Galería de la Raza:
Identities intersect in exhibit at the Mission’s Galería de la Raza
S.F. gallery dedicates its space to an exhibition full of art that addresses the narrative of queer Chicanos and Mexicans.
Twice, two years ago, vandals attempted to destroy a mural in the Mission commissioned by Galería de la Raza. First they spray-painted over the image — a tribute to queer Latinos and Chicanos; two men on one side, two women on the other and a trans man between them all — and then they set it on fire.
At the time, Ani Rivera, the director of the museum, found herself having to explain over and over again that the intersection of queerness and latinidad was nothing new, that it had a deep history, even if people didn’t want to recognize it.
The Galería has highlighted that intersection again and again, though often as a piece of larger shows — such as in a recent exhibition,
Queerly Tèhuäntin / Cuir Us: Through Oct. 7. Free. Galería de la Raza, 2857 24th St., S.F.
“Womxn Are Perfect!”
Now, however, the gallery has dedicated its entire space to an exhibition full of art that addresses the narratives of queer Chicanos and Mexicans. The show — “Queerly Tèhuäntin / Cuir Us” — represents a 30-year history of queer artists working on both sides of the border. They address issues ranging from colonialism (and how it contributed to machismo and homophobia) to the AIDS crisis while referencing pre-Columbian cosmologies and celebrating bold sexuality.
“We have a legacy; we do exist,” Rivera says. “Latinx identity exists far beyond what media and other mainstream channels continue to give us.
“As folks of color, it’s important to un-
“Still-Life with Viracept” (2003), acrylic and mixed media on canvas by Joey Terrill, is part of the “Queerly Tèhuäntin / Cuir Us” exhibition.
derstand the history and the legacy. It’s very complex. It’s also very rich.”
Rivera curated the show with Ed McCaughan, a former San Francisco State University professor who sits on the Galería’s board. The idea of a show that examined queer Chicano and Mexican art had been growing since the murals were set on fire. But, it wasn’t until a recent trip to Mexico to look for emerging artists that the two really settled on the idea.
They were staying at the home of the painter and poet Nahum Zenil, whose work is represented in the show, when Zenil casually mentioned that his top floor was full of archival materials that he’d been holding on to since the death of his friend José María Covarrubias, an early Mexican gay rights activist. He told Rivera and McCaughan that they were welcome to take a look. He thought most of it would be trash.
Instead what they found were letters and pieces of ephemera dating back to the first Semana Cultural Gay (Gay Cultural Week, now called Festival Internacional de la Diversidad Sexual) — a pride celebration held annually in Mexico. The archive felt overwhelming, and the two spent hours each night drinking wine and organizing it.
“It was incredibly moving,” McCaughan says. “Being so moved by understanding what it took from the original activists and artists made us really want to make sure we highlighted some of the earliest work of the artists from that period.”
They also felt a desire to tie those traditions to newer artists working on either side of the border.
This direct line is seen best, perhaps, in one corner of the Galería. On one wall, three of Zenil’s paintings hang. In the central piece, Zenil has created a self-portrait that shows him as a stand-in for St. Sebastian, naked and shot through with arrows.
On the opposite wall are three pieces by Rurru Mipanochia, an artist from Mexico City, who revisits cosmologies from Aztec codices, reimagines them and depicts them in bright neon colors. Mipanochia’s work comes 20 years after Zenil’s, but together they rework cultural histories and icons.
This is a recurring theme in the exhibition. Naomi Rincón Gallardo, an emerging artist out of Mexico City, created her own cosmologies in a video piece called the “Formaldehyde Trip,” which is featured in the Galería’s theater. And Joey Terrill, a Los Angeles artist who has been active since the 1970s, offers up a reimagining of the Aztec legend of Popocatépetl, a warrior, and Iztaccihuatl, a princess. In his rendering, they are both men, one holding the other, and Terrill calls for viewers to “support your brothers with HIV.”
Another piece of his places an early HIV drug at the front of a still life that represents, unmistakably, a Chicano table spread, complete with a serape and a bottle of Rompope.
All of the pieces, Rivera said, were carefully chosen, both to illuminate the contemporary experience of being queer and Mexican or queer and Chicano, but also to give space to imagine that queerness before colonialism.
“The way that they’re retelling the story, it was really important to understand the impact of colonialism, how it erased our narratives, how it erased our queerness,” she says. “We have legacy.”
The idea of a show that examined queer Chicano and Mexican art had been growing since the murals were set on fire.