Painting a nation

Many of us have seen the birthplace of Mexican muralism without realising it. In the 2002 biopic Frida, Salma Hayek, as the 15-year-old Frida Kahlo, bursts into the amphitheatre of the Escuela Nacional Preparatoria – Mexico City’s most prestigious school. There, an overweight, dungaree-clad Diego Rivera (played by Alfred Molina) is perched on scaffolding, painting his first mural: the encaustic fresco Creation. It was 1922.

Rivera had just returned from 14 years in Europe, immersed in cubism and renaissance frescoes, and rubbing shoulders with the likes of Pablo Picasso, Amedeo Modigliani and Guillaume Apollinaire. At 36, he was hungry to create something truly Mexican. This hunger was mirrored by the dream of Mexico’s newly appointed minister of education, José Vasconcelos. He wanted to ‘re-Mexicanise’ education and identity after centuries of colonialism. The Preparatoria became his engine room.

Now a museum known as the Colegio de San Ildefonso, its shady colonnades are skinned with dozens of murals from the 1920s. Most are by José Clemente Orozco, one of Los Tres Grandes (The Three Greats) alongside Rivera and David Alfaro Siqueiros. Others are by Xavier Guerrero, Fernando Leal and Rufino Tamayo, joining their visual manifesto.

Today, as I stand beneath Creation and stroll the museum campus, music floats on the warm air as university students practice. It is easy to feel the pull of Vasconcelos’ dream – that art could inspire social change.

Beneath the Zócalo lie the ruins of the Aztec Templo Mayor, ironically close to where Rivera and his peers revived Indigenous ideals back at San Ildefonso. A standout is the stairwell of the Patio Principal. On one wall, French artist Jean Charlot’s La massacre en el Templo Mayor 1922–23 depicts colonial violence, while across from it, Leal’s Los Danzantes de Chalma 1922–23 shows joyful costumbrista, scenes of local traditions. This was the ‘heroic phase’ of Mexican muralism, brimming with optimism. But it didn’t last.

After Vasconcelos resigned in 1924, the movement leaned more towards overt socialist ideals, making these government-sponsored murals increasingly controversial. One of the best places to see this shift is just a short walk away at the newly opened Museo del Viva Muralismo, housed in the old Ministry of Education building. What makes this place special is that it’s still a working government building, and civil servants will offer a warm hola! as you wander around

The museum opened last September and expands the story of muralism, including works by female artists like Aurora Reyes and María Izquierdo. Interestingly, Izquierdo was more celebrated in her day than Frida Kahlo.

Rivera began painting here ten months after finishing Creation. Over six years, he created over 200 frescoes on walls, ceilings and staircases. It was here that Rivera found his grit, developing his signature style of simplified figures, flat, almost chalky surfaces, bold colours and Aztec-inspired forms. These weren’t just paintings; this language of Mexicanidad – blending pre-Hispanic tradition with modernity – became the heartbeat of Mexican modernism, and captured the interest of the US and Europe.

Moving between floors, wrapped by these frescoes, is an incredible experience. Every inch bursts with scenes of Indigenous farmers, miners, teachers and revolutionaries. Looking at this government-endorsed program with its celebrated nod to Indigenous heritage and pragmatic storytelling, there is a synergy with First Nations Australian narratives of care for culture and Country that is interesting.

A favourite mural here is Rivera’s En el Arsenal 1928 (detail pictured, page 74). Frida hands out munitions, while her close friend (and Diego’s lover), Italian photographer Tina Modotti watches on, draped in a bullet belt. These artists lived radical, entwined lives, and there is a kind of infectious voyeurism as you dip into their paintings and passions.

Modotti often documented Rivera’s murals and, around the time En el Arsenal was painted, she created her iconic still life Illustration for a Mexican Song 1927, with a bullet belt, ear of corn and guitar, symbolising revolutionary struggle, land rights and storytelling corridos (ballads).

For many these murals are just public art, but they are also public property and the blueprints for the nation speaking directly to Mexico’s ongoing identity. That’s evident today when you visit Colegio de San Ildefonso, Museo del Viva Muralismo, and the nearby Palacio de Bellas Artes – Mexico’s cultural crown jewel, akin to Sydney’s Opera House. All are free to visit.

On weekends, Bellas Artes hums with activity. Crowds gather to view Rivera’s recreated mural, Man, Controller of the Universe 1933, which was destroyed at New York’s Rockefeller Center for its political content. The Rivera-Rockefeller dispute remains emblematic of the tension between politics, creative freedom and power. These debates continue globally, as seen in Australia’s recent navigation of its next Venice Biennale representation – and if anything, they are a revivalist window for approaching our times.

Stepping outside the museum, salsa dancers twirl beneath shady trees and vendors offer steaming elotes (corn) and gorditas (filled tortillas) in Alameda Park. The scene feels more like a celebration than a typical day in the city. It’s a world away from Hollywood’s cartel tropes or the tired image of a sprawling, chaotic metropolis of 22 million. What really pulses beneath it all, is culture.

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Gina Fairley is a commentator, curator and creative.

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