Built to Be Broken

I watched in shocked horror as a crowd of kids tore into my papier-mâché masterpiece. The crowd chanted as each blindfolded child walked up to swing frantically at the brilliantly colored piñata. Everyone cheered as my creation swung across the room and was smashed until candy spilled to the eager, grabbing hands of the partygoers. Even after the event was over, they playfully tossed and ripped the mangled pieces of frayed paper well into the evening.

It was December, and even in northern Mexico, it was a bit colder than normal. But that hadn’t stopped us from holding the party outdoors. The church members had organized: everyone offering something to make the night a true Christmas celebration. Señor Aguilar had rented a karaoke set-up and upbeat music filled the open courtyard. Of course, Señora Trejo had cooked up a massive carne asada. I naively had offered to build and bring a piñata. It was my go-to for party festivities, something with impactful attendee interaction with such cheap financial investment.

I learned how to make piñatas as a child. Seven kids of all heights and personalities filled my house growing up--it’s no wonder my mother did what she could to save money while still trying to help us pursue our unique interests. I was one of the younger, crafty kids. My brother and I (always clumped together as ‘the little boys’) liked to spend our days drawing and making crafts. Each birthday my Mom would let me invite my friends over for a sleepover, and she taught me how to throw an inexpensive but fun party by building a papier-mâché piñata. A simple mixture of flour and water can turn paper and cardboard into a ferocious dinosaur, a massive globe, or even a replica of the birthday boy himself. A solution for any party on any day, the piñata was an obvious crowd-pleaser, and it was an even cheaper solution when we made it ourselves. We got to have a party AND make a big craft? Everyone was happy. Since it worked so well for us, I thought everyone would have learned and implemented this simple party crafting solution, but later I realized this skill wasn’t as prevalent as I thought it had been.

When I was 19, I was lucky enough to live in Mexico for a few years. There I got to see real piñatas and learn from local artisans. So, when I helped put together this Christmas party for our local church late that year, I knew I could make a piñata to appease the kids and impress their parents. With the little spare time and money I had, I built a traditional piñata (a seven-pointed star with frilly metallic fringe and tissue-paper streamers). It took days building layers of wet papier-mâché and building up a solid framework, balancing the damp structure on clothing lines and letting it dry in the sunshine. I sought out a bookstore to find the necessary tissue paper to decorate it all. I laid out the delicate paper and used scissors to cut each row of fringe. I hand-glued them in rows until the body was covered in a fluffy frayed fur. I gently pasted on the long streamers and the piñata was complete. We filled it with candies and hung it to show it off at the party. It sat there gleaming in the blinking light of the Christmas lights. I too was gleaming: with pride in my hard work, finally basking in the festive spirit.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but seeing all my hours of hard work, extra change, and patient dedication get smashed to bits was quite a sobering experience. At first, I was sad seeing the kids tear into the paper frame, but there was also a deranged magic in smashing something so beautiful as they waited to pounce on the exposed inner treats. With time I realized the beauty of piñatas. It starts with the simple joy of making, taking time to build something because you love to, to make someone happy for a moment. Making the piñata had been a labor-intensive process, but it was a process I enjoyed. Nothing is supposed to last forever. Now, piñatas remind me that we must celebrate every moment from beginning to end.

From conception, the piñata process is half engineering, half artistic design. One must build a light, hollow form that can withstand a few smacks with a bat. It has to be dense enough to be filled with heavy candy but fragile enough to break at a child’s attempt to crack it open. When it's all built, you get to adorn it with bright layers of tissue paper, bringing the whole thing to life. Now I try to remind myself not to get worried when I make. Creating is a process with a beginning and an end, and the best parts are in-between.

As years passed, I found more opportunities to make piñatas for work parties, home get-togethers, and craft workshops. Now, as an adult, I do what I can to share the simple pleasure of a papier-mâché piñata. In an effort to get people working with their hands again I have taught workshops and helped others learn from piñata building. Creating through the slow and ordered process of building a delicate piece reminds me that there are some projects we do simply for the joy of making: not expecting anything at the end, no specific response, or even any lingering evidence the creation existed at all. When we make time to make, we end up making ourselves better. The creative process is about starting things and letting them get to an end but letting that end inspire something new rather than defeat us. Sometimes there is beauty in smashing something to bits. We build and make for making’s sake of making, and that kind of creating should be cherished.