It’s independence day in Mexico and although I never had the chance to celebrate el grito first hand, today seems like the perfect chance to wax nostalgic about the months I lived and studied there.
My memories of Mexico always haunt me. I went to Mexico to finish my studies in Latin American literature. Being there made everything I read so real and haunting. Magic mixing with reality, fading bright colors, tumultuous history, a beautiful language and the joyful and heartbreaking music.
My first summer in Mexico I read Pedro Páramo and walking through the colonial streets of Querétaro at dusk, the ghosts of the past existed. Talking bus trips through the desert landscapes central Mexico the words of Juan Rulfo marked me and my vision of Mexico. A stop at the Palacio de Bellas Artes in Mexico City, to admire the murals of Rivera and Siquieros, took me to the fantastic museum shop where I was amazed to find a book of photography of Juan Rulfo amidst the muralist and Frida souvenirs. Not only a writer, his images in black and white are the perfect visual translation of his words, haunting, real, beautiful, and difficult. So for today, to celebrate the beauty of Mexico, a few photographs by Juan Rulfo.