It’s the way we blister in the sun. The way we are born with a back destined for premature breaking as it dampens, like a will from our fathers. The way we initiate the ritual of bloodshed, in order to partake in a chosen family. But most importantly, the way we congregate towards labor and tradition. Traditions that restructure themselves as a snare. We seem to forcibly migrate into detrimental industries by the hundreds of thousands. We spill our teeth over our subhuman occupations during the heat of the summer, and even our blood – it gets misplaced with a type of sticky tar. I question how trauma becomes a routine in our daily lives, and how we eventually culminate towards the invisible. Neglected, and left behind in the pocket linings of others. I have witnessed how marginalized people become mistaken for animals. How immigrants are herded into industries to promote stability for American society. 

Growing up in East Los Angeles, we get our nutrients from the corners. East Los Angeles is where my unnamed neighbors sit next to me on the public buses and crowded mercados. It’s where artisan hand painted eyebrows became a fad and rosaries dangle from our throats. Where frightening gunshots get mistaken for fluorescent firecrackers, and add warmth to our atmosphere.  The concrete is meticulously  tattooed with graffiti, so pure, however its expression is often misunderstood. Our sweat drips and pools around our ankles, as our labor becomes someone else's commodity. The community I was raised in, it places me under its tongue, and I’m absorbed into its gums. It’s dangerous.

All work is hand patterned and self constructed.