If you want to be astonished by one great artist's creative output, get your ass to the Secretaria de Educacion Publica, a nondescript government building in Mexico City and take a gander at the 120 frescoes Diego Rivera painted on the four walls of an interior courtyard, mostly in the early 1920s.
"Tehuantepec Women" (1923)
"The Rural Teacher" (1923)
"The Deer Dance" (Detail, 1923)
The world order recently had been shaken up by both the Mexican (1910) and Russian (1917) revolutions. Rivera clearly sympathized with the workers.
"The Market" (1923-24)
"The Corn Festival" (1923-24)
"Leaving The Mine" (1923)
That's not to suggest he and Frida, his second wife, were revolutionaries despite his militant depiction of her (center, orange) beneath the hammer and sickle. He accepted commissions from Edsel Ford and John D. Rockefeller, both uber Capitalists in the early 30s.
"In The Arsenal" (1929)
But I'm guessing that Rivera would have ascended to a higher rank in the canon of Western Civilization if his work on the upper floor wasn't so unsparing in its depiction of greedy individuals who profit from the labor of others. It's almost cartoonish.
"The Wall Street Banquet" (1928)
"The Orgy" (1928)
Until it's not. Here's the post-revolutionary fate Rivera imagines for the One Percent in his homeland.
"Death of the Capitalist" (1928)
The jacaranda trees were almost in full bloom during our visit. Benito Juárez, the first indigenous president of Mexico and the man responsible for separating the church from the state in the Mexican constitution, gestures from beneath.
Bas reliefs, set off by gold-colored brick, decorate the intersection of the walls on the upper floors.
You'll also find the symbol of Mexico on the third floor, along with the seals of many of Mexico's 31 states. Rivera's students helped him paint these.
I'm ashamed to admit I didn't know the name of the state that's home to Ciudad Juárez, just across the border from where I grew up in El Paso.
Rivera didn't create all the art work adorning the Secretaria de Educacion Publica. You almost can feel the exertions of these clearly Mesoamerican men.
What better way to start our Scotland adventure than going to Mackintosh at the Willow for prosecco tea?
It introduced us to three essentials of the Scottish experience: sweets, booze and Rennie Mackintosh.
Too bad impenetrable scaffolding encased Glasgow's School of Art, his most famous commercial building.
Security guards chased us out of the Assembly Hall which could have used some sprucing up IMHO.
Student artwork adorned the alley behind the building.
A display of Young Mungo, the latest novel by Douglas Stuart, filled the front window of a bookstore on Sauciehall Street. Yep, that's two young men (who worship at different altars) smooching. Shuggie Bain, Stuart's Man Booker prize-winning work had taught me everything I knew about Glasgow. It's a wonder I wanted to visit at all!
We got one of our few chances to use the brollies we lugged all the way from New York after the City Chambers inexplicably cancelled ther 2:30 p.m. tour of its Beaux Arts building in St. George Square. I hoped to see a series of enormous murals painted by the Glasgow Boys.
It turns out there is no shortage of murals in Glasgow as we discovered en route to the cathedral, the city's oldest structure.
This one impressed even Thom, not usually a fan of street art.
Dedicated in 1197, the Glasgow Cathedral is one of only two medieval cathedrals in the country to have survived the Reformation nearly intact (we saw the other one, on the Orkney Islands, too).
The low, modest entrance deceives.
St. Mungo, the patron saint of Glasgow, lies entombed in the basement. I can't wait to read Stuart's provocatively titled book!
The necropolis, a Victorian cemetery high atop a nearby hill, affords a much better view of the cathedral's exterior.
You know I loves me a graveyard and this one really delivers some shivers. Its 50,000 souls are closer to heaven, that's for sure.
After a brief nap, we still had plenty of time to explore the area near our hotel. The sun didn't set until 9:40 p.m.
The light and scale of Central Station, rated by commuters as one of the United Kingdom's finest, reminded me a bit of New York City's new Moynihan Train Hall.
Minus the glorious 19th-century ironwork detail, of course.
"Black Lives Matter" in Scotland, too, although you'd never know it from the color of this commemorative statue.
American culture is inescapable whether you're driving, biking or walking.
Down by the River Clyde, scene of Glasgow's former shipping glory, we glimpsed the latest iteration of the Trainspotting crew. Stealth surveillance from above revealed they were looking at their phones, not huffing glue. The jury's still out on which is more dangerous.
Glasgow exudes a faded grandeur, ripe for gentrification.
Murals were more likely to be masked than residents.
I'll bet the local arts scene is really happening, like Soho in the 70s and 80s.
These lads kindly explained what Scots mean by "a pie and a pint." When I told them we were American tourists, the one on the right demonstrated the Scottish predilection for "taking the piss out" of people. "Ya don't say!" he exclaimed in mock surprise.
A sudden squall sent us back to our hotel. Glasgow's photogenic but limited subway system didn't help us get there.
