The Trip: 2000
Mata Ortiz, Mexico
May 7, 2000 - May 14, 2000

I arrived early in El Paso and met Kristin - a delightful person who radiated a sense of fun. I knew this bode well. Within the hour, the other folks arrived. Martha, a Mexican-American who works at Bastrop State Park and her friend Tina who worked at a foundry in Smithville . Both women had very hard handshakes. They were followed closely by Amy, a chemical physicist from Austin. She had done the most reading and seen the most shows of Mata Ortiz Pottery. She was very well informed and very much into going on this trip. She was quiet and very, very funny. Piling into the van, we wandered by a circuitous route through an empty mall parking lot to an I-Hop for breakfast. I wondered about how we were going to divide up the meal ticket until Kristin said that it was included in the cost of the trip. For me, I began to feel that I really was skipping out of a week of school within two weeks of summer on a fabulous spree. From this moment on, the trip was non-stop great! After breakfast we made a pit stop in the last tissue flushing bathroom we would see for a while. Finally, we were off like a swarm of gnats.

Many, many straight, dry, flat miles were traversed to Columbus, New Mexico . Shortly before the border, we stopped at the Pancho Villa Museum, a tiny little outpost in a big desert. We looked around for a while, took a photo or two and left. In Columbus, we spent a long time attempting to cross the border. I always thought it would be more trouble to get out of Mexico than to get in. Shows what happens when you think. After getting our papers checked, John went to get the pass for the Suburban and was held up for quite a while. Apparently the official who was supposed to check people through had decided not to show up for work. Martha, the only one born and raised in Mexico had to pay an extra ten dollars to an official. Only when we were on our way again, did it occur to her that she had paid a bribe. She suggested that we go back so she could get a receipt. Alas, we were too far down the road ( about 10 feet) and all deemed it too far to go back..The landscape changed not at all from Texas to New Mexico to Mexico. Long flat dry creosote mesquite scrub land without water or shade for miles and miles. We were stopped twice by Federales checking for illegal immigrants and illegal items. Those poor kids. - it was hot, they were dressed in fatigues, carrying rifles and camped with nothing around but a few canvas tents. It looked like the absolute most miserable assignment aside from living in Ethiopia.

Eventually we arrived in Casas Grandes and began to see the artists and their art. We stopped at Nicolas Quezada's house and saw three lovely pots. I was ready to buy one right then and there. Well - shut my mouth - it was more than I had brought to spend for the entire trip. Kristin made arrangements to pick up one of his pots on the way home. We also stopped at Nicolas' gallery, a very small affair lined with shelves full of pots. After oohing and aahhhing and a short lesson on what to look for from Kristin, we continued toward our destination. The land seemed drier and the effects of overgrazing and drought had turned a poor habitat into a desolate one. We now followed dirt roads through a little Mormon settlement, past a huge old abandoned hacienda and its row of virtually slave housing . We topped a rise. There before us, lined by a low row of ancient cottonwoods with a backdrop of beautiful golden mountains lay the little desert town of Mata Ortiz. We all had to stop to take pictures.

We quickly settled into the Posada. It was a simple but pleasant little inn. I felt, however, that the owners went out of their way so tourists would be"enchanted". We were quite hungry. It was around 5 and we had not eaten since breakfast.

Amy and I roomed together. Martha and Tina had separate rooms with an adjoining bathroom. The rooms were plain but nice and the beds were good. Rugs from Zapata covered part of the concrete floors as well as the plywood "dresser" - a piece of plywood set across two enormous baskets. The rugs covered the dresser.

Dinner was delicious. The salsa was fresh and hot. The cuisine was simple and very good. When Mexican meals were served, they were, as a rule, much better than the American style food.

I have never been so close to a famous person, let alone a famous artist before. If I could have understood him it would have been a bit better. We went over to his courtyard and he brought a lovely pot, newly fired, out of the ashes, destined for an overseas collector. It was black and white with the minimalist design that seemed to be characteristic of his work.. We watched the whole firing process that afternoon.

Back at the studio, we spent the rest of the morning shaping our pots. It was difficult to get the clay an even thickness all the way through, especially where the coils attached to the base. But we were successful and felt like pros.

That afternoon we visited more potters and bought our first pots, black pottery - very pretty stuff. We also visited Angel Amaya and saw some of his greenware. He made fun of my Spanish, I grinned foolishly a lot . I also agreed to buy 2 of his pots if he fired them. He was leaving the next day for the States but fired them nonetheless. Martha and I bought his work, I paid him and he made fun of my Spanish some more. He was very friendly, and judging by the laughter, very funny. I love those pots

After lunch, we began to paint our pots. Many were the groans and mumbles. With the first stroke of paint, I gave up all idea of symmetry, knowing that I would never be able to make the exact same mistake twice in a row. We looked at pottery with a newfound appreciation for the skill involved. The night before a 14 yr old boy came with some of his pottery to the hotel. We were impressed at his youth and his skill at his age but didn't buy a pot. The painting wasn't bad but not great. We all "encouraged" him and sent the poor kid on his way. Boy, did we feel like schmoes when we tried to paint our own pots now. Actually everyone did a pretty fair job. I was rather embarrassed as I secretly compared mine to the others and knew they were secretly comparing theirs. I didn't sweat it much. I knew my Mother- in - law would be impressed and so would my elementary school students.

We spent some of every day going from house to house looking at pottery and meeting the potters. Here's the thing. You can tell how good, and therefore successful, the potter is by looking at the front door. If it's a regular door, then they are just O.K. But if the door is large, double, ostentatious and has gilt gold or cut glass windows and doesn't match the architecture of the rest of the house, the potter is probably a good artist.

Without regard for a proposed trip to the mountains tomorrow, Tina, Martha and I went to the Mother's Day town dance. We left the dance early, about 1:00.

Morning was upon me like an anvil in a safe. Daybreak now, and the party was still going on. The men were serenading mothers at their homes but were too drunk to remember the words. They swayed a lot, probably in time to the music

May 11, 2000 Thursday
Today we go to the mountains !

While we waited for our pots to be ready for firing, we left early one morning for the mountain to see Paqueme ruins. This was incredible. In the States, these would be National Treasures and either guarded with Park Rangers or the whereabouts kept under lock and key. The road to the ruins was incredibly bumpy and narrow, skirting along precipitous drops or passing over the only free- flowing water in the whole state. By the way - women, wear a bra! One of our Party ( I won't mention that it was Kristen) was in distress from the bouncing of the truck. She actually had to get band-aids out of the First Aid kit to remedy the problem.. We passed through a most remote, run down lumber town. It reminded me of the ghost towns of Colorado. We entered the Historical Ruins road through private property where there was the remains of a sugar mill. The circular path of the draft animals was still visible in the dirt.

The ruins were so cool! And the view was incredible. Even today , I think I could live there for a month at a time and not get tired of it. Our guide was less than talkative.

We ate lunch lounging on boulders by the truck. We saw mountain squirrels and pretty pinion jays of some sort. They were much more blue than the pinion jays of the United States Rockies. We played in the stream and began the long drive back home. I helped to keep us from falling off the road down those steep cliffs by never blinking and totally focusing on the road. I sure appreciated the way John drove. He was a champ; calm, competent, and an extremely careful driver. He was worn out by the end of the day.

We arrived home in the mid afternoon and somehow the rumor got started that our pots had all been fired without us. We made the best of it but were very disappointed. Fortunately this wasn't the case . We all headed over to Juan's courtyard again and helped to fire our little rag tag group of pots. Juan especially commented on Tina's work She had two skillfully drawn horses cavorting around her pot. (For what it's worth , I was impressed with Amy's) While the fire was burning down, Juan explained the collection of minerals and clays he had collected on his travels around the mountains and surrounding countries and the different colors of clays and paints he was experimenting with.

With our pottery lesson over and our pots successfully fired, we spent the next couple of days going from house to house looking at pottery. I had still not found the perfect pot - one with a classic design that I could afford. Every one of the pots were freehand drawn and painted Every potter had such beautiful work. Finally we stopped at the house of a very shy 14 year old girl. Her pots were exquisite and were being made for a show in the states. I paint, teach art, take lessons, spend time in art museums, and have friends that are artists, but when I saw her pots, it was a breaking point. I couldn't stop tears from rolling down my cheeks. I was embarrassed by this unexpected reaction but I couldn't help it. I was overwhelmed and humbled by the beauty and skill that had surrounded me all week. After she talked with her mentor and fellow potter, she sold me one of her's. It's hard to believe I own such a beautiful thing.

The trip was winding down. We packed and labeled our pots, sorted our stuff, and packed to go.

We sat in the cool courtyard, drank a final beer, and headed to bed. Next morning I had one last miga breakfast and we were off, retracing our route. We make a quick stop by the museum for a gift Tina wanted to get for her son, swung by the very first house we stopped at so Kristin could pick up her previously purchased pot, and drove to the border.

As always, a border crossing can be a chancy thing. We might have had to unpack and repack everything. The official was pleasant and courteous and asked a few civil questions. I think he felt sorry for John in a car with five women. He ask if we were Mormon. Tina broke us up and the official too when she told the man that we were all his wives. Laughing, he waved us through.

A race for the plane, a short flight to San Antonio, my husband, and home. I have been on many, many wonderful trips. This was, without a doubt, one of the absolute best.

Thanks, Kristin and John.

2000	Mata Ortiz, Mexico
	Mata Ortiz, in the middle of the desert.
	We tried to make our own pottery.... with limited success.
	Juan Quezada studied the old ways the local Indians made clay and pigments for their pots.
	He gathered local oars to make his pigments.
	Pots were fired over a dung fire.