At the entrance to Hermes Arroyo’s workshop, there was a collection of giant papier-mâché and cardboard figures taller than the door and adorned with ornaments, ready at any moment for one of the many parades and festivals held throughout the year on the cobblestone streets of this central Mexican city.
On one side, a smiling, bejeweled Day of the Dead skeleton; on the other, a voluptuous Spanish flamenco dancer in a polka-dotted dress, black lace mantilla, and provocative gaze. In the courtyard, a few steps away, oversized brides and grooms awaited their big day.
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These giant puppets, animated by the dancers who carry them, are called mojigangas. In other parts of Mexico, they are sometimes known by names that are variations on “giant” or “doll.”
They originate from Spanish traditions—the word “mojiganga” derives from the name of a style of burlesque and farcical theater—and have existed in the New World in one form or another for at least 250 years. Over time, they were incorporated into many community celebrations here and elsewhere in Latin America, as were their large-scale counterparts around the world, from the giants of Douai in France to the towering puppets of Dussehra festivals in India.
Arroyo, 54, became interested in mojigangas as a child in San Miguel, helping out from age 7 in the workshop of an uncle who made statues of saints, masks, and mojigangas. He uses his formal artistic training to make them pleasing and well-proportioned, what he described as “humanoid.”
“I want to fill the world with mojigangas,” Arroyo said with a big smile. To him, his creations are like the cake for a party. “A party without cake isn’t a party,” he said, “so for us, that’s the little piece we want to give.”
His aren’t the only mojigangas produced in San Miguel, but they’re the best known and have a distinctive aesthetic, according to Eduardo Berrocal López, director of operations at the Museo La Esquina, dedicated to Mexican folk art toys.
“He’s a wonderful sculptor,” Berrocal said, adding that Arroyo’s mojigangas tend to have a less rustic look, are better dressed (right down to his long paper eyelashes), and are more fun than most. “Not everyone has such beautiful finishes as he does.”
To create his cast of characters, Arroyo drew on classic Mexican archetypes, as well as his own life. Frida Kahlo is in his collection, but there are also representations of a bricklayer who used to work in her house and Doña Fausta, who made tortillas for the family.
In a nod to San Miguel’s large expat population, he has included gringo-looking mojigangas, some with incredibly blond hair, bright blue eyes, and, like most of his female characters, exuberantly large breasts. (He remembers getting in trouble during his Catholic school years for drawing them.)
Arroyo, his four assistants, and occasional collaborators work in a workshop downtown, in a house he calls La Casa de las Mojigangas (The House of Mojigangas). It’s where his paternal grandmother was born (the ground floor dates back to the 18th century) and where he grew up as the seventh of 12 siblings. Today he and his husband, Alfredo Aguilera, live there, and some members of his extended family occupy apartments that have been added over the years.
A small shop to the left of the main entrance sells local artisanal products, many of them homemade. Inside the main workspace, the walls and benches are cluttered with half-finished masks, figures of muscular lucha libre wrestlers still waiting for their arms, small statues of saints, and mojiganga heads and torsos in various stages of production.
The figures are made of paper and an adhesive solution, a version of papier-mâché called cartonería, which was brought to Mexico by the Spanish and remains popular in many traditional arts and crafts. The workshop purchases large rolls of heavy craft paper; one can weigh up to 180 kilograms (400 pounds).
Although she occasionally makes larger mojigangas (mojigangas), Arroyo’s creations typically stand about 2.4 meters tall on their own; their final height depends on the person wearing them. Fully clothed, each weighs between 12 and 15 kilograms (26 to 33 pounds).
A figure begins with a rough mold, made of rolled paper or plastic bags, to establish the general shape of the upper body. Then comes the meticulous process of dipping pieces of paper into the adhesive and applying them, one by one, to the mold to create a sturdy outer shell. After the covering has dried for a few days, the mold is removed, the figure is mounted on a basic frame of wooden sticks, and work begins on its distinctive features. From start to finish, it takes about three weeks to create a mojiganga.
Arroyo mixes her own colors of paint for the skin, eyes, and makeup, and two of her sisters sew the costumes, covering the length of the frame with long fabric drapes. When ready for use, the mojiganga is raised over the person’s head like a large dress, and the weight of the frame rests on the shoulders, supported by a harness made of plant fibers. Only the lower legs and feet peek out from underneath.
Unlike many puppets, mojigangas have no sticks or strings. The dancer attaches himself to the frame and uses body movements to push back the character’s hair or swing the plush fabric arms.
Mojigangas rest on a person’s shoulders, held in place by a harness made of plant fibers. Only the wearer’s lower legs and feet are visible. Credit…Fred Ramos for The New York Times
Puppetry is an ancient art form, probably as old as theater and even storytelling, according to Kristin Haverty of UNIMA International, an acronym for the International Marionette Union. “The desire to animate inanimate objects, I think, is something very innately human,” said Haverty, who heads the organization’s communications and public relations committee, which promotes puppetry worldwide.
Part of the beauty of giant puppets, she added, is that they can draw a crowd and create a communal experience: “Whether it’s for something festive, sad, or a protest, it brings people together.”
John Bell, an associate professor at the University of Connecticut and director of the school’s Ballard Institute and Puppetry Museum, said the size of the giant puppets made everything seem upside down.
“It’s very exciting, and it changes the scale of the public environment,” he said. “Suddenly, we’re very small. Buildings seem smaller. You’re in the presence of enormous forces.”
Mexico’s history with mojigangas is not well documented. “It’s clear that our tradition of giants, of these figures, comes from Spain,” said Graciela Cruz López, a local historian and longtime friend of Arroyo’s, who has researched the topic.
Emigrants from the Basque region of northern Spain would likely have introduced this aspect of their culture, she added, and, as far as she knows, the first documented appearance of these giant figures in Mexico occurred in the 18th century.
In San Miguel itself, Cruz said, the cartonería trade was already part of the city’s economy in the 1880 census. And by the early 20th century, several local workshops were making mojigangas and other cartonería figures, including, he said, representations of Judas (the disciple said to have betrayed Jesus) that were burned. To this day, Judas figures are destroyed with firecrackers during public Easter ceremonies.
Berrocal, of the La Esquina Museum, said San Miguel had some talented young mojigangueros, as mojiganga makers are called, including a nephew of Arroyo. So Arroyo “has to watch out because they’re going to catch him,” he said with a hearty laugh.
Full of Work
A man was painting a mojiganga head in the background, with three completed mojigangas in the foreground.
Arroyo mixes his own colors of paint for the skin, eyes, and makeup, and two of his sisters sew the costumes, covering the length of the structure with long fabric curtains. Credit…Fred Ramos for The New York Times
For more than 30 years, Arroyo has had a day job as an art teacher—not of mojigangas, but of a regular curriculum—at a special public vocational school for adolescents and young adults in a nearby city.
Part of his work with mojigangas focuses on supporting local culture. If a local nonprofit, school, church, or community organization needs mojigangas for an event, he will lend them free of charge (or perhaps in exchange for a plate of tamales), as a way to help maintain the tradition, he said.
As for the business, a pair of figures can be rented for about $150 an hour, which includes the services of the dancers who will carry them. They sell for about $500 each.
The workshop can disassemble, package, and ship a figure to buyers in other countries, although in some cases shipping can cost more than the mojiganga itself, noted Arroyo’s husband, Aguilera, who handles many of the logistical aspects of the business and organizes events.
Weddings are a big source of income. San Miguel is a destination for couples from all over Mexico and abroad, so Arroyo works with more than a dozen wedding planners to incorporate the appearance of mojigangas de novios (wedding couples) into the reception or a party.
The workshop can even elaborate on the figures’ features to resemble the real couple. One recent afternoon, Aguilera was touching up the ears of a mojiganga groom, occasionally glancing at a photo of the real groom-to-be on her phone.
Wedding mojigangas are usually rented, but sometimes the bride and groom like them so much they buy them, Arroyo said. “When they separate, they burn them,” she added with a wickedly cheerful laugh.
Arroyo also offers individual or group classes where visitors can spend a couple of hours on the patio painting and accessorizing their own mojiganga dolls, cardboard figures small enough to fit in a backpack.
One Saturday in February, Keira McCarthy was visiting San Miguel from her home in Woodbury, Long Island, New York, and was working on a “mini-me,” as she described it. The figure had been shaped in advance, based on a photograph she had sent of herself wearing an elegant black dress.
After painting the main surfaces, Arroyo handled the details, like the eyes and hair. She had her put flowers in the doll’s hair, and Arroyo added tiny sequins to the dress.
“I love having this experience with a master,” said McCarthy, who paid about $120 for the class. He said he planned to give the finished piece to his mother.
Arroyo declared himself satisfied with the result. “Very sexy,” he said.
Source: nytimes
