Wednesday, June 14, 2000
San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

We walked on different streets today, took in different shops. I love the old buildings more than the goods for sale. They are rambling and complex, with hidden gardens and stairs in surprising places. Some have been lightly restored — plastered and painted — others haven't been touched in decades.

Every street is a mystery. When you stand on a corner you see the narrow cobblestone street (maybe wide enough for a lane of parked cars, rarely wide enough for two-way traffic) and unpredictable cobblestone sidewalks, usually steeply uphill or downhill. Stuccoed walls in many colors and textures stretch as far as the eye can see, broken by weathered doors and small, deep-set, often barred windows. Signage is minimal, so you never really know whether you're setting off down a street of private dwellings or a treasure trove of shops. We have guidebooks, but they barely scratch the surface.

It's hard to keep up my enthusiasm for doing art now. It's odd. What looked unique on the afternoon we arrived now seems to be everywhere. Every creative idea gets reproduced endlessly till it becomes a commodity.

It's been hard to find the original art being produced by students or faculty of the art schools. I thought it would be everywhere. I wanted to see their unique visions. (Can it be that people who attend art schools don't have visions? That they can be followers and imitators and schlock-meisters just like anybody else? Oh, dear. That's not the Answer I was looking for.)

We did stumble into a cluster of studios where artists were working on pieces that were also for sale. Their work was good, but the artists were grumpy. I bought fresh bread instead.

We spent time last evening speaking with Liza and her 88-year-old mother Charlotte. Liza is amazing, though intense. Pushing 60, battling MS and arachnoiditis, dumping her third marriage, she's built this place from scratch. Every room in her house, her mother's apartment, and each of the 5 guest suites are little works of art: beautifully lit, carefully designed, and filled with collectibles. She's obsessive about everything being perfect. But she is also warm-hearted and curious. I don't know whether she likes us or whether she's is simply one of those people who are instant friends with everyone.

Charlotte is an artist, widowed not very long ago. She earns her keep by being a steady hand (against Liza's nervous energy) and looking after the guests in her own style. She talks exactly like Joan Rivers: throaty, unapologetic New York.

It's funny… I can't really remember what we talked about. It was all very philosophical, sitting outside in the dark, but maybe I had too much wine.

It's 5 PM and the afternoon storm has hit. Jim is out again, but this time he took his umbrella.