It was during the time I had just begun my first lessons in graphic techniques at the academy. My greatest source of inspiration were the drawings I had made during a long stay in Mexico. (More about that in this blog post: Mexico, my plein air sketch roots.) The archaeological sites of Tula and Teotihuacan became the backdrop for my earliest intaglios.
The archaeologist
My parents, living in Mexico City for several years because of my father’s work, had built up a circle of local acquaintances. Among them was a colleague with a remarkable passion: he was an amateur archaeologist. In a country where ancient secrets seem to surface everywhere, that wasn’t all too unusual.
One conversation led to another, and one day he suggested a trade: one of my etchings in exchange for an authentic archaeological find. Of course, I agreed without hesitation. The exchange would take place on one of my next visits.
Serendipity
At the same time, I had started collecting old inkwells, dip pens, and all sorts of stationery. A coincidence — or perhaps something more than coincidence — was quietly weaving the threads together.
When the day of the exchange came, the Mexican handed me a small stone object with two holes drilled into it. I must admit, I felt a flicker of disappointment. He couldn’t tell me exactly what it was. Perhaps a toy, he guessed, something children could spin between their fingers. He mentioned that many such items had been unearthed and that they were thought to be everyday objects from Aztec times.
The dusty little block disappeared into a box, forgotten for years — patiently waiting to be discovered again.
The museum
Much later, on an academy excursion, I found myself — purely by chance — in a small writing museum. The location has long escaped me; I believe it was Amsterdam, though my notes are lost. But what I do remember with perfect clarity is the moment I stood before a glass display case and saw, among ancient writing tools and small ink vessels, an object identical to mine. Those two holes, that same shape — it was an inkwell!
I began searching for more evidence, more confirmation. There wasn’t much to be found. But by connecting fragments of information, a story began to form that felt both logical and enchanting.
A treasure!
Double-chambered vessels are most often associated with water or fermented drinks. But the idea that they were also used for storing ink — especially in a Mesoamerican context — makes perfect sense. The Mixtec, Zapotec, and Aztec cultures all had rich writing traditions that depended on black and red inks, made from cochineal, carbon, and mineral pigments.
If my vessel was indeed an inkwell, it may once have belonged to a scribe or priest working on codices — bark-paper manuscripts filled with symbols and images — or perhaps to an artisan painting ceramics or murals.
And the place of origin only adds weight to that thought. Teotihuacan (100 BCE–550 CE) was a great city, home to artists, scribes, and sacred stories painted on walls and pottery. Though little direct evidence remains of how ink was stored, I like to imagine that this small double-chambered object once sat on a workbench, close to brushes, pigments, and fresh sheets of bark paper. Perhaps one chamber held black ink, the other red. Perhaps it helped to mix or stabilize delicate colours.
Even without physical traces left inside, the vessel’s quiet presence, tied to that ancient city, makes it feel like a treasure. A small, silent witness to hands that once created stories in colour and line — and now part of mine.
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