there very long. The transition almost started immediately because I started getting more involved with the color. Back then, the religious pieces were more muted, or completely unpainted, and I started to brighten up my color. And then I got tired of doing Saint Francis over and over again. Man, how many Guadalupanas can you make in one year?
So I started to think of other images and how to change those images, but I still stayed within the realm of religious art. I did Noah’s Ark, which was a big step out of that [traditional] world, because that was never done. Then I started doing research on other saints not done by northern New Mexico historical artists. I started doing those saints because that presented more of a challenge. Then, after years of development, and as I would research the saints, I found that all the stories or subjects of these images have social commentary involved.
HAYES: For example?
TAPIA: The Passion of Christ was a whole political movement. Although we celebrate it as a religious experience, it was a political movida. So I started to incorporate today’s political and social issues and feelings into the work. If you look at my work today, there is a lot of reference to religion, especially Christianity. And in the tradition of the santos, there are religious figures, but I always place them in a contemporary environment or give them some kind of contemporary commentary or iconography. I haven’t done straight-up religious work in a long, long time.
HAYES: In what other ways have you changed or expanded tradition? Are you still using the same kind of wood that historic santos were made from?
TAPIA: No, I used to use New Mexico aspen and cottonwood, make my own paints and all that sort of stuff, but I stopped doing that. I like this wood that I’m using now. It’s a soft wood, but it has a lot of strength, and I can manipulate it a lot easier than other woods. And I can trust it more, because sometimes when you collect aspen, you have to make sure it’s totally dry by the time you start painting. If you don’t, it’s going to crack.
It’s the same issue with paints. I’m using acrylic paints. I like the brilliance of commercial paints. Some people have made a big deal out of that. But I say sometimes it’s better to go to the store. I think that if there had been a paint store around in Spanish colonial New Mexico, the early santeros would have agreed.
We wrap up the day at Tapia’s home south of Santa Fe. It’s situated, perhaps not so coincidentally, on a historic rancho that is more than three hundred years old. We turn onto a dirt road, and suddenly, like a scene from one of Luis’s classic “dashboard altar” sculptures, a valley landscape fills the windshield.
HAYES: Look at this view! Where are we now?
TAPIA: This is La Ciénega. I’ve been here for nearly thirty years. You hit this valley, and it’s all ciénegas. It’s all marshland. See all the willows, and there are natural ponds. And look, there’s that tree I was telling you about earlier that still has yellow leaves. It’s a cottonwood, and like this home, it’s probably about two hundred years old.
So here we are. Carmella’s home. “¡Bienvenido!”
The massive cottonwood towers over the front yard as we pull into the drive. Just beyond, I see the clothesline that Luis referred to earlier in the day. Instead of Luis’s chones, a mop and a bird feeder hang from the line. We step out of the truck, and I marvel at the front porch of the old adobe home. It’s covered, floor to ceiling, with a perfectly sculptural stack of firewood, collected and cut by Luis for the winter ahead. I see three vintage cars parked in the front yard.
TAPIA: This is my car collection: a ’53 Studebaker Champion, sea-foam green; a ’64 Falcon convertible; and a ’51 Chevy stand delivery wagon. Carmella calls it my Chicano apartment complex!
HAYES: Are these cars that will be made into sculptures?
TAPIA: No, these are supposed to run! Let’s say they are the projects I haven’t gotten to yet.
- Reprinted with Permission.
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