On The Third Day He Rose, installation work

elio

From human lips and man's ribs 

                         Garnets spill 

                             blessed fluids, sacred blood 

                  All men are born of meat, flesh, 

                               of women’s breath 

                                                    Man did not start with bread 

                                 instead with grain and water 

                                     finding salvation in transformation 

   Divine Transcendence through Creation 

         Art is the human hand of God, of actuality and imaginary, birthing new realities. On the Third Day He Rose is an idolisation of Christ's second-most-depicted moment: his crucifixion upon the cross. The death of Christ is cyclical with his resurrection–he is transformed, reborn to a new life, at the price of his old.   

      The initial sketch for On The Third Day He Rose was conceived the day I was given my surgery date for a double mastectomy. In that moment, I was given a similar gift to that of Christ: birth in exchange for part of me dying. This annunciation brought terror. I began to grapple with anxiety about my major surgery: fears of infection, pain, and even the irrational, hysterical thought of never waking up from my anaesthesia.  

    This dread was at war with my excitement and desire to transmute.   

      The reality I occupy is a unique space as a transgender¹ queer²  Chicano³  brujo⁴. On the Third Day He Rose reflects this reality, combining Biblical theology, Indigenous ritual, and modern queer issues to depict bodies and forms once excluded from the colonised sacred canon. This work is a testament to fear and embracing the future. A visual processing of my complicated emotions towards medical transformation and divinity crafted by bodily autonomy—an excited prayer for my own transcendence.  

    Acting as both Mother and Son, I buried my fear in layers of house paint and clay, crafting Christ's mouldable, ever-changing shape in my own. I hand-twisted his crown of thorns with old bra underwire–undergarments now rendered useless by change, piercing us one last time.  

     For even as Christ sleeps, in handcrafted salvation, the heavens above incomprehensible in the twilight haze–his mind is not in a place of terror, but joy for his resurrection to come. 

¹ the courage a butterfly must have, understanding the difference between death and transformation, of skin too tight and heart too loose, of boy’s crushes and girl’s clothes, a cocoon. 

²  the radical act of love, of loving and being loved, of bodies and shapes unchanged and transfigured, of soft skin and wedding rings.  

³ the manifestation of native blood, barely understood rituals and language, of delicious food, of whispered love. 

⁴ the acceptance of a Mother’s love, understanding her many names–crying for Tonantzin, Santra Muerte, La Virgen, rituals where you are both lamb and knife, witchcraft bred from cultural comforts, a church of one’s own.