I have been blessed as a painter by having wonderful spaces in which to work, both in the city and in the country.  In the city from November to April, for more than the past ten years, I have painted in the studio created by the late Saul Lambert,  internationally recognized  illustrator and spiritually and physically powerful painter.  In the country, from April to November, a painting studio grown out of a sturdy three car garage lifts my mood and inspires me to work every time I step into it.  Having a good studio space is really really important.  Here are just a few artists' quotations on their connections with their studios:

Bruce Nauman:  "I was an artist and I was in the studio, so whatever I was doing in the studio must be art."

Delacroix, the more romantic, describes the studio as:  "...the crucible where human genius at the apogee of its development brings back to question not only that which is, but creates anew a fantastic and conventional nature which our weak minds, impotent to harmonize it with existing things, adopt by preference, because the miserable work is our own."

And the more direct and slightly less intimidating words about his studio from a very old abstract expressionist painter:  "Don't go in there.  I have been making wild passionate love in there for fifty years.  It is not pretty." 

     This year, because of the pandemic,  there was not the usual seasonal transfer from country studio to city studio.  For the first time since buying our country home in 1986, we decided not to return to the city and to spend the winter in Pine Plains.   Because the country studio is not fully insulated and has a concrete floor that holds the cold, I needed another space, a heated space, in which to work. 

     A room above the metal working shop of the artist and artisan, Tim Jones, became the solution.  Tim had been using the room only as a storage space.  Once emptied, it became a room large enough for some painting.  I brought in some lights and a lot of my painting stuff --- a working studio requires a lot of stuff.  I began work there in November and just moved back into my own studio at the end of March.  It was a good five months.

     Let me tell you a little about each of these photos that I took before leaving Tim's space.

     The space in which I worked is on the second floor of Stissing Design.  Tim's working areas are to the left.  On the first floor of this section is a display area for Tim's work that is now being transformed into an art gallery for the work of many local artists. 
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     This is the entry to my painting space.  At the top of the staircase to the second floor, I placed a 'Japanese corner" with calligraphy and local grasses.
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     Here is where the important stuff happens.  I set up my easel to take advantage of the best light available in this space.  I made use of the structures already there in the room like this shelf that became home for still life objects.

     And these are the other work areas:  the work table and the desk, both at a distance and up close, where I did research and took notes on the work.
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     The next photo shows some of the paintings that happened in this space.  They are in a tower that Tim made for the display of paintings, while planning his gallery downstairs.

     The studio's textiles.  Here are the cloths I use in still life paintings and my much loved French farmer's smock.  How could I paint without it?

     The view out my only window.  In the background, the trees for which Pine Plains is famous. Closer are the compartments of a storage faculty; and in the foreground, some of Tim's sculptures.

     Last, but certainly, not least, are the guardians of the studio space.  The first is a five foot tall charcoal and chalk drawing that I did of an African ritual object that I have had with me in studios and offices for many many years.  We close with Ula who watches over all of my moves in the studio, insuring I always work from my heart as well as mind.

     A New Yorker writer once described Tommy Tune, the tall song and dance man famous for his showmanship and big, fancy productions on Broadway, as "never having met a costume he didn't like."  I feel that way about myself: I never met a cup I didn't like and didn't want to paint.

     Pottery has been especially important to me these days, during the pandemic.  We spend so much time at home. The objects we have at hand have a solemnity and prominence we didn't always give them when we rushed from home to the outside world.  Now, we can savor and linger over that morning coffee and make a slow ritual of tea in the afternoon.  Given how much I had come to appreciate these moments with cup in hand over the last several months, it seemed right to bring them into the painting studio and do their portraits. 

     This white French porcelain cafe au lait cup is my favorite way of drinking a latte in the morning.  There is something wonderful about having to hold both sides of the bowl, with fingers around the lions' heads and face deep in the bowl.  We have collected these bowls at local estate sales and at distant flea markets in our travels.  All of our bowls have been preowned and preloved.

​     This object provokes so many memories.   I will always remember the first time a waiter in a simple French cafe poured hot strong coffee from a pitcher in one hand while pouring hot milk from a smaller pitcher in his other hand; for me, into a bowl like this.  Coffee never tasted so good.  With a marvelous baquette and un oeuf sur le plat, I thought I had gone to heaven. 

     In the painting, my latte bowl sits on a favorite piece of antique French cloth. 

     There are some mornings when it feels just right to hold both a cup and a saucer.  We found this mid-century cup in an antique store in Northeast Harbor, Maine.  At first site, I loved the cup, its color and shape; but that it came from Maine -- a spot very close to my heart -- made it really special.  The object was made by a potter in Blue Hill, Maine.  

     In the painting, the cup and saucer sit on a favorite tablecloth for picnics.  The cloth brings a relaxed country mood to the modern object.

     Talk about modern design.  This is one of two mugs I brought back from a visit to the Heath Ceramics store in Sausalito, California.  Health Ceramics was founded in 1948 by the ceramic artist and studio potter, Edith Heath.  Although this particular mug was created after the business was taken over by others, it has all of the handcrafted beauty, functionality, and timeless style for which the company has always been known.  I like to drink strong black tea in this mug, with just a touch of milk.

     No special cloth here.  The mug sits on a simple linen napkin, also purchased at Heath.  As I set up the still life/portrait, the mug called for a very simple, minimalist background.

     My Zen cup.  This is one of a pair of cups purchased at a marvelous pottery in the Berkshires, known for its famous kiln and for the formal tea ceremonies it hosted. I am always enchanted by the glaze on these cups.  The blue is startling, but so are the many greys.  This is an especially good cup for Japanese tea and any other green tea.

     No cloth at all here.  The cup sits on a wooden cutting board.  While working on this painting, I was also experimenting with an ochre background.  I just couldn't resist the combination of yellow and blue. 

        This solidly crafted mug with its unusual handle was purchased at the Bennington Pottery in Bennington, Vermont.  It is good for an afternoon latte, when I let myself do that, and for soups.  It sits on a favorite piece of estate sale velour fabric in a strange greenish tone.  The painting came to be about playing with different versions of white.

     By the time I got to this cup, my still life objects had begun a revolt.  They organized to tell me that they had had enough of being painted all alone, without any company.  "Isn't it bad enough that so many people are feeling so alone in these pandemic days," they asked me, "why do we need to be alone, why can't we have company in your paintings of us."  The Vermont cup had a particularly strong and grumpy way of putting this point, so I agreed to add a clear bottle to the set up.   Early in the painting, I realized that the bottle had brought along its own friend, its shadow.  Now we were three in the painting.

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     Early in my art training as an adult, I learned an important lesson about listening to music while working.  The lesson was provoked by a young woman in the class who was always plugged into some sort of music-playing device.  She liked her music loud, so even though she wore headphones, we all got to "enjoy" what she was listening to.  Bearing this for a while but reaching his limit by the third class, the teacher told her to unplug.  He told us all that we should draw and paint only to our own internal music.  Listening to others' music was a dangerous distraction, he said. Radios, tape players, walkmen, etc. were from that day on banned from the class.

     Then and now, I understand what that teacher was getting at.  There is music inside my heart and soul that is an invaluable guide to the work.  It shouldn't be blocked by an external source of music.  Nonetheless, I have found it helpful at particular times in the painting studio to have others' music available for listening.  I like to start off a work session with some favorite music, and then, within minutes, I no longer hear what my iPhone is playing.  Once the painting gets going, I go off somewhere where there is only that internal music.  When I stop painting to take a break or call it a day,  I return to ordinary consciousness and what my iPhone is playing.  

     What I want to write about is the music I choose to play in this listening/no listening way.  Below are some of the composers, artists, and radio stations on Pandora from which I am selecting my daily fare, these days.  Without an upgrade, I unfortunately cannot share audio files.  I am forced to resort here to You Tube clips.  I hope you can hear snippets from them without being bombarded by too many ads.  

     Best is to start off every day of painting with Johann Sebastian Bach.  The composer's combination of order and surprise is always inspiring and launches me quickly into the deep parts of the work.

      

 
     By the middle of the morning session, I am taking a break and needing to hear a little piano music, usually something composed by Chopin and played by Maurizio Pollini or Jeremy Denk.  The break involves sitting or standing and just looking at what I have been painting -- I look at it straight on, I turn it upside down or on its side, I bring it to the natural light by the window,  I look at it reversed in a mirror.  The beauty of Chopin guides me into this reviewing process but then, before I know it, I don't hear Chopin anymore, brush is back in hand, and I am painting again.  

      By mid-afternoon, I am ready for some jazz.   That could be something like Pandora's Dinner Jazz station, selections from Paul Desmond,  Bill Evans, or Django Reinhardt.  These days, the wonderful guitarist, Roni Ben-Hur is just what I need as I move into my final painting session of the day.  The careful attention and sensitivity that Roni shows in his guitar playing is exactly what I want to bring to my painting before leaving it for the evening. 

     It is getting dark outside.  It is hard to put down the brushes and usually takes at least four attempts.  Finally, I stop.  Now, this is when the music really rocks in the studio.  The music is for listening and even dancing. It is not going to usher me back into the work.  All is has to do is keep me company as I clean my brushes, scrape my palette, and do a general tidying up.  As the sun starts to set,  French popular music like Yves Montand,  Latin-inspired cocktail music like Pink Martini or Tito Paris,  wonderful rock and roll from Nick Lowe or Lou Reed help me call it a day.

     One day before the COVID pandemic struck and shut down New York City, we arrived in Mexico, in San Miguel de Allende, for what was to have been our annual month long stay.  Given growing health risks in New York, the seemingly lower risk in Mexico, and the generosity of friends, we decided to extend our time.  We were in Mexico until early June, nearly two months longer than planned.  

     As a way of keeping in contact with friends and family while we were away from home, within our first week, I began sending out daily poems to people through email.  The launch was set by a group email from my friend, Michelle Fine, who wrote to current and former friends and family of the CUNY Graduate Center to check in on how we all were doing.  I responded to her and her full list with a poem.  Since then, the list of "Poetry Friends" has grown and nearly 350 poems and wise words have been delivered.  The poetry posting has become an important part of my morning ritual, a very rewarding way of being in contact with others during this very difficult time we are all struggling to get through.

     From time to time, I plan to post on this blog selections from the daily emails (I promise, not too many), as a way of keeping a record.  Today, I share some very favorite early poems from Mexico.

The Undertaking
 
The darkness lifts, imagine, in your lifetime.
There you are - cased in clean bark you drift
through weaving rushes, fields flooded with cotton.
You are free. The river films with lilies,
shrubs appear, shoots thicken into palm. And now
all fear gives way: the light
looks after you, you feel the waves' goodwill
as arms widen over the water; Love

the key is turned. Extend yourself -
it is the Nile, the sun is shining,
everywhere you turn is luck.
 
                                                     – Louise Glück
 
 
In the Morning, Before Anything Bad Happens
 
The sky is open
all the way.
Workers upright on the line
like spokes.
I know there is a river somewhere,
lit, fragrant, golden mist, all that,
whose irrepressible birds
can’t believe their luck this morning
and every morning.
I let them riot
in my mind a few minutes more
before the news comes.
 
                            – Molly Brodak (1980-2020)
 
 
In a world of grief and pain,
Flowers bloom.
Even then. 

• Kobayashi Issa (1763-1828)

Goodbye to Tolerance 
Genial poets, pink-faced   
earnest wits--
you have given the world   
some choice morsels,
gobbets of language presented
as one presents T-bone steak
and Cherries Jubilee.   
Goodbye, goodbye,
                            I don’t care
if I never taste your fine food again,   
neutral fellows, seers of every side.   
Tolerance, what crimes
are committed in your name.
 
And you, good women, bakers of nicest bread,   
blood donors. Your crumbs
choke me, I would not want
a drop of your blood in me, it is pumped   
by weak hearts, perfect pulses that never   
falter: irresponsive
to nightmare reality.
 
It is my brothers, my sisters,
whose blood spurts out and stops
forever
because you choose to believe it is not your business.
 
Goodbye, goodbye,
your poems
shut their little mouths,   
your loaves grow moldy,   
a gulf has split
                     the ground between us,
and you won’t wave, you’re looking
another way.
We shan’t meet again--
unless you leap it, leaving   
behind you the cherished   
worms of your dispassion,   
your pallid ironies,
your jovial, murderous,   
wry-humored balanced judgment,
leap over, un-
balanced? ... then
how our fanatic tears
would flow and mingle   
for joy ...
 
Denise Levertov
 
 
 
What Issa Heard
Two hundred years ago Issa heard the morning birds
singing sutras to this suffering world.
I heard them too, this morning, which must mean,
since we will always have a suffering world,
we must also always have a song.
 

• David Budbill

 
 
The World Has Need of You
                             everything here
                             seems to need us
                                         —Rainer Maria Rilke
 
I can hardly imagine it
as I walk to the lighthouse, feeling the ancient
prayer of my arms swinging
in counterpoint to my feet.
Here I am, suspended
between the sidewalk and twilight,
the sky dimming so fast it seems alive.
What if you felt the invisible
tug between you and everything?
A boy on a bicycle rides by,
his white shirt open, flaring
behind him like wings.
It’s a hard time to be human. We know too much
and too little. Does the breeze need us?
The cliffs? The gulls?
If you’ve managed to do one good thing,
the ocean doesn’t care.
But when Newton’s apple fell toward the earth,
the earth, ever so slightly, fell
toward the apple.
                               – Ellen Bass
 

The print invites the viewer to fill in her own explanation of the scene. For me, the woman at the left edge of the print is Sabina. She stands at an open window at the Burgholzli hospital where she was admitted just a few months earlier in a highly anxious state. She is calm now and looks to the light outside. She is perhaps a little apprehensive, but mostly, she is optimistic. She sees a world outside that will provide opportunities to put to good use the brilliance she is sure she possesses.  She sees possibilities to actualize the special calling she knows she is destined for.

At the same time that she looks into the light, Sabina looks away from the large mass of darkness to her left (our right). That darkness contains memories of her troubled childhood, including abuse by her father whose love she sought. The darkness also holds those negative ideas and feelings she has long carried about terrible things yet to happen in her life. The window seems a way out of the darkness, yet the darkness encroaches her space.

At the leading edge of the black mass that takes over most of the print is a man. For me, that man is Carl Jung. He engages Sabina in a conversation. Part of that talk may be helpful to her. He stands with Sabina at the window, he may be encouraging her to engage with life and work outside the clinic. Nonetheless, he is an ominous figure. As I look at him, taking over a little too much of Sabina’s space, I cannot help but think of the harm and injustice in his close sensual relationship with Sabina. That happened when she was his young vulnerable patient and he was her older married physician. Sabina writes that she both loved and hated Jung. In her diary and letters, she records many ways he rejected her and sought to limit her possibilities. He is indeed part of the darkness she seeks to escape.

​In the second 1897 print, The Symphony, Vallotton shows us a young woman who sits and performs at a grand piano. Half of the print is taken up with her serious playing. At the left are a group of men who look at her and listen. It is an updated Susanna and the Elders image: Older men observe and leer at a beautiful young woman. 

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We live with photographs always at hand. All our media sources are filled with peoples’ pictures, friends and family are constantly sending us pictures of themselves, we have selfies; and, of course, there are Facebook and Instagram images showing us how so many of us look, in so many places, at so many times. It is distressing now when we can’t find an image of another person.

​This is a blog about a woman with an exceptionally sparse photographic record and a story of how I tried to make up for that lack by creating an image of her through the art of her time and my own.  First, I will write something about who the woman was and then I will share images of paintings and prints that I think show us something about her.  The artists who helped me fill out the picture are Felix Vallotton, Ernst Kirchner, and Eri Iwasaki.

​Sabina Spielrein was an early psychoanalyst. She worked in Austria, Germany, Switzerland, and Russia from the early part of the 20th century until her death in 1942 in the Nazis’ massacre of Jews in the Russian town of Rostov. She made pioneering contributions to child analysis and development; and the understanding of critical ideas such as the relevance of evolutionary theory to psychology, and the link between the death instinct and the sex instinct. She was an extensively published scholar, a teacher and lecturer, and a clinician and analyst. She was a member of the Vienna Psychoanalytic Society and the analytic associations in Switzerland and Russia.  She had important ties with key figures in the field, including Freud, Bleuler,  Piaget, and Vygotsky.  Still a teenager, she was briefly a patient at the Burgholzli Clinic where she was treated by Carl Jung. She quickly went on to become Jung’s research assistant and student, collaborator, and close friend.   

In spite of the breadth of her connections and key role in the creation of a scholarly respectable psychoanalysis, Sabina Spielrein and her work were virtually forgotten from the time of her death until the late 1970s.  All the scholarly and clinical work she had done appeared to have been erased.  Thankfully, that changed in the late 70s with the discovery in Geneva of her personal papers including a diary and letters.  Since then,  scholars have begun paying attention to her work and writing seriously about it.  The popular media has also taken notice.  Unfortunately, too much popular attention has put the spotlight on her relationship with Carl Jung and questions about the whether theirs was a sexual connection and the extent to which it set up a triangle involving Sabina, Jung, and Freud.  Her work, again, appears to be at risk of being overlooked.

In wanting to know more about Sabina and how she moved through her very complicated times and places, I wanted to know what she looked like.  Unfortunately, I could find only two photographs of Sabina as an adult.  Both were very fuzzy images, one from her identity papers (1931) and the other, a group shot of the men and women staff of the Institut Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1921).  
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One afternoon, not so long ago, I encountered three amazing images of women. In each, a woman wears a special head covering.  The first came from a posting by my photographer friend, Ulas Tosun.  It presents a woman he photographed wearing wonderfully colorful clothing.  Hers is the face of an older woman, strong and showing signs of a life lived with determination. 

I was taken by her strong stance and I loved all the patterns and color.  I thought it would be wonderful to be up close enough to paint her portrait.  Those eyes and the hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth would be wonderful to try to get down on canvas.  Hers, I am sure, would be an important story to tell.  And then, there was the invitation to handle the posture as well as Picasso did in his large classical figures and to present the color and patterns with the inspiration of Matisse and his odalisques.

Just hours after finding Ulas' photograph, I found myself in front of the magnificent painting of the Visitation by Pontormo, the Italian Renaissance painter; on view at the Morgan Library and Museum, from September 7, 2018, to January 6, 2019.  Standing just under seven feet tall in recently restored brilliant color, it is quite a painting to encounter. 

Sitting there, looking up, way up, I was in awe of the canvas, wanting to take in as much of it as I could.  And then, suddenly, my eyes stopped and fixed on the woman in the background of the painting.  She was in the background but swiftly moving to the center of my focus.  The woman with the grey green veil on her head. most likely accompanying Elizabeth, the older cousin, to her meeting with Mary, called to me.  She seemed to be saying:  "Don't you recognize me?"  She did indeed remind me of the woman in Ulas' photo.  Younger perhaps and of a different time and place but equally compelling.  She was already in a painting, a magnificent painting but I wanted to paint her again.

Those two images should have been enough for one afternoon.  But then, on the way home, dealing with a bus that took too long in traffic, I found myself on Facebook with an another amazing woman.  Debra Rapoport posted the photograph below of a woman draped in a variety of kinds of netting.  Again, there are the eyes so filled with life, the suggestion of a wise smile, and the covering of the head.  Clearly, she is looking at me, and at you.

I have invited each of these women to my studio.   I am not sure what will happen as I try to engage them in an art project, but last week's drawing exercise while working with Ulas' photo gives me hope.

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          An art exhibition was not as important in sending us to Oaxaca; as the Derain, Balthus, and Giacometti exhibit was in launching our trip to France.  Nonetheless, another museum show did provide a strong second for our decision to travel to a new part of Mexico.  Many friends had encouraged us to branch out beyond San Miguel de Allende and spend some time in Oaxaca: "If you like San Miguel, you will love Oaxaca."  Friends' words were resoundingly supported at a lovely show at the Yale University Art Gallery last summer,  Small-Great Objects:  Anni and Josef Albers in the Americas.  This was an exhibition of pieces of art that the Albers, an artist couple -- she, an esteemed textile artist; he, an esteemed painter -- had collected in their travels in Mexico and South America.  The Albers had loved Mexico, especially Oaxaca, for its art, grand Prehispanic ruins, food, weather, and friends with whom they enjoyed life in a very special way.
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          The exhibit contained beautiful pieces of sculpture and textiles, alongside examples of art by Anni and Josef Albers that their collection had inspired.  Also to accompany the show, Yale University provided charming audiotapes by Anni Albers describing their love of Mexico to which they travelled many times in their lives,  over a period of thirty years beginning in 1935.   

​          Many things stopped me in my tracks as I toured the exhibit.  Anni's textiles, with which I was less familiar than her husband's paintings, were stunning in their beauty and link to the weavings and other art forms she had found in Mexico.  Josef's paintings, set along side photographs he had taken of Mexican homes, made really clear the connections between his iconic square paintings and what he had seen when he looked at Mexican windows and doors.  

          How lucky were we to be going to a place that had so captivated these wonderful artists and stirred their imaginations.
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No one had prepared us for this.  We needed to understand more about what was happening.  Yes, we knew about the hugely important teacher strike that had happened in 2006, and occasional later incidents of protest; but we were completely ignorant of the significant political activity that had continued without a break.  Getting hold of an explanation was not easy.  We asked all sorts of people about what was happening in the Zócalo, we got back shrugs, tired looks, and "Something is happening in the Zócalo?"  It was clear that whatever it was, it was not sitting easily with the people we asked.  We sensed ambivalence and sadness. 

       Later in the week, we went back to the square.  Some of the housing structures had been removed and we could see parts of an open public space.  As our friends had recommended, we sat at a café and watched life but we were amongst just a handful of visitors.  It was also now easier to see the many large banners of protest and also to notice the many groups of young people.  They met in circles to discuss what seemed to be issues very important to them.  They formed a kind of university of the public square.  I am sure these young people could have taught me a lot about what was happening at the Zócalo but my poor Spanish language skills kept me from joining them.  

       Hopefully, when we return (and we will), my Spanish will be better.

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       A very positive review in the Moon Oaxaca travel guide by Justin Henderson required that our first day include a visit to the "exceptional bookstore, Libreria Amate."  This store is a goldmine of English language books on things Mexican -- Mexican art, history, literature, cooking, archeology, anthropology, and more.  A special table held English translations of books by contemporary Mexican authors, books like the splendid The Story of My Teeth, by Valeria Luiselli.  Special shelves held a wonderful collection of books about the past and current social, cultural, and political situation of Oaxaca.  Looking at these, I knew I was getting closer to understanding where I was.  I thought that the person who knew to order and stock these books could tell me a lot about Oaxaca.  That person was the owner of the shop, Henry Wangeman.  He wasn't there on our first or second visit, but I sent him an email with my questions and we found him on our third visit.  I was right.  He knew and was willing to share a lot of his experiences in Oaxaca, on the teachers' strikes and much more, like the crisis around corn and local peoples' efforts to reverse the horrible effects of not using Mexican corn seeds.   

       Conversations with Henry were gifts.  Before we met him, we knew we would soon be returning to Oaxaca; but after spending time listening to him, I knew we would return with our eyes open wider.  On our last visit to the store, I purchased a book called Teaching Rebellion:  Stories from the Grassroots Mobilization in Oaxaca, edited by Diana Denham and C.A.S.A Collective, published by PM Press, in 2008.  The book is a collection of testimonies by twenty-three people -- activists, schoolteachers, students, housewives, children, organizers, artists, journalists, religious and union leaders, journalists -- who participated in the 2006 movement for social justice in Oaxaca and what became known as the Popular Assembly of the People of Oaxaca.  These are wonderful stories about life in a time of great change, told by those living it.  If I were still teaching, I would ask my students to read this book.

       Henry's store was not our only interaction with books in Oaxaca.  Here is a delightful photograph I took of the facade of the public bibliotheca/library on Alcalá.  It is never too late to read.
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       Several times on our trip, I was taken with the extent to which Mexican artists give back to their communities.  They go far beyond the donation of individual artworks.  Artists in Oaxaca create and give whole new spaces for others, spaces in which others can enjoy the awe of creativity.  Indeed, they make and give niches.  The extraordinary generosity with funds and time and the deep connections between artists and their communities are quite different from what I have come to know of artists in the U.S.  
     
      Our first encounter with this wonderful phenomenon was the Museo Arte Prehispanico de Rufino Tamayo.  Tamayo, a famous Mexican artist, not only donated his entire collection of more than 1,000 pieces of pre-Columbian art to his hometown of Oaxaca City.  He also renovated an important 18th century structure to house the collection.  Tamayo intended each piece which he carefully selected for its aesthetic and emotionally expressive qualities to teach his community about the diversity and skill of their ancestors who had created the work.  His message reaches all of us.  I took lots of photographs in this space.  Here are a few 0f my favorites.

       In Ocotlan, a village not far from Oaxaca City, we found the remarkable contributions of the artist, Rudolfo Morales.  The internationally known artist gave his fortune to his hometown.  Among the many churches and other public buildings he restored are the Templo de Santo Domingo and the main municipal building that also includes his frescoes.  His foundation, based at the Casa Cultural Rudolfo Morales, continues to fund a variety of educational, environmental, artistic, and community projects.

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        And then there is the amazing Francisco Toledo who is still with us, and whose name came up in connection with so many attempts to improve life for people in Oaxaca.  I made a list of his projects but I know it is missing many items.  The first I encountered was the Instituto de Artes Graficas de Oaxaca that he founded.  He donated the colonial building in which it sits and the amazing art library that is said to house anywhere from 25,000 to 66,000 volumes and a collection of at least 7,000 prints.  It was a great place to visit, filled with students pouring over wonderful texts.  There were also many students present in Etla, San Augustin, just outside of Oaxaca City.  There, Toledo renovated an old textile factory and created a great cultural center, exhibition space, and art school.
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        It was hard to find in Oaxaca City a museum with which he was not connected.  For example, he was key in the founding of the Photographic Center, Centro de Fotografia Manuel Alvarez Bravo and the contemporary art museum, Museo de los Paintores Oaxaquenos.

       But his influence does not stop with art.  One of the most impressive gardens I have ever visited, rich with historical and cultural significance, is the Ethnobotanical Garden nearby the Templo Santo Domingo.  With others, Toledo was responsible for securing the site and the creation of this garden.

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​Be sure not to miss the wonderful cultural and historical center, Centro Cultural Domingo (right next door to the Ethnobotanical Garden).  Beautiful buildings, a museum chock full of wonderful pieces, great concerts in the cloister, and very special exhibitions of contemporary art.