Liz Hernández
It should come as no surprise that food that takes so long to prepare, takes even longer to be digested. When the meal ends, and the dishes are still on the table, you suddenly feel a change in the family dynamic: a well-organized choreography in which each person assumes a role in the show that is about to begin. A voice in the kitchen asks who would like coffee, and someone in the living room begins to rattle off a myriad of options for digestive liqueurs. For those who don't speak the sobremesa (after-dinner) language, having a carajillo at eight at night might seem very strange.
The ruins of the family meal are the center of the scenery, and the only time a change occurs is when dessert is brought to the table. Time passes slower in the sobremesa universe, and being in a hurry to leave is almost as offensive as badmouthing the seasoning of the cook.
It is common for the dish we just ate to stimulate conversation, and other stories begin to be mentioned. The topics of conversation must be appropriate for the digestion ceremony: it is not recommended that day-to-day issues be addressed, and if possible, avoid talking about work. Preferably, interventions should be long since it is not known how long the after-dinner meal will last —experts believe that an eternity—.
This is an ideal opportunity to tell the same stories already spent, but always welcome. It may be that during digestion, the body is so busy that we let our spirit speak of what it really wants, and the spiritual language is deep and unfathomable. That's why every time I listen to my aunts and uncles, my grandparents, and my parents tell these stories; I listen to them carefully. Because I know they don't do it to entertain but to help me to see the world through their eyes.
We talk about houses I've never lived in, but I believe to know in detail. Of people who may not exist but whose names endure. The dead also have a seat, and we talk about them and with them. At the after-dinner table, I saw my grandfather cry, secretly and for the only time, behind a shield made with a mole-stained napkin.
Telling chronicles in the middle of dirty dishes is the favorite activity of those who do not want to forget who they are and where they come from.” – Liz Hernández
Liz Hernández is a Mexican artist based in Oakland, California. Her art practice, which includes painting, drawing, sculpture, and writing, is deeply influenced by her life in Mexico City: buildings covered with handmade signs, chaotic trips to markets, visits to temples and churches, and her grandmother's house. Her work, partially autobiographical, has led to collaboration with her family in the shape of very personal research. This inquiry results in constant learning about her environment, family, and herself.
Liz Hernández, Platos en la mesa (Plates on the table), 2017, Red clay slip, and acrylic on raw canvas, 36 x 42 in., Courtesy of the artist