*Ahora puedes escuchar este texto en español, leído por mí, al seleccionar el ícono de los audífonos arriba.
How I got here, why I left, and why I’m back…
A little over 20 years ago, three words through the speaker of a landline phone brought me right to where I am now —which is the right place, I want to think— but down a path, I didn’t consider. In other words, writing never figured in my vocational interests, although the field of Communication in general did, which is what I majored in. Rather, my interests were divided between film (a little bug that will never die) and political communication (another less persistent bug, but one that led me to take a not-quite-wasted year of economics at ITAM, the “fashionable” career, and school in the Mexican neoliberal era); with the exception of a fleeting stage in which I wanted to be a magician (probably motivated by my recurring family trips to Vegas) and another in which I wanted to be a drummer (a dream that also came to an end —along with the attendance to the shows of David Copperfield and Seigfried & Roy— with the impending divorce of my mother and father).
"She can write," was said into the receiver —with a mixture of coldness, astonishment (no more than mine), and certain relief— by the editorial coordinator of Casas & Gente, the magazine for which I had just been hired by its director —a socialité, former editor of Vogue México, called Nicolás Sánchez-Osorio— after a brief introduction at a party in the Acapulcan “Villa Arabesque”, and a later meal in a crowded and recently inaugurated restaurant, Salute, in Mexico City (with which, shortly after, I started a column of recommendations for restaurants, bars, galleries, hotels, etc. —in México and other cities— titled “las y los Cinco”).
The subject with which my writing abilities were put to the test, at that time, was the recreation of a feature story about a Parisian fabric and tapestry marchand —whom I did not know, other than through a magazine clipping— and his design and manufacturing house —which I, obviously, hadn't been to either (with some incredible designs and prints, by the way, from simple geometric patterns to trompe l'oeil landscapes: A window to the sea reveals its limitless blue landscape, was described on a footnote regarding the “Aquarius Caribe” model)— but with which, shortly after, the walls of the magazine's new “Residencia Durango” were upholstered.
In that editorial —as in other Mexican magazines (at least, those that still survive)— there was never any money, though we ate, drank, and traveled like queens; we were invited to the best parties; our cosmetics were sponsored by Chanel and Lancôme; and, during Christmas dinners, we ate cazuelas de guisados, while Patek Philippe watches were raffled. My salary was barely enough to cover the tips and valet parkings’ of my new lifestyle, but the reality is that, at the time, I was in no hurry to leave my father's house, where I lived comfortably, and, on the other hand, nor was I in a position to turn down the first job offer I'd landed on my own, months after graduating from college.
Now, if writing was not amongst my professional pursues, let alone working in a magazine specifically like Casas & Gente —a well-made product from the artisanal point of view, but with a conservative and classist approach— to which, paradoxically, as years go by, I have more things to be thankful for. I am grateful to have ventured into journalism under the direction of a shark in his field, like Sánchez-Osorio —may he rest in peace— and to learn from his wit, his perfectionism, and his intuition to reveal unseen talents in people (I am not the only member of that newsroom who got there without expecting a random encounter to turn into a career). I also consider it an advantage, to have started writing in a publication with a clear stylistic structure (a bit rigid and grandiloquent, it is true, but consistent with its profile, and, in the long run, perfect for developing skill and narrative solidity), and impeccable editorial care. The latter thanks to the direction of whom —although she did not receive me with great fanfare— turned out to be an unbeatable first guide in the world of writing and one of the most badass Mexican editors and translators I know to date, Guillermina Olmedo.
I also appreciate having written about, not always interesting or fun topics, and having to learn to peel their layers, one by one, until uncovering their essence (because everything in the world has one). And, finally, I feel fortunate to have witnessed the transition from the analog to the digital world so closely, and still have been able to work with photographers with large format cameras, where the precision that each shot required was crucial since errors could become expensive. Then, once the photo shootings were done —which could extend for weeks— we had to wait a few more days before the results came back from the laboratory. The day that happened, the tension in the air and a deathly silence reigned in the office, until the moment when, from the corridor of our newsroom, we could hear —from the meeting room upstairs— either guffaws and praise; or screams, insults, and door slammings. Like every perfectionist and authoritarian boss of his generation (of which there still remain more than a few out there), as charming as Nicolás could be when in a good mood, he could also transform himself into a Demogorgon, chew you up and spit you out —from one second to the next— if things they didn't turn out exactly the way he wanted, or you just caught him on a bad day (something like a Mexican masculine version of The Devil Wears Prada’s, Miranda Priestley).
My second editorial job offer came as unexpected as the first one but was even more welcomed. It happened a couple of years later, in a context coincidentally similar to the previous one: a brief initial encounter at a party (in this case, a reencounter, since I had known the person in question since childhood), now in Mexico City, and a later interview in a trendy cafe located in the Roma-Condesa neighborhood, which I do not remember the name of. The offer was not only a lot more in tune with who I was at the time, but it was also a new project in which I was being invited to take part, not as a member of an editorial team anymore, but as its coordinator —and with three times my initial salary (there wasn't much to think about).
The magazine was called SPOT, its founder and editor-in-chief, Enrique Rubio (who shortly after —together with Zélika García— created the first version of the contemporary art fair, known today as Zona Maco), was a young, twentysomething lawyer, new to the magazine medium, inexperienced, but with a creative mind, vision, and the right PR tools to launch —along with an equally promising and novice team, plus the guidance of another seasoned ex-editor of Vogue Mexico (former collaborator of Sánchez-Osorio, but with a more avant-garde profile) called Alberto Labarta— a publication that became a pioneer, within a new generation of experimental magazines focused on art and contemporary culture, which emerged in Mexico in the early 2000s. Perhaps the most representative of this group being (if you think I missed any, please comment): Celeste, Marvin, Día Siete, Codigo, Fahrenheit, La Tempestad, Chilango, and a forerunner, ahead of its time and little known due to its brief existence, called Óxido (edited by Beto Cohen and founded by Pancho Gilardi, another veteran of the publishing world, creator of the advertising design magazine Origina, and best remembered today for having commissioned and inhabited Luis Barragán's last residential project), for which —coincidentally— I worked briefly as an intern during my first years of college (perhaps as a premonition of my post-university future).
Well, my intention here is not to recount my entire resume, but to give —through certain episodes, that I consider to be something like the first grains of corn of this ATOLE— context to a new era for this newsletter, after a much-needed pause (about whose details I will delve into later on).
In short, communication led me to magazines and magazines led me to writing. After these first two experiences, I founded, together with the father of my children, a travel and culture publication in the Yucatan Peninsula (here I leave you the electronic version of the last edition as a small gift) that lived until my existence as a mother started, and the nesting feeling made me return to Mexico City and focus my energies, mainly, to this new task. Along with this process, I entered the school of writers and continued collaborating, independently, in diverse editorial and press projects, including some —materialized and not— with these first two publishers, with whom I always kept in touch, while they remained in operation (I still keep in my inbox, the last message from NSO —as Guille shortened our boss— where he asked me to get in touch with Leticia, his assistant, to get together when he returned from a trip he was about to make to South America because he had met an aunt of mine and they had agreed to do a piece on her house in Malinalco, which they wanted me to produce and write —about five years after I had made the same proposal to both of them. But that meeting never happened, because a few days later, on a flight to Buenos Aires, Nicolás suffered a respiratory arrest that left him in a coma from which —sadly— he never woke up).
Now, the reason for revisiting these two episodes, in particular, is because I consider them key, not only personally, since they linked me to an activity that became part of me, which I continued to practice, explore and polish until I finally heard a voice that sounded like mine (something that seems easier and more affordable than it actually is) but also because, if we stop for a moment and look back, in the twenty years that passed by, between these two events and the present, the publishing world was so radically transformed that the work that then required a team of, at least (in the case of a small publishing house) ten or twelve people, now can be done by one person, with a computer and a telephone —neither professional cameras, although desirable, are still essential, neither is it, that magazines be printed.