Within my art practice, I draw upon two primary influences: my mother’s Cuban family and their cultural and personal legacies, and the meticulous draftsmanship that constitutes my technical fulcrum. I primarily work in the anachronistic medium of silverpoint, drawing with a piece of silver or gold in a stylus to create delicate works that require focus, have no room for error, and possess a tangible yet fleeting quality evocative of memory and narrative.
Line and shadow are woven so that, from their neat labyrinth, the sentiment and psyche of my subject emerges more truthfully. I want to ensure that the faces of those who suffered under totalitarianism—like my own family—are recorded so that their history can be remembered. It’s my own autobiographical way of paying homage to the journey and inherent beauty of those who, though despondent, emerge victorious.
Coming from a much more unabashedly selfish point of view than my artwork, my writing vacillates between something slightly less disheveled than journaling and slightly less formal than commentary. My poetry lays bare my heart and instinct; my prose attempts to rationalize and reason, sometimes failing to reign in the currents of emotion that make us all human.
Art criticism, in particular, melds my two preferred languages. I sift through art history to connect dots previously unconnected and delve into the poetry of the artist and artwork. I then leave it to my head to chart a legible path through the content with prose. Throughout this process, again, my voice--which I temper within my own artwork in order to more truthfully encapsulate my subjects--rings more clearly.