A Moment with Studio Lenca
As an artist that finds peace and expression through their art around concepts of displacement, what feels like home to you?
Sometimes people have a hard time placing me because when I go back home to El Salvador, even though I was born there, people still think I am from the US as I particularly on the surface might not look very Latino. I started to realize that a lot of people actually share this feeling; so there’s a rootedness in this collective experience. I suppose I feel more at home within this in-between space, and my practice is really important for me to create my sense of grounding and identity. And when you spend a lot of your life identity undocumented, you kind of feel like you are living with a huge secret and that that place isn’t for you. I also had to create a space where I felt like I belonged, and growing up, that was dance.
When and how did you start pursuing art as a way of expressing your heritage?
I got more confidence into becoming a visual artist when I met my partner — he and his friends were much more involved with fine art, and it almost feels like he gave me the confidence to enter gallery spaces. Before that I have never been into a gallery and didn’t feel like those spaces were for me. I suddenly got more drive to enter that world. Eventually I became an art teacher for about 10 years, which also really made me start to paint, explore my own new projects and organize photoshoots.
A big part of my practice is engaging with people, questioning certain kinds of power structures, illustrating expressions from a dancers perspective, sharing memories of growing up in a strict Catholic household, navigating my relationships and being present in the things I am creating — I think that I carry this through into everything that I do now, and when I work with communities.
The costumes and fashion in my work often embody the European colonization of El Salvador. It’s about the different types of materials, they’re dressing like royal monarchs in a regal-like setting. They kind of resemble an archive of trauma because they are relaying certain stories with their bodies; for me it’s a performance. The dancers in my work wear these big hats — colorful, bright, joyful tones and a lot of clashing patterns. Over time they have shifted into more assertive, anonymous symbols and I put them in different character situations, with a duality of identities.
So — why do your dancing figures always wear hats in your paintings?
If you walked into a room and had a giant hat on, everyone would look at you, it’s almost my experience of hiding in plain sight. These characters I paint are larger than life and they're asking you to look at them.
What is it like working out of Tracey Emin's studio?
I was selected to work here in a small seaside town where Tracey is from, and is investing herself back into — it’s becoming a real destination. There are a lot of artist’s in this town making work side-by-side, and it’s kind of incredible because you have a real community to help and collaborate with. You don’t get distracted from the big cities and it reminds me a bit of Northern California, where I’m from.
What’s on your studio playlist lately?
Bidi Bidi Bom Bom - Selena
Nada - Lido Pimienta
Nena - Yendry
Solita - Kali Uchis
Binz- Solange
6 AM - J Balvin
Snooze - SZA
Blue Lights - Jorja Smith
Escapism. - Raye
Rica y Apretadita (feat. Anayka) - El General, Anayka
Where do you see yourself in your next era?
I’d make public artwork — outdoor murals and sculptures of metal or bronze. Similar to some pieces I created where they were (about) 7-feet tall painted figures. There was like a collection of about 15 of them. I want to play with scale more.
