University of Southern California Dissertations and Theses

Poetics of resistance: works by Noé Olivas in conversation with the poems of Gwendolyn Brooks, Pedro Pietri, and Lorna Dee Cervantes

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Poetics of resistance: works by Noé Olivas in conversation with the poems of Gwendolyn Brooks, Pedro Pietri, and Lorna Dee Cervantes

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Content Poetics of Resistance: Works by noé olivas
in Conversation with the Poems of Gwendolyn Brooks, Pedro Pietri, and Lorna Dee Cervantes
by
noé olivas
_________________________________________
A Thesis Presented to the
FACULTY OF THE USC GRADUATE SCHOOL
UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
In Partial Fulfillment of the
Requirements for the Degree
MASTER OF FINE ARTS (FINE ARTS)
August 2019
Copyright 2019 noé olivas

Para La Familia Olivas

We continue to love as we endure the trials on this earth. One by one, step by step, breath by
breath, we mark our existence through different ways of expression so our voices are heard. With
corazón y gratitud, we offer words under the Luna, las Estrellas, and into the Cielo. We have
planned of our seeds with strong faith. We believe nuestro Sol ayuda a los nutrients de la tirrea
para enriquecer nuestros alimentos in order to continue the movement of justice, peace, and
love.

Ashé
TABLE OF CONTENTS

PREFACE 1

• INTRODUCTION 2

•• WE REAL COOL WITH CHEECH & CHONG 4

••• RETURNING TO THE DEFINITION OF THE SUN 13

•••• CONTINENT OF HARMONY 18

¾ CONCLUSION 22

FIGURES 24

BIBLIOGRAPHY 37
1
PREFACE

My work for the past six years has been a meditation on what I call the poetics of labor.
Growing up in a first-generation Mexican American, working-class family home, I inherited a
particular idea of what it means to perform hard labor. The grueling toughness of labor—
physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually—is an integral part of my art making process.
As a laborer, there are times I forget that my practice as an independent artist is akin to the work
that my family and other immigrant families do to simply keep food on the table and a roof over
the heads of our loved ones. I believe the labor we endure is an act of love, something that I
continuously channel through my work. What keeps the spirit (el ánimo as we say) in motion is
believing in the beauty that hard labor can create through the collective effort.
Using my art as a platform, my work allows for a reflection for the working-class
community. I seek to confront the invisibility of labor by facing it with people from the
community through collaboration, discussion, intervention, or celebration. I often use my
family’s personal archive and other found domestic or utilitarian objects and materials to
construct sculptures, drawings, prints, and live performance to create a connecting point of
familiarity. Additionally, in my work I take into consideration the relationship between labor as
it fits into the conceptions of femininity and masculinity in order to play with and reshape
cultural references, narratives, myths, traditions, and objects, ultimately employing a new
meaning.

2
• INTRODUCTION

In 2016, I once stumbled upon James Luna’s ISHI: The Archive Performance at UC San
Diego.
1
(fig. 1) I remember it being a classic October night in Southern California, the smell of
the cold, salty, ocean breeze coming in and out. I was walking towards the campus of the
University of California, San Diego, or UCSD, near the Shank Theater to take a glimpse at some
art projects generated by the MFA graduate students there. Little did I know what was to come—
an unforgettable life lesson. As I walked, I saw people start to crowd around a man. I overheard
one of the ushers saying the performance was going to start soon. Curious, I followed the crowd.
As I approached the grass area, I saw Luna. He reached into his bag and pulled out an 18-inch
smoke pipe.
It wasn’t like any ordinary smoke pipe, and although it looked similar to native peace
pipes, this one was made up of plumbing pipe hardware. Connected to the pipe was a T-flange at
the end to place the herbs and a red, water valve in the middle to control the flow of the smoke.
The shaft was decorated with traditional native beadwork. The pattern and color (red, yellow,
white, and black) popped against the metal and brass. He said it was a “High Tech Peace Pipe.”
Luna offered the audience if anyone wanted to share a toke with him, and I wondered if it was
marijuana or tobacco. I secretly wanted to join him, but I wasn’t close enough. Someone else
took the toke.
He pulled another object out from his bag. This time it was a necklace with a real turtle
shell attached to it. The shell was about the size of a medium bowl. As he started to put on the
necklace, he explained its significance. Turtle shells are sacred objects, because the turtle is a
symbol of Mother Nature. While he continued to talk more about the sacredness and power of

1
James Luna’s ISHI: The Archive Performance was performed at the Theodore and Adele Shank Theater at UC San
Diego on October 27 and 28, 2016, accessed on May 15, 2019 at: htttp://www.coled.ucsd.edu/2016/10/19/ishi/
3
the turtle, he stared to move slow…and slower…and slower. His tone of voice changed. As Luna
spoke slowly, I joked to myself that it was the marijuana. But Luna moved slowly because he
was being like the turtle whose shell he wore. He would stretch his neck, move his jaw, open his
eyes wide, and then even blink like a turtle. I couldn’t comprehend what I was seeing at the time.
Was Luna, by way of the turtle shell, really turning into the turtle? He then slowly said, “Weeee
neeeeeed toooo beeeee mooore llllliiike turrrrtlessss.”
That night, Luna had a message for the audience: to slow down. We tend to miss things
because we move so fast in the world. We lose focus, become distracted, and overlook the so-
called small things in life and what this earth has to offer us. Most importantly, we tend to forget
to appreciate and give gratitude. That night, Luna used the power of meditative performance to
become a turtle, a story teller, a teacher, and healer—to connect and be in ceremony with others.
The following thesis is a meditation on various histories. From the 1950s and 1960s civil
rights era to the 1980s Cheech and Chong films, it is a reflection on the how the past has
influenced my art practice in distinct ways. By analyzing three poems written during the civil
rights era, I will explore how each text imagines ways of resistance and its importance. First,
inspired by Gwendolyn Brooks’ “We Real Cool” (1959), I will examine a scene from the 1980
comedy sequel film Cheech & Chong’s Next Movie. Second, I will analyze Pedro Pietri’s poem
“Puerto Rican Obituary” (1973) and explore how cultural resistance and survival is depicted in
it. Lastly, I will be looking at Lorna Dee Cervantes’ “Poem for the Young White Man Who
Asked Me How I, an Intelligent, Well-Read Person Could believe in the War between Races”
(1982) and relating its central message to my own artistic practice.

4
•• WE REAL COOL WITH CHEECH & CHONG

THE POOL PLAYERS.
SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.

We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.
— Gwendolyn Brooks, “We Real Cool” (1959)

In the 1959 poem “We Real Cool” Gwendolyn Brooks describes seven teenage boys
embodying the notion of coolness during the times of segregation and the civil rights movement.
I have chosen to begin with this poem as an entryway into the concept of coolness because it
demonstrates the deconstruction of coolness during postwar America. In an interview, Brooks
speaks about how she was inspired to write this poem by the Golden Shovel pool hall in her
community.
2
She mentions how she was walking by one afternoon during school hours and saw
some teenage boys in the pool hall. Instead of asking why they were not in school, she wondered
how they felt about themselves.
What she observes is these teenage boys seemed to claim to be cool, as it says in the first
sentence of stanza one: “we real cool.” For me, Brooks codes the definition of coolness in the
poem as particularly black. She is using diction and syntax to take on the cool sounds of jazz, a
historically black genre, with somber tones. The poem suggests cool always has a political

2
Gwendolyn Brooks, “Poetry Reading Live”, www.poet.org, November 01, 2013.
5
implication by going against the grain, against the establishment. From there, we can establish
cool as a quality of countercultures or subcultures.
Brooks ends the poem with the lines, “Jazz June. We / Die soon.” In his essay “An
Aesthetic of the Cool,” Robert Farris Thompson traces the history of coolness back to West and
Central African Culture: “coolness is achieved where one person restores another to serenity
(‘cools his heart’), where group calms group, or where an entire nation has been set in order
(‘this land is cool’).”
3
I imagine the teenage boys in Brooks’ poem collectively finding a moment
of serenity through the playful sounds of Jazz. The spirit of coolness fills their hearts, allowing
them to escape the harsh realities of white America.
The same year this poem was published, Mack Charles Parker, a 23-year-old black man
from Poplarville, Mississippi was murdered. He was accused of raping a white woman and was
incarcerated. Three days before his trial, he was taken by a masked mob, beaten, shot to death,
and thrown into the river. This was what young black men faced and continue to face in places
where anti-blackness run rampant. As Farris Thompson reminds us, “a notion of black cool as
antiquity, for Ralph Ellison has put it, ‘We were older than they, in the sense of what it took to
live in the world with others.’”
4

Keeping this notion of coolness as associated with blackness, in the following section, I
embrace “We Real Cool” as a definition of coolness to examine a scene from the comedy sequel
film, Cheech & Chong’s Next Movie (1980) directed by Tommy Chong. (fig. 2) I am interested
in how the characters Cheech and Chong generate coolness through the hybrid language style of
Spanglish, attitude, and culture/subculture. It leads me to pose the question: does the

3
Robert Farris Thompson, “An Aesthetic of the Cool,” African Arts 7, no. 1 (Autumn, 1973): 41.
4
Ibid., 67.
6
development of coolness have the possibility to access power—political, social, economic
power?
This film is a representation of coolness in East Los Angeles during the late 1970s and
1980s. Style is portrayed through many cultural lenses (rock/disco/funk/drugs) in the film, and it
generally highlights the Mexican/Chicana/o culture. The characters Cheech and Chong play are
based on racial and cultural stereotypes, which they poke fun at through jamming out and singing
songs such as the iconic song Mexican American. Lyrics from the song include statements such
as: “Mexican Americans don’t like to get into gang fights / They like flowers and music and
white girls named Debbie too.” They push the limits of stereotypes through humor, creating
visual puns demonstrating different methods of coolness.
In a scene in the movie, Cheech and Chong cruise through a Los Angeles neighborhood
in a 1978 Chevy work van. As Cheech attempts to make a left-turn, he almost crashes into a
sparkly blue 1979 Ford Thunderbird that had been altered into a lowrider and Chong screams.
The lowrider movement originates after the second World War in the United States. The desire
to customize common, mass-produced stock vehicles into cool “stylized vehicles with clean lines
and small tires that were low to the ground”
5
becomes part of the cultural identity of the Chicano
working-class community in the 1950s. They cruised them low and slow to the ground as
opposed to fast and mean, like hot-rods and rat-rods that were also developing in the same era.
Chicanos generate unique style and blossom from a rasquache attitude, meaning “a critical and
adaptive style based in a Chicano working-class perspective of the underdog.”
6
Lowriders
become a representation of pride, respect, and care through the owner’s individual coolness.

5
Alberto Lopez Pulido and Rigoberto “Rigo” Reyes, San Diego Lowriders: A History of Cars and Cruising,
Charleston, SC: Historical Press, 2017: 13.
6
Rudy Kraeher, Mundos Alternos: Art and Science Fiction in the Americas. (New York: Artbook, 2017): 73, Plate
17.
7
As Cheech pumps his breaks, another vehicle, a white stock 1974 Chevy Monte Carlo,
crosses their path. Cheech pumps his breaks again, flustered and frustrated due to the oncoming
traffic. Chong gives him a hard time and says, “You're gonna kill us, man. You're gonna kill
everybody!” As Cheech attempts again to move forward, another lowrider, a brown 1976 Chevy
Caprice coupe, cruises up slowly and pauses in front of the van, not allowing Cheech to turn.
Cheech yells at them and says, “Hey, brother! Move it or milk it, huh?” but the lowrider does not
move.
The camera focuses on the position of both vehicles and allows the viewer to see the
intricate details of the lowrider. Through the use of the hydraulic system, the lowrider stance sits
at an angle, diagonal to the road. The rear bumper sits low, while the front sits high. This
position conveys an attitude and coolness that is not just associated with people, but also with
cars. The rooftop is open on the driver and passenger side, creating a semi-convertible custom
look. On the rear sides of the lowrider, a hand painted golden pinstripe floral motif complements
the brown paint job and shape of the Chevy Caprice. Inside, near the rear window, a chrome
plaque with the name of the lowrider’s car club is on display. It is hard to make out the name of
the car club because of the reflection of the sun hitting the window.
Later in the film, Cheech and Chong encounter another lowrider from one the most
classic lowrider car clubs, Life Style. The club’s name suggests that lowriding is a lifestyle within
a tightknit community. With that being said, in the film, another lowrider, a 1975 El Camino,
cruises up from behind the Caprice. In the same stance, back bumper slammed, and the front
lifted high, it circles around the van with attitude and style. It is showing off it custom sparkly
purple paint job with murals on the tailgate and rooftop. The bed is covered in purple velvet.
They honk at Cheech with their bright sound custom horn.
8
Cheech continues to exchange words with the drivers of the lowriders, saying, “Who's
this Indio?” In this moment of the scene, cultural and subcultural implications are presented
through language, culture, and style. Cheech says the word “Indio,” meaning Indian that is
generally used to refer to people of native Mexican or South American descent, referring to the
driver’s brown, indigenous skin. Cheech laughs at the aesthetics of the lowrider and says, “He
looks like he went through Pep Boys with a magnet.” Nevertheless, his foolish and comical
remarks are filled with political connotations and exposes the style and origins of lowrider car
culture within the Mexican/Latino/Chicano community of East Los Angeles.
In the above scene, the rasquache attitudes and style of lowriders act as an extension of
driver’s body. It demonstrates their existence in the community, while Cheech and Chong are
outsiders. After their many altercations, Cheech realizes what the issue is. He turns to Chong and
says, “Oh, I know what’s ‘apping, man, we ain’t dressed right. That’s why we ain’t getting any
respect.” As soon as the lowriders peel out, Cheech quickly pulls over the van to the side of the
road. The song Tequila by The Champs begins to play. Cheech and Chong step out of the van,
open the rear doors, and pull out an assortment of custom car parts. They pop off the hubcaps to
reveal the chrome wired rims. They add fender flares, black heart shaped windows, chrome
mufflers, a chrome chain steering wheel, a gray furry dashboard, red velvet curtains, pink pom-
pom balls, and an airbrushed image of an Aztec warrior carrying a woman in his arms. These are
elements that make up a lowrider. Together they transformed the work van into a stylish cruising
lowrider. Cheech flips the switch to lower the van and sinks into his seat, cruising off and saying,
“Alright, that’s better, man.” As they cruise off, Cheech explains to Chong, “When you go
through these neighborhoods, you got to have all your stuff together, man. Got to have your
9
attitude and your own whole trip down, man, or everybody will throw down their bad looks at
you, y’know?”
At this point, Cheech and Chong demonstrate access and ability to start a dialogue with
the lowrider and Chicano community. Their participation contributes and expands the language
to help define lowrider and Chicano culture for outsiders through the medium of film. They
break down elements of what makes a lowrider and its origins. By physically altering the van,
Cheech and Chong acted out a form of assimilation that allowed them to operate within the
Chicano lowrider culture. So much so, that afterwards Chong says, “I feel like we should go eat
tacos now or something.”
Even though Cheech is considered a pocho, an Americanized Mexican that does not
speak Spanish, he turns and asks Chong, “Want me to teach you some Spanish words, man?”
Chong agrees, and Cheech says, “When you see a really good friend, you know, you say ‘hey,
pendejo, how you doing?’ Try it.” In Spanish, pendejo is a cuss word that translates to stupid,
dumbass, asshole. It can also change meaning by adjusting the word and tone. For example, by
adding “ito” to the end of the word, pendejito, and making it diminutive, it allows the word to
sound soft and cuter in a snarky way. Words like pendejo and the different ways of saying it are
never taught in a formal Spanish class. One can learn the word from a close Spanish-speaking
friend or perhaps a Spanish-speaking community. If it is taught, it is generally done with the
intention as a joke, but also as an entry to sharing culture and language.
What is interesting to me is how Cheech uses pendejo. He combines the Spanish word
with English to structure a complete sentence. Cheech is not teaching Chong Spanish—he is
teaching him Spanglish, the rhythmic convergence of two languages spoken often in
Mexican/Latina/o/Chicana/o homes. Chong repeats, “Hey, bendeco? How you doing?” He
10
pronounces pendejo as bendeco. Cheech does not break the word down into syllables, but instead
says, “Yeah, that’s close enough.” Chong then asks for the meaning of the word, but Cheech lies
to him and says, “Oh, that means, uh, my real good friend.” This educational exchange set up
Chong for future interaction with Spanish speaking folks.
This film has also allowed me to reflect about the notion of coolness in relationship to the
working-class. The way Cheech and Chong transformed a work van into a lowrider, artist Rubén
Ortíz-Torres used the aesthetic of coolness in his The Garden of Earthly Delights (2007) (fig. 3)
to transform a drivable Craftsman lawn mower into a lowrider in his work.
Inspired by Cheech and Chong, Rubén Ortíz-Torres, and lowriders I have seen cursing
the Southern California streets, I built a lowrider bike which is part of a series titled, Dear Juan.
The second in the series, Dear Juan is playing on the common Spanish name, often reflected in
Spanglish humor--for example, number “Juan,” instead of number one. It also refers to people
with whom I’ve worked and developed relationships. This work is an homage to Juan-Carlos
Morales, the USC Roski School of Art and Design Facilities manager/master builder/carpenter,
who I have worked closely with while attending graduate school. A thank you as well as a trade-
off, I titled this work after him because of his continuous generosity and for letting me borrow
his welder and other tools I have used to construct this lowrider bike.
With Juan’s help, I was able to combine the chrome front fork with my father’s dolly. I
fabricated brackets to fix it into a leaning position, as if the dolly is ready to carry a heavy object.
Its elongated, stretched out customized new front functioned as the front wheels and the steering
handle bars. I adorned the rusted 1960s beach cruiser with found, sentimental, and customized
objects as well as lowrider bike accessories. For instance, I placed my mother’s diamond shape
door knob in the middle were the rusted dolly and fork meet. It resembles a front headlight, a
11
metaphor for my mother’s bright spirit. On top the stem, I added from my collection a small,
steel perfume bottle in the shape of a Sleeping Mexican. I bought it on eBay one day, hoping to
make use of it. Inside the perfume bottle, I added WD-40—an oil spray lubricant used on rusted
or squeaky parts.
7
The placement of the shiny Sleeping Mexican resembles an ornamental
emblem like on classic cars from the 1920’s such as a Rolls Royce. Typically, the ornamental
emblem is a representation of luxury or the upper-class. By replacing the car emblem with the
Sleeping Mexican figure, I am representing the working-class in a way that associates the figure
with a particular status symbol. (fig. 4-5)
For the back of the bike, I customized side baskets by cutting a black milk crate in half
and upholstering the inside panel with burlap fabric that featured tufted buttons. The crates cover
the side of the rear 24-inch whitewall wheel, resembling the shape of side skirts seen on classic
lowrider bombas.
8
It made aesthetics of the bike look lower and longer. Connected at the end of
baskets, I added a chrome, flat, twisted lowrider bike accessory that holds the spare. The 12-inch
wheel was fitted with a custom burlap tire-cover made by my brother, Juan-Carlos Olivas.
By using the customization as a way of subverting both art language and cultural
signifiers, this allows me to have a conversation about the pedagogy of lowriders, customization,
and the working-class. With the consideration of my audience, which is the working class, I
extend the conversation out into the public. I planned a performance for the sculpture where I
built a custom mirrored platform that fit perfectly on the bed of la trokita blanca and loaded the
lowrider dolly bike on top of it. I strapped the lowrider dolly bike to the truck bed and a work

7
According to their website there are over 2,000 uses for WD-40.
8
Bomba lowriders are American automobiles pre-1954, usually of round or curvy bodystyle. For more information
on lowrider styles particularly in San Diego, California see Everything Comes From The Streets (2014), directed by
Alberto López Pulido, produced by Alberto López Pulido, Rigo Reyes and Kelly Whalen, and edited and
photographed by Kelly Whalen.
12
wheelbarrow to the top of the cabin with bright-orange moving straps. After loading, I got into
my truck and drove onto the 10 Freeway, heading West at 8 o’clock in the morning on Monday,
March 25, 2019. (fig. 6) I wanted the piece to be in relationship with all the other workers and
their vehicles as they are going to work, their tools loaded up in the back as they head West for
their workday. Cruising becomes a strategy when stuck in traffic, while allowing me to show off
the lowrider dolly bike similarly to how Luis Valdez’s El Teatro Campesino would stage their
plays on the back of their pickup trucks for the public to see. I did not have political goals in
mind, however, I do believe the personal is political. I hope for the other workers on the road to
see my sculpture and find some humor and element of coolness before starting their own
workday to evoke a sense of cultural orgullo, "pride.”

13
••• RETURNING TO THE DEFINITION OF THE SUN

If only they
had return to the definition of the sun
after the first mental snowstorm
on the summer of their senses
9

— Pedro Pietri, “Puerto Rican Obituary” (1973)

For centuries, humans have attempted to explain the significance of the Sun
10
through the
develop of civilizations, traditions, religions, cultures, and folktales. For many, the Sun can be
represented as God, a demon, a spirit, the creator, or even a life-taker. It has given birth to many
stars, and we recognized the Sun as the controller of life on earth—what gives us warmth and
allows us to grow and thrive. The Sun’s cyclical movement, its constant sunrise and sunset,
brought about a concept of order in daily life for our ancestors. To return to the definition of the
Sun, could this then be a channel to which humans could connect their minds and souls with
earth and/or with the gods or God? Does it reveal a path of clarity, propose, and truth? In Pedro
Pietri’s poem “Puerto Rican Obituary,” he offers four solutions. For me, the most notable
solution of the four was to return to the definition of the Sun.
“Puerto Rican Obituary” is set in New York, more specifically, from Spanish Harlem all
the way to the Long Island cemetery, where the characters in the poem will be buried. In the full
poem, Pietri tells the story of five poor Nuyorican (New York Puerto Ricans) characters, Juan,
Miguel, Milagros, Olga, and Manuel, who are seeking and striving to reach the so-called
American Dream. Their journeys are similar to many immigrants who come to the United States

9
Pedro Pietri, “Puerto Rican Obituary,” Poetry Foundation, https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/58396/puerto-
rican-obituary; first published as a collection of poems in Puerto Rican Obituary by Monthly Review Press in 1973.
10
Sun Ra And His Arkestra. “In The Orbit Of Ra”, 2014

14
for more opportunities and a better life. They are hardworking people, who were always on time
and never late.
However, most of the time because of their socioeconomic position, “they died never
knowing what the front National City Bank looks like.” In order to have a bank account one must
have money and a social security number. This line demonstrates they had neither. This put them
into a position where large corporations or management companies take advantage of
undocumented immigrants’ situations by not paying the federal minimum wage or caring about
sanitary conditions, for example. As Pietri writes, “They worked ten days a week and were only
paid for five.” Gloria Anzaldúa mentions in her book Borderlands/La Frontera: The New
Mestiza that “American employers are quick to take advantage.”
11
She also mentions for “la
mojada, la mujer indocumentada is doubly threatened in this country. Not only does she have to
contend with sexual violence, but like all women, she is prey to sense of physical
helplessness.”
12
Milagros and Olga are the woman figures in the group. The poem does not
mention any sexual assault, but it is something they possibly experience because of their identity
and appearance.
Juan, Miguel, Milagros, Olga, and Manuel all struggle as they navigate and negotiate
their positions of being landlocked between two different languages and cultures. Their story
looks at the effects of poverty, migration, discrimination, and survival. Pietri uses poetry to shape
words of resistance to bring awareness to the deadly threats of colonization, racism, and
classism. To return to the definition of the Sun is to acknowledge the explorations of identity
while living under the same Sun.

11
Gloria Anzaldúa, Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza (San Francisco, CA: Aunt Lute Books, 1987), 12.
12
Ibid.
15
It is clear Pietri had a lot to say, especially after he served in the Vietnam War. When he
returned to New York, he joined the Young Lords, a Puerto Rican Civil rights activist group.
Like the Brown Berets and Black Panthers in California, they fought for liberation of all
oppressed people. The cultural production coming from activist groups like these during the civil
rights movement was the result of fighting back. They had “turned off the television and tuned
into their own imaginations” and used “the white supremacy bibles for toilet paper purpose” and
“had return to the definition of the sun.” Pietri’s poem has inspired me to form and develop my
own language to respond back and continue the push for cultural equity and production.
Listening to the words of Pietri has demonstrated to me our stories have much value and
power. The line “return to the definition of the sun” in the poem is locked into my mind and
spirit. It happened to be during the time when I was working for Rafa Esparza, a Los Angeles-
based artist whose practice is deeply influenced by the community. My fellow artist friends, Mar
Guevara, Karla Ekatherine, and myself would meet up with Rafa near the Los Angeles river in
Cypress Park to work on his project, Puente (2019). (fig. 7) We would make adobé in the
mornings, working together to mix up the mud, horse shit, and dried weeds with the shovel, hoe,
and our feet. The hard labor in relationship to the sounds of the river, and the sun above us,
would put us in place where we had deep conversations. We would talk about ancestry,
migrating memories, art, community, spirituality, sexuality, identity, etc. We connected our
minds and hearts. When the three-month job was all done, we all left inspired by each other. To
me, that was a glimpse of what it meant to “return to the definition of the sun”: to be connected.
Pietri shapes his words to remind all Puerto Ricans living in Spanish Harlem––whether
“they be” undocumented, first generation, or Nuyorican––to not forget where they came from,
the beautiful island in the Caribbean. With his words in mind, I thought a lot about the process of
16
making adobe and what was my relationship to it. What I knew was that working with dirt under
the morning sun with my hands spoke to my spirit. This led me to speak with father about my
experience. He then revealed to me when he was young his father taught him how to make
adobé. It was a specific type of adobe, made with the local, red dirt in Chihuahua, Mexico. The
story is my grandparents moved from Durango, México to Chihuahua, México following their
oldest son, Cristoval Olivas, the main provider to the family. It is there where they bought land
and began to construct their homes out of the red adobé. Adobé-making was in my ancestry and I
didn’t even know it.
As of a result of sharing my experience with my father, it opened up memories for him.
He also couldn’t believe 50+ years later his second son would be working with the same material
his father once taught him how to make. Our exchange allowed me to connect to him and my
family history of labor. It encouraged me to learn more where I come from in order to know
where I was going. To return to the definition of the sun was a call to remember to embrace
one’s diaspora and culture.
This inspired me to respond and create my first public art work in Los Angeles.
Returning to the definition of the Sun. (fig. 8-9) I was invited by ltd los angeles, a gallery located
off La Brea and Edgewood for a three-week project during the month of February 2019. The first
two weeks I used this opportunity to continue exploring my skate series performances (fig. 10) in
which I embody and activate the figure of the “Sleeping Mexican.”
13
I skated in circles in my
custom Die-Hard leather construction roller skate boots in the parking lot of ltd los angeles on a
9-foot by 9-foot sheet of white paper. (fig. 11)

13
The Sleeping Mexican character is a character that has inspired other works. I will discuss this figure in detail
later.
17
For the last week of the project, encouraged by the circle skate print and performance
process, I challenged myself to embed emotional and spiritual notes into my mark-making. With
the help of a scissor lift, I was able to position myself high to shape and form an outline of a
circle with an approximate diameter of 10 feet on the exterior wall of the gallery. I used a hand
scraper to remove the layers of paint, revealing the past colors and the concrete surface of the
wall. I finished the circle area with a clear coat of polyurethane. It created a strong contrast
against the rest of the wall and also highlighted the scrapes and marks. With Pietri’s poem in
mind, I decided to use the shape of a circle to echo the Sun I was working under. The title of the
piece is a play on words and responds to Pietri’s writing. I changed the original line and added
“ing” to the end of return, in order to emphasize action. In my case, I acted by responding though
visually means to share the importance of “Returning to the definition of the Sun.”

18
•••• CONTINENT OF HARMONY

I am not a revolutionary.
I don't even like political poems.
Do you think I can believe in a war between races?
I can deny it. I can forget about it
when I'm safe,
living on my own continent of harmony
and home, but I am not
there.
— Lorna Dee Cervantes,
“Poem for the Young White Man
Who Asked Me How I, an Intelligent,
Well-Read Person Could believe
in the War between Races” (1982)

Cervantes’ words evoked emotion and truth about the injustice and racist violence many
of us experience on the land we stand on. In this poem, she is reflecting about the meaningless
violence that happens on the land, the land that once belong to her. Cervantes offers us a glance
of hopeful futurity, directing us to the fertile field. She knows racism exists, but believes it
should not exist, and attempts to takes us into that imagined world of joy and play. She calls that
place, “living in my own continent of harmony and home.”
14
However, she in not there, and so
instead she reveals the logic of revolution.
The evils of the world are built on racism, sexism, and all other forms of prejudice.
Cervantes demonstrates her struggles and wounds in “Poem for the Young White Man Who
Asked Me How I, an Intelligent, Well-Read Person Could believe in the War between Races” in
order for her to heal, for all of us to heal. In an interview, Guillermo Gómez-Peña, a

14
Lorna Dee Cervantes, “Poem for the Young White Man Who Asked Me How I, an Intelligent, Well-Read Person
Could believe in the War between Races,” The American Tradition in Literature, Vol. 2, 10
th
ED. (Pennsylvania:
McGraw-Hill, 2002), 1700-1703.
19
contemporary performance artist said, “We’re a constant reminder to society of the possibilities
of other aesthetic, political, sexual or spiritual behaviors. We never think twice about putting
ourselves on the line denouncing social injustice wherever we’re detected. Any decent
performance art may be as useful as medicine. As useful as engineering or law. That’s just way it
is.”
15

But healing is difficult. As Cervantes writes in her poem, even when she attempts to
“fade out the sounds of blasting and muffled outrage.”
16
Still, she is reminded of the violence her
ancestors have endured and that she continues to face every day. In relation to Cervantes’ poem,
I focus on this aspect of attempting to heal from oppression and other systemic struggles in a
performance Untitled (It’s dangerous times. We have to be connected) (2019) (fig. 12) in
collaboration with Patrisse Cullors, artist and co-founder of Black Lives Matter, at Hauser &
Wirth Gallery in Los Angeles. We both had been challenging one other to utilize live
performance to embody labor and connect with the immediate community.
In the performance, we create a ritualistic healing ceremony using salt, honey water,
swisher sweets, and marijuana. We both took on the role of a curandero (healer) and messenger
to bring awareness of the dangerous times we are living in and the importance of being
connected. Through this performance, Patrisse calls upon Oshun, the Yoruba Goddess of love
and sweet water for guidance. She offers the audience honey water to be in communion with her.
Audience members are expected to pass the honey water cup around the crowd, sometimes
repeating the words Patrisse proclaims: THESE ARE DANGEROUS TIMES —WE HAVE TO
BE CONNECTED.

15
Guillermo Gómez-Peña, “Visiones: Latino Art & Culture – Episode 5,” Visiones: Latino Art & Culture Series,
2005.
16
Cervantes, “Poem for the Young White Man Who Asked Me How I, an Intelligent, Well-Read Person Could
believe in the War between Races.”
20
In this performance, I embody Pancho, also known as the “Sleeping Mexican,” a stereotypical
character of a male, migrant worker who is asleep––hunched over, wearing a serape poncho (a
traditionally Mexican textile pattern) and a large sombrero hat that covers his face. Mass
produced since the 1940’s, these figures are commonly made out of ceramic and sold throughout
border crossing cities such as El Paso, Texas/Ciudad Juárez, México and San Diego,
California/Tijuana, México.
Additionally, Sleeping Mexican sculptures can be found in historic old towns such as
Placita Olvera in Los Angeles, where I have personally encountered many. They have become
popular kitsch objects as souvenirs, meant to represent the Southwestern region between the
United States and México—also known as the Aztlán, the mythical homeland of the Aztecs.
These days they are available online.
I have also seen the figure in the form of salt-and-pepper shakers, lamps, book holders,
and even a small, vintage perfume container, which I assembled onto my previously discussed
bike and dolly lowrider sculpture entitled Dear Juan (2019). Usually found in gardens as a
guardian-like gnome, they are also often used as planters where the hat is removed and its hollow
body filled with dirt. Hunched over, they seem to be sleeping next to a large cactus tree, their
hats hovering above their stout bodies.
The depiction of this stereotypical figure is something I hope to explore further within my
art practice. In The Sleeping Mexican Phenomenon, Charles Phillip Jimenez has written that
“[t]he association of laziness to the siesta design is a misrepresentation of the Mexican and is no
doubt a negative stereotype.”
17
As journalist Gustavo Arellano writes on Jimenez’s book, “[t]he
Mexican isn't sleeping because he's lazy; he's sleeping from exhaustion, from working so

17
Charles Phillip Jimenez, “The Sleeping Mexican Phenomenon,” (Los Angeles: C.P. Jimenez Pub, 1990), 10.
21
hard…The sleeping Mexican shouldn't be an object of shame, but of pride.”
18
Although this
image has a deeply oppressive history, some people have re-contextualized it, giving it a new
meaning. Artist Jesse Trevino wishes to make peace with the stereotype in the image,
encouraging others to take back the stigma by owning the image. He states, “that has happened
with the LGBT community and ‘queer.’ We need to re-signify it.”
19
In several of my own works
I re-signify the Sleeping Mexican image into a meditative thinker and healer.

18
Gustavo Arellano, “The Sleeping Mexican Wakes Up: Two Tucson women seek to rehabilitate the most notorious
Mexican stereotype of all,” Tucson Weekly, April 12, 2012, https://www.tucsonweekly.com/tucson/the-sleeping-
mexican-wakes-up/Content?oid=3290085&showFullText=true
19
Ibid.
22
¾ CONCLUSION

My MFA thesis exhibition entitled Que sueñes con los angelitos
20
was an opportunity to
push forward my family’s narrative through the utilization of memory, material, and meaning in
conversation with la trokita blanca—a 1987 white Ford Ranger my parents used as both the
daily, family vehicle and the work truck. By now, we have owned this vehicle for 32 years. La
trokita blanca has become a steel container filled with memories.
Since inheriting la trokita blanca from my parents, I have put countless hard-working
hours of maintenance and emotions into it. Influenced by the poetics of labor, I have been
making artwork about the vehicle by using it as a tool to make oil and dirt rubbings on muslin,
utilizing the bed as a platform to display artwork, and placing it in relationship to my
performance practice. Some of the work I have made from the trokita is Washing (2018) (fig.
13), where I washed and dried my truck on top of a large stretch of muslin fabric so that the
collection of soil and oil residue from the truck would wash onto the muslin, and Breathing
(2019), where I rubbed the muslin cloth onto the inside of my Ford Ranger’s hood, leaving a
printing that looks as much like lungs as the hood of a car. Other work such as Cut, bleed, heal
(First Generation) (2019) (fig. 14), an oil channel cut into the concrete floor of the gallery, and
Leaking (2017-19) (fig. 15), an oil painting made out of the leaking motor oil, are also inspired
by the truck.
Emotionally, I think of my truck as an extension of my body, a tool handed down by my
family. Here I am thinking about Le Corbusier’s thoughts as written in Towards a New
Architecture, where he states, “a house is a machine for living.”
21
In my case, la trokita blanca is

20
Que sueñes con los angelitos is drawn from a phrase layered with meaning. It can be used to wish sweet dreams to
a sleeping loved one or can equally serve as a protective prayer against negative energy.
21
Le Corbusier, Toward a New Architecture (New York: Dover Publications, INC, 1986): 95.
23
a machine for living. It is creating memories through the living process. Through the collection
of my personal and family memories in this machine from living, and the materials that come
from the machine, I have created meaning to speak about the spirit of the machine—la trokita
blanca. I pressed against the cloth onto the oily machine to make marks that record emotions,
thoughts, memories, location, time, and spirit. Integrated with the mark-making process are
prayers layered in gratitude, calling upon los angelitos for protection.
In my art practice, The Sleeping Mexican is awaking and has taken his toke of marijuana.
The phenomenon has hit me hard, like the lighting of Shangó.
22
I am the Sleeping Mexican. I
have been dreaming, conserving my energy, hustling, motivating,
23
practicing, decolonizing,
understanding the patriarchy, producing cultural content, pushing the value of cultural equity and
listening to the Tribe.
24
La Limpieza has begun and as a form of resistance. It is through the
teachings of those such as Brooks, Cheech and Chong, Pietri, and Cervantes where deep wisdom
can be found. And, like James Luna reminds us: we just have to be like a turtle, to slow down, to
stay cool, laugh, return to the definition of the Sun, and develop a continent of harmony within
our community.

22
Shango rules over thunder, lightning, fire, and dance. He is one of the seven orishas in the Yoruba tradition.
23
Nipsey Hussle. “Hussle and Motivate,” 2018.
24
I refer here to A Tribe Called Quest and Jungle Brothers, “I left my wallet in El Segundo,” 1990.
24
FIGURES

Figure 1: Promotional material for ISHI: The Arhive performaced by James Luna
La Jolla, CA, 2016; htttp://www.coled.ucsd.edu/2016/10/19/ishi/
25

Figure 2: Promotional material for Cheech and Chong’s Next Movie, 1980
https://www.originalfilmart.com/products/cheech-chongs-next-movie-lc1

26

Figure 3: The Garden of Earthly Delights by Rubén Ortíz-Torres
http://www.rubenortiztorres.com/?view=section&id=7324&y2=22529

27

Figure 4-5: Dear Juan, 2019, dolly lowrider bike and mirror stand 32 x 91 ¼ x 49 ¾ inches.
Photo by Star Montana. Courtesy of the artist
28

Figure 6: Heading West (10 W, March 25, 8 am), 2019, performance documentation
Photo by Elon Schoenholz. Courtesy of the artist

29

Figure 7: Mixing Adobé,
Photo by Gina Clyn
https://clockshop.org/project/bowtie-aa/puente/

30

Figure 8-9 : Returning to the definition of the Sun, 2019
Performance documentation at ltd los angeles
Photo by Ana Briz. Courtesy of the artist
31

Figure 10: Reunidos, 2019, performance documentation at ltd los angeles .
Photo by Blake Jacobsen. Courtesy of the artist and ltd los angeles

32

Figure 11: Foreground: ¡ándale! ¡ándale! ¡arriba! ¡arriba! ¡epa! ¡epa! ¡epa! yeehaw! , 2018,
custom steel toe Diehard skates, size 9.
Background: Funk (Meditation on Healing), 2019, print from Skate performance series with
Southern California dirt and motor oil, 108 x 108 inches.
Photo by Star Montana. Courtesy of the artist
33

figure 12: Untitled (It’s dangerous times. We have to be connected.)
Hauser & Wirth Los Angeles, November 3, 2018
In collaboration with Patrisse Cullors
Photo courtesy of smg-photography / Sarah M. Golonka

34

figure 13: Washing
2018, motor oil and Southern California dirt on muslin, 72 x 72 inches
Photo by Star Montana. Courtesy of the artist

35

figure 14: Foreground: Cut, bleed, heal (First Generation), 2019, channel with motor oil from
1987 white Ford Ranger, ¼ x 4 x 175 3/5 inches.
Background: Leaking, 2017-2019, motor oil on muslin, 1 ½ x 34 ½ x 40 3/16 inches.
Photo by Star Montana. Courtesy of the artist
36

figure 15: Leaking, 2017-2019, motor oil on muslin, 1 ½ x 34 ½ x 40 3/16 inches.
Photo by Star Montana. Courtesy of the artist

37
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Anzaldúa, Gloria. Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza. San Francisco, CA: Aunt Lute
Books, 1987.

Arellano, Gustavo. “The Sleeping Mexican Wakes Up: Two Tucson women seek to rehabilitate
the most notorious Mexican stereotype of all.” Tucson Weekly, April 12, 2012,
https://www.tucsonweekly.com/tucson/the-sleeping-mexican-wakes-
up/Content?oid=3290085&showFullText=true

Brooks, Gwendolyn. “Poetry Reading Live.” www.poet.org. November 01, 2013.

Cervantes, Lorna Dee. “Poem for the young white man who asked me how I, an intelligent well-
read person could believe in the war between race.” Writers on Language and Writing, 286-7.

Corbusier, Le. Toward a New Architecture. New York: Dover Publications, INC, 1986: 95.

Farris Thompson, Robert. “An Aesthetic of the Cool.” African Arts 7, no. 1 (Autumn, 1973): 41.

Jimenez, Charles Phillip. “The Sleeping Mexican Phenomenon.” Los Angeles: C.P. Jimenez
Pub, 1990.
Gómez-Peña, Guillermo. “Visiones: Latino Art & Culture – Episode 5.” Visiones: Latino Art &
Culture Series, 2005.

Kraeher, Rudy. Mundos Alternos: Art and Science Fiction in the Americas. New York: Artbook,
2017.

Lopez Pulido, Alberto and Reyes, Rigoberto “Rigo.” San Diego Lowriders: A History of Cars
38
and Cruising, Charleston, SC: Historical Press, 2017.

Pietri, Pedro. “Puerto Rican Obituary.” Poetry Foundation.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/58396/puerto-rican-obituary.

Abstract (if available)

Abstract My work for the past six years has been a meditation on what I call the poetics of labor. Growing up in a first-generation Mexican American, working-class family home, I inherited a particular idea of what it means to perform hard labor. The grueling toughness of labor—physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually—is an integral part of my art making process. As a laborer, there are times I forget that my practice as an independent artist is akin to the work that my family and other immigrant families do to simply keep food on the table and a roof over the heads of our loved ones. I believe the labor we endure is an act of love, something that I continuously channel through my work. What keeps the spirit (el ánimo as we say) in motion is believing in the beauty that hard labor can create through the collective effort. ❧ Using my art as a platform, my work allows for a reflection for the working-class community. I seek to confront the invisibility of labor by facing it with people from the community through collaboration, discussion, intervention, or celebration. I often use my family’s personal archive and other found domestic or utilitarian objects and materials to construct sculptures, drawings, prints, and live performance to create a connecting point of familiarity. Additionally, in my work I take into consideration the relationship between labor as it fits into the conceptions of femininity and masculinity in order to play with and reshape cultural references, narratives, myths, traditions, and objects, ultimately employing a new meaning.

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Asset Metadata

Creator Olivas, Noé (author)

Core Title Poetics of resistance: works by Noé Olivas in conversation with the poems of Gwendolyn Brooks, Pedro Pietri, and Lorna Dee Cervantes

School Roski School of Art and Design

Degree Master of Fine Arts

Degree Program Fine Arts

Publication Date 08/01/2019

Defense Date 07/30/2019

Publisher University of Southern California (original), University of Southern California. Libraries (digital)

Tag 1987,Adobe,Cheech and Chong,Cool,Elon Schoenholz,Ford,Funk,Gloria Anzaldúa,Gustavo Arellano,Gwendolyn Brooks,James Luna,Labor,Lorna Dee Cervantes,Los Angeles,lowrider,lowrider bike,OAI-PMH Harvest,oil,Patrisse Cullors,Pedro Pietri,performance,Poetry,Prints,Rafa Esparza,Ranger,rasquache,Roller skates,Rubén Ortíz-Torres,Sleeping Mexican,spiritual,Star Montana,trokita,Truck

Format application/pdf (imt)

Language English

Contributor Electronically uploaded by the author (provenance)

Advisor Moss, Karen (committee chair), Bustamante, Nao (committee member), Ochoa, Ruben (committee member)

Creator Email noe.e.olivas@gmail.com,nolivas@usc.edu

Permanent Link (DOI) https://doi.org/10.25549/usctheses-c89-206074

Unique identifier UC11662703

Identifier etd-OlivasNoe-7711.pdf (filename),usctheses-c89-206074 (legacy record id)

Legacy Identifier etd-OlivasNoe-7711.pdf

Dmrecord 206074

Document Type Thesis

Format application/pdf (imt)

Rights Olivas, Noé

Type texts

Source University of Southern California (contributing entity), University of Southern California Dissertations and Theses (collection)

Access Conditions The author retains rights to his/her dissertation, thesis or other graduate work according to U.S. copyright law. Electronic access is being provided by the USC Libraries in agreement with the a...

Repository Name University of Southern California Digital Library

Repository Location USC Digital Library, University of Southern California, University Park Campus MC 2810, 3434 South Grand Avenue, 2nd Floor, Los Angeles, California 90089-2810, USA