Sigfrido Aguilar
Those first few weeks in Patzcuaro were a sleepless time for me. Not so much because of excitement over a new venture, but because it was mating season for the local iguanas, who spent the long chilly nights rolling around on our red tile roof, squalling like cats. Then there was no central heating in our hacienda, just a modest fireplace tucked into the corner of the bedroom. Smith and I shared a bedroom, which we vainly attempted to keep heated at night with inexpertly laid sticks of oyamel. As soon as we got a sputtering flame going we dived under our thin cotton blankets and feel heavily asleep, only to awaken in the middle of the night with our chops chattering like gag wind up teeth and the fire nothing but cold greasy ashes.
At five each morning the nuns across the way played an old scratchy record of Schubert’s Ave Maria over their loudspeaker, to call the faithful to early Mass. And the abattoir next door went to work about the same time, zealously slitting the throats of dozens of squealing swine. A small brook ran through the backyard we shared with the slaughterhouse; a pretty thing to look at, except when it turned crimson red with pig blood. I never cared to go wadding in it; the frogs that croaked on its banks had a particularly carnivorous look in their bulging eyes.
Smith and I breakfasted on hard boiled eggs and cups of steaming atole -- a corn starch concoction that approximated hot chocolate. We did all our own cooking, which was very minimal and pragmatic; canned peaches, boiled eggs, atole or Sidral to drink, and the local mini loaves of white bread eaten with chunks of the local soft white cheese. We ordered a beefsteak dinnerseveral times a week for lunch down at the hotel on the Plaza Grande, and munched on the Lake Patzcuaro dried pesca blanca like potato chips.
Sigfrido’s studio was a good mile away, in the center of town. An asthmatic old bus came down our street every twenty minutes or so, spewing diesel fumes, but I preferred to walk the distance, enjoying the stately eucalyptus trees that lined the roadway, their lower trunks painted white, and the profusion of nanny goats -- each one carefully staked in the middle of a small dusty yard, where they appeared to relish eating stones and cacti. Patzcuaro was a small dusty tourist hideaway back then -- hardly developed, with only one hotel on the Plaza Grande. Our arrival as gringo estudiantes ignited a keen interest among the beggars of the town. Each morning as I walked to school I was accosted by nearly a dozen of them, meekly holding out an upturned palm while requesting some pesos. At first I was nonplussed as to what to do about them. I was living on my savings, not bringing in any money; so my budget was tight. Sigfrido dismissed them all out of hand, saying they were con artists whose racket was mulcting soft-hearted tourists. Still, I didn’t like turning them away. So each morning on my way to the Academia I would stop at the outdoor market to buy a basket of fruit for a few centavos.Whenever I was approached with a request for aid I simply dug into my basket and handed out an apple or an orange, wishing the recipient ‘buena suerte.’ After a few days my generosity was rewarded by a beggar boycott -- whenever a shabby mendigo saw me coming he would do a quick volte face and skedaddle.
Sigfrido had studied corporeal mime under Etienne Decroux in Paris. He put together a series of mime exercises for us that was extremely demanding -- and, to my way of thinking, extremely boring after the first few weeks. Although I was enamored of the balletic comedic grace of the great French mime Marcel Marceau, I also adored the frantic silent gyrations of Red Skelton; his work was so broad and robust that it could be understood and enjoyed by anyone. Whereas I was beginning to think that classical French mime was more of an acquired taste, if not downright snooty .
And as the weeks wore on I realized that the classical mime exercises that Sigfrido used were not what I wanted. What I wanted was to learn the facial and body tropes that conveyed basic emotions like happiness, anger, fear, boredom, and so on. I knew Sigfrido had mastered that kind of silent physical communication, because his solo performances were rife with hilarious double-takes and bodily tumults that only a Chaplin could pull off. That was the kind of stuff I wanted to learn, not the elegant ‘inside a box’ exercises that we did hour after hour out in the courtyard of the school.
I talked this over with Smith. He agreed with me; we needed more Vaudeville and less Versailles. At last we approached Sigfrido with our dilemma. He was initially aghast at our desire to abandon our rigorous course of classical training to pursue a more slapstick style. He told us that he himself had not been allowed any comic training from Decroix until he had studied the basics for nearly two years. But Smith and I were adamant; with all due respect, we told him, we were not prepared to hang around Patzcuaro for two years just to perfect pulling on an imaginary rope. I told Sigfrido I needed training in how to become more freewheeling and open as a clown, and that mincing around in leotards had never really been part of my agenda.
And that is when the true and delightful genius of Sigfrido Aguilar came into play. Instead of berating us as impertinent popinjays, he immediately began to play with the idea of a clown/mime fusion of performing styles. A few days later he formed the three of us, along with his then wife Amel and their five year old son Andres, into the prestigious troupe known as “Los Payasos Educados.” He announced that he was applying for a government grant to take our troupe on an inaugural tour of Mexico, displaying the silent art of both the clown and the mime. Sigfrido informed Smith and I that we would need to concoct a dozen or so silent clown routines with a minimum of props for the show. Working like beavers on Red Bull, the two of us rifled our collective memories for every bit of business we could remember from Ringling Brothers and Three Stooges movies -- and then repurposed it all to loosely fit within the parameters of mime. We had a ten minute bit about slipping on an invisible banana peel; about a visit to the doctor’s office (in which Sigfrido played the libidinous nurse with balloons for a bosom -- and yes, they were popped during each performance); and Sigfrido came up with an odd piece of phallic buffoonery in which he discovers a large plastic cigar onstage, begins puffing on it, and is thus turned into a strutting, arrogant aristocrat. Each member of the troupe grabs the cigar in turn and transforms into a similar patrician character -- even little Andres! And I managed to work up a silent routine with my musical saw, along the lines of Gene Sheldon’s whimsical performances with his banjo.
We took the show on a shakedown cruise to a dozen high schools throughout Michoacan and Oaxaca. The show was a smash; the kids loved the slapstick and the teachers were impressed with the elegant portions of mime. The grant money from the Mexican government came through; Sigfrido’s wife Amel became our troupe treasurer, and we booked our first professional engagement as Los Payasos Educados at the Teatro Degollado in Guadalajara.
We spent a week at the Teatro Degollado, a nineteenth century opera house that had tiered balconies and gilded putti crawling down the marble colonnades. And once again, we were a smash. The crowds especially liked Sigfrido’s cigar bit (and to this day I still don’t know WHY.)
It looked like clear sailing from here on out. Good reviews in the newspaper; the backing of the Mexican government; and growing international interest in both clowns and mimes. A golden trifecta that should have taken us right to the top. Sigfrido began lining up an extensive tour of South America, with handsome salaries for both Smith and I.
And then . . .
(to be continued)
No comments:
Post a Comment