My big works on paper sometimes seem like quilts to me — something I piece together, cut, stitch, and decorate. I long to crawl inside them, forget the past, wrap myself up to feel safe and loved. 

​

Building them evokes a beautiful memory I hold of my father — specifically, the times we would craft clay piñatas, encased in layer upon layer of paste and scraps of newspaper to reinforce the clay. "Imagine this is Mom’s belly with you inside,” he would whisper. “We must make it very sturdy, so nothing can pierce through. Paste the pieces with love, but with intention as well.” 

 

And that is exactly what I do now as an artist. My process begins on the floor with large sheets of found or salvaged paper unrolled, side-by-side. Then, thousands of newsprint squares, cut and pasted until I have a durable, rich and textured surface. Once it has dried, a thick coat of white paint. That is my canvas.

 

My painting is autobiographical — a river of feelings, ideas, and memories, all flowing together. See the tortured trees? In Mexico, when a boy is effeminate, he is called Torcido. That is what people called me. I grew up believing that I was, indeed, a Twisted Tree. I lived a childhood of fear and confusion. What was wrong with me? Why was it wrong, simply to be myself? I longed to crawl back inside my mother’s belly — just like the piñata — shielded, impervious to harm.

 

Now I am watching my mother trace the paper patterns for her skirts, blouses, and trousers. I help her, using a small pair of scissors to cut out the templates, like stencils. At this stage in my work, I am sitting right beside her, listening to the hum of her sewing machine and watching as she stitches each garment together. The quilts, those memories, have ragged edges! Her cut-outs that trail across the bottom of my pieces.

 

My tree also bears strange fruit — objects people bequeathed to me, which left an indelible mark on my adolescence: the jacket I wore so often, left to me by Uncle Jorge, who I now know died of AIDS, and very young; my grandfather’s dancing shoes, which he used to wear to the danzón on the esplanade; and the belt from my best friend, which his mother gave me after he passed away.

 

So you see the tree has a living heart, surrounded by the marshes, mountains, and skies of the southern part of the city where I grew up — a map of the home where I did always feel safe and protected.

 

I have begun to recognize those times when I was blinded by resentment, rage, and fear. I have painted faces in which the ears, nose, and mouth are canals, backchannels, blocked. They have no eyes, they cannot see; they remain blinded by the past. But the present whispers in my ear. Let it go, Pedro, let it go.