Tag Archives: fashion

Huatulco

María Mayoral: A Lineage in Thread

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By Bianca Corona—

There is a pace to the coast that does not translate in cities. It is slower, but never lazy. It is intentional. The light moves differently here, and the wind carries salt and sound in a way that makes you stop without realizing you have stopped. Even the fabric you wear asks you to release anything heavy and choose something that breathes. When I first sat down with María, this was the feeling that met me before she even spoke. A quiet, grounding presence. Not shy. Just someone whose voice comes from a deeper place, the kind of place most people forget to visit once they leave the coast.

Born in Pochutla, a town 45 minutes from Huatulco, Maria’s family came to the coast decades ago, long before tourism reshaped the shoreline. They arrived to work. Work that demanded patience. Work taught by hands rather than classrooms. Work that held their identity in cotton and color.

“We practically lived in the hotel,” she told me, remembering the Sheraton before it became the Barceló. She described the smell of sunscreen mixing with thread, the sound of tourists moving in and out, the constant presence of sand under her feet. Childhood for her was not divided into playtime and work. It was one space. One long rhythm set by the loom.

Her mother wove. Her father wove. And slowly, María learned too. First watching. Then assisting. Then creating. She began weaving at 12, sewing at 15. Not because someone told her to. But because the rhythm of the loom teaches by itself if you sit close enough. Press, release. Press, release. A heartbeat made audible.

But lineage is rarely a straight line. It bends. It tests. It takes you away from home so you can return with a different perspective. María left the coast to study International Design in Puebla. She wanted to understand fashion in a broader sense. “Where I studied, the approach was very artistic,” she said. “It gave me a wider range of what fashion could be.” She liked that contrast. Traditional weaving in one palm, modern design in the other. She could feel how they might meet without contradicting each other.

After graduating, she tried to stay in the city. Everyone always told her to go big or go home. To prove yourself in a larger place. To move fast. To produce more. She tried to believe it, but her heart disagreed. “I couldn’t keep up with that life,” she said. “I missed breathing.” So, she returned to Huatulco. Back to the coastline. Back to the thread.

I then asked, “What stories would you say are figuratively woven into your pieces?” She shared, the first thing to come to her mind was when her mother began losing her vision. The woman who once guided every stitch, whose presence was the essence of their workspace, slowly entered a world without images. María told this part of the story without dramatizing it. She simply explained how the workshop changed, and how she changed with it. She started weaving differently, adding dimensions that her mother could feel with her fingertips. Texture became language. Color became memory. Craft became closeness. “I changed the way I weave so she could still be part of it,” she said. Her tone held no sadness. Just devotion. A very soft but very steady kind of love.

But life never teaches one lesson at a time. While she was caring, adapting, holding her craft close, another part of her self-development broke. A brand she previously helped build was taken from her. Her designs, her work, her name. “They robbed the brand from me,” she said. And around the same time, projects she depended on slowly unraveled. Her income disappeared. Her confidence wavered. She took a job as a waitress. Long shifts. Late nights. A kind of exhaustion that demands all of you. She worried that maybe she had stepped into a life that would not offer anything beyond survival. Meanwhile her family encouraged her to come back to the workshop and begin her own brand from scratch. She was resistant at first. Pain makes us hesitate. Starting over feels heavier when the loss is still fresh.

She laughs when she talks about this now. Not because it is funny, but because distance gives shape to things. She says it taught her something very clearly. “I realized I couldn’t let go of what I love just because someone else was dishonest or because things did not work out the first time.” So, she returned to the loom. And from that return, her brand took its true name, María Mayoral. Not born from inspiration or timing or trend. Born from refusal. A refusal to shrink. A refusal to disappear.

And now, when she talks about her work, she does not speak like someone trying to sell you something. There is no presentation. She speaks from inside the process itself. “When someone wears my pieces, I want them to feel something. To feel astonished at themselves,” she said. Not astonished as in spectacle. Astonished by the soulful care webbed through the fabric. Astonished as in remembering something ancient in the body. Something warm. Something that feels like home even if you are far from it.

Because here, in Huatulco, clothes are not stiff. The heat demands breath and softness. The ocean demands movement. Cotton is not an aesthetic choice. It is the only fabric that lives well with the climate. Nature decides. The land chooses the material. The coastline decides the palette. Her colors shift with seasons and tides. The marigold dye that blooms today will not bloom the same next year. Rain changes the tone. Soil changes the shade. Emotion changes the hand. Nothing repeats. Not because she refuses repetition, but because the land does not repeat itself.

Her atelier holds eight looms of varying sizes. The sound inside is steady and meditative.

And when you watch a piece being made, you understand instantly why a garment created in this space cannot be compared to anything made in a factory. “The piece that took me the longest took three months,” she said. Three months of touch and patience and presence. Machines can imitate the pattern but not the weight of meaning. Not the warmth. Not the life. Visitors who spend time in the workshop leave with reverence because they see what cannot be massed produced… time.

Her first collection, the one that gave real shape to the brand, was inspired directly by the ocean. Not as metaphor. As literal memory. Textures that mirrored tide lines. Movement that echoed waves. Only six pieces. They sold out in two weeks. It was the beginning that confirmed everything she believed. Her next collection draws from Tangolunda and the memory of the old Camino Real. The coastline there holds a specific glow. The sand is filled with tiny spiral shaped shells. She will bring those spirals into her designs. Not traced. Remembered.

María also collaborates with families of embroiderers in the Valley. Women who carry techniques older than any written history. She respects the knowledge they hold. She asks before using something with ancestral meaning. She learns the symbols. She refuses the imitation culture that has taken root in Oaxaca’s markets. There are stitches she keeps hidden. Marks meant only for the women who will wear her pieces close to their skin. “Something just for them,” she said. A private language made of thread.

When I asked María where she sees the future of her brand, her answer surprised me. Her dream is not global exposure. It is continuity. She wants to create her first runway in Oaxaca and take her mother with her. She wants the community to rise alongside the brand. “First Mexico,” she said. “And when Mexico knows us, then the world.”

This is not a comeback story. It is a return. A realignment. A remembering of who she has always been. Her pieces are not garments. They are memory held in cotton. They are lineage moving forward. They are devotion stitched into form. They are a daughter refusing to let love, or craft, or identity be dimmed.

These pieces are woven time.

Contact for designs WhatsApp: + 52 958 587 8556
Instagram: @mmariamayoral

Photo: Elias Cruz

San Miguel de Allende

The Story of San Miguel Shoes

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By Ximena Collado—

Walking through the cobbled streets of San Miguel de Allende, it’s easy to believe that memory has a sound—the soft percussion of footsteps on stone, the hum of voices carried by warm air, the slow rhythm of a town that still takes its time. Somewhere in that rhythm lives the story of Don Santiago and Martha, two dreamers whose love gave life to San Miguel Shoes. For them, every pair was more than footwear—it was affection made tangible, a way of stitching home and heart into something you could carry wherever you went.

More than twenty years ago, Don Santiago arrived from León, a shoemaker in search of a new beginning. He found it in San Miguel de Allende, its light, its color, and the woman who would become his lifelong companion, Martha. Together, they imagined shoes that would accompany people through their days – comfortable, enduring, and made with care. The first sandal he crafted for her wasn’t just built to withstand the uneven stones of the city; it became a symbol of their life together – steady, resilient, and full of quiet devotion. Their dream soon grew into a small workshop where every design was shaped with patience and purpose. Each pair was meant to last—to travel through years and stories, just as Santiago and Martha did, side by side.

That same spirit still guides San Miguel Shoes today. Now led by their children, the brand has evolved without losing its soul. The workshop hums with the rhythm of more than fifty artisans, most of them women, whose skill and dedication have turned comfort into an art. From the start, sustainability wasn’t a slogan—it was instinct. Every process is designed to minimize waste, every material chosen for comfort, flexibility, and responsibility.

These shoes aren’t made of leather but of soft, adaptive fabrics that move naturally with the foot. Their light yet durable structure provides a sense of ease and stability, offering the kind of comfort that makes each step confident—even across the cobblestones of San Miguel. Women who wear them often describe the same feeling: a secure, effortless stride that carries them through long days without strain or hesitation. The shoes are made not for fleeting trends but for real lives—workdays, travels, and moments in motion.

Created for women of all ages, San Miguel Shoes blend versatility with timeless style. These are shoes made for real life, practical yet elegant, refined yet easy to wear. Every design reflects the brand’s belief that true luxury lies in quality, comfort, and longevity.

Color, too, plays its part, not as fashion, but as expression. Each year, San Miguel Shoes introduces a new palette inspired by the town itself: the soft blush of morning walls, the golden tones of afternoon light, the earthy reds of sunset. For 2026, the collection turns toward teal, blues, and green tones that capture the freshness of water and the calm of shade on a bright day.

Beyond their beauty, San Miguel Shoes sustains a community. The brand provides dignified work, preserves ancestral techniques, and empowers women who have become masters of their craft. Each pair is unique, an imprint of many hands, shaped by patience and pride. And at the heart of it all remains the story of Don Santiago and Martha. Both passed away during the pandemic, only a month apart. Those who knew them say their love was simply too strong to be separated. Their spirit walks on in every shoe, in every step taken by those who wear them.

Today, anyone can take a piece of that story on their own journey. Each pair is a promise, made to last a lifetime, just like the love of Don Santiago and Martha.
http://www.sanmiguelshoes.com.mx

San Miguel de Allende

“As Long as You’re Buying…”: Mexico and the Endless Fast Fashion Loop

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By Estefanía Camacho

The other day I read someone saying that their excess clothes and plastic didn’t really count as fast fashion if they didn’t throw them away. In a way, they had a point — but it also completely ignores how we got here in the first place. This year I wrote a feature piece about what fast fashion is, where and how it started, and what we can actually do about it. That helped me understand the whole know-how behind it.

Buying clothes and simply not throwing them out is not really the answer. Even Marcelo Claure, the global vice president of the Chinese ultra fast-fashion company, told El Universal that they manufacture only 100 to 200 units of each product and then increase production depending on sales. Claure also confirmed that Mexico and Brazil are among its top five global markets, after the United States.

If you’re unsure what fast fashion means to this day, it’s basically when companies copy high-fashion designs and reproduce them on a massive scale, at low cost, using mainly outsourced labor — all within 15 days or even less.

The impact of imports on Mexico’s textile industry
This is true in the United Kingdom and in Mexico. Everything depends on how each country regulates the entry — and the disposal — of imported goods, especially in industries it could produce itself. So with lax rules for textile imports, it’s not surprising that the national industry has declined, just as it has in countries in the Global South like Chile, Ghana, or Kenya.

Mexico’s INEGI (National Institute of Statistics and Geography) documented this in May 2024: between 1995 and 2000, the textile and clothing industry’s GDP grew an average of 6.5% per year, boosted by NAFTA. But in 2001 — the year China joined the World Trade Organization — that momentum dropped sharply and stayed low for the next decade.

Recently, while researching autonomous vehicle manufacturing, I realized something funny: the cars aren’t even on the roads yet, and developers are already planning how they’ll be disposed of at least a century from now. Meanwhile, the textile industry — especially fast fashion — never thought this way about clothes. Even the cement industry has disposal solutions.

Measures against fast fashion: tariffs and environmental proposals
In Mexico, digital access is still uneven, but you’ll still find second-hand shops almost anywhere with a sign that says, “We take Shein orders here.”

At the end of 2024, President Claudia Sheinbaum announced a temporary 35% tariff on textile imports from countries without free trade agreements. On the surface, it looks like part of a larger tariff war with China, but internally it also affects how Shein orders arrive in Mexico.

This basically ends the tax loophole that allowed imports under $50 USD to skip duties.
Rafael Zaga, president of the National Chamber of the Textile Industry, told Forbes that the Mexican textile sector loses $3.2 billion per year due to imports from online platforms like Shein. China is the main origin of Mexico’s textile imports (35.4%), followed by the United States (24.6%).

Mexico City: new practices for collecting textile waste
Denmark, for example, collects clothing directly from people’s homes and sends it to companies that sort what can be reused or recycled — but only after an awareness campaign that teaches households how to prepare the textiles. It’s still a very new system: it only began in July 2023.

Mexico City recently joined other regions working to properly collect textile waste. In September 2025, Mexico City’s Congress approved changes to the Solid Waste Law to officially recognize textile waste. It also authorized the Ministry of the Environment to create agreements with the industry to promote collection, treatment, recycling, reuse, and finally the disposal of textile waste. And, just like Denmark, it plans to promote collection programs through awareness campaigns on proper sorting.

In Europe, a person bought an average of 6 kilos of new clothes per year in 2020. And in Mexico City alone, 3.7 billion tons of textile waste are discarded each year, including bedding and curtains.

But these proposals will also need to consider the problems that other Global North countries have already faced with parts of this process. For example, the sorting phase requires workers who specialize in this job, and these tasks are usually done by nonprofits or private companies with their own interests because it’s minimized.

Europe sends much of its textile waste to sorting centers located in countries with lower labor costs, mainly in Eastern Europe or the Middle East. And that matters because the better this sorting process is, the more opportunities there are for reuse, resale, and recycling, but if this specialized work depends on underpaid workers, it might not be as useful or advantageous as we urgently need it to be.

Fast fashion, fast rewind
The term fast fashion is basically the same age as Taylor Swift — it was coined by a journalist in New York in 1989, when Zara opened its first store in that city and outside Spain for the first time. So, if you think about it that way, reversing this practice is not impossible; it’s not like we’ve been overconsuming for centuries.

The woman online who said she wasn’t contributing to pollution as long as she didn’t throw clothes away wasn’t totally wrong: wearing an item as many times as possible is the first solution given when trying to tackle this situation. The problem is that fast-fashion materials are lower quality so the cycle continues, lasts less, and even pollutes when washed.

But that doesn’t mean the garment can’t get a second life. You can repurpose it, mend it, redesign it, or give it another cycle. And if you’re part of the group that uses their clothes 37% less before discarding them, consider selling them on digital platforms or donating them if they’re still in good condition.

And if you finally decide the item is trash — even after waiting for it to cross the ocean, accumulate CO₂ emissions by air, sea, and land — then, before tossing it with everything else, check for local textile recycling centers or ask your waste collector if you can separate it.
Meanwhile, we’re also waiting for governments to adopt stronger measures, like the ones proposed in France, which would require fast-fashion companies to display environmental disclaimers on their websites or set a limit on how many new items they can upload per day, as well as their marketing.

In Mexico –where we don’t need a lot of justifications to keep on partying– we know this famous phrase first told by rancheras singer Vicente Fernández: “Mientras sigan aplaudiendo, yo sigo cantando” which means “as long as you keep clapping, I’ll keep singing”. It reminds me of the fast fashion cycle and how it sometimes feels like companies think exactly like Chente: “as long as you keep buying, I’ll keep producing.”

Estefanía Camacho is a freelance Mexican journalist working across media and digital magazines. She is a specialist in gender, SMEs, economics, and business.

Huatulco

The Hidden City Behind the World’s Shoes

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By Ximena Collado—

When I tell people I’m from León, they usually smile politely and ask, “Oh, where is that?” Few know that my hometown, tucked right in the heart of Mexico, is actually considered the shoe capital of the world. Not just of the country — of the world.
Not many people think of León as a tourist destination, even though it has a rich culture and great food. Yet it’s one of the closest airports to San Miguel de Allende, so countless travelers who fly in to visit San Miguel arrive through León. Many have unknowingly taken their first step in Guanajuato right here — in the city where the shoes they wear might have been made.
For those of us who grew up here, leather is more than a material; it’s part of our identity, the scent that lingers in the air, the texture of our childhood memories, the heartbeat of our city.
Some of my earliest memories are filled with that smell — the deep, warm leather that seemed to live in every corner of my house. My uncles worked with leather, crafting boots by hand in small workshops scattered across the city. When they hugged me after a long day, they always smelled like leather — rich and earthy, a scent that clung to their clothes and hands. To this day, whenever I catch that smell, it feels like home.
Walking through León, it’s impossible not to feel that connection. The smell of tanned leather still floats from old factories, and the markets shine with beautifully crafted boots and bags.
Our story with leather reaches back to the early 1600s, when León’s artisans began tanning hides and crafting goods by hand. The abundance of cattle in the Bajío region provided plenty of raw material, and the city’s location made it a natural hub for trade. Local histories suggest that Spanish settlers introduced new tanning methods during colonial times, techniques that blended with the skill and ingenuity of local craftspeople. Over the centuries, those small workshops grew into a thriving industry — and with it came a new identity. People from León earned the nickname panza verde, or “green belly,” a name said to come from the dyes and pigments that stained the aprons and skin of the leather workers. Over time, panza verde became more than a nickname; it became a badge of pride, a symbol of the color and character that define our craft.

Today, León produces millions of pairs of shoes every year, from classic cowboy boots to modern sneakers and elegant heels. But what many people don’t realize is that some of the world’s most recognized brands are made right here. I’ve even known friends who produce shoes for brands like Sperry or Steve Madden, proof of how León’s craftsmanship quietly travels the world. Their global designs are brought to life by Mexican hands — by people who’ve learned the balance between precision and intuition, between tradition and trend. If you’re looking for some beautifully made leather shoes, start with local names like Bala di Gala, Flexi, Cuadra, Dante, or Perugia — each one rooted in León’s heritage of craftsmanship and quality.
I always smile when I travel and spot a pair of shoes in a store that I know came from León. There’s something magical about seeing a piece of your city walking around the world — quietly, beautifully, without most people even knowing where it was born.
But León isn’t just an industrial city anymore. It’s transforming into a creative hub, a place where design, fashion, and culture come together. In recent years, I’ve watched boutique studios, design schools, and concept stores pop up all around the city. Events like SAPICA — Latin America’s biggest leather and footwear fair — attract buyers, stylists, and designers from all over the world. León is redefining itself: still rooted in craftsmanship, but now looking boldly toward the future.

San Miguel de Allende

Threads Through Time: Tracing the Tapestry of Naturally Derived Textiles in Mexico

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By Kary Vannice—

Mexico’s rich textile heritage is a colorful historical narrative interwoven with indigenous traditions and the imprints of European influence. From the earliest known fibers (1400 BCE) to the contemporary fusion of craftsmanship and innovation, textile weavers and designers have left their mark on the Mexican culture.

Mexican Textiles – Indigenous and Colonial Roots

The genesis of Mexican textiles can be traced to 1800 BCE, when fibers of the chichicaste plant (much like stinging nettle) were skillfully woven into fabric fragments. The pre-Hispanic era brought about the artful integration of native fibers like yucca, palm, willow and maguey. Cotton, which is not native to Mexico, made its first appearance much earlier, around 3000 BCE. Obtained through conquest and trade among ancient societies, cotton assumed a revered status and its use was restricted to the elite.

In pre-Spanish culture, textile making was not merely a technique, but a sacred gift bestowed upon women by the gods. The backstrap loom, a lightweight, mobile loom made of wood and a strap that is wrapped around the back, was exclusively operated by women, and played a central role in weaving fabrics. In those times, the intricate process of weaving, spinning, and embroidering held more than cultural significance – some fabrics were also used as currency.

The Spanish conquest ushered in a transformative era for Mexican textiles. New fibers arriving from Europe, like silk and wool, reshaped the industry. The imported foot treadle loom, often seen in Mexico today, mechanized weaving and lead to an explosion of production and a pivotal shift in the textile trade.

Mexican Textiles Travel the World

Wool and silk imports, coupled with the introduction of sheep and silkworms, catapulted Mexico into the global textile scene by the late 1500s. This period marked a significant exchange of textile knowledge and resources between Europe and the Americas.

Over time, European textile techniques became assimilated into the rich tapestry of Mexican craftsmanship. This influx of new materials spurred innovation among native weavers and resulted in a fusion of styles and patterns. Mexican textiles became sought-after commodities and unique fashion statements throughout Europe. Native weavers began exporting their diverse range of handcrafted garments and homemade items to international markets.

Their designs showcased the distinctive aesthetic of Mexican culture, characterized by vibrant colors, intricate patterns, and the use of naturally dyed fibers.

During the 19th century, the introduction of steam-powered machines opened new horizons for the textile industry in Mexico. By the late 19th century, textile production and distribution emerged as a dominant force in the country’s manufacturing sector and Mexico’s textiles became known the world over.

When industrial sewing machines became available in the early 20th century it brought about another chapter in textile production and catalyzed a new phase in the industry – the production of finished clothing.

Despite the transition to modern textile production, the influence of ancient techniques endures. Weaving has become a cultural narrative and the artisans committed to preserving traditional methods not only sustain the authenticity of Mexican textiles but also foster a sense of continuity between generations.

Mexican textiles have emerged as international representatives of cultural craftsmanship. Their global recognition reflects the adaptability of Mexico’s textile industry, which today honors its heritage while at the same time embracing contemporary trends.

Sustainable Tradition, Environmentally Ethical

Mexico’s long-standing traditional approach to textile production, rooted in sustainable and ethical practices, aligns with the growing global emphasis on environmentally conscious fashion. Mexican designers and industry leaders continue to push the boundaries of sustainable textile innovation. In 2019, the Mexico-based company Adriano di Marti, went to the Milan (Italy) Leather Fair and presented a vegan leather made from nopal cactus called Desserto. The company has developed a version of the leather called Desertex for use in automobiles; they are now working on using agave fiber, a waste byproduct of the tequila-making process, to produce a third vegan leather, Desserto Agave, for use in the fashion industry. Adriana di Marti also produces cactus yarns for woven fabrics.

The enduring history of naturally derived textiles in Mexico is a testament to the cultural richness that transcends time. Mexican textiles narrate a saga of centuries, embodying a cultural legacy that continues to flourish in the tapestry of modern life.

Kary Vannice is a writer and energetic healer who explores the intersections of culture, consciousness, and daily life in Mexico.

Huatulco, San Miguel de Allende

How America’s Closets (And Sometimes Runways) End Up in Mexico’s Markets

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By Kary Vannice—

Whenever I travel to a new town in Mexico, the very first thing I look for is the local tianguis market. Some people go straight to the beach or the zócalo, but I make a beeline to the used clothing stalls. There is something irresistible about those long rows of tarps and huge piles of clothing, each one holding the possibility of an unexpected treasure.

Over the years, I have found everything from soft cashmere sweaters for eighty pesos to high-end dresses like Prada and Kate Spade with the original tags still attached for under ten dollars. And every time it happens, I feel the same spark of excitement and disbelief. How did this piece, so clearly meant for a very different kind of clientele, end up here amongst the street tacos, veggies, and chingaderas?

To me, it feels like fashion magic. But what feels like magic is actually part of a far bigger story, one that starts far from Mexico’s markets and reveals a great deal about the way clothing moves around the globe.

Most people in the United States believe that when they donate clothing, it ends up hanging neatly in a thrift store, ready for a new owner. The truth is very different. Only a tiny fraction is ever resold in the U.S. More than half is bundled, compressed and shipped out of the country. Mexico happens to be one of the main destinations.

Every year, the United States exports millions of tons of used clothing. Much of it from discount retailers, thrift stores or big box stores. But you can also find unsold inventory from more upscale stores, last season’s corporate clear outs and even brand samples that never make it onto the market. A well-used T-shirt from Walmart and a designer sale sample can all end up in the same enormous stream of “fashion waste”.

Arriving in Mexico as tightly wrapped bundles known as “pacas” and sold as “Ropa Americana”, they look a lot like plastic hay bales stuffed to bursting with mostly used (but sometimes new) clothing. Vendors buy them unopened, relying on codes stamped on the plastic to guess what might be inside. A paca can hold anything from children’s sweatshirts to high quality outdoor jackets to a dress from a designer brand that never made it past the showroom. And for many families, these bales are not just bundles of clothing. They are income, opportunity and a monthly gamble they hope will pay off.

Once something enters this bulk resale circuit, it follows its own path. A single sample blouse worn once for a catalog shoot can travel thousands of kilometers and eventually land in a street market in Oaxaca, Queretaro, or Mexico City.

The Mexican tianguis shopping experience reveals something important about fashion and culture. And that is, this humble community marketplace treats all clothing the same. In the United States fashion is organized by price, privilege, and status. Here, everything becomes just another piece of clothing again. A four-thousand-dollar designer suit jacket can be found under a faded tank top from Target. Here, the fashion hierarchy completely breaks down and a shirt is simply a shirt.

This unseen migration of clothing from the US to Mexico also reflects a bigger picture. Clothing doesn’t just disappear when one person is done wearing it. It continues its journey. It moves between countries, homes, economies, and cultures. What one society considers used or outdated becomes valuable in another context and community.

In our world, discarded clothing operates as a global supply chain of waste, resale, redistribution, and revaluation. It serves as a reminder that, in fashion, value is fluid, movement is constant, and our world is far more interconnected than it appears. Here in Mexico, the tianguis culture gives us a front-row seat to something most people never see, how global waste becomes local value, and how communities creatively reshape what the world throws away into income, opportunity, and economy.

Kary Vannice is a writer and energetic healer who explores the intersections of culture, consciousness, and daily life in Mexico.

Huatulco

Editor’s Letter

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By Jane Bauer —

“Buy less. Choose well. Make it last” – Vivienne Westwood, English fashion designer and businesswoman.

Fifteen years ago, the first issue of The Eye rolled off the press. It was nothing more than two sheets of oversized newsprint, and the writers and I sat around a table folding each copy by hand. What pushed us to begin this project? By then, I had already lived in Mexico for more than a decade. I had married a Mexican, my daughter identifies as Mexican, and I’ve always preferred the rhythm of a small, non-touristy village to resort life. I could have continued drifting between two cultures, or I could create something that connected them. I also knew I wasn’t the only one navigating this space.

The Eye became that bridge.

Our mission is simple: to collect and share the stories, history, and layers of Mexico that readers might otherwise miss. We spotlight local businesses and give them a platform to reach new clients. We support organizations doing important work by helping them connect with volunteers and sponsors. At its heart, The Eye is about building community—not a parallel community that sits apart from the Mexican one, but a pathway into it. Learn about this place. Get involved. Participate. That has always been the purpose. And fifteen years later, it still is. We are very excited to announce the launch of The Eye San Miguel de Allende. Be sure to check it out.

This month, our writers explore fashion, a topic that can seem frivolous at first glance but is, in truth, a revealing lens through which to examine human behavior. The choice of what to wear is something each of us makes every day. Our clothes carry meaning, whether cultural, historical, or environmental. What are you wearing right now as you read this? What does your choice of fabric or brand say about you? Like all consumer goods, the items we choose to spend our money on have a rippling effect that, in an increasingly globalized world, can reach as far as the shores of Africa.

As we prepare for the New Year, let each of us take stock of the choices we make and the echoes they create.

Happy New Year, and see you in January.

Jane

San Miguel de Allende

The History of Fabrica La Aurora

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Rebecca Desiree C. —

Before becoming the center for creativity and culture known locally as La Aurora Centro de Arte y Diseño, La Aurora was once just a simple textile factory. Originally launched in 1902, Fabrica La Aurora operated as a major producer of fine cotton textiles in San Miguel de Allende.

For about nine decades, the factory would go on to provide a source of livelihood to hundreds of locals, but it would later shut down in 1991 due to declining demands for local fabrics and rising production costs.

For more than a decade following its shutdown, the factory lay abandoned until the descendants of its founders chose to put the property up for sale in the early years of the 21st century. This article will share a bit of the history of Fabrica Aurora and its transformation into one of San Miguel de Allende’s most celebrated centers for art, culture, and creative expression.
A Brief History of Old Fabrica La Aurora
Fabrica La Aurora was one of the largest and most important textile factories in central Mexico. According to local accounts, at its height, the factory employed more than 300 people and was a major player in the thread and textile market in Mexico.

The factory remained in business for most of the 20th century, dominating the textile market in central Mexico, spreading its products to the rest of the country. From the end of the 1970s, however, the factory began to face challenges that eventually lead to its gradual decline and closure. Some of these challenges included increased global textile competition, outdated machinery that struggled to keep up with modern production standards, and the economic instability that struck Mexico during the 1980s. The factory would continue to struggle for one more decade before finally closing down in 1991. While definitive archival records are scarce, local histories attribute the closure in 1991 to rising global competition, out-dated machinery and broader economic pressures in Mexico’s textile sector.

Upon the factory’s closure, most of its infrastructure was left in place, the entire facility abandoned. Things would stay this way until, over a decade later, the decision was made to sell the property. This single decision would go on to set the stage for one of the most creative and inspiring transformations in Mexico’s history.

From Abandoned Textile Factory to Hub of Creativity
In many ways, La Aurora’s transformation into one of the biggest cultural centers in San Miguel came as the result of a shared vision and a willingness to do what it takes to make said vision a reality.

The property was put up for sale in the early 2000s. Having been abandoned for over a decade, its machines corroded and its infrastructure in a clear state of disrepair, the sale was not a highly competitive one. However, this would end up working in favour of a small group of artists, designers, and investors, who shared a similar vision for the site’s revival.

For this group, the goal wasn’t to revive the factory to its glory days or even restore its facilities and infrastructure; it was to inspire. By turning this abandoned, local landmark into a cultural center, the group hoped not just to preserve a piece of San Miguel’s history but also to prove that even broken things can be transformed into something new and beautiful.

In 2004, the factory officially reopened, now under new management. Gone were the days of Fabrica La Aurora, the textile factory. In its place stood La Aurora Centro de Arte y Diseño, a haven dedicated to art, culture, and creativity.

La Aurora’s transformation from an abandoned 20th-century textile factory to the 21st-century creative and cultural powerhouse it is today didn’t happen by chance; it was the result of shared vision, determination, and unwavering belief that art could breathe new life into history.

Behind La Aurora’s transformation stand the bold artists and designers who chose to reimagine what was once a relic of industry into a living canvas of creativity. Notable names here include Christopher Fallon, Mary Rapp, Merry Calderoni, and DeWayne Youts, amongst others. Where most people saw heavily deteriorated infrastructure and machinery that had accumulated over a decade’s worth of rust and decay, these men and women saw the chance to build something extraordinary from the remnants of the past.

La Aurora Today — More Than Just a Renovated Factory
Today, the transformation of La Aurora is an inspiring example of cultural regeneration. In just two decades, the formerly abandoned factory had transformed into a creative sanctuary for artists and designers that houses a collection of art and design studios, galleries, and workshops.

Since its reopening the property has gone through a few renovations to fit its new purpose. Halls and corridors that used to house rows of looms and spinning machines now proudly display galleries and studios showcasing paintings, sculptures, furniture, and handcrafted designs from various artists and designers.

In just two decades, La Aurora had successfully reinvented itself. A quick look at the Cultural Center of Art and Design, La Aurora, today, and you’d be hard-pressed to see that century-old factory that was left unattended for over a decade. Instead, what you’d see is a thriving cultural landscape rich with art, design, and imagination; proof that even once-abandoned things can be given new life and made relevant again.

La Aurora Centro de Arte y Diseño is located just north of San Miguel’s historic center and is open to the public year-round, with regular art walks, exhibitions, and cafés within the old factory walls.

Huatulco

Wearing My Roots: A Queen’s Journey Through the Vela 27

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By Daira Moreno —

When I reflect on my roots, I picture myself beautifully dressed in Tehuana attire. It brings me back to my ancestors, especially my grandmother. The beauty of these dresses lies not only in their embroidery, but in the way they are passed from one generation to the next. Today, only a few artisans still know how to make Tehuana attire in its traditional form. The Zapotec language, along with the traditional techniques, is at risk of disappearing. Wearing the dress is an act of resistance, a way to keep our identity alive. The reaffirmation of Zapotec identity through the figure of the Queen of the Vela 27, embodied in my own experience of wearing the Tehuana dress, is a form of empowerment for the people of my town, the Ixtepecanos. It is also a way of preserving our culture at a time when many traditions are being lost in an increasingly globalized world.

Ciudad Ixtepec’s cultural identity lives within its traditional attire, the Tehuana dress, and in the fact that only a few artisans continue to make it in the old way. This fragility, of both language and dressmaking, shows how urgent it is to preserve these parts of our heritage. The Tehuana attire has also found its place in the larger story of Mexico. Iconic figures such as Frida Kahlo and Salma Hayek embraced it, drawing inspiration from Isthmus women and, in Hayek’s case, from her own Ixtepecana roots. Lupe Vélez immortalized the style in her film La Sandunga, helping introduce Oaxacan culture to national and international audiences. Many consider the Tehuana costume the most beautiful in Mexico. These cultural references strengthen the idea that Zapotec identity carries a significance that must be protected.

In this piece, I offer a brief reflection on my experience as queen of the Vela 27 and on the meaning of a Vela, with special attention to the clothing I wore throughout the five-day celebration which culminates in the coronation, where I step into the same role my mother and cousin once held, continuing a legacy begun by my grandmother, one of the festival’s founders.

This year, I served as queen of the Renombrada Vela 27, held in honor of San Jerónimo Doctor. It is characterized by dancing throughout the entire night, waiting for dawn to arrive. “Vela” is the name given by the friars to the indigenous festivities dedicated to the deities called “Za” or “Binnizá,” meaning “men of the clouds,” according to the agricultural calendar. With evangelization, these rituals were transformed into patron-saint festivals dedicated to Catholic saints, following the mission and religious order of the friars during the colonial period. The word vela comes from velar, meaning “to stay awake, to keep vigil all night,” which remains at the heart of the celebration today.

One of the most striking parts of the Vela is that all attendees must wear the Tehuana gala dress; otherwise, they are not permitted to enter. Women showcase their finest traditional gala dresses and high heels, each one striving to look as spectacular as possible. Men must wear a plain white guayabera with no floral embroidery.

The use of gold, coins, and ornaments in the festivities has its roots in practices of prestige and offering. In the case of coins, their presence is more recent, linked to the arrival of the Trans-Isthmus Railway and the port of Salina Cruz in the late 1800s and early 1900s. Gold in women’s attire also symbolizes the empowerment of Isthmus women, as well as well-being, economic stability, and even wealth. The use of minted coins changes the meaning significantly, which is why I emphasize empowerment.

Many of the pieces I wore are family heirlooms, and when I put them on, I feel the presence of my grandmother, my mother, and the women in my family who have kept these traditions alive. Each garment reflects the work of artisans whose techniques are at risk of disappearing.

To understand the significance of each day and the meaning behind every outfit, it is helpful to look at the schedule of the Vela 27 and the Tehuana attire I wore throughout the celebration.

The Vela 27 Schedule:
September 26 (evening): The festivities begin with the Calenda (traditional street parade) at 8 p.m., continuing until 2 a.m. The streets of Ixtepec come alive with dancing, fireworks, and music, announcing the start to the Vela 27. That evening, I wore a coordinated skirt and huipil made with the cadenilla technique, featuring pink and yellow greca designs crafted by the artisan Francisco Javier Reyes Vázquez from San Blas Atempa. My hairstyle followed the traditional style of the women of Ixtepec: two braids intertwined with a pink ribbon and adorned with artificial flowers. To complete the muda, I wore a three-strand espejito azucena necklace with a calabaza pendant in pearls and gold filigree, along with matching earrings and a bracelet made from 2.5-peso Mexican coins embellished with rubies and alejandrina.

2nd Day of Activities:
September 27 (morning): The queen’s Mañanitas begin at 7 a.m. and include serenades, prayers, and dancing. The organizers of the Vela attend, making it one of the most beautiful moments of the celebration, filled with emotion as the family prepares for the day. Breakfast is offered at the queen’s home to those who came to serenade her, and gifts are given to the attendees. This festivity also commemorates the birthday of the patron saint, San Jerónimo Doctor. For my muda during the Mañanitas, I wore a circular stylized yellow rabona skirt with a hand-stitched cadenilla huipil. I accessorized with a choker made of hinged coins and matching cross-shaped earrings.

September 27 (evening): The most significant and symbolic day of the Vela 27 gathers about 3,000 people. It begins at 9 p.m. and lasts until 7 a.m. The highlight of the event is the queen’s coronation, which includes her arrival, her first dance, and her speech. Past queens, as well as the queen from the previous year, also make their appearances. After the ceremony, the community spends the rest of the night dancing. On the day of my coronation, I proudly wore an original, hand-embroidered traditional dress crafted by the artisan Antonia Morales Lobo from the town of Santa Rosa de Lima. This community is distinguished by its mastery of the Tehuana gala dress, an art practiced by both its women and men. The making of this outfit was commissioned a year in advance.

The dress is a replica of one of my mother’s gala dresses, which she wore when she served as queen in 1985, although for my version I chose a garden of yellow Castilian roses. The outfit consists of the enagua (skirt) and the huipil (blouse). I also wore a gold fleco made of gusanillos and canelones, a distinctive accessory that sets the queen apart from the general public. My hair was styled in gathered braids with a rosette at the nape of the neck and a floral adornment on the left side, leaving the top free for the crown. The crown and its matching scepter were crafted exclusively for my reign by the master goldsmith Hugo Charo from the town of San Blas Atempa. My Tehuana attire was complemented by a set of gold doblón dos María jewelry and a matching ahogador, along with a bracelet, rings, earrings, and a hair brooch. All of these are family heirlooms in gold, passed down from generation to generation.

September 29: The lively and colorful Regada de Frutas fills the streets with decorated buses carrying the queens or captains, who toss food and gifts to the townspeople. Horses, bulls, and captains in traditional attire parade alongside, accompanied by children’s orchestras playing music from the buses. This day symbolizes giving back to the community.

During the Regada de Frutas, we rode on a float designed to match the colors and floral motifs of the outfit I wore that day. With great pride, I wore a huipil and enagua featuring multicolored orchids. This traditional ensemble from Salinas del Marqués, an agency of the municipality of Salina Cruz, Oaxaca, was crafted by the artisan Francisco Gallegos. The design itself was created by my mother, making it especially meaningful. The technique used for this dress is crochet work with yellow filled stitching. The outfit was completed with a two-strand lazo, a choker (ahogador), earrings, a bracelet, and a ring.

October 1 (noon): A mass is held in honor of the Vela 27’s patron saint, San Jerónimo Doctor. Afterward, the queen and princesses take a long walk accompanied by the music group until they arrive at the lavado de olla, where the founding members and the community await them. To enter the church and offer floral arrangements to San Jerónimo Doctor, I wore a yellow velvet Tehuana dress created with two traditional techniques known as flor en medio. The central floral motif was made using crochet work, while the edges featured geometric stitched patterns. I also wore the traditional gold fleco, and on this occasion the jewelry I used included a doblón necklace and a choker (ahogador) of great sentimental value, as both pieces belong to my mother. This dress was crafted by the artisan Francisco Javier Reyes Vázquez from the town of San Blas Atempa. This Tehuana dress uses an ancient technique that is now being revived, since velvet (terciopelo) is rarely used in contemporary Tehuana dressmaking.

As the final notes of the Vela faded, I realized that this experience was not only a personal honor but a reminder of the responsibility we carry. The Tehuana dresses, the rituals, the music, and the devotion of the community showed me how culture survives through practice, through memory, and through each generation choosing to keep it alive. Serving as queen of the Vela 27 strengthened my belief that our heritage is not something of the past, but a living tradition that continues to shape who we are.

Huatulco, San Miguel de Allende

Four Fashionable Mexican Heads of State

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By Marcia Chaiken and Jan Chaiken —

Fashion statements have been made for millennia by the Heads of State in Mexico. Whether in pre- or post-Columbian eras, the most important political Mexican figures have always signaled their relationship with the common people (and sometimes with their gods) with their attire. Here are the fashion statements made by four of the most known.

King Pakal the Great, (aka K’inich Janaab Pakal), who ruled over Palenque from age 12 for 68 years until his death in 683, may be best known for interpretations of engravings on his sarcophagus that led him to be called the Mayan astronaut or time traveler. The engravings show him sporting paraphernalia that looks like space flight equipment. But whether he was human or extraterrestrial, his funeral dress clearly indicates that he was considered more than a mere mortal. Adorned with a king’s ransom of jade, from his death mask to the multiple ear pieces, necklaces, bracelets, and rings, even in death he was an impressive sight. The jade mask is most startling because of the inlay of obsidian “eyes”.

Many engravings of Mayan rulers show them wearing elaborate headdresses. But anthropologist Alyce de Carteret described the primary fashion piece of Mayan rulers: “A bark-paper headband adorned with a diadem of jade or shell was bound to the heads of rulers the day they acceded to the throne.” However, existing clay figures of Pakal show him wearing a bird mask, a headdress of quetzal feathers and a long elaborate gown decorated with necklaces of jade. We can surmise that the gown was made from finely woven cotton, since only the wealthiest Mayans could afford that material.

Montezuma (aka Moctezuma II) was the 9th ruler of the Aztec Empire and was the head of state for eighteen years until his death in 1520. Unlike Pakal whose living attire requires some conjecture, Montezuma was well known to the conquistador Cortez, who arrested him.

He was an impressive fashion figure on first formal meeting. His headdress alone was spectacular and described as including “the green upper tail coverts of the quetzal bird, the turquoise feathers of the cotinga, brown feathers from the squirrel cuckoo, pink feathers from the roseate spoonbill, and small ornaments of gold.” His mantle or cape was completely embroidered in primary colors, and the designs depended on the day, the audience and the ceremony he was attending. He rarely wore the same outfit twice, keeping a small army of embroiderers constantly busy. His outfit was completed with a loincloth and sandals – some of jaguar skin, most with jewels.

For the most solemn occasions, much of the finery was omitted, and Montezuma wore a simple loincloth and a dark cape decorated with skulls. After his arrest, Montezuma was not required to wear today’s orange jump suit but rather continued as a figurehead under Spanish rule and wore his diminishing costumes until he died of his wounds after an uprising of his former subjects.

Empress Carlota (née Princess Charlotte of Belgium) was the one and only empress of Mexico for a very short reign from 1864 to 1867. She and her husband Maximillian were placed on the throne by Napoleon III. Given their very progressive ideas about educating and raising up the Mexican populace, they were quickly deposed and Maximillian was shot.

Although the royal couple’s ideas about ruling Mexico were violently rejected, Carlota’s fashion sense was much more captivating. Given her wish to become the benefactor of “her people,” she began to combine European fashion with the costume of the hoi polloi of Mexico. Although the wide skirts and rich materials were retained, the bodice of her dresses and overskirt resembled the china poblana traditional dresses worn by Mexican women – especially on occasions celebrating Mexican identity. She also adopted the bright primary colors of Mexican dress.

Her rule was short-lived but her incorporation of Mexico’s traditional styles into high fashion has lived on. Many of the high-fashion designers of Mexico today merge traditional embroidery or decorations into ultra-modern designs. Just walk down Avenida Presidente Masaryk in CDMX today, and fashions based on Carlota’s innovations come alive.

Presidente Claudia Sheinbaum The first woman president in Mexico, who took office almost two years ago, is scrutinized for fashion as no president ever before. She uses this attention to benefit women all over Mexico. For ceremonial occasions, in addition to her presidential sash, she often wears replicas of dresses from different regions of the country including the huipil, the china poblana, the Tehuana (from Oaxaca) and the Chiapaneca. The many artisans who create and decorate her dresses are publicly noted and often find themselves swamped with orders from ordinary citizens and beyond.

Of course, given her intense meeting and travel schedule, she also slips into comfortable pants and blouses. But the styles are business-appropriate. And unlike the wives of many heads of state, she avoids expensive designer clothes and instead wears fashions that are affordable for the majority of working Mexicans.

From Pakal to Sheinbaum, the Mexican heads of state have had distinctive styles worn as political statements. Some such as Carlota and Montezuma have had ruinous careers. Some such as Pakal and hopefully Sheinbaum have made positive contributions to lives of their people. All will likely be remembered for what they wore.

Drs. Marcia and Jan Chaiken have been married for 62 years and have published many justice system research reports together.