Mexico: The Cauldron of Modernism

J. Hoberman
December 12, 2016

“Paint the Revolution: Mexican Modernism 1910-1950,” now showing at the

Philadelphia Museum of Art, presents a Mexican response to European art that, at
least up until World War II, was equal to and in some regards stronger than that of
North America.

In 1929, the Surrealist poet Paul Éluard did away

with the United States. In a map of the world
attributed to him that year, the American republic
(except for a giant Alaska) has been subsumed by
Labrador in the north and a sprawling Mexico in
the south.

The image of Mexico as the center of the new

world—and as what André Breton called “the
surrealist country par excellence”—is a take-away
from the exhibition “Paint the Revolution:
Mexican Modernism 1910-1950,” now showing at José Clemente Orozco/Artists Rights Society//SOMAAP, Mexico City

the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Just as Éluard’s José Clemente Orozco: The Epic of American Civilization (detail), 1932–34;
click to enlarge
map can be read as an early polemic against

Eurocentrism, so “Paint the Revolution” presents a Mexican response to European art that, at least up
until World War II, was equal to and in some regards stronger than that of North America.

To a degree, “Paint the Revolution” is the story of the three star muralists, Diego Rivera, David Siqueiros,
and José Clemente Orozco, who along with the posthumously canonized Frida Kahlo, defined the new
Mexican art. (The exhibition borrows from the title, punctuated by exclamation point, of John Dos
Passos’s 1927 New Masses article on the same subject.) But their work is situated among scores of lesser-
known artists who were also responding to the decade-long Mexican revolution that broke out in 1910.
Synthesizing avant-garde with folk art while embodying the tension between new and traditional media,
these men and women engaged the central issues of early-twentieth-century culture.
Siqueiros’s Peasants (circa 1913), a pastel drawing of an idealized peon couple advancing into a cheerful
hazy future, perhaps created before General Victoriano Huerta overthrew Mexico’s first revolutionary
president Francisco Madero, suggests nothing more radical than domesticated Gauguin. The shock of
the new is first felt with Francisco Goitia’s unsettling, James Ensor-like Zacatecas Landscape with Hanged
Men I (circa 1914), a battlefield document painted while the artist served with Pancho Villa who, along
with Emiliano Zapata and Venustiano Carranza, overthrew the Huerta dictatorship.

But a full-on avant-garde sensibility arrives only

with Orozco’s vivid, sketchy paintings of scenes
from a Mexico City brothel, The House of Tears
(1910-1916), shown with several of his
contemporary newspaper cartoons. Orozco
subsequently merged reportage with
expressionism in the 1920s with the tempestuous
monochromatic ink-wash scenes of the civil war
that followed Huerta’s ouster.
Museo Francisco Goitia, INBA, Zacatecas, Mexico

Francisco Goitia: Zacatecas Landscape with Hanged Men I, circa 1914

The connection between Mexican modernists and
mass-produced agit-prop (also reflected in the
elevation, by Orozco and other artists, of the nineteenth-century woodcut artist José Guadalupe Posada
to a mythic forerunner) seems crucial. It finds fullest expression in the great murals first produced on
behalf of the government during the relative calm and revolutionary consolidation of the early 1920s.
These are represented in “Paint the Revolution” by tantalizing, if unavoidably inadequate, digital
projections. Rivera, who received an o"cial post, painted Ballad of the Agrarian Revolution and Ballad of
the Proletarian Revolution for adjacent courtyards in the new Ministry of Education building in Mexico
City.

Included in the Philadelphia show, the two murals show

transfigured workers, frequently in white, engaged in all
manner of production labor as well as celebrations of land
distribution, together with heroic scenes from the revolution,
and the occasional capitalist orgy. A new form of narrative
serial art, they are as exalted (and didactic) in their allegories
as a fifteenth-century church altarpiece. Soon, Mexico would
surpass the Stalinized Soviet Union as the cauldron of
revolutionary art.

More lurid than classical, Orozco’s The Epic of American

Civilization, painted in the early 1930s on the walls of the
Dartmouth College library’s reserve room (and also digitally
represented), describes centuries of despoliation and
oppression of one culture by another, leading up to the
revolutionary destruction of the old order. The e#ect is of a
flaming comic book filled with grotesque caricature, as when
a group of skeletal academics (identified by the artist as “The
Gods of the Modern World”) deliver a still-born child from a
writhing, gutted cadaver; it is as outrageous in its way as the
“wild style” gra"ti’d exterior of a New York City subway car
circa 1980.

Throughout its heyday, Mexican modernism was the realm of

crypto comics. The versatile sometime cartoonist José
Chávez Morado’s painting Troubled Waters (1949) seems to
look back on the heroic period of the great muralists, drawing
on both murals and the Sunday funnies in using a skyscraper
construction site and some free-floating advertising posters
to impose multiple panels over an urban landscape. As a kind
of footnote to the exhibition, the talented, hugely successful
illustrator Miguel Covarrubias is represented by a celebrity-
packed cartoon—a mock mural originally published as a two-
page spread in Vogue magazine, celebrating the Museum of Courtyard of Fiestas/Ministry of Public Education, Mexico City

Modern Art’s 1940 exhibition “Twenty Centuries of Mexican Diego Rivera: The Capitalist’s Dinner, from Ballad
of the Proletarian Revolution, 1928-1929
Art.”

MoMA’s then-president was Nelson Rockefeller, the man who

in 1934 had ordered the destruction of Rivera’s unfinished,
blatantly anti-capitalist Rockefeller Center mural (complete
with portrait of Lenin). Nevertheless, Rivera and the muralists
inspired a fashionable mexicanidad. (Among other attractions,
Orozco was on hand during the 1940 MoMA show to paint a
mural before an audience of museum visitors, a precursor of
Marina Abramović’s performance in “The Artist is Present.”)
By presenting contemporary art in the context of pre-
Columbian artifacts, “Twenty Centuries” also celebrated a
second tendency, characterized in the superb “Paint the
Revolution” catalog as “Indianizing Mexico.”

Mexican artists had no need to seek a primitive tradition in Banco de México Diego Rivera Frida Kahlo Museums Trust,
the South Seas or equatorial Africa. Rather, they were free— Mexico/Artists Rights Society

Diego Rivera: Dance in Tehuantepec, 1928

or even obliged—to partake in a living primitivism. No one
handled this “indianized” material better than Rivera, as in
his stately, perfectly balanced Dance in Tehuantepec, a large canvas from 1928, which shows a row of
barefoot Indian women in deep pink skirts facing their impassive male partners under an arch of green
bananas; or more stylishly than Alfredo Ramos Martínez who, having relocated to Southern California,
made many of his symmetrical portraits of peons on repurposed pages of The Los Angeles Times.

“Paint the Revolution” is filled with work elaborating on

indigenous crafts, notably by the painters Rufino Tamayo and
María Izquierdo—an artist who would be championed by
Antonin Artaud, an early Surrealist visitor to Mexico—and
the wood carver Mardonio Magaña. Another group, including
Chávez Morado and the magic realist Antonio Ruíz, focused
on urban folk forms like carnivals, parades, and street
performers.

Adolfo Best Maugard worked in a more international

primitivist style; his flat, patterned, Orientalist canvases bring
him close to a third tendency, namely that of a transplanted
European avant-garde. Rivera assimilated Cubism during his
years in Paris but swerved back to more classical forms of
representation. Local variants on Italian Futurism included
Banco de México Diego Rivera & Frida Kahlo Museums Trust,
the proponents of Estridentismo (Stridentism) and an Mexico/Artists Rights Society

unnamed group, including Juan O’Gorman, who painted Frida Kahlo: Self-Portrait in Velvet, 1926

industrial landscapes.

Most prominent were the quasi surrealists. The best known is Frida Kahlo (who repudiated the label
“surrealist”), introduced with her smoldering Self-Portrait in Velvet (1926) as the equal to any long-
necked Weimar flapper and represented by a number of jewel-like, symbol-laden canvases. Others
include the credible abstractionist Carlos Mérida and the protean Agustín Lazo Adalid, who made a
number of pieces in the tradition of Max Ernst’s collage novel Une Semaine De Bonté. Rivera too knocked
o# some surrealist work, notably The Communicating Vessels (Homage to André Breton) of 1938, a linocut
so trippy in its biomorphism it could have been featured thirty years later in Zap Comix.

Rivera was a great twentieth-century painter. Siqueiros—subject of a 1921 proto-surrealist self-portrait

that e#aces his eyes—was more force of nature. A political organizer, who served time in prison and
fought for Spanish Republic, Siqueiros is represented in Philadelphia by an assortment of woodcuts and
lithographs made for various militant pamphlets, including the Communist broadsheet El Machete. (The
best title belongs to another El Machete artist, Xavier Guerrero: Bats and Mummies Intend to Impede the
Development of Revolutionary Painting.)

During the mid-1930s, when Siqueiros

administered an experimental painting workshop
in New York (to a group of students that included
Jackson Pollock), his canvases grew increasingly
dark. Brooding near-abstractions, The End of the
World and Collective Suicide, were painted in 1936
—the same year Artaud visited Mexico. Siqueiros
began experimenting with synthetic pyroxylin
paint to produce some figure studies so
unabashedly ugly they might have been painted
on black velvet. The Birth of Fascism was begun in
1936 and finished after he returned from Spain.

Shortly before World War II broke out, Siqueiros

and his colleagues began work on Portrait of the
Bourgeoisie, an astounding two-story painting in
the stairwell of the Mexican Electrians’ Syndicate Harvard Museums, Cambridge

building. A majestic transmission tower looms David Siqueiros: The End of the World, 1936

over a visual cacophony of burning buildings, gas-

masked plutocrats, revolutionary fighters, and a
Moloch-like furnace converting the blood of the workers into coins: industrialism run amok! Garish,
dizzying, and lysergic (even in digital projection), it seems a precursor of Jack Kirby’s muscular comic
book art or even Je# Koons’s monumentalized kitsch.

A few weeks after “Twenty Centuries of Mexican

Art” opened at MoMA, Siqueiros staged a rival
performance piece—storming Leon Trotsky’s villa
in Mexico City’s Coyoacán suburb. He went into
hiding, leaving the Spanish refugee and maker of
photomontage Josep Renau to complete the
mural.

“The consciousness of Mexico today is a chaos in

which the new forces of an entire world are
seething,” Artaud wrote in 1936. As Siqueiros’s
vertiginous Portrait suggests, sometimes these
social and political upheavals seemed to
overpower the art. But in another sense they were
the art.
Mexican Electricians' Syndicate, Mexico City

David Siqueiros and team: Portrait of the Bourgeoisie (detail, ceiling), 1939-
1940

“Paint the Revolution: Mexican Modernism, 1910-1950” is at the Philadelphia Museum of Art
through January 8.
J. Hoberman
J. Hoberman’s most recent book is Make My Day: Movie Culture in the Age of Reagan. (January 2021)

© 1963-2021 NYREV, Inc. All rights reserved.

2/26/2021 How Mexico’s Muralists Lit a Fire Under U.S. Artists - The New York Times

CRITICʼS PICK

How Mexicoʼs Muralists Lit a Fire Under U.S. Artists

A stupendous show at the Whitney Museum explores the profound impact of Mexican painters — the meeting and
mingling that enriched American culture.

By Holland Cotter

Published Feb. 20, 2020 Updated Sept. 17, 2020

From floated proposal to finished product, “Vida Americana: Mexican Muralists Remake American Art, 1925-1945”
at the Whitney Museum of American Art represents a decade of hard thought and labor, and the effort has paid off.
The show is stupendous, and complicated, and lands right on time. Just by existing it accomplishes three vital things.
It reshapes a stretch of art history to give credit where credit is due. It suggests that the Whitney is, at last, en route
to fully embracing “American Art.” And it offers yet another argument for why the build-the-wall mania that has
obsessed this country for the past three-plus years just has to go. Judging by the story told here, we should be
actively inviting our southern neighbor northward to enrich our cultural soil.

That story, a hemispheric one, begins in Mexico in the 1920s. After 10 years of civil war and revolution, that country’s
new constitutional government turned to art to invent and broadcast a unifying national self-image, one that
emphasized both its deep roots in indigenous, pre-Hispanic culture and the heroisms of its recent revolutionary
struggles.

The chosen medium for the message was mural painting — monumental, accessible, anti-elitist, in the public
domain. And three very differently gifted practitioners quickly came to dominate the field: Diego Rivera, José
Clemente Orozco and David Alfaro Siqueiros: “Los Tres Grandes” — “the three great ones” — as they came to be
known among admirers.

Many of those admirers were artists in the United States. Some had heard word of a lush, affordable, artist-honoring
tropical utopia, and traveled south to experience it for themselves. Others, alert to social inequities rampant under
United States capitalism — to be laid bare by the Great Depression — wanted to make art a tool for social change
and took the Mexican revolutionary experiment as a model.

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Left, Everett Gee Jackson’s “Women With Cactus,” 1928; right, María Izquierdo’s “My Nieces,” 1940.  Artists Rights Society (ARS), New
York/SOMAAP, Mexico City; Emiliano Granado for The New York Times

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Alfredo Ramos Martínez’s “Calla Lily Vendor,” 1929. The Alfredo Ramos Martínez Research Project

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Diego Rivera’s “Dance in Tehuantepec,” 1928. Banco de México Diego Rivera Frida Kahlo Museums Trust, Mexico City/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New
York; via Malba, Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires

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For all parties, the model was an exhilarating one, and the bright pink walls of the exhibition’s opening gallery
suggest a fiesta atmosphere, as do the paintings gathered there: Alfredo Ramos Martínez’s 1929 image of an
itinerant flower vendor bending under her load of calla lilies; a 1928 painting by Rivera of Oaxacan dancers in
orchidaceous gowns; and, from the same year, a scene, in Rivera’s volumetric, smooth-brushed, Paris-trained style,
of women harvesting cactus by the American artist Everett Gee Jackson.

Jackson (1900-1995), who was born in Texas and trained at the Art Institute of Chicago, made an art jaunt to Mexico
in 1923 and stayed four years. He saw Rivera’s mural work in Mexico City and created his own variation on what had
already become a local “national” style. There he also met Anita Brenner, a Mexican writer of Latvian Jewish
descent, who was the fulcrum of a lively international community, and whose widely read 1929 book “Idols Behind
Altars” — there’s a copy on display — introduced North Americans to the history of Mexican culture, from pre-
Columbian times forward.

Turn a corner into the next gallery and you find work from around the same time but on overtly polemical themes. It
was important for a nation that identified itself with populist struggle to keep the memory of that struggle burning,
and art was on the job. You see this in a large charcoal painting study by Rivera of the firebrand revolutionary
Emiliano Zapata trampling an enemy underfoot. And in an inky Siqueiros portrait of the same leader, looking as
blank-eyed as a corpse. And in a spiky, depressed Orozco painting of the peasant guerrillas known as Zapatistas,
their figures as stiff as the machetes they carry, locked in a grim forced march.

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“Zapata,” David Alfaro Siqueiros’s 1931 portrait of the firebrand leader Emiliano
Zapata. Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York/SOMAAP, Mexico City; Hirshhorn Museum and
Sculpture Garden, Smithsonian Institution

By the time these pictures were made in 1931, two of the artists were working primarily in the United States; the
third would arrive the next year. There were reasons for this northern influx of émigré talent. With a change of
leaders in Mexico, mural commissions had dropped off, and far-left politics — Rivera and Siqueiros self-identified as
Communists — had become less welcome. Something like the opposite was true in the United States, where young
artists radicalized by the Depression were eager to explore the possibilities of social consciousness-raising public
art. To work with these masters was a dream come true.

Orozco came first, to New York in 1927. There he taught easel painting and printmaking to a rapt cohort of local
artists before moving on to California to execute a mural commission for Pomona College in Claremont — a 1930
fresco called “Prometheus” that the teenage Jackson Pollock, then living in Los Angeles, saw and never forgot.

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A photographic reproduction of Diego Rivera’s “Man, Controller of the Universe,” 1934, Palacio de Bellas Artes, INBA, Mexico City. Banco de
México Diego Rivera Frida Kahlo Museums Trust, Mexico City/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York; Emiliano Granado for The New York Times

Obviously, the impossibility of having actual fresco projects in an exhibition that puts their existence at its center is a
problem. But the show’s originating curator, Barbara Haskell — joined by Marcela Guerrero, Sarah Humphreville
and Alana Hernandez — has finessed the matter by surrounding photographic reproductions of monumental works
with real, related paintings and drawings.

Some are studies done for the featured fresco, as in a tempera-on-canvas Orozco sketch of his Prometheus figure.
Others are exceptional distillations of the artist’s spirit and style. Of the three marquee Mexican muralists, Orozco
was the least politically hard-line, the most pessimistic by temperament, and the most poetic-minded. And it is two
stand-alone images — one of a flaming, air-walking Blakean nude; the other, on loan from the Museo de Arte Carrillo
Gil in Mexico City, of a furious Jesus hacking his cross to bits — that make the deepest impression here.

Most valuably, though, the curators have also included work by young American artists inspired by Orozco’s
example. Pollock is one. Several livid, snarly, body-based paintings from the late 1930s show how thoroughly
“Prometheus” had gotten under his skin. And the influence seems to have passed, by art world osmosis — many
artists were networked through working on W.P.A. mural projects at the time — to artists like the Chicago-based
Charles White, who applied a version of Orozco’s brand of muscular expressionism to his own epical paintings of
African-American life.

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Two of the many side-by-side comparisons that show the mingling of Mexico and the United States: José Clemente Orozco’s “Christ Destroying
His Cross,” 1943, left, and Jackson Pollock’s “Untitled (Naked Man With Knife),” circa 1938-40. Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York/SOMAAP,
Mexico City; The Pollock-Krasner Foundation/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York; Emiliano Granado for The New York Times

From this point on in the exhibition, although the Mexican muralists continue to be the anchor, American art crowds
the spotlight. Rivera, as befits his celebrity, is awarded two separate spaces. But works by artists who learned from
him — Ben Shahn, Philip Evergood, Thelma Johnson Streat, Xavier Gonzalez and Marion Greenwood — outnumber
his own. You can see why he was a popular model. There’s something expressively boilerplate about his art, making
it adaptable to varied uses and settings and patronage. This was one reason that, as the 1930s went on, more
ideologically committed artists like Siqueiros began to brand him a sellout.

Siqueiros was the true on-the-ground activist of the three — he participated in a plot to assassinate Trotsky — and
the one who took the most radical formal chances in his art. He is also given two galleries. The first is ostensibly
devoted to his 1932 stay in Los Angeles and a mural he painted there, “Tropical America: Oprimida y Destrozada por
los Imperialismos” — or “Tropical America: Oppressed and Destroyed by Imperialism.” But the people who
commissioned it seem to have expected work on a different, upbeat theme and, offended by the scathing take on
Yankee aggression, whited out the painting. (Chicano artists and activists lobbied for years to repair it, with the city
and the Getty Conservation Institute teaming up to cover the cost, though as a gallery label notes, the brightness of
its original colors proved to be unrecoverable. It appears in the show in a black-and-white photograph of its original
state.)

What this gallery is really about, though, is the stellar young artists who assisted and emulated him, among them
Philip Guston (a high school friend of Pollock) and the Japanese-American painter Eitaro Ishigaki, whose racial
identity and immigrant status marginalized him as surely as they did black and Latino artists at the time. (In 1951,
he was arrested by the F.B.I. for having Communist affiliations and deported to Japan.)

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“Bombardment,” (1937-38) by Philip Guston, among the stellar young artists who assisted
and emulated David Alfaro Siqueiros. Emiliano Granado for The New York Times

Eitaro Ishigaki’s “Soldiers of the People’s Front (The Zero Hour),” circa 1936-37.  Museum
of Modern Art, Wakayama, Japan

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Alfredo Ramos Martínez’s “The Malinche (Young Girl of Yalala, Oaxaca),” circa 1940.  Emiliano Granado for The New York Times

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The exhibition’s final gallery, “Siqueiros and the Experimental Workshop,” is basically a Siqueiros-Pollock showcase.
It’s set in New York, where, beginning in 1936, the two artists worked together as teacher and student. We see
examples of the increasingly anti-conventional techniques the muralist developed: spraying, splattered, dripping
paint, building up glazes in ugly lumps on the canvas surface, anything to make the results look unpolished and
unsettling. And we see Pollock beginning to test out these unorthodoxies. He would, eventually, transcendently,
apply them to abstraction. But it’s clear that even in the 1930s he was on fire. And the evidence is that Siqueiros held
the igniting match.

Is it too much to say that we owe Abstract Expressionism, at least the Pollock version of it, to Mexico? Maybe, but
only a little too much. In any case, the debt was forgotten fast. Pollock stayed mum on the subject of sources. Once
World War II started, the United States didn’t want to know from anticapitalist leftists, or immigrants, particularly
brown-skinned ones. After the war, Communist was a prosecutorial scare-word, and Abstract Expressionism was
suddenly red-white-and-blue. It was advertised internationally as a visual embodiment of American freedom, with
no mention, maybe no memory, of where its greatest practitioner learned his Ab-Ex moves.

This exhibition demonstrates this by putting Siqueiros and Pollock together and uses the same compare and
contrast method throughout, often pairing canonical stars with artists we may not know, like Luis Arenal, Jesús
Escobedo, Mardonio Magaña, Edward Millman, Alfredo Ramos Martinez, Mitchell Siporin, Henrietta Shore, and
Thelma Johnson Streat. Did influence run both ways? Student to teacher? South to north and back? Undoubtedly.
(And everyone learned from Europe.) The result at the Whitney is a study in multidirectional flow, tides meeting,
mingling, which is the basic dynamic of art history, as it is, or should be, of American life. It’s a dynamic of
generosity. It gives the show warmth and grandeur. Why on earth would we want to stop the flow now?

Vida Americana: Mexican Muralists Remake American Art, 1925-1945

Through May 17 at the Whitney Museum of American Art, 99 Gansevoort Street, Manhattan; 212-570-3600, whitney.org. The exhibition travels to
the McNay Art Museum, San Antonio, Texas, from June 25-Oct. 4.

Correction: Feb. 21, 2020

An earlier version of this review misidentified the dancers in a 1928 Diego Rivera painting. They are Oaxacan,
not Yucatán.

Holland Cotter is the co-chief art critic. He writes on a wide range of art, old and new, and he has made extended trips to Africa and China. He was
awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Criticism in 2009.
A version of this article appears in print on , Section C, Page 11 of the New York edition with the headline: Walls of Influence From Mexico

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