In passing...Gretchen Ney Laugier 

  

It was
 the early 90s                                                              

"On French Beaches Women are Topless"GNL 92

Life was

An adventure.

Three thousand mile

 away.

How curious
to find someone
from my own backyard
here.

At the front desk
of the hotel
in Oaxaca
The Philadelphia Inquirer
was her calling card.
“Hello”,she said,”I’m Gretchen. I’m a 55 year old single grandmother.”

Born and raised
in New Hope
an artist father
a loving mother
Gretchen was                                               
a force of nature.

We forged a friendship

"Zapatista Women" GNL 99

Together                                                      

We explored

Bowman's Tower/taken by my son at age 5

Margaritas
in the zocalo.
Ancient ruins
with steep stone steps.
The dangers of
siesta time
wandering
in The Cerro del Fortin
Snow white hair
Laughing blue eyes
Gretchen
wanted to
free Tibet
stop all wars
and ride off
into the sunset
with Subcomandante  Marcos
She was
an artist
an activist
a mentor

If I complained
about someone
She said,”Karen,you know what Buddhists say?People like that are put in our path to teach us patience.”
pause
“Oh those damn Buddhists.”

My son came along
and every visit
was an adventure
Meeting                                                                         
 in the middle                                                          
of a bridge
on a blustery March day                    
Driving
winding back roads
to see
praying mantis
and hang gliding planes                                                    
Visiting the Nakashimas                                       
when the dogwood
 bloomed.

Gretchen 

once told me
at age 18
she moved to Paris                      
and worked
weaving
with
 Isadora Duncan’s brother.

Gretchen was adventure.
She lived life
on her terms.

In the
the end
she wrote
her own obituary.

I think
of her                                              

Shawl design by Raymond Duncan

often.

The other day,
I wandered through
an exhibition
“Chic Shawls of the Early Twentieth Century”
In passing
I noticed
a shawl
with
a motif
of
Greek mythology
Designed in Paris
by
Raymond Duncan
Brother of Isadora Duncan

And I knew
Gretchen
was
there.

Woven Dreams

crafty/part 3

photo:Joyce Snyder

 
I once lived in Oaxaca,Mexico.
I worked,
had a cafe,
 gave birth to my son there.
Oaxaca is my heart.

I have a profound love of textiles.
I have a profound love of Oaxaca.
Just by chance, Oaxaca is known not only for it’s textiles
but for it’s methods of weaving and use of natural dyes.

In 2007,I was awarded a teaching sabbatical.
A chance
 to fulfill a dream.

Through “Oaxaca Cultural Navigator”,
I was able to create a personalized workshop in Teotitlan del Valle,the traditional weaving village 31 km outside of Oaxaca.
My teacher, Federico Chavez Santiago, is a fourth generation weaver.
My workshop was called “Dancing on the Loom”
It included not only weaving
but dyeing wool with indigo (plant) and cochineal (paddle cactus bug)

Federico and his family
from his wife to three children
are all exceptional artisan weavers.
Zapoteca is their first language,
Spanish second
then English.
His eldest son,Eric,works in education in the Museo de Textiles in Oaxaca.
Federico and Eric have documented over 90 color formulas
ranging from blush
 to crimson
to aubergine
using cochineal.

Federico wanted to know the story of my rug.
”You will dream about it” he said.
And he was right.
After carefully choosing wools dyed with only natural substances,
my story emerged in a dream.
My rug became
the story of the creation of the Earth.
The molten lava core
rising to meet
the land,
sea,
sky.
Reaching up
to the red gates of the Heavens.
I learned to hand roll and knot the fringe.

Federico has a gallery
of his family’s rugs for sale.
I wanted a souvenir,a reminder
 of his work
and my time there.
I chose a soft grey and cream rug of natural undyed wool.
Woven in the Oaxaca key pattern from the archeological site of Mitla (City of the Dead) ,
the graphic nature of this rug works beautifully
with my midcentury modern home.

Federico’s rug is a beautiful reminder of my time 

“Dancing on the Loom” 

and the place of my heart.

The Ubiquitous Bag of Oaxaca

crafty part 2

photo: Joyce Snyder

It started nearly three decades ago.
My love affair with Oaxaca,Mexico.
Holidays.
Sporadic visits.
Long term commitments.
I taught,
gave birth to my son,
owned a cafe 
and lived there.
From my first visit 
I noticed the ubiquitous shopping bags.
Sold on the streets,
in the mercados.
Various sizes,shapes,colors,textures.
Swinging from the arm,
a bridge between two girls,balanced on a woman’s head.
Vibrant containers for precious cargo:warm tortillas,tamales encased in corn husks,fruits,produce,plucked chickens.

Out of necessity I bought the black and white bag in the Sunday mercado of Tlacolula. 30km outside of the heart of Oaxaca .
I needed something to carry my produce home that day on the bus.
That was over twenty years ago.

The small gold trimmed bag was a gift.
Though meant for little girls,
 it was perfect to hold  essentials for a night out-keys, a tube of lipstick and enough pesos to taxi back home.
I referred to it as my “Oaxacan Chanel bag.”

My son was born.
Life changed.
I moved back to the States.
We always returned to Oaxaca.
A local folk art gallery had seen the bags and asked if I could purchase some  on my next trip.
I asked my (then) sister-in-laws where I could purchase a dozen bags.
And so began the most unusual shopping trip of my life.

You see, in Oaxaca, people in prison must either pay for,earn or have their meals brought in by friends or family.
Some prisoners learn useful crafts.
In Oaxaca City,a city known for weaving,
some prisoners weave these colorful ,heavy plastic bags 
to make money 
to eat 
(and maybe buy cigarettes,soap,other essentials)

My sister-in -laws worked for the government and made the arrangements.
And so, one clear,sunny July day,
we went to the prison.
We lined up outside with the  families.
 Waiting for midday visitation.

I was taken into a curtained room 
with a woman guard.
Frisked,
purse searched,
passport checked.
I was only allowed to bring pesos with me.

We were taken into “the yard.”
Yes, just like an old black and white film.

Separated by a chain link fence.
The prisoners had been told what I was looking for.
They were prepared.
Bags of every shape,size,color 
were pushed against the fence.
It was a feeding frenzy.
My command of Spanish fled,
in terror.
“Let me help you.Which colors do you like and how much do you want to pay?” Lena,my sister-in-law asked.
She negotiated for me.
We left with several dozen bags.
I kept two for myself.

And so these bags are colorful and useful in so many ways.
They carry my belongings.
They carry my memories.

CRAFTY

photo:Joyce Snyder "Virgin of Guadalupe ":Sebastian Karuza

 My friend,Carise Mitch,is a PR wiz.

She recently asked me 

if I'd like to write a guest blog piece

About craft I've collected

For The Philadelphia Museum of Art Craft Show blog.

I said YES

because I liked the project

I wrote  three pieces

because I'm an overachiever.

I asked my sister to take photos.

She said YES

Because she liked the project.

She took over 100 photos

Because she's an overachiver.

Here's the link 

To the chosen piece.  
(I will be posting the other two pieces)  

 "Huipiles:Pride of Place"

http://pmacraftshow.org/blog/2014-07-23/%E2%80%9Chuipiles-best-craft-i-ever-bought%E2%80%9D-karen-karuza 

ON THIS DAY...1994

Living in an ex-convent
Oaxaca,Mexico
January 1-NAFTA signing
January 1- Zapatista uprising

The Revolution was not being televised.
It was live.

At 9 months pregnant,I was a bit unnerved and asked my friends,”Do you think I should be concerned about this Revolution?”
“No”, they said,”Why?”
Pointing to my belly , I said, "I am nine months pregnant."
“Oh”,they said, "It’s just a little Revolution."

It was a new beginning.
A new journey.
A new life.

20 YEARS AGO TODAY...

VIVA EZLN

A (PREGNANT) CHRISTMAS MEMORY

Christmas memories
Are like the ornaments
That I have hauled around for dozens of years.
Some are fancy
Bright
Shiny.
Others are tarnished
Faded
Fragile.

I take them all out each year.
It can be exhausting.

However,one memory stands alone.
The Christmas I was nine months pregnant
Living in Oaxaca.

The streets were lined with lights and poinsettias.
Flooded with tourists.
And everywhere,
There were  nacimientos (Nativity scenes)
Tiny and life-sized
Simple and elaborate.
Mary and Joseph
Angels and lambs
And empty cribs.
No Baby.
“Where’s the Baby ?”I asked my friends.
“The Baby isn’t born until Christmas”,they said.

With my big belly,
I could have been popped into any Nativity scene.
I looked, as my New York friends said
Like a “Living Noguchi.”
I felt as if filled with helium
And indigestion.
I understood why all those Madonnas in religious paintings
Have their hands placed under their breasts and on their bellies
Looking so pious.
They were actually trying  to push down their indigestion.

In Christmas Eve tradition,
All the churches sent processions to the Cathedral in the zocalo
Little Marys and Josephs
On donkeys
On floats
On foot
Cradling their curly haired Babies.
Guarded by angelitos
With sparklers.

From cane towers
Homemade fireworks
Lit by someone’s cigarette
Whistled into the sky.
Exploding into a bright rain of color.
With each boom,
my baby jumped in my belly.

I feared contractions
And birth.
It is tradition in Mexico
To name your child after the Saint on whom’s Feast Day they are born.
I said to my kicking belly. “Please,baby,not now or I will have to name you Jesus”.
(Frankly,it’s the only time my child ever did what he was told.)

Church bells
Sang out midnight
And the Baby,in every church,in every home,
Was placed in His crib.

I happily waddled home.

NOCHE DE LOS RABANOS/

NIGHT OF THE RADISHES

from "Pictorial Oaxaca"

It is tradition.
Each December 23
They come from the Seven Regions of Oaxaca
In celebration and competition
To carve their radishes.

Early morning stalls are set up
Around the zocalo.
Tourist,local and vendor alike
Gather to watch.

Families work through the day.
From their hands, the giant radishes
Emerge.
Dancing
Praying
Zapotec gods ,Virgens and cathedrals
Tehuanas,iguanas and Frida.
There is no end
To their imagination.

Long lines form in the evening
As the judging begins.
Fireworks sputter,boom
And slice the night.
As bandas play.

After all,it is a fiesta
And life is a fiesta.

In the morning
It will all be gone.
Swept away.
And you think,

"Was it all a dream?"