In the 1920s, Mexico and the United States were undergoing dramatic cultural and political changes. The United States had just emerged from victory in World War I in 1918; less than a decade later, Charles Lindbergh, with the critical aid of the St. Louis business community, would complete the first solo transatlantic flight. Meanwhile, revolution had roiled Mexico, even as it began to move into the modern world.
All was not well with between the two neighbors. The revolution in Mexico and the war in Europe had strained relations. There was that whole little issue with the Zimmerman Telegram, when the German Empire promised Mexico to give back the American Southwest, lost in the 1840s, if Mexico entered the war against the United States. And the raids of Pancho Villa had also helped sour relations.
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So it seemed perfectly natural for Lindbergh, America’s new hero, to fly from Paris to Mexico City in December 1927 and help bridge the divide. The American ambassador at the time was Dwight Morrow, and while he may have understood the duty of welcoming Lindbergh to the embassy, his daughter Anne was none too happy, she told her diary. Little did she know that her dashed hopes for a quiet family Christmas would evolve into marriage to the dashing pilot two years later.
Enter what must be one of the most spectacular wedding gifts of the 20th century, the 9-by-12-foot Flores Mexicanas, by Alfredo Ramos Martinez, that was bestowed on the young couple by Mexico’s president, Emil Portes Gil. The painting has been in the collection of the Missouri History Museum for decades, ever since legendary curator Nettie Beauregard began to court Charles Lindbergh for donations of his medals, mementos and other artifacts. Former MoHist employee and Sam Moore just taught a class at the University of Missouri–St. Louis, in which he and his students investigated the Lindberghs’ marriage. Then the Museum’s public historian, Adam Kloppe, took over to help envision the new exhibit, Flores Mexicanas: A Lindbergh Love Story, which opened last Saturday.
Ramos Martinez may not be as famous an artist as Diego Rivera or Frida Kahlo, but his influence on art in Mexico and the U.S., where he eventually moved, deserves more attention. Born into a solid middle-class family in Mexico, he turned to painting early in his life, and he traveled throughout Europe right at the time when the Post-Impressionists such as Paul Gauguin were revolutionizing art. Returning to Mexico, Ramos Martinez became the director of a new art academy that introduced new European methods such as en plein air painting.
Flores Mexicanas did not begin its life as a wedding gift for the Lindberghs, but as Ramos Martinez’ display of the different cultural or racial groups that make up Mexican society. He labored on the oil-on-canvas painting for somewhere between seven and 15 years, and the influence of his European travels shows through. Starting from the left, a Spanish woman, a mestiza woman, an indigenous woman, and finally an “American” woman form the quartet that Ramos chose to represent his Mexico. I cannot help but be reminded of Sandro Botticelli’s famous painting of Primavera, which Ramos could have easily viewed in his travels in Italy. In that Italian Renaissance allegory of the arrival of springtime, the figures of Flora, Venus, the Three Graces, and other gods parade through a forest bedecked with what botanists have determined are dozens of recognizable species of flowers. Likewise, in Flores Mexicanas, we see the flowering of Mexico’s rich natural environment spreading out in front of us both literally, in the carpet of flowers, and figuratively, in the figures of the four women. Ramos Martinez’s mestiza woman even seems to allude, across the centuries, to Botticelli’s figure of Flora.
Ramos Martinez would have certainly been familiar with Édouard Manet’s seminal works of the 1860s, Olympia and Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe, reimaginings of two famous works by the Italian Renaissance master Titian. Ramos Martinez does the same with Botticelli’s 15th-century work, updating it for a modern Mexico. But Botticelli is not his only European-American influence. The vibrant mountains in the background seem to come straight out of Paul Gauguin’s Tahiti, while the Spanish woman is reminiscent of the work of Francisco Goya, and the erect figure of the American woman reminds me of John Singer Sargent’s portraits of East Coast upper-class society.
Flores Mexicanas can be enjoyed in its original glory, thanks to a 2016 grant from Bank of America. The bank’s market manager, Katie Fischer, was on hand last Friday when we explored the exhibit. While the bank has funded 130 conservation projects in 30 countries, she said this was the first one in St. Louis. Flores Mexicanas has some impressive fellow classmates from 2016, including Cosmatesque stonework in Westminster Abbey.
The Midwest Art Conservation Center removed the normal accumulation of dirt from the painting, revealing the complex layers of oil paint beneath what had appeared to be flat painting. The four figures are now modeled as Ramos Martinez intended. And X-rays revealed a fifth figure on the far right, painted over at some point. Assuming that Ramos prepared his composition well before he began painting, it’s intriguing that he chose to eliminate the figure at such a late date. The frame is also of interest: While at first glance it appears to be bisymmetrical, each curve of its hand-carved and gilded foliage is unique.
The exhibit also takes advantage of the museum’s extensive holdings of Anne and Charles Lindbergh’s personal gifts from around the world. Of particular interest is a large globe, which includes hand-drawn lines of every flight they made. An accomplished pilot, Anne logged 40,000 miles herself. Two Hubbard Medals awarded by the National Geographic Society are on display; both Charles and Anne won the award individually; the former in 1927 and the latter in 1934. Other gifts include a serape blanket from Mexico and a ceramic sculpture of two huskies from Copenhagen.
This is the first exhibit at the History Museum with both complete English and Spanish exhibition labels and wall texts. Together, Flores Mexicanas painting and the accompanying Lindbergh memorabilia offer a fascinating window into St. Louis’s link to the Lindbergh story and to Mexico.
Extra: Watch a conservator at work.
