The great museum

The great museum

There in down town Mexico City we found ourselves in a large museum, a maison, which seen form outside looked a lot smaller than it actually was. The museum was known from outside as this one by José Luis Cuevas, the painter. It had to offer a great variety of art life, courses, events, expositions, publications.

A big stone paved yard, surrounded by rooms and halls where things where shown and other strange happened. A stairway which led to the upper sky view of the patio.

In all the place, artists and visitors were always wandering, nobody seemed to leave ever; nobody coming in and out like in most museums. There was a restaurant, with horses, where some people were having dinner, others conversations about the things that were going on in the rooms.

We were having dinner, tasting cheese. The owner, was there too. An attractive middle aged man; a so called by some one else that sort of Mexican James Bond. He explained to us the theater, paintings, and all activities involved there were really needed to keep up going and he had decided to take charge on that quest. It all was needed even at night time. Since no body else in the city or the country had retained a good memory on how to organize a true artistic life, for the city, this Museum must stay open, even if the artists responsible, or the public participating, were all dead people. Even if the visitors, like ourselves, would be dreamers, or memories; wishes and ideas meeting along with ghosts in this place. And the funny smell of death was there, with the cheese.

My friend has long beautiful hair, she's watching herself in a mirror where the image it's upside-down. It is amusing to see her hand running over that long hair, while in the mirror it goes opposite and moves upwards. I watch over and over how this is indeed real. We move on. Outside it is wet on the stones in the yard, and she wants to run or do some kind of game together; but the stones are slippery. Perhaps in this place where things go other ways slippery stones are sticky. She is amused watching me hesitate, but I don't want to move far unless I am able to float over the stone.
 
The museum was a sort of alive cemetery, a place where many plays and conversations took place. We stayed for a while, tasting more other type of cheese and cold meat, and watched aside a man, who was lying on a small bed on white sheets. The inside of this man could actually be seen in a small canvas, a painting attached next to the bed (which was a water painting, as was explained). The paint was alive because this man was actually alive, it was explained as well.

Upstairs a woman is playing, she sings a theatrical song, a sort of zombie opera people can hear along the gates. It is a beautiful song I would try to remember. I see the sky at night and realize it is actually late dark. I need to go back home and wake up fully, to start the next day. But I am surprised seeing the great number of people being together there, so late at night.