Welcome to Arts for Life!

Sculpture

My core is hollow.
My heart is rigid as stone, left unpolished, with no vessels left to pump it.
My fingertips trace torpid rivers into my placid sea.
My shoulders are weighed down by igneous rocks I carry across Mount Vesuvius.
My throat holds a snake, that forced itself down where I'm propped,
It waited at the edge of my stool releasing an onslaught of fury.
My neck is bruised by branches Mother Nature tried to smother me with,
their weight pressing my plain canvas flat.
A canvas absent of hue; stretches thin with its palette wiped clean.
In my gallery no masterpieces hang, so no one’s wandering eyes ever visit.
I await my artist, an unseen presence; to attend to his deformed creation.
His flawed vision of the human race, his absence carves deeper than sharp chisels
He never returned to complete what he began;
Leaving me to non-aesthetes, who avoid culture, and live in voids.
My watercolor eyes are shaped perfectly, crafted with diligence, to convey
the idea that there's a thought behind them.
My archaic smile bears scriptures of artificial, fighting a thousand words,
Every subtle curve cracks my unearthed pottery.
My back is scarred by westward chisels, wounded by my own fragile hands,
While my feet remain firm, trying to mold into clay.
With wire brushes, I wish to hone out what lies beyond my grasp.
I struggle to shape my fate, yearning to sculpt the nature of my soul.
My intangible elements rise to the surface
when they try to evaluate my three-dimensional form.
I gaze on display at the murals, for humans will never appreciate my beauty.
I am never what they seek, passing my fresco walls.
I'm not known for my “noble simplicity and quiet grandeur.”
My knees were bashed in by strangers with their futile opinions of me;
They chip away at my stone, trying to cut me open-
critiquing me like a sculpture into which I’ve formed.
I’m distant from the shape of me I want to exhibit,
so I sit and ponder every minute.

Fly Free

Its gaze soars high, yet its wings stay tucked in
This young gentle bird has not flown away
No gilded cages entrap it within
Yet some force compels, tethers it to stay

The soul of the bird used to soar so high
Companioned by only the sun and moon,
Drowsy clouds with tearful stars in the sky
Until it flew down and sung a sweet tune

A melody answered through silent mist,
Ringing with the same solitary chord
A song the little bird could not resist
For no longer could his heart be ignored

Now, it will stay for the love it has known,
Since those truly free must fly all alone.

An Excerpt from Speaking in Yellow

Yellow. So much in life is yellow. From the hints of dewy daylight encompassed in the Sun’s glamour, to the sweet summer lemonade splashing across the lips of sun-kissed girls in tube-tops and hand-woven anklets. From the harsh fluorescent office lights reflecting off the freshly milked tears of an overworked mother, to the flaming embers of a proud father’s grill on game day. From the decadently rich butter slathered on freshly popped corn, to the regretfully daunting prescription pills which hold the power to wield or ward off the very essence of life. From the neatly wrapped present signed lovingly in careful print, to the manilla envelope guarding the will of a poor old man with little to give. Yellow has been my favorite color since the seventh grade. I was enamored by its warmth, so vividly mellow and inviting. I found comfort in its permanent smile which encapsulated me in an aura of tranquility. I admired how it is not delicate—it is direct; it is bold and brave, yet gentle and convivial. And I suppose one single color is not a valid substitute for a personality trait, but it certainly became that way to twelve-year-old me. I desired (and tried with all my might to mimic) its beauty, its fierceness, its shine, its smile—when I would tell someone my favorite color was yellow and they would respond with "that makes sense," I wanted to jump for joy. But why is yellow still my favorite color?

An Excerpt from My Identity

I live in a borrowed home, and for some reason, it feels safer than mine, which scares me. How can I love a burrow that doesn’t belong to me? It’s unfair and pitiful. What do others think of me? This country welcomed me, my beloved Peru, and it pains me to call it that because I know it’s not mine. I’m afraid of being considered a traitor for loving this land that is so far from me; right now, I should be crying because of nostalgia, not crying out of emotion and happiness while dancing marinera. Oh my God, there’s nothing like dancing the Llanero soul, but waving my handkerchief while moving my feet to the rhythm of the cajón is also an experience that fills my soul with love and satisfaction.

All migrants have different ways of coping with the adaptation process in a new country. In my case, the first thing I experienced was a great rejection towards everything around me. At just twelve years old, I only knew how to express my confusion through frustration. However, all these negative feelings faded in less than a year, and it was thanks to the wonderful community I arrived at. Since I can remember, I’ve had a strong connection with dance. On July 27th, 2019, my mom and I went out to print some pictures for a task, and while we were crossing a pedestrian bridge, we heard music approaching. When we turned around, we saw a large group of people parading. Everyone was wearing colorful costumes, laughing and dancing as people on the street watched them. Honestly, I don’t remember exactly how long my mom and I stood admiring the beauty of that cultural representation. I only know that that day marked a before and after for me. Thanks to Peru’s cultural diversity, I was able to connect deeply with its citizens. Without being fully aware of it, over time, I started to see this land as a second home, adopting customs, attitudes and adjusting my vocabulary. Phrases like “You don’t look Venezuelan” or “Mari is more Peruvian than Venezuelan” were often repeated to me in my last years living in the country. The adaptation process had been a success. I had managed to connect with the children in my environment, but without paying much attention to the details, the superficial things that indicated my nationality were now almost invisible.