Grief in this country is supposed to be handled indoors, quietly, and then put away. Somewhere around year two you realise nobody is going to ask about your person again, and that the silence is worse than the crying was.
Calle Cuatro closes for this, and for one night 4th Street becomes something a closed street almost never is: hundreds of altars built on the asphalt by families, students, neighbourhood groups and strangers, running block after block. Now in its twenty-third year, organised by El Centro Cultural de México, it stays deliberately community-built rather than programmed — the altars are made by whoever shows up to make one, which is why they look nothing alike and why some of them will stop you where you stand.
The part outsiders never expect is how ordinary the conversation is. You will stand in front of a stranger's altar and they will tell you about their brother the way you would tell someone about a cousin at a wedding. Nobody lowers their voice. That is the whole technology of the thing.
Saturday, November 7, noon to 9 p.m., 4th Street between Ross and Broadway, Santa Ana. Free.
Grief in this country is supposed to be handled indoors, quietly, and then put away. Somewhere around year two you realise nobody is going to ask about your person again, and that the silence is worse than the crying was.
Calle Cuatro closes for this, and for one night 4th Street becomes something a closed street almost never is: hundreds of altars built on the asphalt by families, students, neighbourhood groups and strangers, running block after block. Now in its twenty-third year, organised by El Centro Cultural de México, it stays deliberately community-built rather than programmed — the altars are made by whoever shows up to make one, which is why they look nothing alike and why some of them will stop you where you stand.
The part outsiders never expect is how ordinary the conversation is. You will stand in front of a stranger's altar and they will tell you about their brother the way you would tell someone about a cousin at a wedding. Nobody lowers their voice. That is the whole technology of the thing.
Saturday, November 7, noon to 9 p.m., 4th Street between Ross and Broadway, Santa Ana. Free.
Grief in this country is supposed to be handled indoors, quietly, and then put away. Somewhere around year two you realise nobody is going to ask about your person again, and that the silence is worse than the crying was.
Calle Cuatro closes for this, and for one night 4th Street becomes something a closed street almost never is: hundreds of altars built on the asphalt by families, students, neighbourhood groups and strangers, running block after block. Now in its twenty-third year, organised by El Centro Cultural de México, it stays deliberately community-built rather than programmed — the altars are made by whoever shows up to make one, which is why they look nothing alike and why some of them will stop you where you stand.
The part outsiders never expect is how ordinary the conversation is. You will stand in front of a stranger's altar and they will tell you about their brother the way you would tell someone about a cousin at a wedding. Nobody lowers their voice. That is the whole technology of the thing.
Saturday, November 7, noon to 9 p.m., 4th Street between Ross and Broadway, Santa Ana. Free.