Artist Statement
Having a DIY attitude that is consistent with my upbringing as a poor, Latinx, first generation American, queer person, and a “fatfemme” boy is reflected in my approach to making; rough, unpolished, make shift, straw into gold. I explore how trauma affects the body from the inside out. Fantasy and escapism are explored as coping mechanisms that are part of the Queer experience by drawing from anime/manga such as Sailor Moon and Cardcaptor Sakura to speak on secrecy, longing, magic, and fear that comes from trauma. Percussive movement, elements of cante jondo, and the duende of flamenco are explored through queering bodies, investigating the intersectionality of a contemporary latinx identity against the clash of old world (colonial) modalities. The power dynamics that exist between male bodies in desire for each other and the tension and insecurity that exist as queer relationships are evolving to fit into the modern world while still navigating often clandestine sexual desires. Using pros, poetry, and song as a through line that connects multiple vignettes, my work draws on multiple personal narratives to investigate and question how the queer, poc, non-normative, curvy male body is seen in a world that values, white, heternormative, mesmorphic, cis-male bodies.
Manifesto on Flamenco
My flamenco is an instrument in my toolkit. It is a color on my palette, a brush or pencil in my case, it is the shape of a gouge in my carving set, a needle grouping when I tattoo, a surface I create my visual on, or a filter on my lens.
My flamenco is sticky, dirty, sweaty, tastes like mangos, honey, whiskey, gin, cinnamon, and cock, and smells like rose, Egyptian musk, sweat, cum, and poppers. It is my lived experience of a queer fat femme boy from Miami whose skin fit them like an itchy sweater in 100-degree weather and humidity and has walked a road lined with Coconut palms and Magnolia trees, piss-soaked icy sidewalks and hot garbage, angry men and aggressive rats, cat calls and the word faggot screamed from spit covered lips in rage and in love.
It is not the flamenco of a Spaniard or Andalusian, of an old New York, Miami, or Colombia. It is a flamenco that is danced in basements in Bushwick, in sex clubs, queer spaces, and gay clubs in the East Village, next to House Heads, Voguers, Ravers, and Breakers in a cipher in Ridgewood. It doesn’t wear lunares and flowers, flecos and two-piece suits, but leather and lace, jock straps and thongs, crop tops, and baggy pants.
It is ugly and beautiful, wrong and strong, fearless and questioning, insecure and willing. It is my flamenco, and I stand by it. This is my manifesto.