It’s interesting—I remember when I first started making art, or at least when I began taking it seriously, I was always searching for my voice. What did I want to say? I knew I didn’t want to create art purely for aesthetics; I had something to express, but it wasn’t yet clear to me. I tried to dive deep, but I only skimmed the surface.
At first, I painted pop icons—figures I admired. I kept doing it because I enjoyed the process, but one day, it just clicked. Every choice I had made up to that point had led me here for a reason. I didn’t choose Marge Simpson just because I thought she was funny. I chose her because she reminded me of the strong, powerful women who raised me. I often return to Marilyn Monroe as a symbol—someone who wasn’t taken seriously, whose more redeeming qualities were often overlooked. I gravitate toward icons with troubled pasts, figures who have endured hardships, because I like to breathe new life into them. I reclaim things that have been stripped of their original context and transform them into something else.
That process of reclaiming and recontextualizing became even more personal with Ni de Aquí, Ni de Allá. While creating this piece, I realized I was trying to come to terms with what it means to be Mexican-American—a Mexican born in the U.S.—and the constant push and pull between both cultures. The way they clash. The way they come together. It started with simple imagery: a Snow White doll, a symbol of my abuela Lourdes, and a Hot Wheels package. Along with navigating my dual cultural identity, I also felt that same push and pull with gender—being drawn to “girl stuff” while knowing I was expected to align with “boy stuff.” That tension shaped the foundation of this work.
It evolved through its own journey, and in the end, I landed on a seemingly gentle image: a collaged photo of Mary Poppins—who, for some reason, reminded me of my abuela Lourdes—and a painting of the Virgen, reminding me that I’m always divinely protected. No matter what dangers surround me, there is always beauty. The barbed wire can be interpreted in several ways—I’ll leave that to you. And the skulls blooming from the cactus? They remind us that beauty exists in life, but like all good things, it eventually comes to an end.
Ni de Aquí, Ni de Allá is more than just a title—it’s a feeling, a state of being. It’s that in-between space where so many of us exist, shaped by contradictions, by loss and reclamation, by struggle and resilience.
x Alb
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