Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
Going for Baroque
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
After deplaning at the Puebla, Mexico, airport, I watch for the black suitcase with my crumpled heart jammed into a side pocket. When the customs officer asks about the purpose of my visit. I say, “sightseeing,” but I mean “traveling takes my mind off life’s simmering hurts.”
As he stamps my passport, I want to tell him about my slow-burning heart. Like a boiling pot of black beans. Or a steamy Mexican posole.
Earlier in the year, a faculty colleague betrayed me. The oozing wound on my heart is, not so much about the betrayal, but the discovery that my ability to judge human character, human fealty, is disconcertingly defective. Now, I know better. I can’t trust myself to trust the people I once trusted.
Puebla hosts the International Museum of the Baroque. Baroque art and architecture in its heyday entertained, bedazzled—and distracted—the peasantry. Daily drudgeries were glittered away with gold leaf and lacquered cherubs dancing to the Lord’s Prayer. Mind-control by glitz.
Carlos Fuentes called the Baroque Era “an art of abundance…the art of those who have nothing else.” In my case, nothing left.
The museum is baroque architecture modernized. Luxurious. Opulent. Like a Vogue magazine cover.
Towering, undulating white curves of concrete gleam in the glazing sunlight. The museum building is a fashionable, flamboyant woman promenading on a breezy Mexican afternoon. Wearing a flowing white skirt and matching blouse, she is twirling, twirling in place, savoring the attention from anonymous strangers.
For centuries 17th-century baroque facades, embroidery, statuary and music have stirred us: Lose yourself in me. Let me help you forget. Let my extravagance lift you up.
Inside the museum, the baroque style is a strange soup. A gaudy hodge-podge of figurines, angel wings, moldings and spires. The glossy ornamentation crowds my eyes.
At the music exhibit, I am seated in a darkened, multi-media theater. An oboe materializes on the screen and plays itself. Then a harpsichord plays. Finally, a full ensemble of instruments starts playing Mozart—without musicians. Without people. I like that.
The vibe is ethereal, a bit eerie. Like the richness of a baroque brocade, the music is melodic, restful, soothing, embracing. A baroque distraction.
As I leave the museum, the Mexican sun is at the height of its powers. Glaring at me. Accusing me of I-don’t-know-what. The pavement cooks my canvas shoes. My eyes hurt from squinting. Sweat soaks the back of my shirt, my neck, my armpits.
The museum cure for my cracked heart is baked out of me. I need another fix.
I hail a taxi headed towards the zócalo. The windows are stuck, wide open. When the taxi is moving, dry air cools my sweaty face. At stop signs, I am roasted like a goat at a barbacoa.
To escape the heat, I wander into the Chapel of the Rosary. The sixty-foot-high walls, the altar, the ceiling are covered with gleaming, mesmerizing gold leaf. America’s grand deflections—sports arenas, large museums, mega-churches—have the same mind-numbing purpose. It’s the painkilling opioid that I’ve been hungering for, praying for.
I settle into a pew. Sheltered. Sanctuaried. Safe from myself.
