A Fellow Fashion Magazine Pundit

Studying women’s magazines in Latin America is not easy. Actually, working with any kind of ephemeral materials requires a lot of time and effort, whether we’re talking about newspapers, magazines, fanzines or loose papers. The archives that contain them are often incomplete, lack comprehensive information about production conditions or are scattered across different preservation spaces worldwide. All too often, that’s in the global north, which is inaccessible to many Latin American scholars, unless they obtain funding to support their research. To illuminate the often invisible voices behind the creation of these cultural productions, I want to showcase the diverse steps involved in the research process of these magazines, from the difficulty of finding them, to the pleasure of getting to know their creators, such as Cota Mantilla, editor of Argentine magazine Para ti, and the inspiration behind this story.

Coming from a discipline—literary studies—that is almost always self-contained thanks to the book format, I’ve always found the artifact of the women’s magazine fascinating and terrifying at the same time. It was partly this dichotomy, and partly my lifelong dedication/fandom to reading different types of women’s magazines, that led me to define them as the central object of my doctoral research. Initially, I thought that dedicating myself to visiting what I identify as institutional archives—hemerotecas, specialized libraries, or national archives—would be sufficient. It wasn’t. I quickly realized the need to integrate spaces and individuals outside the archive into my research process: second-hand book sellers, antique markets, people (mainly women) who have dedicated themselves to preserving multiple issues of their favorite magazines in their homes, or who have had experience working in these types of editorial spaces.

And so I arrive at the summer of 2017. I was at the La Lagunilla flea market in Mexico City, searching a bit haphazardly for women’s magazines published in the 20th century, trying to determine which materials might be ideal for my doctoral research. I was not looking for anything in particular, hoping this unofficial archive would lead me to something interesting. La Lagunilla is a space orderly yet chaotic: the vendors have their specialties, and like any good “street market,”  or “mercado sobre ruedas,” as we call them in México, it is organized into more or less recognizable sections. Several stalls are dedicated to old books and magazines like Siempre (a Mexican Life-like mid-century magazine) or the Spanish-language edition of National Geographic. Others focus on comics or newspapers, but few have a consistent interest in women’s magazines. These are usually an afterthought, something that is part of other bundles, whose commercial value lies in the fact that they have pretty colors with beautiful women on the cover, as I was once told by a “marchante.”

At a stall with several stacks of Mexican female magazines from the 1920s to the 1940s, I found two interesting volumes. The unusual aspect of the discovery was precisely that the very form these archival materials took revealed a conscious effort to preserve something usually considered ephemeral. The two volumes are leather-bound; one of them still has the spine label, with golden letters, of the Argentine magazine they both contain, Para Ti. I was so intrigued, I couldn’t give my money faster to the seller, scared that he would want to raise the price due to both my excited demeanor and my inability for “regateo,” the usual bargaining that goes on at such markets.

But several questions then arise: Who wanted to preserve them in this curated way? Were they bringing them directly from Argentina, or was the magazine reaching Mexico through official commercial routes? Why did these two specific volumes survive? Did the people who kept them and preserved them had an affective relationship to them? And how could I learn more about this new-to-me publication? These are all complex queries. They require a broader form of research_—especially doing reception studies, looking for readerships and their reactions to these artifacts,for example, which is difficult in its own way. But it was also difficult because the themes and interests that a female magazine represents haven’t been as deeply explored in Latin America as one would hope. This has to do with old prejudices, which have led to these cultural artifacts being considered banal, frivolous or even too conservative in their understanding of gender, thus not deemed a “serious” object of study.

Research in the region typically falls into three approaches: first, broad analyses of content and external factors (funding, ownership, editors-in-chief and sales regions); second, studies on influential figures, both famous (like Rubén Darío’s work in Elegancias) and unknown (usually female) careers (e.g., Sandra Sánchez on mid-century Colombian journalists); and finally, close-readings, often ideologically biased, viewing these artifacts as tools for disciplining and subjugating women.

In examining items like the two volumes of Para ti, I do not focus on judging them from insufficient, teleological perspectives such as viewing them merely through a Second-Wave feminist lens that sees the magazines only as symbols of oppression. Instead, I aim to understand them as dual entities. On one hand, they are aesthetic creations meant for the reader’s contemplation and instruction in the art of beauty (fashion, makeup, clothing, interior design). On the other hand, they serve as guides and companions to domestic life, offering recipes, pediatrician’s advice, personal finance tips and sewing patterns for home use.

Of course, female magazines are rooted in the sex-gender system that reproduces certain assumptions about femininity and its characteristics. Describing the typical contents of these magazines makes pretty obvious their conservative stance on gender. They emphasize a woman’s role in the home, their responsibility in providing care, and the societal expectations of how they should present themselves both physically (through fashion, diets, makeup, etc.) and mentally (how to date, who to marry, how to raise their children). Nonetheless, this interpretation ultimately limits the possibilities for analyzing something like Para ti and diminishes the multitude of people who were involved in both their creation and their consumption. Magazines like these have been a key staple of domestic literature, and reading them without bias means to approach them through the lens of those who, like my younger self, dived into their pages looking for advice, recipes, trends, gossip and a long etcetera.

This is what makes these objects both fascinating and difficult to study. They usually take their time in letting the nosy eyes of the scholar find the key to make them speak. It has happened to me multiple times, and the case of Para ti was no exception. Given that I was focusing on Mexico, and had already amassed a good number of titles to analyze, I kept the two volumes on my bookshelves, waiting for the right moment to study them, for the key that would open them.

Imagine my surprise when I suddenly met Cota Mantilla. I didn’t know about her before, but hearing my Harvard colleague Mariano Siskind say the words, “She was the editor in chief of Para ti, you may want to meet her” (or something of the sort) was like music to my ears. Specializing in mid-20th century publications, it’s rare to get to know someone who was directly involved with the creation of these artifacts so near and dear to my heart. She happened to also be the mother of an alumni, Rosario Hubert. Her mom was in town visiting. I was ecstatic.

We met for coffee at Faro Cafe near Harvard Square on a bright April morning. She came with Rosario, who, fortunately for me, agreed to stay at least for a little while.  Cota kept saying that she could not believe someone was doing research on her magazine. My main objective was to listen, to get a bit of the juicy gossip only true insiders have. She went over everything, satisfying my questions with long, insightful answers. She explained that she had started working at Para ti in the late 60s (which was a good 20 years after the publication of the two volumes waiting on my bookshelf), and told me that Para ti was considered a more European type of publication. They had a special arrangement with French magazine Elle, which not only allowed them to reprint some of the materials produced in Paris, but also came in handy when they used to fly over the Atlantic for Fashion Week (an endeavor she talks about filled with joy, as she remembers those bi-annual trips of glamorous outfits).

It is interesting to talk with Cota about these fashion weeks, as Para ti being a magazine from the Southern Cone, the seasons were somewhat “off-timed” compared to what was happening in the major fashion houses of Paris, Milan, or New York. This is something I had already noticed while reading my precious volumes from the 1940s, seeing how July is the month for coats and wool dresses, while January represents a yearning for sun in sleeveless blouses or linen fabrics. Cota explains that they used to enjoy the trips and then save the notes about the different collections until the season matched the climate. This was rare to my Mexican eye, used to a normalized schedule that considers the times from the Global North as universal. It also made me think about how arbitrary this is in reality; living in Mexico City, it was always impossible to wear dainty little summer dresses in the midst of the “temporada de lluvias.”  

Fashion being the guiding thread of our conversation, we started talking about the manufacturing of the magazine itself and how they chose what was going to be the cover. They had an in situ photographic studio that allowed them to take some of the pictures themselves, but there were many times when they repurposed what they had taken from the French. It was fascinating to hear Cota describe the editorial organization and mechanical production processes of the magazine. Creating the cover (or “tapa,” as she calls it) was the most complex task, constantly changing with the content—a fact still common, as illustrated in the documentary “The September Issue” (2019) about VOGUE. The second most challenging task was producing color pages, which had to be sent to print at least four weeks in advance. Unlike more “elegant” magazines like Claudia, Para ti had a 4-to-1 black-and-white to color page ratio. Black-and-white sections, usually text-oriented, required less time to produce.

We talked a lot about the typology of the magazine, which she referred to as a “revista de servicios,” a name completely new to me, which highlights the emphasis on practicality in the editorial conception of these magazines, but also the magazines’ role in serving their readers. She added that the director was the grandson of Editorial Atlántida’s founder, who delegated content production to the editor-in-chief, a role that would eventually be Cota’s. The workload was divided into two main groups: the journalistic team and the service team. The first group, described as “periodistas” by Cota, comprised mostly men and older writers with what she referred to as “good pens” (buena pluma). They handled interviews with celebrities and other text-oriented parts of the magazine. The second group, the service team, consisted of people with a strong sense of aesthetics (again, Cota’s terminology). This team focused on fashion, cooking, beauty (encompassing makeup, hairstyling, and various forms of body adornment), bricolage and interior design.

At some point during our discussion about the different contents, Cota’s daughter joined in, reminding her mother how the editorial office was always bustling with young women working alongside Cota, seeking her advice and guidance on various tasks, while a young Rosario looked. As they conversed, I felt like a fly on the wall, watching them vividly recreate that space for me. Their stories highlighted Cota’s pivotal role in shaping and establishing work environments for women journalists in the latter half of the 20th century. Through their stories, I was able to confirm something I have repeatedly found in the often too silent archives: how vibrant and full of agency these magazines were and still are. Initially, those young women were not college-educated, but over the years, Cota witnessed a transformation in the educational landscape for women. Across generations, they broadened the types of content they engaged with, explored new themes they wanted to discuss, and highlighted diverse representations of femininity. This was also evident, of course, in how the fashion included in the magazine was modified. We can all think of examples like the introduction of miniskirts, but in Argentina in the 1970s, trends and their changes were more subtle, aiming to emphasize the different ways a “true” woman could adorn herself.

We said our goodbyes after nearly three hours of conversation, eager to continue discussing magazines and celebrity gossip. I could now see with fresh eyes my two volumes of Para ti. Examining these publications through this new lens reveals how they not only created an intimate public, as University of Chicago cultural theorist Lauren Berlant calls them, but also continually negotiated the gender paradigms of their time. Rather than seeing them as static entities, the insider perspective gave me a dual view of the micro- and macro- aspects involved in their creation.

I’ve discovered that women’s magazines possess a remarkable capacity to create affective networks, fostering connections not only between the magazines and their readers but also among the readers themselves. These interactions cultivate a community of enthusiasts who share a very special and intimate language, akin to the immediate understanding I experienced with Cota. The appreciation for these cultural artifacts binds individuals into a collective of connoisseurs, perpetuating a shared appreciation and understanding. Indeed, the chance encounter with a fellow pundit can happen when you least expect it, underscoring the enduring and unifying power of these publications. As I walked back to my office to continue my research and ongoing fascination with feminine commodities, I felt the embrace of a community that spans from Cota to Rosario, to my mom, my aunts and my grandmothers. This sorority thread was embroidered in fashion magazines, maintaining a common thread throughout generations of female subjectivities, united by our joy for adornment and beauty.

Born in Mexico City, Alejandra Vela Martínez is an Assistant Spanish Professor at Harvard University. Her book manuscript, Newsstand Feminism: Cursi Aesthetics and Feminine Counter Archives in Contemporary Mexico, analyzes women’s magazines published between 1930 and 1980 in Mexico. She is also finishing a critical edition of the daily column “Rutas de emoción” by Yucatecan writer Rosario Sansores.