By Natalie Taylor
In Mexico, the beginning of November brings the Day of the Dead—Dia de los Muertos, and with it, all the images related to death. This celebration is another example of the mingling of ancient pre-Hispanic traditions, and the conquering, Spanish culture.
All cultures in all times and places have personified death in one form or another. In Western art, the most familiar is the Grim Reaper, holding a scythe to harvest souls. That image drew upon earlier Greek mythology of the boatman bringing souls to the underworld. Another iconic image symbolizing death, is a skull which has been used in the arts in different parts of the world. A skull, or skulls, seem to appeal to artists’ esthetics because of the symmetry of bones; the obvious association with death is both repelling and compelling. Skulls were used as a symbol of mortality, often being part of still life paintings. Sometimes a painter might paint a skull within someone’s portrait, perhaps lurking in the background. Or it might even replace the model’s head itself, as in Rogier van der Weyden’s 1452 painting of the Braque Family. Skull images even appeared in jewelry in the Middle Ages in Europe; wealthy patrons wore medallions engraved with faces on one side, and skulls on the other. In all these representations of skulls and bones, there is an underlying feeling of doom, and a reminder of one’s mortality.
However, there is a different feel in Mexico’s use of skulls and skeletons during Dia de los Muertos. One of the iconic images is that of the Catrina, the skeletal lady dressed in rich garbs. The English equivalent of catrin would be a fop, or a dandy—a man excessively concerned with clothing and appearance. In modern lingo, a catrina, the female equivalent, would probably be called a fashionista. And indeed, another name for a catrina is “the elegant lady.”
The evolution of Catrina is very interesting, and the way she is shown at present is a rather recent development. According to many sources, the basis for the catrina is the Aztec deity Mictecacihuatl, the goddess of death who gathers and keeps the bones of the dead. However, in America, the Aztec goddess was most likely influenced by European plays called Danse Macabre—macabre dance, which also depicted death as a skeleton performing on stage. Thus, the mingling of European and Aztec traditions resulted in the skeleton dressed up in finery. It was Jose Guadalupe Posada, a graphic artist born in 1852, who created the current image, which first appeared in 1873 as an etching on metal. For Posada it was a satirical image, poking fun at those who put on airs. Then, eight decades later, Diego Rivera painted a colorful Catrina, refined the image, and made it popular in the late 1940s.
During Day of the Dead there are innumerable depictions of catrinas—in private homes, in businesses, and indeed there are many “living catrinas” as people dress up and have makeup applied to resemble these skeletal fashionistas. But (as far as I know) there are no permanent depictions of catrinas in any of our city’s murals, sculptures, or paintings in any of the historical or public buildings. Mexico City, on the other hand, has Diego Rivera’s major mural titled Dream of a Sunday Afternoon in Alameda Park since 1947. The central figure of this gigantic mural is a stately Catrina holding the arm of Jose Guadalupe Posada, the artist who first imagined and drew her. To her right is Diego Rivera himself, holding her hand, and Frida Kahlo stands behind Diego. Unfortunately, in San Miguel we do not have an enduring mural such as this. I could envision one incorporating so many of the famous historical characters related to our city—Allende, Ignacio Ramirez (el Nigromante), the Pipila, and others.
We do have a different piece of art that deals with death, and beyond. In the church of San Francisco, on the left side, near the entrance a small sculpture depicts hell and its suffering souls. It’s a small work, dwarfed by the numerous large sculptures of saints. But the flames of hell in the sculpture are brilliantly red, and the individuals within look fittingly distressed. Unlike a Catrina, this reminder of mortality is all Sturm und Drang—grim and humorless. Perhaps a fine San Miguel artist will eventually be given the task of creating a public work of art; a colorful, joyful Catrina!
Natalie Taylor: BA in English Lit and Journalism, Loyola University, Chicago, 1995. MFA in Creative Writing, Vermont College, Montpelier, VT, 1999. Published writer, editor, journalist. Spanish teacher in the US, English teacher in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Translator. www.natalietaylor.org Contact: tangonata@gmail.com
