A Patchwork Identity
The art of Maria A. Guzmán Capron and the narrative of immigrant voices
“A lot of the questions I seek to ask through my work, I’ve been asking since I was a child in what felt like isolation. But as a part of a larger Latinx community, and in having these conversations around gender and culture, I’m learning we all have these questions and are finding the language to identify it together.” - Maria A. Guzmán Capron (source)
I once had someone ask me, upon hearing my last name, “Where are you from?”
“Philadelphia.” I knew this wasn’t the answer they wanted, but I liked to humor them.
“No, where is your family from?”
This answer is so rehearsed that it spins out in both Spanish and English like an automatic button. “My mom is from Paraguay and my dad is from Puerto Rico.”
Often people will comment on Paraguay, that they know nothing of Paraguay, and so on. Or there is a discussion of my skin tone, which is always an uncomfortable conversation. A guy I was dating once insisted again and again that I wasn’t actually South American and my parents were lying to me, but that I was really German. Yes, German. We all know what he was actually saying.
But they followed up by asking me a question that I never heard before, “Which do you associate with most?”
I stumbled through an answer, experiencing this moment as if I was watching it from afar, searching for something in my rambling words. The truth was that I didn’t have an answer. I had no idea.
When you’re parents come from two different countries there’s a game you and everyone in your life plays. “You got that from X country!”
I have a cousin who shares the same culture on both sides. She’s also half Paraguayan and half Puerto Rican, so we’ll play this game most often.
I have a Paraguayan nose. I have Puerto Rican hair. I have Paraguayan arms. Puerto Rican hips. I sweat like a Puerto Rican. I get that from my Paraguayan side. It goes on and on until we are left with our perceived patches. I can send my DNA to 23 and Me, but they can’t tell me if my teeth are Paraguayan or Puerto Rican.
Perhaps that’s why today’s artist appealed to me so much. Maria A. Guzmán Capron was born in Milan Italy to Peruvian and Colombian parents. As a teenager she moved with her family to the United States. She lives in California now, and is represented by Shulamit Nazarian.
There’s something so compelling about her work. I find when I look at Guzmán Capron’s work, I’m caught up in a sensation entirely new to me. When I first saw her work, I shared it with my sister and said, “It’s me!”
I’ve expressed before what it is to be seen in media when you’ve never seen yourself before. From a visual standpoint, there’s great appeal in seeing, but Guzmán Capron’s work delves deeper.
My fascination with her work, aside from the visual uniqueness, can come down to two factors: language and identity. We’ll start with language because it’s harder to see at first glance.
In many ways, Guzmán Capron’s work amazes me most because of the language she uses. I don’t mean language in the traditional sense, though that is always a vital aspect of the immigrant experience, I mean her work is speaking in its own way.
Her choice of fabrics is talking to us, daring us to tell us what is being said. Why this fabric? Why here? Can we find the answers in the faces of the figures?
My practice explores how fabric, with its close reference to clothing, is a marker of class, gender and cultural identity. I am attracted to the off-cut fabrics from discount and repurpose stores, centering materials that have been cut and rejected as excess and in that way centralizing that which society undervalues. I am invested in the friction of mistranslations—of failing to “dress the part” or having one’s pride in self-expression overcast by exoticization” - Maria A. Guzmán Capron (source)
The language of Guzmán Capron’s work is an underlying tone, something that dares to ask us what we understand of the pieces when pulled together. Her forms are of bodies in a variety of fabrics that serve as rejects. Yet, when these rejected components are pulled together, they give us something beautiful and strange. You get the sense that you’ve seen this before, and yet it’s entirely new. In fact, what is familiar is the patterns and the parts of ourselves reflecting back at us.
Color also plays into this. In our modern day, thanks to the rise of minimalism, there is often an emphasis placed on neutrals and less flashy colors. There’s this underlying belief in our society that bright colors are a sign of lewdness and neutrals are a sign of class. This has been most evident in the home decor and fashion industry, think of the internet’s obsession with old money vs new money.
The irony to this, of course, is the historical context. Color was a sign of wealth. To wear certain colors meant you could afford clothing that was dyed in bright rich colors. The moment these colors become available to the public is the moment the culture shifts. Hence why Gucci, the colorful fashion house, is seen as ‘new money’ and therefore ‘tacky.’ Guzmán Capron is inherently aware of this dynamic and uses it to her advantage, daring us to ask what this says of our biases rather than her subjects.
It is my language and with it I want to signal to other in-between people that they belong. - Maria A. Guzmán Capron (source)
Her colors and patterns clash. They’re loud, demanding your attention. I’m struck by how I seem to know these colors and patterns intimately upon first seeing them. It’s as if I’m staring up at the popcorn ceiling at a Christmas party in the 90s filled with colorfully dressed Puerto Ricans. It feels wrong to use the word ‘gaudy’ as that denotes a negative aspect of the colors used, but that’s exactly what it is. It’s not gaudy because it’s ugly, it’s gaudy because it’s in your face and confronting.
Color is such a unique language. It tells us so much more than words can, which is why it is often the strongest tool an artist has in their arsenal. So then, what are the colors of Guzmán Capron’s work saying to us?
Then there is identity. Oh, where to begin here? Where, in a former post, I shared how Kehinde Wiley questions identity with gentleness and questions the narrative, what Maria A. Guzmán Capron does is something entirely different. I’m always struck by the way that identity as a topic is so all-encompassing and complex. There are nearly infinite approaches one can make.
As I stated before, Guzmán Capron has a mixed identity. Navigating being of Colombian and Peruvian descent and was born in Italy. On top of that, she is an immigrant to the United States. That’s a lot of identities to juggle.
By presenting faces of patchwork, of striking and contrasting colors, she is asking herself and us, “Where does this come from?” It’s like the discussion I have with my cousins. “My hair is Puerto Rican. My nose is Paraguayan.” There are no real concrete answers. Despite the genetic patchwork that makes up us as a whole, there are no clear instructions.
Navigating the world in this manner is strange and difficult. As a white-passing American citizen, I sit in a strange place. I can never fully relate to my white American cohort, but I cannot fully integrate myself into the territory of my people. My existence is somewhere between the cracks.
As an immigrant, a person, I want to belong. I want to be part of my community, but not by giving up what I am; instead, I want to be part of creating space for more differences. - Maria A. Guzmán Capron (source)
I realize the more I look at Guzmán Capron’s work that it reminds me of the work of Marisol Escobar, who is arguably my all-time favorite artist. Marisol was born in Paris to Venezuelan parents and eventually settled in New York. Her work is a myriad of things. It’s sculpture but takes on varying forms. She draws on her sculptures, paints, projects images, satirizes, and asks deeper questions about identity and gender.
I see much of this in the work of Guzmán Capron as well.
I don’t think it’s a mere coincidence both artists seem to exist in this strange sphere of work that is nearly impossible to pin down. One cannot point to them and pin down who they are and what their work is in one word. For me, this is pure excitement. I struggle with this very thing in my own work, and seeing others who have managed to navigate this strange patchwork identity is a comfort and challenge to me.
It’s perhaps no wonder I resonate so much with the incredible works of Maria A. Guzmán Capron (I wish you guys could hear me read her name aloud. I love saying it! And I love how you have to sing it). After a lifetime of never seeing myself, never understanding how to explain how I even see myself, there’s something so alluring about her work. I see the complexities of my own being, and of so many others who are in the same boat. It’s strange and comforting to know I’m not the only one who may look at these incredible and ambitious pieces and think, “It’s just like me!”
Respira Hondo is stunning... never seen it before and now I'm a bit obsessed and hope to see it in my vicinity soon. On identity: very relatable story. I've become quite playful about it in my own life as identity, language, blood-quantum of whatever nationality (as if this was an actual thing), culture, etc. are so malleable and a patchwork of abstractions. I suppose that's why Respira Hondo is talking to me: it's so playful, carefree, abstract, recognizable, foreign, colorful, and all the things that we all are at once. Very grateful to be introduced to this artist. Fantastic essay. 🌸
Beautifully said. It's amazing how the familiar and the unfamiliar blend to reflect our own experiences and selves. Thank you for sharing this insightful perspective!