A lifestyle often deemed inferior occupies the space between constant rehabilitation and self-renewal, within a class where alienation is ever-present. Yet, this very otherness offers a peculiar privilege—a happiness born from humility, loss, and lack. Reflecting on the unique conceptual threads binding the group of artists in this exhibition, I find myself pondering the craftsmanship of each and the life of the worker in general. As an artist driven by an unyielding desire to create, I wonder, when does one find rest? And what does rest mean for a maker, for an artist? As a first-generation daughter of immigrant parents, I grew up with a father who endured the humiliating limitations of his class and a mother who navigated the constraints of her skin color and gender—barriers they both twisted, morphed, and overcame. Adaptability is a language shaped by experience, one coined by the poor. In the underbelly of class, there is estrangement and defiance—against overarching conditions and hierarchies, against our own tired bodies that push forward relentlessly, against the racial and religious boxes we are made to check, and against the perceptions of us that we tirelessly work to evolve. On the anniversary of his passing, I am reminded of my British father, who left us four years ago on this exhibition's opening day, August 15th. As I observe the details of each artist's work in this exhibition, I am reminded of the sweat stained painter whites uniform and steel toed boots my father would pick me up from school in. I am reminded of watching him on Sundays under the scorching Miami sun, contently tinkering with engine parts in our driveway with his callused and scarred hands, dub music blasting through his self-upgraded subwoofers ("the best bloody bass on the river").
I grew up with immigrant parents who, despite their complaints, never wanted to sit still. Though they might have sought rest when they first arrived in this country, their relentless efforts revealed something deeper. For people like my father, and for many first-generation or immigrant artists, the lines between pleasure and work blur. As artists, we realize we aren't working toward rest but toward more of the work we truly want to do—chasing the privilege of time for our passions, driven by a calling that never ceases. Even when sickness devoured his flesh, voice, and bones, my father—the proud foreigner, the selfless lover, the restless worker—tried to rebel against his own body for as long as he could, as if it were a speaker or engine he could bootleg back into health in his garage. To indulge in labors of love was to feel alive, to feel capable was to feel pleasure. This spirit is inherent in each of these artists’ practices as they reveal their ability to find beauty and inspiration in painstaking processes and patience within their practices. They do it almost unintentionally; living in a constant state of paying attention to the beautiful potential of all their surroundings. Their world is fertile ground for inspiration from modified PVC pipes and welded steel to documentations of small altars along Calle Ocho roadsides. For many, there is no dedicated season for rest, only tireless pleasure.
Rest in peace, Dad. May we all know true rest one day.
