- Venue
- Wellcome Trust (The)
- Location
- London
Having grown up in a traditional Mexican family, I may not the best person to review this exhibition. I am certainly not impartial to religious expressions and furthermore, Infinitas Gracias is not the kind of exhibition I would traditionally review, but the complex relationship between language, religion and the Mexican identity continues to fascinate me.
Mexican votives are small paintings that depict the moment when the saint prayed to grants the believer a favour considered miraculous. Infinitas Gracias features a hundred or so of these paintings, which I prefer to call by their original name, exvotos. Traditionally painted on tin tiles (widely available as construction materials in poorer countries), the exvotos are usually commissioned to specialised local artists and then presented to the saint in question. Churches where the practice is common are filled from roof to floor like an 18th century French salon; the exvotos playing the part of a communion between the believer and the sanctity.
Becoming rarer by the day, traditional exvotos are an offering – a way of giving thanks to the saint in question. The saint grants a miracle; the believer reciprocates with an exvoto and thus a relationship of friendship begins. The bond between them becomes tangible and grows stronger. This is clearly exemplified in the text that accompanies the paintings to describe the miracles. The atrocious spelling and derisory grammar mistakes (consequence of badly educated artists being commissioned by poor, uneducated families), coupled with the familiarity of the language, are as refreshing and surprising as a bucket of cold water. There isn’t even an attempt at using the formal address common in certain situations in the Spanish language. The pronoun usted (a pronoun used for senior figures, figures of authority or strangers, equivalent to the use of thy) is not present and tu (the informal pronoun) is used instead. The believer and the sanctity are friends and confidants, and their relationship is candid and common, rather than stuffy and distant – as one would expect when addressing a powerful holy figure.
Key to the exvotos, but often lost in translation, is the use of the verb encomendar. Literally translated as to entrust with something or to commend, this verb is used in most of the descriptions, meaning that the person has commended his health, his fortune, and his well-being to the saint in question. He has put his life in his hands and has no doubt that he will be rewarded. It is worth noting this, because sociologically it plays a big part in the character of Mexicans as a nation. We are happy to commend our fate to a saintly figure and allow things to happen “if it’s God’s will”. We pray actively and wait for results passively.
Aesthetically, the paintings are naïve like a child’s drawing and vernacular in their imagery. They lack exact proportions and are an untrained artist’s best attempt at representing the moment when the miracle happened. The text explains the scene but is frequently so ingeniously written that it serves as a cheeky remark with a slight air of insolence – an undeniable trademark of “Mexican-ness”. No miracle is too big or too small to deserve an exvoto: the miraculous lives truly in the eye of the beholder. Thus the feats range from saving one from imminent death, to giving thanks for the fertility of an egg laying chicken to the successful escape of a lover from the marital bed.
As any Mexican knows, it is essential that you pray to the right saint, as there is one for every shortage. There is Saint Jude Thaddaeus, patron of lost causes, Saint Cajetan, patron of money and work, Saint Anthony, patron of love, and even a saint for drug dealers (whose popularity has grown incommensurably in the last 10 years), Jesus Malverde. There is also a brown skinned Christ (Señor de Villaseca) and a mestizo virgin (The Virgin of Guadalupe). You should commend your worries to the most appropriate saint or to the one popularly considered the more miraculous. This exacerbates the very personal relationship that believers have with the chosen saint or virgin – they are also often referred to using diminutives, like one would refer to a loved relative. There is a touching video of a woman who calls the Brown Christ “Señor de Villasequita”, while she explains how he granted her the miracle of being able to make proper tortitas (similar to tortillas) for dinner.
The contemporary legacy of the exvotos is also on show at the exhibition. The modern-day offerings take the form of photographs, wedding dresses, diplomas and certificates, and all kinds of letters, showing that the tradition, although metamorphosed, is no less alive today. The offerings are less exotic but certainly no less personal or valuable.
The question, what makes this exhibition so fascinating, could be replaced by what makes faith so fascinating?
The Catholic religion, with its grand displays of faith and reticence to change, can be quite different from the open-minded, all-embracing Protestant church, and it has never been more evident than in the over-the-top votives shown at the Wellcome Collection. Looking at the exhibition, I wonder what the traditionally protestant British visitor makes of these exuberant displays of faith. Perhaps if you haven’t grown up surrounded by them, it is difficult to grasp their grip on the individual and the role they play in everyday life. Perhaps, since the practice takes place in a far away culture, it is perceived as the tropicalisation of faith. Either way it is fascinating at its best and strangely amusing in the worst case.
If there is anything to criticise of this exhibition it would be that the natural limitations of interpretation materials, coupled with the shortcomings of the English language do not allow the visitor to fully delve into the importance of language and its implications for the faithful. Crucial issues like the ones previously mentioned, are inevitably lost in translation. Otherwise, this exhibition is compelling, miraculous and faith inducing.
