I have a particular interest in the concept of traces, be that alluding to physical remnants, a ghostly impression, or simply a mark that bears the weight of existence. To leave something behind, whether unknowingly or intentional, presents the possibility for change. In this series of watercolor paintings, I explore the fragments of my Bolivian heritage through my utilization and retelling of an Andean creation myth, in which the original story slowly transforms and bleeds into a narrative of my own.
My father’s past was almost quietly tucked away into the folds of our home, present but somewhat without origin. There are childhood memories of my hands twisting apart department-store plastic before my fingers found and tangled themselves in the small toy boats woven from the reeds of Lake Titicaca. I remember pushing the reed vessels along the floor, an invisible wind filling their sails as they navigated across the cracks in the floorboards. A zampoña rests on top of the piano, and above the fireplace mantle hangs the heavy tapestry where a crooked dirt road, that bears no resemblance to the familiar hard asphalt, is woven from alpaca hair.
These sensations, remnants of a place, of family history, are intimate yet still remain foreign. Why do I always feel the need to somehow retrace my steps, carve a path back to where it all began? These paintings serve as gateways that transcend both time and legend to reintegrate these fragments into my current present. For now, I’ll allow myself to succumb to the relentless need to return to the beginning.
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The Andean creation myth tells of the deity Viracocha who, after emerging from the great void and crafting the earth, blew into stones to create humanity. This focus on the visceral connection between man and Earth is something that I particularly want to emphasize in my retelling of the myth, both in concept and in my chosen medium of watercolors. I find watercolors to be inherently organic in that much of its desired veined texture is the result of water manipulation and simply allowing the colors to bleed into each other. Yet there is also a dreamlike or ethereal quality about the way the paint traverses across the paper that elevates the surreal imagery of the myth, of something that can be touched but not entirely caught. Like water slipping through the cracks between fingers.
While much of my work revolves around my family heritage and narrative concepts, my particular fondness for watercolor originates in my love for illustrated children’s books. As a child, I consumed stories. This was perhaps my earliest introduction to contemporary art at a time when words were still undecipherable and I instead turned to the artist’s hand for an explanation. In these moments, I did not realize how much the airy and charming personality of watercolor imagery was fueling my interest in the surreal and mundane alike. Jerry Pinkley’s combined use of pencil and subtle watercolor washes in Yagua Days grounded and gave character to a Puerto Rican town, and Dennis Nolan’s dramatic landscapes in Dinosaur Dream gave me a greater sense of the potential of the medium. In terms of the central topic of my paintings, my limited exposure to Andean art has driven me to create my own space in it. Currently, Mamani Mamani stands as one of the most prolific Bolivian icons. An indigenous artist of Aymaran decent, he is best known for his paintings depicting Andean symbols and natural themes. Recently, his style has been incorporated in the architectural designs of housing across the Altiplano, reflecting a newfound sense of appreciation of indigenous art among Bolivians. While his work explodes in vibrant colors that are reminiscent of traditional Andean textiles, characteristics vastly different from my own style, Mamani Mamani to me remains a constant reminder of the need for more Andean representation in art.
Within this series, the familiar and surreal are blended together. My abuelito radiates the sun, my father’s hands hold new life, and a younger version of myself comes upon inheritance.
Above all though, there are stones. Many, many stones.
Stones have played a subtle motif throughout my life; small round pebbles lodged into tight pockets, positioned carefully across dusty windowsills, and scattered among garden ferns.
Small round stones pounded by the swells of oceans, tumbled by lulling rivers, trampled by heavy feet. A stone, however insignificant, is a physical weight that I can carry, something that can be passed down, molded across time. And as humanity came from stones, they are the people that I carry with me.
This is a story of origin, preservation, and of balance.