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Authors: Norman Lewis
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the picture—of the embroidery. In these ways we pray for a long life and a good one.’
Most remarkable of the Huichol arts are the wool-paintings called nearikas , which have aroused much interest in Mexico of late, to the point of inspiring imitations of lamentable quality. Nearikas have been used from antiquity as votive offerings on all great occasions—such as at the birth of a child, when they are left at the mountain shrines—but until recently few have been seen outside museums. Some of the most striking are produced during the fiesta following the great peyote pilgrimage, which is a feature of the Huichol religion. The shamans, who have led their pilgrims across Mexico from the Sierra Madre to the sacred land of Wirikúta in the San Luis Potosi desert, eat the peyote cactus and create pictures inspired by their dreams, which are then left for the gods of the Sun, Fire and Water. Enlarged versions of such pictures are now being made and are sold in limited numbers to assist the Huichol economy, and last year (1969) in Guadalajara I saw an exhibition of them organized by Padre Ernesto Loéra of the Franciscan order.
What distinguished Huichol nearikas from any other Indian paintings I had seen was their exuberance; the feeling they gave of a lack of premeditation, of being the work of talented children. This impression turned out to be an illusion. Nothing in this art follows a mere decorative whim; every line, every curlicue, every blob of colour has its precise meaning. The tufts sprouting from the head of the manikin strutting along a path bordered with icicles and flowers are no mere fantasy, but the feathered ornaments representing antlers worn by the shaman in the exercise of his priestly functions. To have omitted them would have been to deprive the picture of all significance. Most nearikas picture the legends of the Huichol race, or deal with the predicaments of the soul after death. They are always executed in brilliant colours because these are the colours of peyote visions, and they are considered so sacred that the Huichols working on them at Guadalajara do not permit strangers to watch them at work.
The pictures on view were largely the inspiration and occasionally the actual work of one remarkable man, the shaman Ramon Medina Silva, who lived for some years in a shack on the outskirts of the city near the shrine of the Virgin of Zapópan, a small-scale local version of Lourdes. The shrine attracts the sick from all parts of western Mexico and pilgrims whose complaints failed to respond to the visit sometimes consulted the nearby shaman, who had a wide reputation for treating psychosomatic disorders—particularly phobias. It was here that Padre Ernesto first met him, and a cordial relationship developed between the exponents of the two religions. Padre Ernesto seems to have raised no more objection to Ramon’s shamanistic cures, achieved with spittle and incantation, than has the doctor in charge of the Huichol region. Both these enlightened men are happy to see the sick restored to health, whatever the means. Padre Ernesto, moreover, became enthusiastic about the shaman’s artistic gifts, and encouraged him in these in every possible way—for example, by procuring wools of better quality than those within the shaman’s reach.
Padre Ernesto had spent time with two recently established missions in the sierra, and it sounded as though their operations had been hardly more of a success than those built after the old treaty. But he was philosophic and indulgent, and however unresponsive to his ministrations the Huichols might have been, his enthusiasm for them kept breaking through.
He attributed the meagre harvest in souls to the Huichols’ bolstering of their indigenous beliefs with the ritual use of peyote. It was a kind of drug-enforced theological brain-washing from which recovery or backsliding—whichever way you looked at it—was virtually impossible. Peyote cults had spread in recent
Most remarkable of the Huichol arts are the wool-paintings called nearikas , which have aroused much interest in Mexico of late, to the point of inspiring imitations of lamentable quality. Nearikas have been used from antiquity as votive offerings on all great occasions—such as at the birth of a child, when they are left at the mountain shrines—but until recently few have been seen outside museums. Some of the most striking are produced during the fiesta following the great peyote pilgrimage, which is a feature of the Huichol religion. The shamans, who have led their pilgrims across Mexico from the Sierra Madre to the sacred land of Wirikúta in the San Luis Potosi desert, eat the peyote cactus and create pictures inspired by their dreams, which are then left for the gods of the Sun, Fire and Water. Enlarged versions of such pictures are now being made and are sold in limited numbers to assist the Huichol economy, and last year (1969) in Guadalajara I saw an exhibition of them organized by Padre Ernesto Loéra of the Franciscan order.
What distinguished Huichol nearikas from any other Indian paintings I had seen was their exuberance; the feeling they gave of a lack of premeditation, of being the work of talented children. This impression turned out to be an illusion. Nothing in this art follows a mere decorative whim; every line, every curlicue, every blob of colour has its precise meaning. The tufts sprouting from the head of the manikin strutting along a path bordered with icicles and flowers are no mere fantasy, but the feathered ornaments representing antlers worn by the shaman in the exercise of his priestly functions. To have omitted them would have been to deprive the picture of all significance. Most nearikas picture the legends of the Huichol race, or deal with the predicaments of the soul after death. They are always executed in brilliant colours because these are the colours of peyote visions, and they are considered so sacred that the Huichols working on them at Guadalajara do not permit strangers to watch them at work.
The pictures on view were largely the inspiration and occasionally the actual work of one remarkable man, the shaman Ramon Medina Silva, who lived for some years in a shack on the outskirts of the city near the shrine of the Virgin of Zapópan, a small-scale local version of Lourdes. The shrine attracts the sick from all parts of western Mexico and pilgrims whose complaints failed to respond to the visit sometimes consulted the nearby shaman, who had a wide reputation for treating psychosomatic disorders—particularly phobias. It was here that Padre Ernesto first met him, and a cordial relationship developed between the exponents of the two religions. Padre Ernesto seems to have raised no more objection to Ramon’s shamanistic cures, achieved with spittle and incantation, than has the doctor in charge of the Huichol region. Both these enlightened men are happy to see the sick restored to health, whatever the means. Padre Ernesto, moreover, became enthusiastic about the shaman’s artistic gifts, and encouraged him in these in every possible way—for example, by procuring wools of better quality than those within the shaman’s reach.
Padre Ernesto had spent time with two recently established missions in the sierra, and it sounded as though their operations had been hardly more of a success than those built after the old treaty. But he was philosophic and indulgent, and however unresponsive to his ministrations the Huichols might have been, his enthusiasm for them kept breaking through.
He attributed the meagre harvest in souls to the Huichols’ bolstering of their indigenous beliefs with the ritual use of peyote. It was a kind of drug-enforced theological brain-washing from which recovery or backsliding—whichever way you looked at it—was virtually impossible. Peyote cults had spread in recent
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