison — but was it worth the risk of lead poisoning?

Queen Elizabeth I loved her white makeup (made from a toxic blend of lead and vinegar) so much that she supposedly had an inch’s worth on her face when she died.

White: the color that evokes the purity of freshly fallen snow and the innocence of virgins. If you’ve ever flicked through a bridal magazine, you can’t help but notice the color white — though you no longer need be chaste to wear it.

But how can one of the earliest and most important pigments produced by mankind be one of the deadliest in the history of color? Its popularity was all the more alarming, given that it could result in lead poisoning (also referred to as painters’ colic or plumbism). Adult symptoms include headaches, abdominal cramps, joint and muscle pain and high blood pressure. Children can suffer developmental delays, learning difficulties and weight loss.

“Geishas used lead white makeup — it contrasted beautifully with their teeth, which they painted black.”

Japanese geishas are part of a long line of standards of beauty that decree that the whiter the skin the lovelier.

A Recipe for Lead White: Don’t Try This at Home 

Since antiquity, artists have used pigments to represent the colors they saw in the natural world. Lead was used  as the principal white pigment in paintings and glazes from ancient times until the 20th century. 

The statues you see in museums and at historic sites were originally painted — and that often included the poisonous lead white.

The laborious process was documented by Roman author and naturalist Pliny the Elder. First, pour a bit of vinegar into the bottom of an earthenware pot. Place a wooden spacer in the pot with a coiled band of lead on top so that only the rising vapors from the vinegar come in contact with the metal. The clay vessel was then surrounded by fresh animal dung and left in a sealed chamber for 30 days. As the manure fermented, it released carbon dioxide, which reacted with the vinegar and chemically corroded the lead, producing the perfect conditions for white papery flakes to grow. 

Pliny the Elder shared his recipe for the bright but toxic shade of white made from lead.

After a month or so, some poor soul was sent to retrieve the pieces of lead, which were now covered with a crust of lead carbonate. This was scraped, cleaned and washed to remove impurities. The raw pigment was ground into powder, formed into small cakes and left to dry in the sun for several days before being sold.

Sure, the process to make lead white cakes could lead to severe ailments — but it was just so bright and pretty!

The resulting pigment was highly valued by artists. Affordable and dense, painters swore by its ease to work with and primed their canvases with it to make their works appear more luminous. 

Art historians are also grateful for its use. When combined with the use of x-ray imaging technology, the paint reveals details such as the earlier stages, alterations and additions of a painting. 

A self-portrait of James McNeill Whistler, who used lead white paint in his works.

Whistler: What a Mama's Boy

One such painter who used lead white was the American-born, British-based artist James McNeill Whistler (1834-1903). Whistler is perhaps best remembered for the iconic portrait, painted in 1871, of his mother. Titled Arrangement in Grey and Black, No. 1, most know it as Whistler’s Mother. It was the first artwork by an American artist to be purchased by the French government for display in a museum. When it’s not traveling, it resides at the Musée d'Orsay in Paris. The painting represents the peak of Whistler’s radical method of modulating tones of a single color.  

This technique began years earlier when he submitted The White Girl to the 1862 Royal Academy of Arts exhibition in London to demonstrate his talents to the world. The ethereal painting depicts his mistress, Joanna Hiffernan, a well-known beauty who modeled for other artists of the day. Tousled locks of red hair frame her expressionless face as she stands atop a wolfskin rug that, to me, disturbingly resembles the pelt of a yellow Lab. 

Whistler’s The White Girl was deemed too modern for the Salon exhibition in Paris.

As far as the British were concerned, the work was too avant-garde. It was rejected by the Academy and ended up in the Salon des Refusés, a protest exhibition organized by the French painter Gustave Courbet.  

Whistler later retitled the work Symphony in White, No.1, perhaps after empathetic art critic Paul Manz commented on the subtle variations of white in the Gazette des Beaux-Arts as a “symphonie du blanc.”

Geishas still wear a stark white makeup as a sort of mask.

The Lingering Perception That Pale Is Beautiful 

In addition to painting, lead white was used in cosmetics. The controversial quest for lighter skin and its association with beauty, social status and wealth has existed since Ancient Egypt. Women of Ancient Greece and Rome whitened their skin with powders and creams made from lead. Japanese geishas also used it — it contrasted beautifully with their teeth, which they had fashionably painted black using a solution of powdered oak galls and vinegar.

Japanese felt that a geisha’s stark white skin paired perfectly with blackened teeth.

The beauty product Snail White (made from actual snail secretions!) is said to leave your skin more pale — and therefore more beautiful.

When Wally and I visited Thailand, we saw shelves at the 7-Elevens stocked with pink and white boxes of Snail White skincare products to give you paler skin. The main ingredient? Mucus secreted by snails. Pretty!

Queen Elizabeth I first began using her lead white makeup as a sort of putty to spackle smallpox scarring.

Fit For a Queen: From Elizabeth I to Laird’s Bloom of Youth

What could have possessed 15th century European courtiers to smear the stuff on their faces? Queen Elizabeth I (1533-1603) was 29 years old when she was diagnosed with smallpox. She survived the deadly illness but was left with smallpox-scarred skin. She appreciated the cosmetic’s ability to conceal her scars, so she adopted her now-famous chalk-white visage. The queen used Venetian ceruse (also known as spirits of Saturn), a foundation produced by combining powdered lead and vinegar. While it may have smoothed her complexion, it was exceedingly toxic — especially when worn for long periods of time. 

Elizabeth I’s legendary white makeup was used to help rebrand herself the Virgin Queen.

Elizabeth used her image to frame the narrative of a virgin queen who didn’t need a husband — she was wedded to her country. When she died at the age of 69, it was rumored that she had a full inch of makeup on her face, which, ironically, may have contributed to her death. 

Commercial lead makeup products like George W. Laird’s Bloom of Youth were introduced in the 19th century. Laird ran a series of advertisements in fashionable New York magazines, promising to smooth and whiten the skin. 

“It will immediately obliterate all such imperfections, and is entirely harmless. It has been chemically analyzed by the Board of Health of New York City and pronounced entirely free from any material injurious to the health or skin,” the ad (untruthfully) claimed.

Laird’s Bloom of Youth claimed to be harmless — but it wasn’t!

Women took notice and applied Laird’s Bloom of Youth foundation to their faces. Perhaps some women thought that a little bit wouldn’t hurt, and by the time the truth was clear, it was probably too late. –Duke

9 Fascinating Frida Kahlo Facts That May Surprise You

Overshadowed by her husband Diego Rivera, Kahlo led a too-short life fraught with pain, which she channeled into her powerful paintings.

A portrait of the unusual artist in 1939 by Nickolas Muray

It seems every famous artist is eccentric in their own way, and Frida Kahlo was no exception. She didn’t follow the rules, establishing herself as the negation of what a woman was expected to be. Her singular vision continues to inspire and capture the world’s imagination. Kahlo’s recognizable unibrow, boldly colored clothes and tempestuous marriage to muralist Diego Rivera are as central to her fame as her vivid and powerful self-portraits.

“During the horrific accident, a shower of gold glitter landed on Frida’s bloody and broken body — making the macabre moment like something out of a magical realism novel.

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While writing my post on the Blue House, or La Casa Azul, Kahlo’s former home, I learned more than a few surprising things. Why nine, you might ask? During their lifetimes, Kahlo and Rivera passionately assembled a collection of fantastical papier-mâché alebrijes, and I’d like to imagine hers as a cat with its metaphorical nine lives. So, without further exposition, here are nine interesting facts you might not have known about Frida Kahlo.

Talk about odd couples! Here’s Wedding Portrait of Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera by Victor Reyes, 1929

1. She and Diego proved that opposites really do attract.

Kahlo first met Rivera when he was commissioned by the government to paint the mural La Creación at the Bolívar Auditorium of the Escuela Nacional Preparatoria in 1922. Kahlo was one of only 35 females in a student body of 2,000 and belonged to a group of young intellectuals who called themselves Las Cachuchas, named after the peaked cloth caps they wore as a sign of subversion against the rigid dress code of the period. One account claims that she mischievously soaped the stairs leading to the auditorium where Rivera was working, hoping to make him slip and fall.

They met again in 1928 while he was working on a fresco for Mexico City’s Ministry of Education building. With paintings tucked under her arm, she demanded Rivera critique her work, telling him, “I have not come to you looking for compliments. I want the criticism of a serious man. I’m neither an art lover nor an amateur. I’m simply a girl who must work for her living.”

It was a May-December romance, as Rivera was about twice her age (as well as 200 pounds heavier). She was 22, he was 43. He had been married twice before. Kahlo once said, “I suffered two grave accidents in my life: one in which a streetcar knocked me down, and the other was Diego.”  

Frida paints Portrait of My Father, 1952, in her studio. Photo by Gisèle Freund

2. A horrific — but strangely beautiful — accident changed the course of her life.

In 1925, an 18-year-old Kahlo was riding a bus home from school with her boyfriend Alex Gómez Arias when it collided with an oncoming electric streetcar. A fellow passenger on the bus had been carrying a bag of gold dust, which was released upon impact and tore, a shower of gold glitter landing on the bloody and broken body of Kahlo — making the macabre moment like something out of a magical realism novel.

When onlookers saw her, they cried, “La bailarina, la bailarina!” mistaking her for a dancer.

The bed-ridden Frida Kahlo painting Portrait of My Family in 1950. Photo by Juan Guzmán

The near-fatal accident left Kahlo bedridden for months and enduring lifelong complications that would fuel her intensely personal artwork, turning her deepest feelings and darkest moments into art.

What a deer! Frida With Granzino, Version 2 by Nickolas Muray, 1939

3. Kahlo wasn’t able to have children, so she filled the void with exotic pets.

Kahlo was a great lover of animals and had an exotic menagerie at La Casa Azul. In many of her self-portraits she is accompanied by her favorite animals, including a pair of mischievous spider monkeys named Fulang Chung and Caimito de Guayabal. She also had Bonito, an Amazon parrot, who would perform tricks at the table for rewards of pats of butter, an eagle named Gertrudis Caca Blanca (Gertrude White Shit), hairless Xoloitzcuintli dogs and a fawn called Granzino.

These animals appeared in her work, including Self-Portrait With Monkey and The Wounded Deer, her face placed atop a deer’s body, probably Granzino’s, complete with antlers, running through a forest as nine arrows pierce its body.

Frida’s love of animals is evident in her Self-Portrait With Small Monkey from 1945

Despite wanting to have offspring, Kahlo was unable to bear children and suffered miscarriages and medical abortions. Her inability to give birth became a source of trauma, and she said that her pets symbolized the children she never could have.

Many of Frida’s paintings were self-portraits, like Autorretrato from 1948

4. She’d most likely beat you in a staring contest.

Kahlo was her own most popular muse. Fifty-five of her 143 paintings are self-portraits, which is perhaps understandable when thinking about how much time she spent on her own while coping with a variety of chronic health issues. Her conjoined brows, plaited hair and watchful eyes fiercely demand that the viewer meet her gaze. And her defiant, upright posture was as much due to the immobilizing plaster corsets she was forced to wear to support her spinal column as it was her confidence.

Kahlo’s use of the intimate self-portrait often reflected her turbulent life and was a visual means to communicate her physical and psychological wounds.

Let’s take some time to reflect upon what an amazing woman Frida Kahlo was. Photo by Lola Álvarez Bravo

5. She was her own brand ambassador.

Our sense of self is largely dependent on where we were born, where our family’s from and the people we choose to surround ourselves with. This was especially true for Kahlo with her distinctive sartorial style inspired by the traditional dress of the Tehuana, the independent and proud indigenous matriarchal Zapotec society in the state of Oaxaca. Kahlo’s mother was born in Oaxaca to an indigenous father and a mother of Spanish descent.

Her attire helped her craft an imaginative, colorful identity and typically included flamboyant rings adorning her fingers, a traditional square-cut blouse, the huipil, and a long wrap-around skirt, which allowed her to mask and distract from her physical injuries.

One can only imagine the sensation of Kahlo’s striking and exotic appearance when she arrived in the United States with Rivera. Her rejection of conventional fashion was unlike anything the people of San Francisco, Detroit or New York had ever seen. On a walk in NYC, a flock of children asked Kahlo, “Where’s the circus?” but she simply smiled graciously and continued walking.

The controversial The Suicide of Dorothy Hale by Frida Kahlo, 1939

6. She pushed boundaries and buttons.

Sometime in 1938, Kahlo was commissioned by Clare Boothe Luce, the writer of the all-female Broadway play The Women and a former managing editor of Vanity Fair magazine, to paint a recuerdo, a remembrance portrait of their mutual New York socialite friend and aspiring actress Dorothy Hale, who had recently taken her own life.

Luce presumed Kahlo would paint a conventional portrait of Hale. However, Kahlo wasn’t a fan of what she considered to be the bourgeois capitalist social scene of New York City and had a more cerebral vision in mind — to create a graphic retablo detailing Hale’s moment of death.

In the center of the painting, the building where Hale lived is depicted with its many small windows rising up behind a layer of feathery clouds. A tiny figure plummets from an upper window. In the middle ground is a larger falling figure, clearly Hale, her arms extended and her skirt billowing around her knees. Resting on the pavement in the foreground is the deceased Hale in the black velvet dress and yellow corsage she wore, her dead eyes frozen open and staring at the viewer. As if that wasn’t enough, the inscription literally bleeds into the bottom of the frame and reads, “In the city of New York on the 21st day of the month of October, 1938, at 6 o’clock in the morning, Mrs. Dorothy Hale committed suicide by throwing herself out of a very high window of the Hampshire House building. In her memory, this portrait was executed by Frida Kahlo.”

When Luce received the painting, she seriously considered destroying it, but was persuaded by friends to desist. The arresting and controversial work remained in storage for decades before being donated “anonymously” to the Phoenix Art Museum in 1960.

7. She arrived at her first solo exhibition in Mexico in an ambulance.

Kahlo’s first major solo exhibition was held at the Julien Levy Gallery in 1938 in New York City, and one year later, her works were part of a collective exhibition entitled Mexique, shown at the Galerie Renou et Colle in Paris. The French surrealist André Breton described her art as “a ribbon around a bomb.”

Due to declining health during her final years, Kahlo rarely ventured outside of the Blue House, and had to use a wheelchair and crutches to get around. In April 1953, her first solo exhibition in Mexico opened at the Galería de Arte Contemporáneo. At the time, Kahlo was on bed rest under doctor’s orders and not expected to attend. However, she made sure to be there, arriving by ambulance to a mystified crowd, ordering that her four-poster bed be moved into the gallery. She was brought in on a stretcher to the bed, where she was able to enjoy the event.

8. She made a most memorable exit from life.

Kahlo was transported to the crematorium at the Panteón Civil de Dolores, and her body was lifted out of the coffin and laid in a cart that would carry her along iron tracks to the cemetery. So desperate were people to have a memento of Kahlo that onlookers pulled at the rings on her fingers even as her body moved toward the crematorium fire. Witnesses who were in the small chamber containing the furnace claimed that a sudden blast of heat from the open incinerator doors caused Kahlo’s corpse to sit bolt upright, and when the flames ignited her hair, forming an aura around her face, her lips appeared to part in a grin just before the doors closed shut.

What the Water Gave Me by Frida Kahlo, 1938

9. She was underappreciated as an artist in her lifetime.

Kahlo’s work was largely overshadowed by that of her husband during her lifetime. This was partly because the complexity of her art was difficult for an international audience to categorize. Kahlo’s most famous works, her autorretratos, or self-portraits, combine elements of realism, surrealism and indigenous Mexican symbolism.

Breton, an original member of the Dada group and the founder of the Surrealist movement in 1924, visited Kahlo in Mexico in 1938 while she was working on Lo Que el Agua Me Dio (What the Water Gave Me). Breton was transfixed by it, calling Kahlo a “natural surrealist.” Kahlo rejected the label and replied, “I never painted dreams. I paint my own reality.”

When Kahlo died at the early age of 47 in 1954, Rivera begged his friend and patroness of the arts, Dolores Olmedo to purchase 25 of Kahlo’s paintings for a mere $1,600. He wanted to make sure that an important part of his wife’s work remained in Mexico. –Duke

“A sudden blast of heat from the incinerator caused Frida’s corpse to sit bolt upright. Flames ignited her hair, forming an aura around her face, and her lips parted into a grin just before the doors closed shut. ”

The Fantastical Woodcut Illustrations of Pau Masiques

A Q&A with the Monterrey, Mexico-based artist, who designs everything from children’s books, comics, posters and chocolate wrappers.

Bubble by Pau Masiques

The Ignacia Guest House is filled with wonderful art, objects and books on architecture. After Wally and I were given a tour, I walked up to one of the framed woodcuts with a depiction of the former beloved housekeeper Ignacia, for whom the boutique hotel is named, to jot down the artist’s name, which was signed in graphite in the lower right corner: Pau Masiques.

We loved how he captured the essence of this well-loved woman at two stages of her life. So I decided to reach out to Masiques to learn more about his process and inspirations.

“Drawing is like being involved in a great debate in which your work participates in a shared dialogue with that of other creators. ”

— Pau Masiques

Blindada

Masiques combines technology with tradition, transforming woodblocks into mesmerizing artwork. Whether it’s a woman wearing a city as a crown, her head encircled by an endless line of cars emitting fumes, or a squatting Hercules wearing the hide of the Nemean lion, with Medusa and Minotaur perched upon the bent barbell gripped between his teeth, Masiques pulls us into the illustration and the story it tells. His works evoke the warped whimsy of fairy tales and folklore, so of course we were drawn to him. –Duke

Hèrcules

You created custom artwork for the Ignacia Guest House. Did the owners approach you, and how did you come up with the concept?

I heard about the commission from a friend and found it to be a very appealing proposal.

Recibí el encargo por parte de un amigo, me habló del proyecto y me pareció muy atractiva la propuesta.

When did you realize you were artistically inclined?

I’ve always liked to draw. I don’t remember exactly when this began, but I guess it was when I was very young, like all children — at that age we all have the creative potential to become artists.

Something that’s been with me from an early age is my love of comics. I think that’s what fueled my interest in drawing, in literature and a general curiosity about the world around me.

Siempre me ha gustado dibujar, no recuerdo cuando empecé, supongo que muy temprano como todos los niños, a esa edad todos tenemos un gran potencial como artistas plásticos.

Lo que me ha acompañado siempre, desde muy pequeño, es mi afición a leer cómics y eso creo que fue lo que alimentó mi interés por el dibujo, por la literatura y la curiosidad en general por el mundo que me rodea.

La sel·lecció natural campiona mundial

How did your career as an illustrator begin?

I took some comic and drawing courses during my childhood and early adolescence, but I wasn’t a very disciplined student at the time. Without putting in effort, your talent doesn't improve.

It wasn’t until later, while pursuing an illustration degree at the Escola Massana in Barcelona that the idea of becoming a professional illustrator occured to me. My connection to my professors, who had rich, creative careers in illustration, excited me and encouraged my dedication to that profession.

En mi niñez y adolescencia tomé algunos cursos de dibujo y cómic pero no era un alumno muy disciplinado en aquel momento, y sin esfuerzo las cosas no salen.

No fue hasta que empecé más tarde en la especialidad de ilustración de la Escola Massana de Barcelona que la idea de dedicarme profesionalmente a la ilustración me pareció posible. El contacto con maestros que tenían una rica vida profesional me animó y estimuló a dedicarme a la ilustración.

Ánimas

Tell us about your process. What materials and tools do you use?

I always carry a couple of notebooks with me. I use them to collect my ideas, whatever they may be: ideas that arise from an ephemeral need of their own or those of a commision. These sketches are the foundation, which I continue to elaborate using digital image processing software. Even when they’re made into a woodcut, the image I’m going to carve into the wood has been refined and retouched using a computer. The end result is closer to what I have on screen. However, there are elements that are impossible to reproduce using this technology that engraving offers. There’s a special vibration in the stroke and line when using a hand tool. Accidents that are the result of chance, which only occur by working directly with the materials, bring much more depth and strength to the end result.

Suelo llevar siempre conmigo un par de cuadernos, los uso para verter ahí mis ideas, sean cuales sean: ideas que surgen a partir de una necesidad expresiva propia o las de un encargo profesional. Esos bocetos son el origen, luego sigo elaborando mucho más el dibujo usando un software de tratamiento de imágenes. Incluso cuando realizo una xilografía, la imagen que voy a tallar en la madera la he revisado y retocado en la computadora, así me aseguro que el resultado final es más próximo al que tengo en pantalla, en el aspecto compositivo sobretodo, sin embargo hay cosas imposibles de reproducir con los medios que ofrece la computadora y que sí ofrece el grabado, hay una especial vibración en el trazo y unos accidentes fruto del azar, que solo trabajando directamente en la materia surgen y que aporta mucha más riqueza y fuerza al resultado final.

Woodcut illustrations influenced by lotería cards

What are your influences? What inspires you?

The woodcuts of Frans Masereel, the work of José-Guadalupe Posada, Manuel Manilla and engravings in general are my most immediate references. The early works of Joan Miró — the painting The Farm for example — means a lot to me because of its closeness to my life. In that image, he represented a world very familiar to me.

I admire any form of expression, however rough, that seems to have a compelling narrative. I’m interested in so-called outsider art, such as the work of Bill Traylor. Through his ingenuity, he was able to reveal his world to us and describe it with enormous beauty and simplicity.

I’m interested in many artists, but perhaps what inspires me most is simplicity and expression, rather than technical skill. For example, while doing research for a recent project, I discovered the work of Jessie Oonark, a brilliant Inuit artist. At the moment, her work is a source of inspiration for me.

Drawing is like being involved in a great debate in which your work participates in a shared dialogue with that of other creators.

Las xilografías de Frans Masereel, la obra de Posadas, la de Manilla y el grabado popular en general son quizá mis referentes más inmediatos. La primera etapa de la obra de Joan Miró también, la pintura La Masía por ejemplo, me conmueve mucho por su cercanía, por representar y condensar en esa imagen un mundo que me es muy familiar.

Admiro cualquier forma de expresión que por tosca que parezca tenga una especial pulsión narrativa, me interesa mucho también el llamado arte “marginal”, como por ejemplo la obra de Bill Traylor, que con su aparente ingenuidad es capaz de desvelarnos su mundo y describirlo con enorme belleza y sencillez.

Me interesan muchísimos artistas, lo que más me inspira es quizá la simplicidad y la fuerza expresiva, más que un supuesto virtuosismo. Hace poco por ejemplo, descubrí a partir de la búsqueda de documentación para un trabajo, la obra de Jessie Oonark, una genial artista inuit, en estos momentos su trabajo es para mi una fuente de inspiración.

Dibujar es como estar metido en un gran debate, en el que tu trabajo dialoga con el de otros creadores.

A page from a comic about black musicians who have died under mysterious circumstances

Do you listen to music when you work?

I usually combine moments of silence with listening to music or radio programs, depending on the degree of concentration needed at that moment.

Suelo combinar momentos de silencio, con otros de música y de escucha de programas de radio. Depende del grado de concentración que necesite en cada momento.

Masiques’ whimsical work has appeared on a line of chocolate bars

Is there a favorite project you’ve worked on?

In general, I’m pretty excited about each commission I receive. I’ve illustrated wrappers for chocolate bars, books, press articles, and posters for concerts and theater workshops. I’ve collaborated in fanzines and I’ve also done solo exhibits of my engravings and sculptures. My favorite thing might be sculpture. It’s something I haven’t done in awhile. I’d say that wood carving and constructing objects are a couple of my favorite practices. I don’t do them as often as I would like — maybe that’s why I choose them as a favorite.

En general suelo ilusionarme con casi todos los encargos que recibo. He ilustrado envolturas para chocolates, libros, artículos de prensa, he realizado posters para conciertos y talleres de teatro, he colaborado en fanzines, también he exhibido mis grabados y esculturas en algunas exposiciones, pero quizá una de mis prácticas favoritas es la de la escultura, y es algo que hace mucho que no hago, podría decir que tallar madera y construir objetos es una de mis prácticas favoritas, y que no realizó tan a menudo como quisiera, quizá por eso la escojo como favorita.

What’s one of your favorite places in Mexico City?

I’ve lived in the north part of the country, in Monterrey, Nuevo León, for about nine years, but I love going to Mexico City, and there are many places that I like. But one place I don’t mind returning to again and again is the National Museum of Anthropology.

Vivo en el norte del país, en Monterrey (Nuevo León) desde hace cerca de nueve años, pero me encanta ir a la Ciudad de México y hay muchos lugares que me gustan, pero un lugar emblemático al que no me importa regresar una y otra vez es el Museo Nacional de Antropología.