Revolution Park was built in one of the oldest parts of Guadalajara in 1934, by Mexico’s most celebrated architect and native tapatío, Luís Barragán, who was commissioned to design the public space in homage to the recently concluded and hard-won Mexican revolution.
Its distinctive red concrete surfaces and garden trim account for its colloquial moniker, Parque Rojo (Red Park), although it’s previous incarnation as an execution ground during the war, penitentiary and cemetery might elicit other connotations for the popular spot’s unofficial name.
Formerly owned by a large Carmelite convent constructed between the 17th and 18th centuries, the real estate where the park sits today has shrunk as the city has grown, with more than half of its original surface area sacrificed to build new roads or expand old ones.
In 1959, the first major renovation took place with the expansion of Juarez avenue that now intersects it from west to east. Statues of revolutionary heroes, Francisco I. Madero and Venustiano Carranza were erected on the park’s new north and south sides, respectively.
Just over ten years ago in 2013, another major infrastructure project brought Guadalajara’s light rail to the park, with a three-way transfer station that serves tens of thousands of transit users daily.
Since 2020, the park has become a hub for young entrepreneurs, who met the economic challenges of the moment by setting up stalls along the walkways on Saturdays to sell artful trinkets and clothing, that reflect Guadalajara’s strong affinity for serigraphy and other printmaking techniques.
Unlike most participants in Mexico’s informal economy, the merchants of Revolution Park’s tianguis are Internet-savvy and use social media to promote their wares, resulting in a unique blending of old-world market square vibes with elements of hashtag-driven demand.
Among the most salient examples of this novel dynamic is the “feminist tianguis” that sprung up sometime in 2021, which bars entry of men and sells merchandise geared exclusively towards women. Jalisco’s – and Mexico’s – very real issues with gender violence and femicide make such product categories tragically viable.
Beyond the pink and white flags that mark the boundary of the gender-designated kiosks are many others, that sell everything from baseball caps to fruit cups. On the north side of Revolution Park, the small playground area is reserved for music and revelry on Saturdays.
Giant speakers and a fold-out table for the DJs are set up on the edge of a tiny patch of dirt floating like an atoll in the middle of an ocean of tents and people, where anyone can come and enjoy a groovy afternoon so long as you don’t mind the strong stench of weed.
Not everyone is happy about the transformation and some have called for the municipal government to curb the unregulated commercial activity on Saturdays, citing too much noise, too many people and security concerns. But so far no action has been taken against the enterprising youth.
It may just be a matter of time before authorities crack down on the spontaneous emergence of Revolution Park as the seat of Guadalajara’s socio-cultural vanguard. But it might serve leaders better to nurture this space and protect it from the extortion rackets that plague informal markets across the country.
Only a decade away from its centennial, Revolution Park brings together an eclectic cross-section of Guadalajara. Students, day-workers, nurses, merchants, and tourists rub shoulders with outcasts, artists, misfits and rebels. In a time when so many people parse the world through an algorithm, a human oasis like Revolution Park is nothing short of a miracle.
