<center><evlplayer id="player1" w="720" service="vimeo" defaultid="435870456" /><center>

{|
! Shared by [https://franciscoberlanga.myportfolio.com/ Francisco Berlanga]
! Desde [https://franciscoberlanga.myportfolio.com/ Francisco Berlanga]
|-
|When I was a child, we had piñatas in my house on a regular basis, created by my mother for every birthday, posada and special event. With 4 siblings, there was always an endless stream of piñatas of every shape and colour, a constant cycle of creation and destruction. They have a history closely tied to celebrations, but it has been years since I have made one just for that purpose. I wonder if they will lose this meaning the longer I go without making them…

—The earliest use of the piñata in Mexico dates back to the Spanish conquest, as one of many tools used by the Spanish to foster religious conversion towards catholicism in indigenous communities. The piñata is traditionally made of clay and shaped like a star with seven points, with each point representing one of the seven deadly sins. The piñata as a whole, bathed in bright colours represents the constant allure of Satan. The stick and blindfold represent blind faith. Used to break the piñata, they release the sweets gifted by the holy spirit, in so doing ushering in a victory over sin —
Though my parents always made the point to teach me these religious origins, the piñatas in my house were almost never the traditional star. Despite this history the piñata was already becoming estranged from its own origins in my own home. I worry that with the loss of this meaning other stories I know from my family will also lose meaning.

One of my favourites, are the stories both my grandmothers always tell of their experiences with a piñata. One, recounts witnessing silly girls too distracted by cute intrepid boys to pay attention, and often being hit with the debris from piñatas when they broke open — This story is always told with frustration in her voice — The other, recounts being distracted and getting hit on the head with pieces of piñata debris when they broke open — always told very fondly — I find it funny how they share a similar story from different perspectives, and find the implication that one of my grandmothers was too distracted by boys, enough to be hit in the head by falling piñata, to be particularly entertaining.

I think about how I don’t really make piñatas anymore, and wonder how sharing these stories to future generations might have no meaning. If they have never broken a piñata does it make sense? Will I just stop telling it as it becomes too tedious to explain a piñata every time? Even as I write this to you, I struggle, the ñ does not appear on my keyboard and I don’t know the shortcut to type it. I must copy it from another document and paste it in — this act is becoming draining and I can feel myself losing the want to make sure that piñata is even spelt correctly — If I am already struggling, how will I have the motivation to explain it in the future? For this, I have no answer. I hear that there are piñatas at Christmas where you are, beware the falling debris. In the meantime, I hope to make a piñata soon. I'm afraid that these stories will pass away with me if I don’t.

|Cuando yo era un niño había piñatas de forma regular, hechas a mano por mi madre para cada cumpleaños, posada, o evento, con cuatro hermanos, había una corriente de piñatas de cada color y forma, un ciclo constante de creación y destrucción. Las piñatas tienen una historia enlazada con la celebración, pero han sido años desde que he hecho una específicamente para ese fin, me pregunto si perderán este significado apesar del tiempo sin hacerlas…

—El primer uso de la piñata en México data de la conquista española, siendo una de varias herramientas utilizadas por los españoles para fomentar la conversión religiosa hacia el catolicismo en los pueblos indígenas. Tradicionalmente se construye de barro con forma de estrella terminando en siete puntas, con cada punta representando uno de los siete pecados capitales. La piñata como conjunto, vestida de colores vibrantes, representa el encanto interminable de Satanás. El bastón y la venda representan la fé, y rompiendo la piñata libera los dulces otorgados por el espíritu santo, y así se logra la victoria sobre el pecado. —

Aunque mis padres siempre se fijaban en enseñarnos este origen religioso, las piñatas en mi casa casi núnca tuvieron la forma de la estrella original. Aún con esta historia, las piñatas de mi casa se iban alejando de sus orígenes. Me preocupa que con la pérdida de estos significados, otros cuentos que conozco sobre mi familia también irán perdiendo sentido.

Uno de mis favoritos son los cuentos que ambas de mis abuelitas relatan sobre sus experiencias con una piñata, una, cuenta ser testigo de niñas medio bobas distraídas por niños intrépidos, y que las niñas se frecuentaban lastimar con la caída de trozos de piñata — algo que siempre relata con un tono de frustración — La otra, cuenta ser distraída y golpeada con la llovizna de trozos de piñata — siempre contado esto con afecto — Me da risa que comparten una historia similar pero de perspectivas muy distintas, y me entretiene que una de mis abuelas estaría tan distraída por los chicos, para que le caigan pedazos de decoración encima.

He pensado de que ya casi no hago piñatas, y me pregunto ¿Si ya no tendrá significancia compartir estos cuentos en el futuro a nuevas generaciones? ¿Tendrá sentido si nunca han roto una piñata? ¿Pararé contando estos cuentos cuando se vuelva demasiado tedioso tener que explicar la piñata una y otra vez? Aún ahorita se me hace difícil mientras te escribo esto. La ñ no aparece en mi teclado y no sé el atajo para insertarla, la tengo que copiar de otro documento — este acto me agota y ya me siento perdiendo el interés en asegurar que escribo piñata de la forma correcta — Si ahorita ya se me hace dificil ¿Como tendré la motivación para explicarme en el futuro? Para esto, no tengo respuesta. Escucho que hay piñatas en Navidad ahí donde vives ¡aguas! no te distraigas con los chicos. Mientras, espero hacer una piñata pronto, temo que estos cuentos se quedaran conmigo si no cumplo.
|}

----

Written and shared in English by Francisco Berlanga in the summer of 2020, Translated by Oscar Alfonso

2020-07-15T16:54:27Z

Sameen: Created page with "<center><evlplayer id="player1" w="720" service="vimeo" defaultid="435870456" /><center> {| ! Shared by [https://mariahupfield.wordpress.com/ Maria Hupfield] ! Desde [https:/..."

<center><evlplayer id="player1" w="720" service="vimeo" defaultid="435870456" /><center>

{|
! Shared by [https://mariahupfield.wordpress.com/ Maria Hupfield]
! Desde [https://mariahupfield.wordpress.com/ Maria Hupfield]
|-
|Hello Avocado.

It is good to meet you little one. Am I pronouncing your name right? I wonder how many other names you have? Who are your ancestors? Where did they come from? What language did they speak? How did you get here? Who are your family and friends? How much do you like the sunshine and what do you like to eat? Are you comfortable now? Little avocado I wonder what you will grow to look like? How tall you will grow to be and if I will recognize you when you are grown. Are you into families and will you raise avocado of your own one day? Will you be lonely? I am told plants often look like the part of the body that they help like walnuts help the brain is this true for you? I do not know you. Hardly at all. I do not know all of your gifts only how your flesh tastes with some lime and salt when on sale for $1.99. Forgive me I do not know if you understand the language I am speaking right now? Little one I have a lot of work to do to deserve having you in my life. One day I would like to see where you came from, to know you and taste the difference.

|Hola Aguacate.

Me da gusto conocerte pequeñito. ¿Estaré pronunciando tu nombre de la forma correcta? Me pregunto ¿cuántos otros nombres tendrás? ¿Quienes son tus ancestros? ¿De dónde habrán venido? ¿Qué lenguas hubieran hablado? Me pregunto ¿cómo llegaste aquí? ¿Quienes son tus familiares y tus amistades? ¿Que tanto te gusta la luz del sol? y ¿qué te gusta comer? ¿Estarás cómodo ahorita? Pequeñito Aguacate, me pregunto ¿cómo te verás al crecer? A ¿qué estatura llegarás? y ¿si te podré reconocer? cuando hayas crecido. Te interesa lo familiar y ¿sembrarás aguacates propios algún día? ¿Te sentirás solitario? Me cuentan que las plantas luego se parecen a la parte del cuerpo que benefician, como el nogal beneficia al cerebro, ¿es esto verdadero para ti? No te conozco, casi para nada. Yo no conozco todos tus talentos, nada más sé cómo sabe tu carne con un poco de limón y sal cuando estas a la venta por un dólar y noventa y nueve centavos. Perdóname, no sé si ¿entiendes el idioma con cuál te hablo? Pequeñito tengo mucho trabajo que hacer para merecer tener tu presencia en mi vida. Algún día me gustaría ver de dónde vienes, para conocerte y saborear la diferencia.
|}

----

Written and shared by Maria Hupfield in the summer of 2020, Translated by Oscar Alfonso

I’m not sure I remember all of our names / No estoy seguro en nuestros nombres

2020-07-13T18:12:16Z

Sameen:

Expectations

2020-07-13T18:12:02Z

Sameen:

Expectations

Sameen: /* Ahoacaquáhuitl */

{{Infobox
|title = I'm not sure I remember all of our names / No estoy seguro en nuestros nombres
|artist = Sameen Mahboubi, Oscar Alfonso & Relations
|year = 2020
|text = Avocado Seedlings, Stories
|link1 = [[Link to Essay or Other Writing]]
|link2 = [[More Writing]]
|link2 = [[More Writing Again]]
}}

==El Proyecto==

I’m not sure I remember all of our names / No estoy seguro en nuestros nombres is a reflection on expectations and relationships: about the family members Oscar missed out on as a kid in Vancouver, of the friends he left to move to Toronto, and of all of the other folks who have entered, left, remained, or moved on, into so many other directions.

Honestly, I’m not sure I remember all of our names. Living through a pandemic no one wants, he currently rents and owns nothing that can be called home, is still in school, and has no child. In Mexico City, he at least has his avocado trees. Relations were invited to provide stories for these trees by responding with narratives that connected with ideas of travel, diaspora, expectations, obsolescence, or stationariness.

As with all diasporic storytelling, responses came from various unexpected sources: close friends, mentors, adoptive aunts, and the occasional hook-up. For now, and forever, our children they will be.

Hello!

So I know it’s been many months now, but I’m apparently twenty-seven and a half which means that I’m older than both of my parents were when I was born. Alas, I currently rent and own nothing that can be called home, am still in school, have no child, and am like most (all) of you living through a pandemic that we were not planning for.

Somehow in grad school, and quarantining en la Ciudad de Mexico I’ve been thinking a lot about expectations and about relationships. About the family members I missed out on as a kid in Vancouver, of the friends I left in order to go to Toronto, and of all of the other folks who have entered, left, remained, or moved on, into so many other directions. Honestly, I’m not sure I remember all of our names.

But I’m currently working on a project that I would like to invite you to be a part of. I’m not sure I remember all of our names / No estoy seguro en nuestros nombres is part of an online group exhibition called What you see is what you mean that I’m participating in with my 1st year classmates in the Masters of Visual Studies Program at the University of Toronto. This online exhibition is a collaboration with Sameen Mahboubi and three other curators from Hearth in Toronto and is included in Vector Festival, organized by InterAccess in Toronto.

This project largely revolves around my reading to a small cluster of Avocado seedlings in order to engage in a parenting relationship that is rooted in diasporic-pandemic storytelling. I would like the stories that I read and share to come from the folks I know, or have known, in the course of my own life. For now, and forever, our children they will be.

What does diasporic-pandemic storytelling look like to an avocado tree?

There are several threads here:

The first thread is institutional and it is about ~self~ in the case of these Avocado trees this narrative thread will include Mexica codices, Spanish narrative descriptions from the 16th century, contemporary export norms, lessons on how to prepare guacamole, heck, maybe even a superbowl ad. I’ve grown up in schools so this thread is my jam.

The stories that I would like to encounter and share from those in my own relationship networks carry the rest of the narrative.

The second thread arises from the Avocados as a species that co-evolved, originally rooted in a symbiotic relationship with now extinct prehistoric megafauna that would eat them and disperse the avocado seeds in widespread Avocado forests. This thread is about obsolescence. What is no more? What can no longer be done? Who is now gone?

==Relations==

Desde [[Maria Hupfield]]
 Desde [[Paola Quiros]]
 Desde [[Joni Cheung]]
 Desde [[Stephanie Durán Castillo]]
 Desde [[Danni Gárate Cubillos]]
 Desde [[Davey Samuel Calderon]]
 Desde [[Emny Moghrabi]]
 Desde [[Jin-me Yoon]]
 Desde [[Joseph Nomellini]]
 Desde [[Giulio]]
 Desde [[Oscar Mauricio Bernardo Lira Espinosa]]

==Ahoacaquáhuitl==

'''Of the ''Ahoacaquáhuitl'' or tree resembling the oak which bears fruit'''

A large tree with citrus leaves, greener, wider, and more scattered; bearing small flowers, white with yellow; the fruit has the shape of an egg, but it is much larger in some respects, it is more like a wild fig in shape and size, black on the outside, greenish on the inside, of a creamy texture like that of lard and with the flavour of walnuts. The leaves are fragrant and of a hot and dry temperament of the second order, for which they are conveniently used in lavatories. The fruits are also hot, pleasant to taste, and of a not insignificant nutritional quality, rather creamy, moist, and one which extraordinarily benefits the venereal appetite and augments semen; They contain white pits with some reddish tones, solid, heavy, glossy, and split into two halves like an almond, though oblong in shape and a little larger than the eggs of a dove. These bones have the flavour of a bitter almond, and produce when pressed an oil similar to that of the almond not just in smell, but also in taste and its other properties. It cures rashes, scars, favours the dysenteric bearing any astringency, and avoids the splitting of hairs. The tree has leaves the whole year, and grows in all regions spontaneously or under cultivation, although it grows more easily and reaches greater heights in warm plains.

'''Of the second ''Ahoacaquáhuitl'' or mountain ''ahoácatl'''''

It has smaller leaves, a more reddish trunk and branches, and much smaller fruit than the wild or orchard variety, not exceeding the size of the Damascene Plum; in every other way it is of the same form and nature. It grows in uncultivated, rough, and mountainous environments.<ref>Excerpted and translated from La alimentación de los antiguos mexicanos en la Historia Natural de Nueva España de Francisco Hernández (2007) ed. Cristina Barros y Marco Buenrosto. 
This book uses text from a reedition of la Historia Natural de Nueva España published in 1959 by the National Autonomous University of Mexico (UNAM) as part of Volume I and II of las Obras Completas de Francisco Hernández. The original text dates to the 1570s when Francisco Hernández traveled Mexico documenting it on behalf of the Spanish Crown.</ref>

==Sites==

*In progress*

This project was carried out in Mexico City on the former lakeshore of el Lago de Texcoco in the vicinity of the rivers Tacubaya, Becerra, y de la Piedad which were progressively buried and entombed in concrete between 1949 and 1956. Mixcoac forms part of what is known by the Mexica as Anáhuac, or "that situated near or between waters."