Teacher Name: Melissa Gerleve
Grade: 11
Materials: India Ink
Dimensions: 7” x 12”
Artist Statement: Blood red tears flow down hills and valleys as a sacrifice to the emerging life down below, it’s immigration which protects the blooming buds. Every wound, every bruise, every tear, every penetration from the daggers of pushed isolation are hidden from the growing stems and unraveling petals. It’s the sacrifice of my parents which come to provide my self-expression and intersectionality in each piece. The fluidity of the medium allows to encompass the adaptability of each of their responsibilities and values in order to provide for our family. The deep shades of red and blue showcase the varied hues of blood, yet together they come to create a rich beautiful shade. It’s the unwavering strength within them which allows them never to let go of who they love, it’s the weakened muscles and skin which together create a shelter to express vulnerability. I bear this as I create this and every piece with an inhuman fluidity, a strength that comes from weakness, and more importantly the admiration in which my parents work exponentially harder just to maintain a stability for myself. It’s immigration which leads me as a daughter and artist, I value my own expression of vulnerability and culture with pride as well as with passion. Beyond this, it comes to express my navigation of alienation as Mexican women are held to a dehumanizing characteristic of “exoticism” while being silenced with the fear of deportation. In every way I feel like a pomegranate, held to a standard of oozing disgust for shielding the fruit of my vulnerability, held to a standard of strength as my culture is afraid of showing weakness. It’s when open that I can flow down and digest my emotions as well as come to notice the sacrifice which my culture holds. It’s as a teenager that I’m welcomed into the conversation of financial stability, constant aches, medical conditions and the vulnerability my mother and father hold. It’s as a daughter that I come to realize the wrinkles which grow in number as time goes on, yet with each wound their lips remain young as their kisses and affection are pure and unaffected by pain. It’s as a daughter to immigrants that I realize blood and tears make strong women, hardworking children, make love out of the liberation held only when immigrants come together.
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