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For it is the implacable and bloodthirsty conservatism of Aztec art that forces itself on you first, even in the Met's galleries, so far from the real context of the sacrificial pyramids and the thousands of other effigies that make up its body. Here was an absolutely ordered society whose chief religious rite was human sacrifice -- penitential rituals, on an appalling scale, whose aim was nothing less than to keep reality in motion. The Mesoamericans believed that the world could stop at any moment, that the very cosmos was always on the brink of dissolution, its cycles maintained only by sacrifice. The sun would not rise in the morning over the lakes of Tenochtitlan if it were not refreshed by streams of blood.
We find it hard to imagine such a society, not because it was so cruel -- in that regard, pre-Columbian Mexico was no worse than 20th century Europe with its wars and concentration camps -- but because its cruelty, as Paz points out in his catalog essay, was indissolubly part of its "senseless and sublime" theological and moral system. "The Mesoamerican vision of the world and of man is shocking. It is a tragic vision that both stimulates and numbs me. It does not seduce me, but it is impossible not to admire it." So might some Russian of the 3rd millennium A.D. rhapsodize about the ancient sacrificial rites of Stalinism, immolating its millions to the God of the Future.
All old Mexican art is sacred art. There are rare moments of what one might call realism. One is the remarkable Olmec urn in the form of a hunchback, probably from La Venta; but its immense vitality suggests that in Olmec cosmology, cripples and dwarfs were invested with numinous power, along with jaguars and eagles. Another is the 7th century stucco head from the Temple of the Inscriptions in Palenque, which is clearly a portrait, perhaps of the ruler Pacal II. Yet even in this effigy of an individual, the great bladelike nose and the forward sweep of the headdress like the comb of a cockatoo suggest a hieratic type.
One sees premonitions of modernity, since 20th century sculptors drew on Mexican sources for inspiration -- Henry Moore's reclining women, for instance, derive partially from the powerful crankshaft rhythms of Yucatan Chacmool figures. But the best pieces here, such as the stone figure of a standard-bearer from Chichen Itza with its fierce gaze and crippled foot, are beyond such comparisons. From the delicately modeled stucco glyphs of Palenque, imbued with an almost rococo elegance, to the frightful severity of Aztec pieces such as the cuauhxicalli, or blood receptacle, in the form of a stone eagle, ancient Mexican sculpture is as powerful as any in human history.