![]() ![]() ![]() "When I was thinking of working with adobe, I was thinking of working with a material that was inherently brown that could be used to build a space and reflect the color of bodies not usually represented in traditional art spaces. artist Beatriz Cortez, photographs from Dorian Ulises López Macías' Mexicanos series and a golden fresco by Eamon Ore-Giron. Earlier this year, Esparza made a huge impact at New York City's esteemed Whitney Biennial with his installation Figure Ground: Beyond the White Field, a large adobe structure made from Elysian Park dirt. Within the white walls of the gallery space, Esparza created his own museum for marginalized communities, featuring works by artists excluded from the Whitney's exhibition, including a volcanic rock sculpture by L.A. Over the course of 12 hours, whenever a shot resounded in Elysian Valley, he fell to the ground.īut lately his visual art has become more organic while maintaining its subtly confrontational approach. He's inserted hooks into his chest as an homage to Aztec sun dancers half-buried himself with a noose around his neck at Elysian Park's gay cruising spots and on a street corner across from downtown's prison, submerged his body in wet concrete and had to chisel himself out after it dried. In response to officer-involved shootings in 2015, Esparza's performance Red Summer involved him walking nearby the Police Academy firing range with a sequined target on his back. The born-and-raised Angeleno has been known for his often politically charged, queer performance art, which often pushes his body to extremes. And it's here on the river's edge that Esparza laid the groundwork for his latest body of work. "This is a special place," he says, as the sun begins to set behind the mountains and power lines.Īt the confluence of the Arroyo Seco and Los Angeles rivers, just a few miles away, our city first put down its roots, as indigenous communities settled on the banks. Here, in this uncanny marriage of urban expanse and constrained wildness, artist Rafa Esparza watches the rushing rapids, still swollen from recent rains. Framed by the stark gray channel, trees sprout from the water, Canadian geese skronk and swim in the stream and, in the background, the hum of the freeway almost sounds like ocean waves crashing, punctuated by the howls of passing trains. The Los Angeles River is largely a brutalist slab of concrete, but there's a stretch near Atwater Village that feels almost alive. Press Club's National Arts & Entertainment Journalism Awards 2017. This article was a first place winner at L.A. ![]()
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