terminology of being called a Chicano. They’ve always been called Spanish because of the historical background of New Mexico. Being an isolated area, where the Spaniards came and retained a lot of their culture . . . even though there is a mezcla [mixture] with the Native Americans . . . they tried to keep their roots in the Spanish line. When we grew up, we called ourselves Spanish American. And then as I grew older and educated myself to the historical aspects of what happened here . . . the Mexican flag flew over New Mexico for twenty-five years . . . I realized we’re so mezclados, man.
So Chicano is the right term for sure, for me anyway. . . . It’s a political statement and also a generational one. . . . But there are still a lot of people that consider themselves Spanish American. And the art is starting to change. The younger generation is pushing through and is not identifying as Chicano. In some ways, it seems like Chicanismo is dying. It’s dying with me and people like me—Magu and Luis Jiménez and other artists that have passed on.
HAYES: You are hinting at an end of an era, but there is renewed interest in Chicano art and Chicano studies. At least in southern California, 2017 is turning out to be the year of the Los Four Chicano art collective: LACMA [Los Angeles County Museum of Art] is organizing a Carlos Almaraz retrospective. At MOLAA [Museum of Latin American Art] we are organizing a Frank Romero retrospective. A Gilbert “Magu” Luján survey is being held at UC–Irvine, and Beto de la Rocha’s work will be included in several of these exhibitions. I understand you are also honoring Magu in a painting. What was your relationship with Magu?
TAPIA: We were very close. We met during the [1987] Hispanic Art in the United States exhibition, and we bonded immediately. In Hispanic, we would travel to the different venues, so in New York and Houston and L.A. I would meet up with Magu and Luis Jiménez, Rudy Fernandez, and others. Then they brought Hispanic to Santa Fe, so I told him, “Stay with me, man.” So he did, him and [wife] Marty and the kids, and he just fell in love with New Mexico.
He was one of those people that’s like booze. The more you get, the more you need, no? And then before you know it, “Andas bien borracho con Magu,” you know! He was a very intoxicating kind of guy. I introduced him to many of the santeros here, and they were very intrigued by him. I think he felt at home here and didn’t realize what was here. He hung out here for a long time. He even discovered he had relatives here!
And then I would visit him in L.A. Then I got a commission in Santa Margarita [California] for a church, so I decided to go. Magu was living on Hollywood [Boulevard], and he said, “Come work out of my studio.” I went over and stayed with him for a year. We were tight. He loved arguing, and we would get into it all the time, but it was all good, you know?
HAYES: What did Magu connect with in your work?
TAPIA: He liked the connection to the historical and how I was carrying the historical pieces out. . . . He liked that a lot. Then of course I started to do a lot of social commentary, which he loved.
Talk of Magu, who savored countless comidas at El Comal with Luis, trails as our breakfast ticket arrives. We drip honey over our fresh sopaipillas, drain our water glasses, say our good-byes, and head out to Luis’s truck. We drive another ten miles southwest to his chapel-like studio garage in La Ciéneguilla to see new works in progress for the Cada mente es un mundo exhibition.
HAYES: Looking at your studio, you have a poster of Homies [plastic cholo figurines] pinned to the wall and other images from popular culture, like Mexican calendar art. Tell me about your source material.
TAPIA: I was doing something similar before the Homie toy culture came out, but I was
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