“Bumping Corridos in New Haven”
What is this tug in the blood I feel?
—Rudolfo Anaya, Chant in the Blood
It was 2002 and the turf wars were set. It was the Chicano fight of the decade. You were either for pretty-boy Oscar de la Hoya or el rudo Fernando Vargas. Who you chose was important, for it was where your affinities were placed, but it also showed a little of where you come from, and whether you got a good paying trabajito to make it out. Univision, the Spanish channel your parents watched if they came from Mexico, portrayed De la Hoya as the image of success, and Vargas, well, he was hungry, the kind of hunger and hustle you have if you come from the hood.
This fight split your uncles up. And the hood was split. Or more split than it already was.
De la Hoya won. I say this melancholily, maybe it shows my affinity and positioning.
Nonetheless, the fight was symbolic. As all things are.
The history goes, there is the rudosversus the tecnicos. A long term trope in lucha libre, which reiterates the ground of where the class war takes place, but also an identity war.[1] The rudosgo back to the days of lucha libre(which in English appropriately translates to the struggle for freedom).[2] They were the villains. Crass. And the tecnicos could be understood as those who followed tradition. The proper Mexican.
In a similar way, the artwork of Esteban Ramón Pérez can be seen. Not necessarily encapsulated by an eternal struggle akin to the myth of Sisyphus, of pushing a rock to a high peak everyday, but rather as a journey, in which parts come to create a form that defies rigid structure and questions tradition.
But what happens when you’re both, part rudo, part tecnico? It seems like one would fight themselves… one cannot help to think of the notion of mestizaje, part Indigeno, but also part Spanish. A lucha libre in our own blood. Each fighting for phenotypes, but also fighting to survive.
This “war” was exacerbated when Pérez left the comfort of his home back in Los Angeles. Away from the beautiful, yet painful sounds of Los Angeles, made of wild parrots, loud comadreswho tell your parents they saw you smoking weed by the recreation center, those sounds in Los Angeles, amalgams of aging ice cream trucks and the ever-occurring ambulance sirens, the morning grito of the neighbor’s rooster, this comfort, which I understand to all is not comfort but cumbersome. This absence of sound, is what caused Perez to hold tighter to identity, culture, his tradition…
***
Being at Yale, on the east coast, time zones away from home, Pérez identified with De La Hoya. He made it, by immigrant standards. Having already attained an undergraduate degree at California Institute of the Arts, followed by the stamp of graduate school. This was much to be celebrated, the kind of act that gets your tias reposting your graduation photo on Facebook.
Even though he “made it,” he still identified with Vargas. His first work in response to this internal strife was DNA (Bad Blood). Its reception at Yale was seen as a violent piece, yet violence is rarely one dimensional. It is self-defense, self preservation, an act of heroism coming from los de abajo.[3] A modern Pachuco.
Pérez’s work is more than violence. It can be attuned to a material poetics, using the vernacular of Mexican and Chicanx culture, a sort of automatic writing, come to life in sculpture. One cannot help to think of Rasquachismo, a term posited by Chicano scholar, Tomás Ybarra-Frausto, defined as an “underdog perspective,” that is “rooted in resourcefulness and adaptability yet mindful of stance and style,” and which he poignantly stated is:
In an environment always on the edge of coming apart (the car, the job, the toilet) things are held together with spit, grit and movidas. Movidasare whatever coping strategies you use to gain time, to make options to retain hope.[4]
It is these survival and aesthetic movidas that mark Pérez’ work, but it has a sharp introspection, that even with these movidas, there is a keen awareness of multiple languages and intangible archives that are alluded to, without fully revealing themselves.
In his thesis work DNA (Bad Blood), he repurposed the leather his father, an upholsterer back in the Greater Los Angeles area, left in boxes. His father, José Ramón Pérez, sent them to him after Esteban asked for them. He kept the cuts his father left of scraps and transformed them into a sculptural painting. “Drawings" appear encoded onto the leather scraps. Corrido king, Chalino Sanchez, the Sacred Heart of Jesus, and a portrait done by Los Angeles photographer John Valadez of a handsome cholo, are some of the imagery drawn directly onto the leather scraps.[5] These elusive images were done by puncturing hard leather scraps with a needle, and because it was without thread, it appeared more akin to scarification - a rasquache pointillism. These minute scars transformed the sculptural landscape into a series of wounds onto red tinged leather. But he made “the wound visible, tangible.”[6]
Perez’s work is a reification of subaltern symbols, of decked out lowriders that lean back like tios at the family barbecue, or chiles reconfigured as Mexica chimallis meant to make you shed a tear.[7] His work acts as a new archive, borrowing from non-western modes of knowledge like corridos of Miguel y Miguel and the Aztec myth of Popocatépetl and Iztaccíhuatl, as well as fathers’ words of how to be cognizant of masculinity, while taking care of your own.[8] There is a defiant beauty to his paintings and sculptures alike, like the work of Tequitqui artists who snuck their Aztec symbols into the cursed Catholic churches the Spaniards brought. Pérez’s work exists on the borderland, that ragged wound of geography on the United States-Mexican desert that is callous and hardened, adapting for what is yet to come, looking forward as Miguel y Miguel sing, “Una serenata por la madrugada.”[9] A sculpture as corrido.
Text by Christal Pérez
[1] Esther Gabara, “Fighting it Out: Being Naco in the Global Lucha Libre.” The Journal of Decorative and Propaganda Arts, Vol. 26, (2010): 278-301.
[2] Ibid.
[3] Frausto defines los de abajo as an underdog perspective. Tomás Ybarra-Frausto, “Rasquachismo: A Chicano Sensibility.” Chicano Aesthetics : Rasquachismo (Phoenix: MARS, Movimiento Artiscico del Rio Salado, 1989), Exhibition catalogue.
[4] Ibid.
[5] Corrido: a Mexican ballad or folksong about struggle against oppression and injustice. “Corrido,” www.dictionary.com, 2021, https://www.dictionary.com/browse/corrido.
[6] Walter Mignolo and Rolando Vazquez, “Decolonial AestheSis: Colonial Wounds/Decolonial Healings,” Social Text, accessed February 16, 2021, https://socialtextjournal.org/periscope_article/decolonial-aesthesis-colonial-woundsdecolonial-healings/.
[7] Chimalli: shield in Náhuatl. Daniel G. Brinton, Ancient Nahuatl Poetry: Containing the Nahuatl Text of 27 Ancient Mexican Poems (New York, 1969), https://www.gutenberg.org/files/12219/12219-h/12219-h.htm.
[8] Stromberg writes, “According to the legend, an Aztec leader offered the hand of his daughter, Iztaccíhuatl, to the warrior Popocatépetl if he would return from battle victorious. While he was away, another jealous suitor told Itza that Popoca had died. Stricken with grief, she killed herself. When Popoca returned and found his beloved, he carried her body outside the city, where he too died of sadness, their love forever memorialized as the two peaks.” Matthew Stromberg. “Aztec Opera ‘El Circo Anahuac’ shares volcanic love and loss in a mystical time before Mexico.” Los Angeles Times. https://www.latimes.com/entertainment/arts/museums/la-et-cm-el-circo-anahuac-aztec-opera-brown-fist-20181018-story.html
[9] Defined as “a serenade for the dawn.” Definition is my own.