Breathe
By Claudia Pérez Atamoros
It has been more than a century since José Guadalupe Posadas, the engraver, hung up his sneakers, soaked to the marrow in alcohol.
La Huesuda killed him. His body was found in a neighborhood in Tepito and buried in the common grave, known as "las tumbas de sexta clase" (the sixth-class tombs) because it was free of charge in the Dolores cemetery. There he rests next to a pile of calacas, tilicas and flacas.
He died alone. No one claimed his remains. He died penniless, destitute. He spent everything he earned on pulque and mead. He drank the beberecua because his son , La Chirrifusca, was pickled. And taking advantage of the trip, La Panteonera also pulled his wife.
La Catrinahis most recognized work, was so named by Diego Rivera many years later. In reality, José Guadalupe Posadas called her La Garbancera. La Flaca would not allow him to see it published. As much as she loved the alipus, La Tiznada killed it. She stuck it in the well, no longer happy.
Few or none like him. At this time and always, his calaveristic production continues to show its teeth to the world. That's when La Bien Amada danced it.
The first record of his work dates from 1871 in El Jicote. By 1886, in El Hijo del Ahuizote, he was already making a splash with his skulls. In 1888, a journalist from Juventud Literaria predicts that Posadas will be "the first great caricaturist and cartoonist in Mexico". And so he was and is. La Tilica, he was screwed. He immortalized himself.
Few manage to checkmate the Grim Reaper, but Posadas did. In 1900, the chusmerío killed him. Several obituaries were published giving condolences, who knows to whom, because Posadas was still alive and kicking and still sucking. Mother Matiana herself was already hanging around him.
Suddenly 13 more years went by and then yes La Huesuda was taken to the pantheon.
Posadas' skulls of Posadas are epic, his engravings are perfect. The bakeries, in the past, painted them on their windows in a single stroke. Today's calaveritas of today are for the Mexican sarcasm in abundance. And with the pan de muerto everyone binges on it.
In our country, La Muerte is a feast; also a festive tradition. La Calaca is celebrating, she passes the scythe with real precision, I would even say obsession. The nation turns pale. Everything is terrifying again. Violence shines. Corpses are sown and calaveritas are written. It is irony. It is Death dressed in horror.
The opinions expressed are the responsibility of the authors and are absolutely independent of the position and editorial line of the company. Opinion 51.
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