Mexican Political Art: Not Always a Pretty Picture

After being pleasantly surprised by the Vlisco fashion exhibit at the Perelman Building last Sunday, Jay and I went to the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

We had the unexpected pleasure of attending the member’s preview of Paint the Revolution: Mexican Modernism, 1910–1950. It is a major show with its powerful imagery, and insightful presentation of Mexican political art and the role it played after the resolution in shaping the nation’s vision.

For the most part, we felt Paint the Revolution was a visual and conceptual counterpoint to the vibrant, celebratory world of fashion we just left – although the brochure featuring Frida Kahlo in her pretty pink dress might have you thinking otherwise.

The show is divided into several sections, starting with Modernism and Mexicanidad (Mexican identity). The first few rooms display the  modern Mexican art scene before the Mexican Revolution (1910 – 1920), both historically and artistically.

During this period, President Diaz, longtime Mexican leader, was forced out. The situation resembled what we see today with autocratic leaders who forcibly keep peace and stability while enriching their own pockets at the expense of the people. Eventually the people rebel. This pastoral painting by David Alfaro Siqueiros depicts life as usual, without acknowledging the turmoil that was going on in Mexico.

To my surprise, a large number of early Diego Rivera paintings also kicked off this show, which made this blogger happy.  You could follow Rivera’s early development and see how he and his contemporaries were heavily influenced by European art. Specifically, Rivera was inspired by Cézanne and the Post-Impressionists, as well as Picasso, Braque and Gris and Cubism, while living in Paris.

Here’s a traditional self-portrait of a young, willowy Frida Kahlo, who later married Diego Rivera in 1929.

Contrast this larger, straightforward Kahlo composition to the intimate version of Frida below in her pink dress set against a complex background full of symbols fraught with meaning in the Paint the Revolution section (1921-1926). Here she is caught between two worlds, her agricultural and spiritual homeland on the left, and the industrial revolution on her right. Where do you think her heart is?

In the rest of the Paint the Revolution (1921-1926) section, I was surprised to discover more lyrical work by Adolpho Best Mauguard, a renown artist and art historian (unknown to me!) who developed a national art education program for primary schools that was government sponsored.

Best Mauguard’s work combines some of the abstraction of the European painters with the ancient Pre-Columbian and modern Mexican motifs that he included in the curriculum. There is a lightness, playful, fantasy quality to this work that belies the fact a Mexican Revolution occurred, ultimately leading to a withdrawal of government support.

The show shifts to more weighty subjects that offer a political and a social commentary on the bloody civil war. Here is Sequieros’ Zapata, the leader and hero of the peasant revolution again the landowners (quite a contrast his early pastoral work!) and the peasant solders themselves (by another artist whose name I can’t decipher on the wall plaque – can you?).

We see a dramatic shift in the work of Diego Rivera both in subject and style, almost a proclamation of Mexican nationalism represented by these two reduced size frescos painted for a 1931 MOMA show. The work is darker in tone and manner, befitting revolutionary art with a message to tell.

In 1920, after the most brutal fighting of the civil war tapered down, the new government, spearheaded by former revolutionary general Alvaro Obregan, started rebuilding the nation and put Jose Vasconcelos in charge of a new Ministry of Public Education. For the first time, the visual arts played a prominent role in national reconstruction.  The government sponsored a monumental mural painting initiative for public buildings that essentially declared fresco it’s national art form in order to institutionalize the Mexican revolution.

Vasconcelos put together a network of painters to accomplish this. The Big 3 Muralists – Rivera, Orozco, and Sequieros – emerged as representatives of  Mexican mural art during this period, and each with their own digital installation, and one interactive station.

One of the strengths of the Paint the Revolution: Mexican Modernism, 1910–1950 installation lies in its life size digitized virtual tours of major mural frescos in situ which were scattered through the exhibition.  We see the genesis of a huge public art project depicting the struggles of the people, the history and ideals of the insurgency.

In 1921, Rivera returned from Europe to Mexico after a stint in Italy studying fresco painting to participate in the government sponsored mural program.

The first installation we see is Rivera’s Ballad of the Agricultural Revolution and Ballad of the Proleriet Revolution from the late 1920s. Over 17,000 square feet of murals and decorations for the headquarters of the Ministry of Public Education in Mexico City scroll by us.  It was fascinating to watch the iant video projection (sorry for not taking a video and compressing it for you) showing the progression throughout the rooms that I’ll probably never see in person.

Next we see The Epic of American Civilizations by Jose Clemente Orozco, 1932-34, installed in the reserve reading room at Darmouth College. This installation is a highlight of the Paint The USA section of this exhibit (1927-1932), incorporating the imagery of both countries. During this period, Mexican muralists were strongly supported in this country for their social consciousness and innovative artistic achievements, and were drawn to the north for major public art commissions.

The third major installation, Portrait of the Borgeoise by Sequieros and his team, represents the most depressing section in this show, In Times of War.  But then how can war be anything but depressing?

The Mexican’s Electrician Syndicate in Mexico City commissioned Sequieros to decorate their new building in 1939. He chose the stairway, an unconventional choice, because it offered 1,000 square feet and provided the opportunity to develop a narrative that would unfold as people walked through the space.  To the credit of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, this unusual mural is represented by an equally unusual presentation going up 2 stories.

Here’s a detail of the piles of bourgeoise money that greeted you at the top of the stairs.

The galleries in this section were filled with dark paintings, and newspaper journals about fascism, among other things. While war is an important reality of the Mexican revolution, I must admit to skipping over these less visually appealing sections.

Around the mid-1930s,  many Mexican artists opted for a rather raw and combative style, going for strength and force over poetry. After a quick walkthrough, Jay turned to me and asked, “You don’t actually like this stuff, do you?”

But I do – just not all of it. I’ve been a Diego Rivera fan since I was a little kid in Detroit, growing up with the great fresco cycle, Detroit Industry Murals, at the Detroit Institute of Art (DIA). You just have to cherry pick what you like out of this show, which is what I’ve done with this blog.

And so I am ending with somewhat lighter post-revolutionary paintings in the last few galleries (1930s on), that provide a welcome respite from the weight and darkness of all this ideological art.

While the curators were smart to leave us with an more upbeat feeling, our net impression is not one of a pretty picture show, like the 2015 Impressionism exhibit that occupied this same space. This is a substantial show of issues. In my opinion, the recent New York Times review Two Sides of Revolution: Muscular and Elegant may overstate the case for elegance.

It’s worth the trip to explore the artistic heritage of a people we share a continent with. I walked away with a better appreciation of the relatively recent political and artistic struggles of a country so often in the news these days.