In 2006, I did an internship at the Museo Universitario Leopoldo Flores in Toluca, Mexico, my hometown. The museum itself was built on a hill, almost inserted in the rock that serves as canvas for some very interesting pieces of art. Our biggest mural—a behemoth of twenty-two thousand square meters—had to be seen from a window. It shaped my way of understanding art and artists.
A little over ten years later, I emigrated to California, where I witnessed fire season for the first time in my life. This story was written during one of those painful times for my community, as a way to turn the experience of watching the world in sepia and smoke into words and art.
In 2006, I did an internship at the Museo Universitario Leopoldo Flores in Toluca, Mexico, my hometown. The museum itself was built on a hill, almost inserted in the rock that serves as canvas for some very interesting pieces of art. Our biggest mural—a behemoth of twenty-two thousand square meters—had to be seen from a window. It shaped my way of understanding art and artists.
A little over ten years later, I emigrated to California, where I witnessed fire season for the first time in my life. This story was written during one of those painful times for my community, as a way to turn the experience of watching the world in sepia and smoke into words and art.