Carlos Ramirez: Where is the Power Source

If ever there was an artist to meet this moment in the American story, it’s hard to think of someone better suited for the burden than Carlos Ramirez. From his sun-blasted home near the southern border, Carlos collects found materials from the shifting sands and repurposes them into art that is a definitive blend of humor, Mexican folk traditions, and pop culture that feels at once familiar and timeless.

ART BAR: What part of California are you in? Is this where you grew up? 

CARLOS: We’re in Southern California and I definitely have roots here. We’re in Indio, California; to be exact, in the Coachella Valley. And this is where it all started for me. It’s a large immigrant, agricultural place, it’s always been my home. I’ve lived in LA, but this is my place here.

Did your family migrate here?

They did. Their parents migrated here, so that would make me third generation. 

I remember seeing in the PBS special that you would sometimes work on the agricultural fields with them. 

Yeah, every summer and sometimes depending on what season it was, we would follow the agricultural route, which would go up north and then head on over to Texas and Chicago depending on where the work was, because sometimes there would be droughts here or it’d be really difficult. So I did a lot of field work with my parents. 

We see a lot of heritage in your art.

I think it started with growing up and not being accepted into a lot of art… whatever you want to call it. That was kind of difficult, but it got to the point where I thought, “Who am I? Like, who the fuck am I really?” And so that kind of triggered it into my art. And initially it wasn’t really accepted, but I came to learn it might be ugly to some, but to me that’s what it is. It’s beautiful to me. I think it was important to get it out there.

When you said you weren’t accepted into different types of art, were you saying institutions or galleries or communities or…

All of the above. And it was kind of hurtful at first, but I think I found a formula. People would see my art and were like, “What is this?” before they knew who I was. Then I began to use familiar iconography. =, but in a special way. Add value to it again. Somehow they accepted that.

There is something about the desert that attracts and inspires artists, the vastness. People go to the desert to have rituals or reconnect with themselves, because we get so distracted in the cities. How does the desert feed your creativity?

Well for me, I think it’s a little in reverse because I grew up here, so I didn’t appreciate what I had. But when I started going to the busier cities it changed. I think when you’re in a desert, it really doesn’t give you anything, it appears dry and desolate. But if you look for it, you’ll find life, you know? It’s kind of magical for me. You hear yourself a little better, a little louder, a little clearer. And I think so many people don’t go out into nature as much. When they come out here, they’re kind of like, “Who am I?” You start with all these little questions in yourself. And that’s what I see the desert giving people.

It’s also a window into the contrast of what busy is, and what peace is. I guess some people that have never had that peace don’t know what to gauge it against. Once you get that contrast, you’re like, Whoa. I know people that come out to the desert, and they don’t wanna leave.

You use a lot of cultural iconography, juxtaposed with totemic, ancient imagery. Can you tell us more about that?

It goes back to my heritage, culture and ancestors. I found a way to incorporate that into my work so that people are familiar with it. We’re trying to give a testimonial of what and who we are as a society, and ask what direction we are going in. I think I’m just trying to be a witness.

If I were to time travel a thousand years into the future and come back to this time, what would we look like? What would I say? I kind of take and compose with blunt messages. And it used to be really subtle, but with the social climate today, it’s gotten more obvious for me. And with that being said, it’s because it’s healing to me. And I think artists should purge. It’s almost a sin not to say it.

I’m not doing this for money or fame. I’m doing this to really send a message to people that aren’t even here yet. I think it’s  important to send that message, whatever the risk for me personally.

Speaking of the risk, we are seeing shows getting canceled and art being subject to censorship. It’s dangerous to have a voice these days.

It’s very dangerous.

But that also makes it more important than ever. Obviously they go after the arts first, and there’s a reason for that. 

I think they go after the arts first because it’s a testimonial to the time and of who was in whatever political position. If it does get to the point where you can’t make art anymore, you’re gonna wish you would’ve said something.

“I’m not doing this for money or fame. I’m doing this to really send a message to people that aren’t even here yet.”
Is there any sort of ritualistic or spiritual influence in your work? Something outside of us? I think spirituality is part of a balance, especially as a creative person. The way I see spirituality is kind of like the Native Americans — when you see an animal, it’s an experience. That to me is spirituality. That’s why I think it gels well with the work I do now. It’s really like magic. And I think music and art, if you do it the right way, it’s alchemy. If someone sees it and they feel something, it’s a special exchange. It’s energy. And I like to layer it so when whoever sees it, they don’t have to like it, but there’s people that will feel that. They can’t pinpoint it because there are so many layers, but they feel it. I know you have gone through some major health battles and have had to face your own mortality. I was wondering if being sick affected your outlook on life?  There was a time where it was pretty dark for me. We go through dark periods in our lives, everybody does. I just happened to have a darker period recently where I was really sick and I didn’t know what my fate was, it was literally that bad. But I’m over it now, thank goodness. But it definitely gave me a new perspective, a new appreciation. So it emphasized that vital part of me, and I literally feel like I’m a new person. I once had a photo teacher, Vicki Martin, who said that human beings are the only species that are aware of their own mortality, and that is why we make art. Did your experience affect your work in any way? Definitely. I was literally sitting here like, “Wow, is this the end?” And the more I thought of that, I thought I should have been fucking louder. And that’s why it got a little more obvious. Before it was really subtle, but it was there, it was humorous.
There is this awakening that could happen when you have a brush with mortality and realize that this is all finite, right? But with psychedelics there’s also this ego death and realizing you’re part of an infinite collective consciousness. But that experience seems like it has had an effect on your work and the cultures that embrace medicine. Absolutely. Like I said before, I was in a real dark place way back when. And I was looking for myself. They say you gotta become lost to find yourself, and that’s what I did. When I first started taking psilocybin it blew my mind because it was a mental illustration of what honesty is. It made me face myself and ask myself hard questions. It was a narrator, a voice, just pointing out what it needed to point out. And that blew my mind, that the psilocybin was literally speaking to me. And when I came out of that, it definitely affected my work. And it’s not in the colors, it’s the message behind whatever I’m working on at the time. And I think it all has to do with people. Life is fleeting. When I think of your work, outside of the cultural iconography, there’s also these strong, broad-chested characters. What does that symbolize to you? I think growing up we all hear folk tales, or romanticize certain stories. The reason they’re a little wider is that I wanted it to not be so human. More like a story, or an idea of what a human should look like. Traveling through Mexico, by coincidence I would see how the Aztecs or the Mayans were drawn. The proportions were way off. I don’t know if that goes back to the mushrooms or not. (laughs) What’s the meaning behind some of the other recurring themes we see in your work? I do a lot of animals because animals are innocent. They’re really important to this world, this planet. I like to think of innocence, what it is, what it was, compared to people. We like the idea that if we mess everything up and make ourselves extinct, at least the animals would still be here. Nature would reclaim everything and the animals would thrive. They’ll do way better without us. It’s amazing to me. I think that’s another part of why I use a lot of animals is because people usually relate to a certain animal. To me that’s spirituality. It’s amazing to me how people see themselves in animals.

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