What you are looking for?

Lit Reviews

Book Review of Circuits of Culture

Review: Circuits of Culture: Media, Politics, and Indigenous Identity in the Andes, for Indigenous Issues Today, 2008

Jeff Himpele

Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Reviewed by:

Carlos D. Torres, Ph.D. University of Colorado – Boulder

Caroline S. Conzelman, PhD, Anthropology, University of Denver

One of the strengths of cultural anthropologists (as opposed to political scientists or mass media researchers) conducting research in the emerging field of media anthropology is that through their deep relationship with a particular place, particular people, and particular media, they are able to more holistically document the visible and audible evidence of cultural production in all of its situated complexity. Jeff Himpele, in Circuits of Culture: Media, Politics, and Indigenous Identity in the Andes,in this way creates a comprehensive media ethnography of La Paz, Bolivia, but he also goes beyond geographic constraints to look at the history of media circulation and distribution in the country as its own unique narrative and constitutive cultural process. Himpele performs an ethnographic service to his readers by offering a focused perspective of an emerging indigenous public media sphere, with increasing political consequence, that largely has been unobserved, unnoticed, unanalyzed, unarticulated, and thus unknown. At base this is a superb example of an intimately engaged, meticulously researched longitudinal ethnography.

Himpele introduces his argument with the juxtaposition—captured in a photo—of a cinema marquee advertising El Rey Leo (The Lion King) movie along the main boulevard of La Paz while a procession of costumed dancers performing the traditional Aymara Diablada (Devil) dance passes a full crowd in the foreground. Modern with ancient, elite with indigenous, this scene represents some of the circuits of popular culture that Himpele wishes to explain, evaluate, and even diagram (inspired by de Certeau, 2008:49). As with another example of Aymara and Quechua neighbors watching karate flicks in tiny theaters along the city canyon walls, “the boundary between Indians and non-Indians” is “not easily drawn” (2008:xix). While he acknowledges that folkloric parades and other indigenous festivals can be considered part of Bolivia’s “broad and diverse cultural media,” he directs his analysis on “key sites in the representational media of film, television, and video as [mobile] indexes of wider historical practices that have shaped the present” (2008:xvii). After centuries of the marginalization and oppression of Andean peoples, this “present,” Himpele argues, is witnessing the indigenization of Bolivia’s media as well as its urban publics, which he suggests is also helping to indigenize the country’s politics.

Thus does the author charge himself before embarking along a somewhat tortuous course in pursuit of theoretical enlightenment. According to Himpele, the assumed “bifurcation” of media as a practice of production and media as consumption is not a simple distinction. Himpele builds upon Charles Acland’s premise that there is a “narrative” in the “path” of the “film commodity as it moves from conception to consumption” (2008:22). Great segments of the book are devoted to showing how film distribution “involves reflexive, performative, and discursive practices” (2008:23) that create culture by creating “publics” (those who consume the product and thus incorporate it into their personal or collective experience) and “narrative operations” that convert “mobile spaces into fixed places of spectatorship” (spaces where those publics can be temporarily observed and defined) (2008:22).

Himpele “excavates” the Bolivian cinema past by researching the archives of Bolivian filmmakers who appropriated indigeneity as a strategic locus for advancing and interjecting revolutionary aesthetics and political rhetoric into the production and visualization of documentary and feature films. Himpele then documents the attempts of Bolivian filmmakers to create works of “mestizo national projects” (2008:118-28)—during a period of fervent nationalism—followed by the 1960s and 70s films of Ivan Sanjinés who was to obliterate the ideological construct of this false nationalism by revealing “the cultural heterogeneity and [social] realities hidden beneath” conceptions of Bolivian cultural uniformity (2008:131). With the sudden diffusion of television to urban areas in the 1980s following a return to democratic governance and expanding markets, Himpele shifts his analysis to this new (for Bolivia) form of popular media.

From a teaching standpoint, Himpele’s in-depth examination of a 1980s and 90s television program in La Paz called The Open Tribunal of the People is a well articulated case study of how to analyze a television show and its place in the broader cultural matrix of its place and time. The Tribunal was an immensely popular testimonial show in which urban indigenous women and men described the difficulties they faced in their family lives or communities and then were provided with verbal, legal and financial support by the host, Carlos Palenque, and the show’s Social Wing. This unique format condensed “the potent scale of mass media into the intimacy of face-to-face contact.” The show created social alliances and an atmosphere of collusion between the viewers, the participants and the host, and also claimed to challenge the privileged position of the traditional elites in Bolivia. In Himpele’s analysis, the show was successful—and became highly politically influential—because it linked the social therapeutics of opening up a “discursive space” for the airing of societal ills with the “public visibility of immediate and direct social justice” for marginalized sectors of Bolivian society (2008:141-42). Because Palenque used this success to form a populist political party and came in second or third in the 1989 and 1993 presidential elections, Himpele argues that Palenque not only expanded the potential of the emerging medium of television but “objectified the protagonism of the participants and popularized indigenous symbolism to authenticate a scenario of popular self-representation in the public sphere” (2008:143).

Himpele’s book can be read in two ways: one from the perspective of someone specifically interested in the socio-political dynamics of Bolivia and the role that film and media have played in the shift toward indigenous control of its own representation, and the other from the perspective of someone specifically interested in film and media studies and the evolution of the theories of representation in any context. Circuits of Culture: Media, Politics, and Indigenous Identity in the Andesfulfills both perspectives, though the first type of reader will get seriously bogged down with the unfamiliar intricacies of media theory, while the second type of reader may be derailed by all of the detail related to the culture and politics of this little-known South American nation. In other words, each reader will be, by turns, enchanted and frustrated by this book, though for opposite reasons. To his admirable credit, Himpele does weave these two perspectives together with skill and style, and for those lucky few who happen to hold interests in both camps, this book will be rich and enlightening. For the others, you might need to skip over some sections just to get through this dense treatise.

One problem with this book is that after using as the opening scene Evo Morales’s inauguration at Tiwanaku as Bolivia’s first indigenous president, Himpele never returns to this event in his analysis of Bolivia’s increasing indigeneity. Leaving this event hanging makes it seem tacked on just to make the book appear more current and political, a misleading ploy since the book is far more theoretical and does not explain the rise of Bolivia’s indigenous social movements nor of Evo Morales to the presidency. In this regard the book stops short of its potential and leaves one kind of reader—those interested in Bolivian history and politics—wanting.

Another narrative element underdeveloped in the book, after a cursory and abrupt introduction, was the importance of the Aymara street festivals and folkloric parades as counterparts to indigenous identity formation and representation through television and film media. Omitted completely are the ubiquitous protest marches, road blockades and worker strikes, central features of indigenous popular political participation in the “alternative” public sphere that have helped give rise to indigenous representation in local and national government. The reason these public tactics are such a mainstay of Bolivian politics is due to the enduring strength of the sindicatos, primarily agrarian and mining labor unions created after the 1952 Revolution and maintained through the era of military dictatorships, (1964-1982) a crucial historical phase that Himpele omits from his discourse in Chapter 2. Had Himpele invested more time explaining the roots of the historic event at Tiwanaku portrayed in the opening lines of the book, the contested “alternative” public sphere of the Bolivian street—where folkloric events and festivals take place as well as protests—would have been exposed as one of Bolivia’s most important circuits of culture. The suggestion that Morales’s inauguration at Tiwanaku was a “performance of indigeneity” (2008:xiv) also would have been understood as a more emotional phenomenon.

In a book purporting to concern itself with “indigenous identity,” Himpele sublimates this topic into a more limited framework of “indigeneity” with its connotation of indigenous identity as a strategic resource with political ends, rather than considering indigenous identity more comprehensively, and emically, to include social recomposition and the reconnection to and honoring of deep cultural traditions. Himpele’s last chapter (which would have worked better as a stand-alone chapter than as a conclusion) shows how indigeneity now is not just embodied in folklore but also “flows” into popular culture and media—circulating both nationally and internationally. This argument comes closer to fulfilling the promise of his title.

Ultimately, Himpele’s deft analysis of Bolivian films and filmmakers makes for a convincing and often enjoyable read with its premise that the power of indigenous self-representation lies not just in the production of media, but also in indigenous control of media distribution as their own “circulation of Indianness” (2008:212).

 

 

Read More »

Book Review of Monkey Business Theater

Book Review of:  Laughlin, Robert and Sna Jtz’ibajom. Monkey Business Theater. Austin, TX. University of Texas Press. 2008

Book Review by Carlos D. Torres, Ph.D. Candidate, University of Colorado at Boulder, Dept. of Anthropology

If you visit San Juan Chamula, a large pueblo located in the highlands of Chiapas, Mexico, you may see a play being performed at one end of the town square.  The playwriting and acting theater group could very well be members of Lo’il Maxil (Loh eel Masheel), Monkey Business Theater. The original plays of this Maya playwriting cooperative are only now becoming available in English translation as a complete dramatic works compendium, Monkey Business Theater (2008, University of Texas Press).  The Spanish editions of the plays have long been available at the bookstore of Lo’il Maxil’s parent cultural association, Sna Jtz’ibajom (Sna Htz’ eebajom) located in the cultural heart of highland Maya Mexico, the city of San Cristobal de las Casas.  What is unique about this collection, apart from its English translation, is that the first sixty-four pages of the book provide background information about the founding of this grassroots indigenous association, founded with the assistance of anthropologist/linguist Robert Laughlin.

Laughlin was already well established as the foremost chronicler of Maya folklore from the Maya village of Zinacantan, a village which was the focus of anthropologist Evon Z. Vogt’s research for many years. As Laughlin explains, Sna Jtz’ibajom was formed in part by the void left by American researchers by some of the former informants of the Harvard Chiapas Project:

“In 1982 my life took a new turn. I became, to my surprise, an advocacy anthropologist. It              happened that I was co-director of a conference in San Cris­tobal, “Forty Years of                           Anthropological Research in Chiapas.” Earlier, three ex-members of the Harvard Chiapas                        Project – Antzelmo; Romin’s son, Xun of Zinacantan; and Maryan Kalixto of Chamula – had asked for my help in creating a Tzotzil-Tzeltal Mayan cultural association. I urged them to speak to the participants of this meeting to plead their cause (Laughlin and Sna Jtz’ibajom 2008:1).”

Sna Jtz’ibajom produced educational bilingual booklets for three years in Spanish and Tzotil/Tzeltal, instituting a six-month Maya language literacy courses, and filling a void that Mexican public education failed to provide (see the play Torches for a New dawn in MBT). Funded in start-up by a $3000 dollar grant from Cultural Survival, a NGO whose goal is to defend indigenous “rights and sustain their cultures,” it was thought that educational booklets might gain readership if Sna Jtz’ibajom added a puppet theater; Maya language education brought out into the public sphere, if you will. The impetus for original playwriting began soon after this realization. The first “puppet” play was penned by Laughlin himself from the Native American/Mayan  fable The Loafer and the Buzzard.

Soon after, members of the puppet theater Lo’il Maxil began to write their own plays from drama group members who “learned their lines by heart,” but employed “creative invention…and improvisation” in their mastery of Maya puppet theater (6).  They became a Pan-Maya troupe performing in Guatemala in 1987 at the Taller de Linguistica Maya in Antigua, Guatemala, broadening the scope of folkloric topics to include contemporary social issues like  “(1) family planning, (2) deforestation and wildlife depredation, (3) racism, (4) indentured labor, and (5) land rights, especially of women” (7). It was during one performance in Guatemala they improvised a live action play from a Chol Maya folktale handed them: “It was the memory of this performance that a year later bolstered the puppeteer’s confidence enough that they considered becoming actors in live theatre” (8).

The plays themselves are a small corpus of an ever-expanding Mesoamerican literary movement that now includes diverse forms of literary and video media, drama, poems, and novels. Monkey Business Theater also becomes one of a few very good recently published anthologies of Mesoamerican literature (See Leon-Portilla and Shorris 2001; Frischmann 2007; Taylor and Constantino 2003). The genres of the plays are often hard to classify in Western terms reflecting deeper Maya considerations of time and place. Mythical/modern or mythical/historical, the bases of many of the dramas are highland Maya village tales, re-combinations of creation “epics,” folk parables, and unique Maya historical retellings. Many of the plays also reflect the current socio-political conditions in Chiapas illuminating Maya sentiment and subjectivity in light of the impact of neoliberal politics, corruption, and traditions of assimilationist state social policies.

“Lessons” in the plays are straightforward, the characters weaknesses transparent. The plots of the plays are illuminating in that they at once inscribe a substantial underlying cultural substrate of enduring Mesoamerican themes, (i.e., sacredness of corn, scorn for arrogance, the value of work) while weaving in contemporary social drama and overlying themes of cultural revitalization . The “moralistic though humorous orien­tation” of many of the dramas “parallels that of pre-Hispanic morality farces such as “Envy and Spite, which formed part of the Baktun ceremonial held at Merida in 1618” (Frischmann 2007:30). This form of humor is also prevalent in manifestations of “ritual humor observed during the 1960s and 1970s by Vic­toria Reifler Bricker,” (Frischmann 2007:30) but also commonly observed in the “burlesque-ing” of Spanish colonial figures in contemporary cultural festivals in the Maya villages of Zinacantan, San Juan Chamula, and Tenejapa. The literary themes of the plays are also consistently reinscribed and recomposed in other small media production enclaves in San Cristobal de Las Casas, in photography, Zapatista video production, and in other grassroots writing workshops (Taller Leñateros). These literary themes provide a small but important part of the cultural substrate underlying the “embedded aesthetic” of Maya media production:  “a [inner cultural] system of evaluation that refuses a separation of the textual…from broader arenas of social relations” (Ginsburg 1994:368).

Some of the backstory in Monkey Business Theater also reveals some of the process in crafting plays, and the process that goes into converting village tales into modern dramas. Among the best examples of this conversion process comes from the transcription of the play Deadly Inheritance.

“For those who romanticize Mayan culture and, particularly, Mayan family life, this play will be a surprise, for it revolves around one of the most feared elements in the daily life of the people  who live in the rural towns…  the discord between siblings” (Laughlin and Sna jtz’ibajom 2008:75)

The plot was adapted from a 1987 incident of domestic violence in the Tzeltal town­ship of Tenejapa. Following their parents’ death, two brothers apparently killed the most defiant of their two sisters and hid her body in order to obtain her share of the inheritance (Frischmann 2007:30). The sister’s body was never located, and the suspected assassins were soon released from jail. (30). The writers of Lo’il Maxil decided to drastically alter the plot and the conclusion of the play. In the play as written, the town mayor comes to believe the testimony of the sur­viving sister and her neighbor and orders the accused brothers arrested. Since the “brothers are already known as troublemakers, and their alibis for the crime are flimsy,” the mayor decides to flog a confession out of them publicly. The weaker brother confesses and the cowardly husband of the witness also finally breaks down and provides testimony. In the end, the mayor sends all three men off to jail, “thus providing the survivors with redress and punishing the guilty” (30). In this way, Deadly Inheritance is shaped by the contemporary moralistic sensibilities of the writers of Sna Jtz’ibajom, reconsidering their own social roles in modern society, reflecting “real life and the desire for justice” (Laughlin and Sna jtz’ibajom 2008:75)

The abiding purpose of the Sna Jtz’ibajom was to create a Maya language literacy program and literary institute. In this endeavor, they have been very successful creating an epicenter for Maya learning, writing, and intellectual output in Chiapas. Inscribing text and literature into books and plays, from stories that only forty years ago were predominantly oral in transmission, Monkey Business Theater has augmented to the rich, ongoing cultural production in Chiapas, adding to a powerful Maya cultural repository that makes clearer the logic behind Maya social activism and self-conscientization. Though the exegesis of the plays is minimal in this anthology, educators (whether political scientists, anthropologists, or comparative literature scholars) will be able to hear Maya voices in Monkey Business Theater, voices that are too often muted by charismatic leaders and non-Maya cultural “proxies.” Reading the commentary by Laughlin and members of Sna Jtz’ibajom (but also taking note of the diverse speech and subject matters in the plays) opens up windows to contemporary Maya sensibilities while bearing witness to cultural recovery in process (Laughlin and Sna Jtz’ibajom:100). The stories of the creation of Lo’il Maxil told in Monkey Business Theater do, in themselves, reiterate a Mayan “enduring value,” a value not uncommon in societies that seek self-empowerment: respect for writing/painting (tz’ib), learning, and derivatively education.

Sources:

Leon-Portilla and Shorris, eds. In the Language of Kings: An Anthology of Mesoamerican

   Literature – Pre-Columbian to the Present. New York, N.Y.: W.W. Norton, 2001.

Montemayor and Frischmann, eds. Words of the True Peoples: Anthology of Contemporary

   Mexican Indigenous-Language Writers. Vols. 1,2,& 3. Austin, Texas: University of Texas

Press, 2007.

Taylor and Constantino, eds. Holy Terrors: Latin American Women Perform. Durham, North

Carolina: Duke University Press, 2003.

 

Read More »

Review of Laughter of Out Place

Review of Laughter Out of Place: Race, Class, Violence, and Sexuality in a Rio Shantytown (California Series in Public Anthropology Book 9), University of California Press, 2013.

for Mondoglobe Media, March 12, 2019. Vol 2,

Within the first few pages of Laughter Out of Place it becomes apparent anthropologist Donna Goldstein is going to embark on an ethnographic analysis of a more personal vein. The introduction reads like a personal reflection of her time in a Brazilian favela, Felicidade Eterna, folding in memories of the people she met into a journal-styled ethnography of the kind introduced to us by Ruth Behar. Dr. Goldstein’s approach is refreshing: a reader knows where she stands on the issue in the favela, but she nonetheless provides a rich analysis referencing theory and other ethnographies that provide context and clarification.

Looking at the book’s format in an overall construction, Goldstein makes an interesting and deliberate choice in partitioning the book thematically around the phenomena of favela life. The overarching concept of irony—of laughter threaded through lives filled with tragedy—runs through the book, but other subjects like the aesthetics of domination, black Cinderellas, the shortening of childhood, gangs and violence, and the carnivalization of desire focuses the book into a deeper issue: the socioeconomic construct of Latin American poverty in a world rent with the deep social structural social inequalities perpetuated by globalization. The choice of these themes were organically synthesized from coded observations—a case study in how to write deep interpretive ethnography. The phenomena addressed were concrete and drew Goldstein’s discursive writing style along into relevant and engaging territory. She uses theory to bolster her arguments, but does not saddle the story with overwhelming treatises.

Unlike other cultural anthropological texts that advocate for cause and people, Goldstein does not ingratiate in pure cultural relativism to try to explain the internal logic of place and people at the psychological level: as she says, she is often shocked by the ironic attitudes of the people who seem to accept their fate much more humorously than Goldstein imagined prior to her experience in Felicidade. She takes issue with some theorists, including Foucault, presenting and then unraveling the famous theorist’s framing of pervasive all-permeating power. She also disparages the romanticized study of elite Brazilians in earlier culture studies of Brazil, of “cosmopolitan intellectuals, or transnational social movements” as a form of “ethnographic refusal,” and a condition “that would fail to provide density to our representations, sanitize politics,” or produce a “thin version of culture with a set of dissolving actors” (43).

In her review of Donna Goldstein’s book, Nancy Shepar-Hughes mentions that Goldstein’s book will not come without controversy because it may be painted in a “culture-of-poverty” conceptual framework. But Goldstein concentrates on the conditions of life and the subsequent actions of people mired in difficult situations in the fragile lived sustainabilities of the favela. Goldstein is also quick to point out that she herself does not understand—at all times—the social structures in place. For example, out of generosity Goldstein sets aside some money for a young woman in the story, Soneca, to attend a computer institute. The idea does not succeed and Gloria, the main informant of the book, is annoyed by the waste of valuable resources.

Goldstein also employs a modern a google search in a first, perhaps, novel way to capture widely held search generalizations, to bring the reader directly into androcentric attitudes and concerning Brazilian Mulatas. She enters a search engine with those exact two words and finds dozens of porn sites exemplifying popular viewpoints related to sexuality in Brazil. She points out many of the inconsistencies and ironic attitudes present in the favelas regarding sexuality and race. Gloria, for instance, views the white coroa taking on a dark-skinned lover as evidence for a “reluctance of Afro-Brazilian women to interpret certain kinds of interactions as racist” (124).

The discussions on violence and gangs are/were some of the most relevant of Laughter Out of Place in a changing second and third world. One can imagine the “trajectory into criminality by young men as a form of local knowledge (and as a vehicle for advancement)…” (203). Indeed, after the descriptions given of the lifestyle, poverty, abuse, and of course humor that saturate the favela, one can clearly see the seductive link of falling into gang violence and criminality. Goldstein also clearly demonstrates the functionality of bandit existence, quoting and borrowing from Hobsbawm the reasoning behind the formation of so-called primitive rebels: “Social banditry becomes a form of self-help in the context of economic crises and social tension” (209).

In Goldstein’s short but cogent conclusion she does not try to offer monumental solutions to the problems she sees, but nevertheless her astute observations and solutions are grounded in lived experience of place. She points to endemic problems in the favela such as the “differential application of the rule of law,” and the need to “reform policing forces” bringing an end to corruption and abuse” (273). She points out that in order for drug traffickers and gangs to be removed from the favela, “‘good faith’ social services need to be put in place to treat the everyday private injustices that are currently being handled by such organizations” (274). Like so many impoverished societies, an infrastructure or support girdle of municipal services needs to be put in place (or reformed) to aid all segments of the society of Rio. This remains a common need for societies battling poverty. A great ethnographic reading examining one of many micro-worlds mired in global inequality.

Carlos Torres, Ph.D.

Read More »

Multivolume Review of Chiapas Photography Project

American Anthropologist Vol. 113, No. 1 March 2011 Visual Anthropology

Photographic Books of the Chiapas Photography Project

Ixim – Maíz – Corn. Photographs: Emiliano Guzmán Meza; Text: Carlota Duarte and Emiliano Guzmán Meza. México: Centro de Investigaciones y Estudios Superiores en Antropología Social, Archivo Fotográfico Indigena, 2004. 80 pp.

Carnaval in Tenejapa: A Tzeltal Community in Chiapas. Photographs: Petul Hernández Guzmán; Text: Carlota Duarte, Petul Hernández Guzmán, Luisa Maffi, and Jeroen van der Zalm. Mexico: Centro de Investigaciones y Estudios Superiores en Antropología Social, Archivo Fotográfico Indigena, 2004. 80 pp.

Creencias de Nuestros Antepasados. Photographs: Maruch Sántiz Gómez; Text: Carlota Duarte, Hermann Bellinghausen, Gabriela Vargas Cetina, and Maruch Sántiz Gómez. Mexico: Centro de Investigaciones y Estudios Superiores en Antropología Social, Archivo Fotográfico Indigena, 1998. 108 pp.

Mi hermanita Cristina, una niña chamula. Photographs: Xunka’ López Díaz; Text: Lourdes de León Pasquel and Xunka’ López Díaz. Mexico: Centro de Investigaciones y Estudios Superiores en Antropología Social, Archivo Fotográfico Indigena, 2000. 80 pp.

Posh, a Traditional Liquor from Chiapas. Photographs: Genaro Sántiz Gómez; Text: Carlota Duarte, Juan Miguel Blasco López, Maruch Sántiz Gomez, and Génaro Sántiz Gómez. Mexico: Centro de Investigaciones y Estudios Superiores en Antropología Social, Archivo Fotográfico Indigena, 2005. 80 pp.

Carlos D. Torres – University of Colorado at Boulder

The Chiapas Photography Project (CPP) was founded in San Cristóbal de Las Casas, Mexico, in 1992 by the Mexican American artist and photographer Carlota Duarte, with the aim of providing access to photographic technologies for indigenous peoples from the region (Guzmán Meza and Duarte 2004:5). Since 1992, over 200 indigenous people from ten ethnic groups have participated in the project. With institutional help from the Center for Research and Higher Studies in Social Anthropology (CIESAS) in San Cristóbal de las Casas, Mexico, and grant support from the Ford Foundation, Duarte and the participating indigenous men and women have been able to create the Indigenous Photography Archive (AFI).

Over the years, Carlota Duarte, who holds a salaried position as the director of the CPP, has encouraged Maya participants to choose subject matter that resonates with them at a personal level. Each photographer’s vision is part of an individual and Maya aesthetic that encompasses home, culture, and life experience, all shaping the construction and form of the photographic collections. This review of five books of photography published by CPP represents the work of five different Maya photographers.

SACRED CONNECTIONS, EARTH AND SEED: IXIM (CORN) BY EMILIANO GUZMÁN MEZA

Ixim, Emiliano Guzman Meza’s photo book about corn, like many of the books of AFI, projects a personal vista of contemporary Maya life in the Chiapas highlands. Guzmán Meza’s work encapsulates the many significations of corn as a potent symbol of Maya folklore as well as a contemporary agricultural commodity and practice; as a politicized food staple but also as an emblematic icon for the Maya conception of the sacred link between consumption and regeneration.

In two still-life close-up images of corn, Guzmán Meza photographs different varieties lined up within the same photographic frame: one depicts the corncobs on the ground, the soil and roots of the background emphasizing their connection to the earth; the other is shot against a plain white cloth, framed more as scientific specimens (Guzmán Meza 2004:77). Indeed, this oscillation between the traditional, mythical significance of corn and the more scientific, anthropological accounts of the increasingly mechanized means of its production and consumption can be seen to characterize both Guzmán Meza’s deployment of the camera and his textual accounts.

ON ETHNOGRAPHIC FIDELITY: THE WORK OF PETUL HERNÁNDEZ GUZMÁN

Petul Hernández Guzmán’s Carnaval in Tenejapa: A Tzeltal Community in Chiapas intentionally reaches beyond a book of captured images. Petul was born in a hamlet near Tenejapa called Ok’och, near the Tenejapa town center, and was introduced to ethnographic field methods by an anthropologist named Luisa Maffi who was doing dissertation fieldwork when she hired Petul as a translator and interpreter. Among all the CPP participants, Hernández Guzmán is arguably the photographer who identifies most strongly with the role of native historian or autoethnographer; his book, the outcome of six years of meticulous research, is a densely ethnographic tribute to Tenejapa’s Carnaval festivities. The vivid scarlet colors of the ceremonial flags and huipiles make the fiesta among the most colorful celebrations of a colorful area. Petul chooses to take the viewer through the 13 days of the festival, from the presentation of the flags to the ceremonial sacrifice of a bull and distribution of its meat.

His work offers an elucidatory means to explore the specific uses and significance of photography in this labor of cultural preservation—as well as the relationship between image and text, a question of central concern to many of the CPP photographers. His desire to convey his research both to his community and an uninitiated outside audience frequently seems to locate him at an ambivalent boundary: both passionate spokesperson for Tenejapans and subtly apart, as self-reflexive academic and documentarian.

BETWEEN ART AND ETHNOGRAPHY: MARUCH SÁNTIZ GÓMEZ’S CREENCIAS

Like Petul Hernández Guzmán, Maruch Sántiz Gómez is motivated by a passionate commitment to preserve and promote indigenous cultural heritage, and she too arrived at the CPP with considerable experience of cultural revitalization work, having been a member of the indigenous writers’ cooperative Sna Jtz’ibajom. Creencias, like much of the photography of AFI, intently combines visual communication and textual communication. Every picture is part of an extended story, a cultural matrix of ancestral, communal, familial associations. In Maruch’s photos, “each thing has a life of its own … a dense presence in things among things” (Bellinghausen in Sántiz Gómez et al 1998:19).

The book’s dominant aesthetic is the still life, with the majority of images focusing on a single, inanimate object. As in the case of the creencia (belief) relating to the bejao leaf or chicken’s feet, objects are often centrally positioned within the frame and photographed from above, the focus squarely on the object itself. The rich textures and tonal contrasts of Sántiz Gómez’s photographic work entice the viewer to dwell on the physical contours of the objects as they are captured on film. However, the artifact’s frozen divorce from its social context within Sántiz Gómez’s austere compositional aesthetic exists in a delicate dialogue with its enlivenment within the juxtaposed textual accounts of the attendant creencia, relocating the isolated objects within a dense network of social relations.

PHOTOGRAPHY AND AUTOBIOGRAPHY

In the work of the two CPP participants, the photographers deliberately deploy their camera in the service of their communities, albeit in very different ways. Other participants, however, use photography as a vehicle to reflect on the shifting relationship between self and community, operating at the interface between the autobiographic and the ethnographic. This dynamic is particularly striking in the work of two photographers, Genaro Sántiz Gómez and Xunka’ López Díaz, who mobilize photography to reflect on the complexities of their individual experiences of a turbulent period of rapid sociocultural change in many highland communities.

The work of one of the female becarios (scholars), Xunka’ López Díaz, has the most pronounced autobiographical voice of any of the participants. Xunka’s family decided to leave the Tzotzil village of San Juan Chamula and moved to one of the peripheral settlements of San Cristóbal. Xunka’s sister was born after religious expulsions subsided. Mi hermanita Cristina tells of the transformative potential of the Maya women of Chiapas, who have had to endure economic hardship and had to change their roles within their families and within Maya communities. Her text conforms to the conventions of the teleological autobiography, unfolding chronologically to chart her parents’ arrival in San Cristóbal in 1975 and their struggle as a family to adapt to the very different context of the city. Her story ends with a description of the very different life of the author’s sister Cristina, who is able to enjoy an unburdened childhood. López Díaz’s photography is devoted to exploring Cristina’s journey of acquiring her family’s Chamulan heritage and making it her own in the displaced environment of the streets of San Cristóbal.

Posh, like all of the books of AFI, begins with a prologue written by cultural contributors; they provide exegesis, setting the historical stage in, this case, for Genaro Sántiz Gómez’ photographs and testimony. The prologues are either written by Carlota Duarte or by Mexican academics and supporters of CPP. “Posh is a distillate that derives from the fermentation of white sugar, brown sugar, and bran (used as a catalyst)” (Miguel Blasco in Sántiz Gómez 2005:54). Posh also contains a reproduction of a roundtable discussion between members of CPP about the significance of the traditional alcohol that has long had a central role in the cultural and ceremonial life in indigenous communities. Sántiz Gómez recreates a sense of a rich familial tradition of oral history, handed down through the generations and transcribed textually in his recounting of his father’s story of his childhood working in the posh factory. As in other CPP publications, the author does not shy away from presenting the harsher aspects of life in indigenous communities: the narrative speaks of the painful conditions endured in the production and transportation of posh and the violence that mars life in many indigenous communities.

Sántiz Gómez’s photography also has a strong experimental dimension, suggesting the importance for him of photography as a means of self-expression. His exploration of the expressive possibilities of photography is evident in images that experiment with light and motion. For example, in an evocative color photograph inside the Cruztón church, the author uses a long shutter speed to recreate the candles in elongated streams of light, complementing the incense-filled, hazy atmosphere.

The photos of CPP create a unique countervisual to the photographs of Gertrude Blom of the mid–20th-century Lacandon Maya—and of external imaging of Maya by Westerners in general. The photographs of CPP members reference the internal and external dialogue of the Maya themselves, of the “once” ethnographic subject turned auto-ethnographer.

The books are an especially valuable resource in any instructional direction that seeks to include indigenous self-expression. Subjects and subject matter in the photographs are artfully and strategically composed in place, arranged to convey directed messages. In the new renaissance of highland Maya small-media production, the photographic books of CPP create important vistas into the realms of contemporary Maya experience, vistas that have finally emerged into the foreground. (For more information, see http://www.chiapasphoto.org.)

Read More »