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>   COVER STORY
>
>   The new Chicano movement
>
>     Twenty years ago, L.A. became the capital of a vital genre in the
>     American art scene. Now its inheritors are making work that
>     reflects their changing cultural reality.
>
> By Josh Kun
> Josh Kun is a Los Angeles-based freelance writer and cultural critic
> whose last story for the magazine was about the music and art scene in
> Tijuana.
>
> January 9, 2005
>
> On the roof of a single-story house, a man is yelling into a
> megaphone. His hair is long, his white tube socks are pulled up to his
> knees, and his fist is in the air. He appears to be protesting.
>
> But because this is a photograph, an image from Mario Ybarra Jr.'s "Go
> Tell It" series, we hear nothing, not a single slogan or plea for
> justice. There is no caption, no context, no clues as to where he
> is-just a man shouting on a roof in the midst of empty sky.

> ------------------------------------------------------------------------
> FOR THE RECORD
>
> Chicano art - An article on Chicano artists in Sunday's Los Angeles
> Times Magazine misspelled the surname of Rita Gonzalez, an assistant
> curator with the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, as Gonzales. It
> also stated that the touring exhibition "Chicano Visions: American
> Painters on the Verge," organized by actor and art collector Cheech
> Marin, will be shown at LACMA in 2006. A selection of items from
> Marin's private collection is scheduled for a 2008 LACMA exhibit.
> ------------------------------------------------------------------------
> He is protesting alone, to no one, from nowhere, in silence.
>
> Because Ybarra is 31 years old and Chicano, it's hard not to read the
> image as a next-generation commentary on the artistic legacy of the
> 1960s-'70s Chicano movement. The empty skies could represent empty
> protest. The solitude of the protester in an unidentified neighborhood
> is perhaps a symbol of fading collectivity. For Chicano artists of
> Ybarra's generation, the title of his series carries an implied
> question mark: Go tell what? To whom? And is it even worth telling?
>
> It's been more than 35 years since Chicano art grew out of the
> political urgency of the Chicano civil rights movement. The earliest
> examples of the work were aesthetically raw posters and banners
> inspired by the farmworkers' struggle and by protests over social
> issues in cities throughout the Southwest. It quickly grew into a more
> refined body of work that often was marked by familiar religious and
> cultural images-La Virgen de Guadalupe, Day of the Dead skeletons,
> pre-Columbian figures, lowriders. The genre, dominated by narrative
> painting executed with lush palettes, took its place as a distinct
> movement in the American art scene. Los Angeles-by virtue of its role
> as one of Mexican America's most important capitals, and the sheer
> number of artists working here-became the center of the Chicano art
> universe.
>
> Today, a rapidly expanding pool of young Southern California artists
> is actively redefining what it means to make Chicano art in the new
> millennium. Where the social movements of the past once supplied
> muralists and painters with a rich iconography to choose from and
> social causes to speak to, the new school wants icons for the events
> and experiences of its own time.
>
> The far-ranging diversity of these events and experiences has caused a
> shift in Chicano artistic consciousness. What once was a necessary and
> useful catchall category now represents a more complicated set of
> choices and consequences for young artists who know their history from
> art school and MTV as well as Chicano Studies classes. This new
> generation of artists also reflects the larger transformation of
> L.A.'s Chicano community, which continues to grow and assimilate in
> new and unpredictable ways.
>
> "There's the old avant-garde idea that you're better off if you
> rupture antecedent traditions and forge something new," says veteran
> Chicano art critic Tomas Ybarra-Frausto. "But contemporary Chicano
> expression is not just about rupture, it's a real negotiation between
> tradition and change. There is rupture, but there is also continuity.
> There are still murals, but the murals are being done through digital
> media. There is still figurative art, but it is more conceptual and
> abstract."
>
> The artists Ybarra-Frausto dubs "the millennial generation" are
> disciples of digital technology and fans of hip-hop and Japanese
> anime. They include known figures such as Ybarra, Salomon Huerta and
> Artemio Rodriguez, and newcomers such as Marissa Rangel and Shizu
> Saldamondo. They have the catalog to the landmark 1990 "Chicano Art:
> Resistance and Affirmation" exhibition on their bookshelves, but it's
> right next to "Helter Skelter: L.A. Art in the '90s," the Museum of
> Contemporary Art's 1992 show that featured provocateurs such as
> Charles Ray and Chris Burden.
>
> "You can't say there is one rite of passage the way you could 30 or 40
> years ago," says Chon Noriega, director of UCLA's Chicano Studies
> Research Center. "They are coming up with different things and you
> think, Well, is it Chicano? How do you label this? The category is
> still useful, but it's not entirely accurate. Sometimes it's the only
> category by which these artists will get some sort of recognition, but
> they are reaching out to other people as well."
>
> Perhaps no young artist better exemplifies the new rubric than Camille
> Rose Garcia, 34, who grew up in the suburban hinterlands of Huntington
> Beach and is the daughter of a Franco German muralist mother and a
> Chicano filmmaker father from Lincoln Heights. Her experiences and
> work perfectly reflect the crossroads at which this new generation of
> artists has arrived.
>
> "I was always made aware that I was a 'beaner' by other kids, but I
> don't have the same viewpoint of someone who grew up in East L.A.,"
> says Garcia, wearing an AC/DC T-shirt at the Merry Karnowsky Gallery
> in West Hollywood, where she recently had her first major solo show.
> "I don't feel like I fit into a totally Chicano scene. I'm one foot in
> and one foot out."
>
> Garcia's work looks nothing like how Chicano art is supposed to look.
> There are no traces of earlier iconography, no signs of cultural
> celebration. Instead, there are demonic princesses who froth at the
> mouth and spit profanities, wielding machetes dripping with blood.
> There are swarming armies of blood-sucking parasites that topple
> castles full of jewels. For her Karnowsky show, she turned the entire
> gallery into a gothic pop netherworld she calls Ultraviolenceland,
> full of cartoonish paintings and fantastical sculptures.
>
> Yet she also was part of a group show at Self-Help Graphics, East
> L.A.'s venerable art space, and she counts the prominent single-named
> Chicano artist Gronk as a primary influence. Garcia sees her toppled
> castles and murderous princesses as critiques of wealth and power in
> general, with roots in Chicano art's history of social protest. Her
> filmmaker father was active in the movimiento, and she grew up around
> artists committed to social and political change.
>
> "The Chicano tradition of activism and social commentary is so
> important to me," she says. "But if your work is only about identity,
> a lot of people can't relate to it. I want people to care about my
> work because I want them to care about the world, about the Earth,
> about extinction."
>
> Adds 29-year-old conceptual artist Ruben Ochoa: "Sometimes I feel like
> we're carrying this baggage on our shoulders, like we've been born
> into it. But if we just keep repeating the same iconography, it
> defeats the purpose of art: to grow and create and explore. Chicano
> art is so young. We can't start repeating ourselves. We need to mix
> and blend and make art from where we're from."
>
> The story of Chicano art in Los Angeles is the story of Chicanos in
> Los Angeles. It's the story of a community in the midst of a massive
> transition, from a civil rights past to a multicultural present, from
> being a geographically bound vocal minority with focused political and
> social aims in the '60s to an amorphous demographic dispersed across a
> city that now has no majority ethnic population. (According to the
> 2000 census, Latinos make up nearly 45% of the L.A. County population,
> and 70% of those Latinos are of Mexican origin.)
>
> For Chicano artists in Los Angeles, the transition has led to a
> difficult question that often leads to multiple answers: Do you make
> Chicano art, or do you make art?
>
> "Why just because of my name should I be put in a show based on color,
> when all the white students I graduated with from Art Center and UCLA
> are being put in shows based on their work?" asks painter Salomon
> Huerta, whose pastel portraits of the backs of male Chicano heads
> caused a stir among collectors in the '90s and earned him acclaim in
> mainstream museums and galleries. Later this year, he will show
> alongside Cindy Sherman and Gabriel Orozco at New York's Robert Miller
> Gallery. "It is very important to me that I be recognized as an artist
> who is part of the world like everyone else. But I was inspired by the
> Chicano movement. When the old Chicanos recognize my work, it still
> means more to me than getting recognition from John Baldessari."
>
> But as Chicano artists move away from strictly identity-based work,
> museums and galleries continue to move toward it.
>
> "Museums are still trying to get Chicano art in their collections, but
> the artists have moved beyond that with their own work," says Rita
> Gonzales, who has become the Chicano new wave's leading critical and
> curatorial voice. "So how can we find a common language? I think a lot
> of people are tired of being curated by ethnic category. Artists will
> be supportive of galleries or museums that want to show Chicano
> artists, but they also want to be expanding the parameters of their
> identity as well."
>
> In many ways, these debates started taking shape in the late 1980s,
> when Chicano art was introduced to widespread national audiences
> through two major touring exhibitions: the 1987 "Hispanic Art in the
> United States" show organized by Washington's Corcoran Gallery of Art,
> and, three years later, the UCLA Wight Gallery's "Chicano Art:
> Resistance and Affirmation, 1965-1985."
>
> The exhibits presented competing tendencies that continue to divide
> contemporary Chicano art. The Corcoran show, which included Latino
> artists of various ethnicities and was organized by white curators,
> lobbied for Chicano artists to be included as part of a larger
> contemporary art scene, albeit as exotic, primitive outsiders. The
> UCLA show, organized by Chicano curators, lobbied for Chicano art to
> remain a strictly delineated identity-based genre, a singular entity
> with defined boundaries rooted in the struggle for civil rights and
> visibility.
>
> When the genre went international in 1989 as part of what many
> observers hyped as a "Chicano art boom," French curators managed to
> have it both ways, casting L.A. Chicanos as visionary prophets of the
> urban future. "It is now a must for Beverly Hills collectors to own
> their 'Chicano!'," declared an essay in the catalog for "Le Demon des
> Anges" ("Angels' Demon"), a show that was seen in France, Spain and
> Sweden. "For the first time, Latinos have gained entry to the largest
> Los Angeles museums."
>
> Back home, the reality was a bit more sobering. Until the Los Angeles
> County Museum of Art hosted the Corcoran show in 1989, its recognition
> of Chicano artists hadn't gone far beyond 1974, when it exhibited the
> work of the Los Four collective-Carlos Almaraz, Frank Romero, Gilbert
> "Magu" Lujan and Beto de la Rocha. Chicano artists might have been in
> vogue, especially abroad, but at home they remained on the fringes of
> the art establishment.
>
> Little has changed today. The number of commercial galleries showing
> Chicano work has not grown since the '80s (the Patricia Correia and
> Robert Berman galleries remain constants), though long-established
> cultural centers such as Self-Help Graphics, the Mexican Cultural
> Institute and Plaza de la Raza continue as mainstays of the scene.
>
> The latest effort to address this cultural void comes from L.A. County
> Supervisor Gloria Molina, who is spearheading the $70-million Plaza de
> Cultura y Artes, which is scheduled to open across from Olvera Street
> in 2007. And LACMA has just inked a five-year strategic partnership
> with UCLA's Chicano Studies Research Center to develop art
> exhibitions, publications and programming. The partnership already has
> led to the hiring of Rita Gonzales as an assistant curator and to a
> new acquisition for the museum's permanent collection, "The Great
> Blind Huron," a print by Camille Rose Garcia.
>
> "The Chicano art scene has always been here," says Correia, whose
> Santa Monica gallery shows only Mexican American artists. "The art
> world is still waking up to it. There is still so little exposure on a
> local and national level. Are we still living in an era with that much
> bigotry? I can't think of any other answer. It's still about exclusion."
>
> That is precisely why actor and art collector Cheech Marin decided to
> organize "Chicano Visions: American Painters on the Verge," the first
> nationally touring exhibition devoted to Chicano painters. The show,
> which has support from media conglomerate Clear Channel, features
> major figures such as Frank Romero, John Valadez, Patssi Valdez and
> Gronk and is slated for LACMA in 2006.
>
> "Ninety-nine percent of the country doesn't know what a Chicano is,
> let alone what their art looks like," Marin says. "The whole purpose
> of this thing is to give access to Chicano cultures in the mainstream.
> We're done preaching to ourselves."
>
> Many worry that the show's emphasis on painting, the scant attention
> it pays to younger artists and its tendency toward the recognizable
> imagery of decades past misrepresents the diversity of Chicano art.
> But Marin disagrees. "The Chicano school of art is every generation's
> interpretation of what the Chicano experience is about," he says. "To
> every generation, it's a little bit different. They each have as much
> right to say what is or isn't Chicano art than anyone who went before
> them."
>
> Mario Ybarra Jr. grew up in Wilmington, one of Mexican L.A.'s more
> unsuspected suburban capitals. Slanguage, the gallery/store/studio he
> and fellow artist Juan Capistran opened in 2002, is squeezed into
> Wilmington's industrial row, across the street from a body shop and a
> block down from a pool hall.
>
> Slanguage used to be La Guadalupana Bakery. It now serves as Ybarra
> and Capistran's artistic home base, and it sells custom airbrushed
> Vans, thong underwear bearing portraits of rappers Notorious B.I.G.
> and Tupac Shakur, and classic hip-hop films such as "Style Wars" and
> "Breakin'." The work of Ybarra and Capistran's friends covers the
> walls, and on weekends neighborhood kids flood Slanguage for art
> workshops that include hat customizing, toy design and paper puppetry.
>
> "These kids grow up in a homogenized space with freeways that close
> them in," Ybarra says. "We try to bring in as many different kinds of
> people to interface with them . . . so that they don't think the only
> people they can communicate with look just like them, speak just like
> them."
>
> It's an attitude of openness and cultural contact that pervades
> Ybarra's own work. Although he respects earlier Chicano artists'
> political need to create a visual language for ethnic identity, he is
> more interested in how identities intersect and open up, creating new
> urban hybrids in which cholo action figures meet futuristic sci-fi low
> riders and Pablo Escobar is dressed in a Columbia space shuttle suit.
>
> "I don't think I make Chicano art," says Ybarra, standing in
> Slanguage's backroom, which is cluttered with Mac computers, crates of
> records, an Osama bin Laden piñata and a spray-painted portrait of
> reggae singer Jimmy Cliff. "It's something I have learned as a history
> and acquired as a filter. But right now, I don't think I could say I'm
> making it. It's like saying I make abstract expressionist painting.
> I'm not an ab-ex painter. I can't go back and make that art. I make
> contemporary art that is filtered from a Mexican American experience
> in Los Angeles."
>
> Ybarra thinks of it as the Edward James Olmos theory of Chicano art.
> He wants to be less like the actor in "American Me" and "Zoot Suit"-in
> which Olmos was prison tough and pachuco savvy-and more like Olmos'
> character in "Blade Runner." In the film's dystopian 2029 L.A. future,
> Olmos is Gaff-a digital urban polyglot, a Chinese Chicano detective
> who speaks a street patois of English, Spanish, French, Chinese,
> Hungarian and German.
>
> "My main drive," says Ybarra, "is not to learn Nahuatl, but to learn
> Mandarin or Cantonese."
>
> Like many of his peers, part of Ybarra's interest in juggling multiple
> cultural realities comes from his experiences in art school. In the
> '70s and '80s, art school was less common for Chicano artists-a luxury
> that distracted from the political urgency of the movement. Now it's
> the norm. Ybarra graduated from Otis Art Institute and then pursued an
> MFA at UC Irvine. He studied with Chicanos and non-Chicanos alike,
> including renowned L.A. artist Martin Kersels and Daniel Martinez, an
> acclaimed conceptual artist who often has kept his distance from
> identity politics.
>
> "I needed my degrees," Ybarra says. "I needed to be official. I'm not
> going to operate from a handicap position."
>
> Ybarra's art school training taught him how to get gallery shows (he's
> exhibited, often alongside Capistran, in London, San Francisco,
> Vancouver and Berlin), but he insists that the early Chicano muralists
> and performance artists taught him the importance of carrying on
> public art traditions. He's painted the message "sublime" over signs
> advertising plumbers in South Los Angeles, installed a
> graffiti-viewing bench in downtown L.A.'s Belmont Tunnel, and is now
> designing a series of harbor-view benches for the Port of Los Angeles.
>
> "Chicano art is not a dead history," Ybarra says. "It informs my
> artistic sensibility. How could it not? They are the little voices in
> my head that help me process my own work. What I take from them most
> is the idea of producing art under extreme circumstances with an
> imaginative and critical stance."
>
> Ybarra cites the influence of ASCO, the edgy, pioneering Chicano
> performance art collective whose name is Spanish for "nausea." The
> group became known for its conceptual, iconoclastic performance art
> pieces.
>
> But it was ASCO's 1972 "Pie in the Face" piece that had the greatest
> impact on Ybarra. In response to a LACMA curator who said he was not
> exhibiting Chicano work because it was all "folk art" (code for
> "naïve" or "unschooled"), ASCO members Harry Gamboa, Willie Herrón and
> Gronk spray-painted their names on LACMA's entrances, making the
> museum itself the first piece of Chicano art to be exhibited there.
> They returned the next day and took a photograph of ASCO's fourth
> founding member, Patssi Valdez, posing with their handiwork hours
> before it was whitewashed.
>
> Ybarra beams: "That was the most relevant act of graffiti I can think
> of, as both a Chicano and an artist in Los Angeles. I feel proud that
> I carry that with me."
>
> Gamboa was 21 when he tagged LACMA; now 52, he's still proud of "Pie
> in the Face."
>
> "I sprayed that museum only because I couldn't lift it and toss it
> into the tar pits," he says.
>
> Gamboa, who has taught at several local universities and whose
> groundbreaking video art from the '70s and '80s is newly available on
> DVDs released by UCLA's Chicano Studies Center, hasn't stopped making
> work since he began in the late '60s. Nor has he stopped thinking
> about his art through the politicized eyes of a teenager who
> participated in the student walkouts at Garfield High School in East L.A.
>
> "When I became involved with ASCO," he recalls, "we were developing
> artwork within the concept of 'Chicano.' It was particularly important
> to utilize that term at that point. Now I find an even more pressing
> need to utilize it, because since that time our numbers have expanded
> while our representation everywhere has dwindled."
>
> Yet when ASCO began in the '70s, it was Gamboa and his colleagues who
> were often told by other Chicano artists that their work-which played
> with concepts of glamour and sexual convention-wasn't "Chicano enough."
>
> "There was the preconceived idea of what Chicano art was supposed to
> be," says Diane Gamboa, Harry's sister, who joined ASCO in the '80s
> and works as a photographer, painter and designer. "The reality was
> our lives-everything from cross-dressing to the Marx Brothers and
> Soupy Sales. We were part of the unpopular culture."
>
> Eschewing the more overt political messages of many of their
> contemporaries, ASCO experimented with punk barrio
> existentialism-sending out mail art, taping each other to walls and
> throwing dinner parties in the middle of traffic islands. As a result,
> they were often criticized for being too conceptual, too ideologically
> slippery, too arty.
>
> In the '80s, Gronk's solo career as a painter began to take off, and
> he soon became the Chicano art world's first star, showing his work
> nationally and internationally. His more recent work has found him
> collaborating with the Kronos Quartet and Peter Sellars.
>
> Gronk's willingness to move across genres and defy expectations has
> made him one of the more frequently cited role models for younger
> Chicano artists looking to develop their own aesthetic.
>
> "I think a lot of young artists approach me because I'm one of the
> people that came out of that whole thing without doing the lowrider or
> the cholo," Gronk says. "That wasn't in my vocabulary. It would have
> been dishonest of me to say, 'Yes, I'm Chicano and here are the
> images.' It was more like doing a mural in East L.A. and making a
> reference to a French film. The possibilities are wide open."
>
> There is a white 1985 Chevy van parked at the end of Chung King Road
> in Chinatown. It is a cold fall night, and instead of taking refuge in
> one of the nearby galleries, a crowd of people is trying to glimpse
> the image that dominates the van's interior-a panoramic
> black-and-white photograph of Los Angeles by Sandra de la Loza. Titled
> "View From the East," the image is less striking for the city
> landscape it depicts than for its perspective-from an Eastside hilltop
> that is a favorite Chicano hangout. "I wanted to force people to
> reflect on L.A. from another vantage point," she says.
>
> Asking people to see the city, and the art that's inspired by it,
> through different eyes is also the point of the van itself, which
> doubles as a mobile art gallery complete with white walls, fake wood
> floors and track lighting. Its creator and director, Ruben Ochoa,
> dubbed the van "Class:C," a reference to the common driver's license
> code, because it was once the tortilla delivery truck for his parents'
> restaurant.
>
> The van now delivers art. Ochoa curates exhibits on or inside the van,
> then drives it around Southern California for public viewings in
> neighborhoods and locales-parks, banks, parking lots-where
> cutting-edge contemporary art is typically not shown. The Chinatown
> venue was on the itinerary for Ochoa's contribution to the Orange
> County Museum of Art's 2004 California Biennial.
>
> "A major concern of artists of my generation is to create our own
> space instead of waiting around for exhibits," explains Ochoa, who
> recently imagined car seats as customized coffins for his show with
> Marco Rios at the Laguna Art Museum. "Where most of my work is headed
> now is less about any singular ethnic identity and [more toward] where
> different identities intersect and mix us up. I hope that you don't
> see my work and all you get from it is that I'm Chicano."
>
> Ochoa is quick to flash his influences as proof: lurid Mexican
> tabloids and British sci-fi novelist J.G. Ballard, seminal L.A.
> assemblage artist Ed Kienholz and pop music parodist Weird Al
> Yankovic, ASCO and toy characters the Garbage Pail Kids. "I don't just
> go to Dia de Los Muertos events," quips Ochoa, who like Ybarra studied
> under Daniel Martinez at UC Irvine.
>
> At Chung King Road, Ochoa's van also features "The O.C.," a bumper
> sticker show about Orange County that De la Loza co-curated. The
> commissioned stickers, displayed on the van's back doors, include
> Rios' appropriation of the Irvine ZIP Code 92697, and Capistran
> putting Richard "The Night Stalker" Ramirez in Mickey Mouse ears.
> Though most of the artists are Chicano, the show makes no mention of
> ethnicity.
>
> "My work is about L.A., a place that is constantly changing," De la
> Loza says. "The earlier generation, their essential question was
> defining the Chicano aspect of their work. I don't think I need to do
> that all the time. It's more about my interaction with this place."
>
> This last point echoes the loudest among these artists: They may be
> Chicanos, but more important, they are Chicanos in Los Angeles, and
> they want more than anything to make art in dialogue with their
> city-with traffic and freeways, globalization and immigration, police
> brutality and, yes, even Richard Ramirez.
>
> Of course, the artists in Marin's "Chicano Visions" show also were
> making art about place. John Valadez's "Getting Them Out of The Car"
> said as much about the struggle for everyday Chicano survival as it
> did about the border between the barrio and the beach and the failed
> promises of L.A. sunshine. Carlos Almaraz's "Flipover" and "Sunset
> Crash" found toxic beauty in freeway death and the twisted metal of
> crushed cars. And Patssi Valdez's paintings of house interiors are
> inverted dreams of the exterior world-the East L.A. neighborhood she
> was born and raised in, separated from the rest of Los Angeles by
> bridges and offramps.
>
> The difference is that the place, and the role of Chicanos in that
> place, has changed. Populations have come and gone. Koreatown is also
> Oaxacatown. Little Tokyo is hip. Echo Park is expensive. Surburbia is
> Latino. Hip-hop is the dominant force in pop culture.
>
> The shift is perhaps best registered in De la Loza's 2002 sound
> installation at the African American Museum, "Whatcha talkin'
> 'bout"-originally part of her master's thesis at Cal State Long Beach.
> De la Loza interviewed her friends, all from her generation, collected
> their stories and then chopped them into phrases. In an empty gallery
> room, their voices poured out of numerous stereo speakers.
>
> There was the "punk rock dyke Salvadoran MacArthur Park crazy girl,"
> the environmental activist from Commerce and her friend from UC
> Berkeley who studied acupuncture. Their stories moved in and out of
> one another, layered on top of a looped recording of a traditional
> corrido mixed with hip-hop beats.
>
> "It's my way of not rehashing what's been done," she says. "We live in
> a very different moment than 30 years ago. I want to find different
> ways to tell the stories of what I live."
>
> If you want other stories on this topic, search the Archives at
> latimes.com/archives <http://www.latimes.com/archives>.
> <http://www.latimes.com/copyright>
> Article licensing and reprint options <http://www.latimes.com/copyright>
>
>
> ------------------------------------------------------------------------
>
> Copyright 2005 Los Angeles Times


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