Artistic Statement
I have cousins in Mexico
No, my art is not about them. I’m not stupid enough to assume that anyone outside the United States needs my help documenting and sharing their stories. I worked out that kink in my life a few years ago, when my parents did a thought experiment about what I would be doing if they had decided to stay and not cross the border hundreds of miles from where they came from.
I have cousins in Mexico
Truly, real cousins— not distant, like the ones you have to ask your mom on the ride home what their names were. Real cousins, the ones I grew up with in Carucheo Grande, a small town northwest of Morelia, Michoacán—mi tierra natal, the world where I was born.
Carucheo Grande
A small town right above Tanimireche, a slightly bigger town where most of the men from Carucheo Grande go to find their wives, lest they end up marrying their cousin from Carucheo Grande (population: five large families).
Carucheo Grande
A town that, although incredibly small and quaint, claims the title "GRANDE" because, believe it or not, there is a smaller Carucheo right next door—named, you guessed it, Carucheo Chico.
Carucheo Chico
An even smaller town where my father was born, and where his incredible love affair with my mother, a beautiful curly-haired brown woman from Carucheo Grande, began.
Carucheo Chico
Where my father was cast as El Niño Dios in all the nativity pageants, because he was born with white skin and crystal-blue eyes.
I have cousins in Mexico
Cousins who would do travesuras with me. Cousins who taught me it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission. Cousins who are still suffering from bad karma after that one time they tied Cebollita firecrackers to crickets and let them spark as they hopped around. Cousins who would dare each other to eat the now-fried cricket. Cousins who taught me how to tie a string around a bee and walk it like a dog—or fly it, like a bee might.
I have cousins in Mexico
Many are married now and have beautiful lives in my once-hometown.
I have cousins in Mexico
A phrase I often used to validate my Mexicanness. It’s so near, yet so far. It could have been me. But it wasn’t, and I don’t think I ever fully understood what that meant. Somehow, all my work became about identity. Every piece of art I made was an attempt to understand who I was. When I started acting, I wanted to crawl inside someone else’s skin—except I sucked at British accents. When I started playwriting, I wanted to relive the memories I grew up with—except I hated feeling lonely. When I started directing, it felt like hanging out with my cousins. Just a bunch of kids with two pesos, being traviesos, and asking for forgiveness.
No, my art is not about them. I’m not stupid enough to assume that anyone outside the United States needs my help documenting and sharing their stories. I worked out that kink in my life a few years ago, when my parents did a thought experiment about what I would be doing if they had decided to stay and not cross the border hundreds of miles from where they came from.
I have cousins in Mexico
Truly, real cousins— not distant, like the ones you have to ask your mom on the ride home what their names were. Real cousins, the ones I grew up with in Carucheo Grande, a small town northwest of Morelia, Michoacán—mi tierra natal, the world where I was born.
Carucheo Grande
A small town right above Tanimireche, a slightly bigger town where most of the men from Carucheo Grande go to find their wives, lest they end up marrying their cousin from Carucheo Grande (population: five large families).
Carucheo Grande
A town that, although incredibly small and quaint, claims the title "GRANDE" because, believe it or not, there is a smaller Carucheo right next door—named, you guessed it, Carucheo Chico.
Carucheo Chico
An even smaller town where my father was born, and where his incredible love affair with my mother, a beautiful curly-haired brown woman from Carucheo Grande, began.
Carucheo Chico
Where my father was cast as El Niño Dios in all the nativity pageants, because he was born with white skin and crystal-blue eyes.
I have cousins in Mexico
Cousins who would do travesuras with me. Cousins who taught me it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission. Cousins who are still suffering from bad karma after that one time they tied Cebollita firecrackers to crickets and let them spark as they hopped around. Cousins who would dare each other to eat the now-fried cricket. Cousins who taught me how to tie a string around a bee and walk it like a dog—or fly it, like a bee might.
I have cousins in Mexico
Many are married now and have beautiful lives in my once-hometown.
I have cousins in Mexico
A phrase I often used to validate my Mexicanness. It’s so near, yet so far. It could have been me. But it wasn’t, and I don’t think I ever fully understood what that meant. Somehow, all my work became about identity. Every piece of art I made was an attempt to understand who I was. When I started acting, I wanted to crawl inside someone else’s skin—except I sucked at British accents. When I started playwriting, I wanted to relive the memories I grew up with—except I hated feeling lonely. When I started directing, it felt like hanging out with my cousins. Just a bunch of kids with two pesos, being traviesos, and asking for forgiveness.
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Rodolfo Robles Cruz
Artistic Statement
I have cousins in Mexico
No, my art is not about them. I’m not stupid enough to assume that anyone outside the United States needs my help documenting and sharing their stories. I worked out that kink in my life a few years ago, when my parents did a thought experiment about what I would be doing if they had decided to stay and not cross the border hundreds of miles from where they came from.
I have cousins in Mexico
Truly, real cousins— not distant, like the ones you have to ask your mom on the ride home what their names were. Real cousins, the ones I grew up with in Carucheo Grande, a small town northwest of Morelia, Michoacán—mi tierra natal, the world where I was born.
Carucheo Grande
A small town right above Tanimireche, a slightly bigger town where most of the men from Carucheo Grande go to find their wives, lest they end up marrying their cousin from Carucheo Grande (population: five large families).
Carucheo Grande
A town that, although incredibly small and quaint, claims the title "GRANDE" because, believe it or not, there is a smaller Carucheo right next door—named, you guessed it, Carucheo Chico.
Carucheo Chico
An even smaller town where my father was born, and where his incredible love affair with my mother, a beautiful curly-haired brown woman from Carucheo Grande, began.
Carucheo Chico
Where my father was cast as El Niño Dios in all the nativity pageants, because he was born with white skin and crystal-blue eyes.
I have cousins in Mexico
Cousins who would do travesuras with me. Cousins who taught me it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission. Cousins who are still suffering from bad karma after that one time they tied Cebollita firecrackers to crickets and let them spark as they hopped around. Cousins who would dare each other to eat the now-fried cricket. Cousins who taught me how to tie a string around a bee and walk it like a dog—or fly it, like a bee might.
I have cousins in Mexico
Many are married now and have beautiful lives in my once-hometown.
I have cousins in Mexico
A phrase I often used to validate my Mexicanness. It’s so near, yet so far. It could have been me. But it wasn’t, and I don’t think I ever fully understood what that meant. Somehow, all my work became about identity. Every piece of art I made was an attempt to understand who I was. When I started acting, I wanted to crawl inside someone else’s skin—except I sucked at British accents. When I started playwriting, I wanted to relive the memories I grew up with—except I hated feeling lonely. When I started directing, it felt like hanging out with my cousins. Just a bunch of kids with two pesos, being traviesos, and asking for forgiveness.
No, my art is not about them. I’m not stupid enough to assume that anyone outside the United States needs my help documenting and sharing their stories. I worked out that kink in my life a few years ago, when my parents did a thought experiment about what I would be doing if they had decided to stay and not cross the border hundreds of miles from where they came from.
I have cousins in Mexico
Truly, real cousins— not distant, like the ones you have to ask your mom on the ride home what their names were. Real cousins, the ones I grew up with in Carucheo Grande, a small town northwest of Morelia, Michoacán—mi tierra natal, the world where I was born.
Carucheo Grande
A small town right above Tanimireche, a slightly bigger town where most of the men from Carucheo Grande go to find their wives, lest they end up marrying their cousin from Carucheo Grande (population: five large families).
Carucheo Grande
A town that, although incredibly small and quaint, claims the title "GRANDE" because, believe it or not, there is a smaller Carucheo right next door—named, you guessed it, Carucheo Chico.
Carucheo Chico
An even smaller town where my father was born, and where his incredible love affair with my mother, a beautiful curly-haired brown woman from Carucheo Grande, began.
Carucheo Chico
Where my father was cast as El Niño Dios in all the nativity pageants, because he was born with white skin and crystal-blue eyes.
I have cousins in Mexico
Cousins who would do travesuras with me. Cousins who taught me it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission. Cousins who are still suffering from bad karma after that one time they tied Cebollita firecrackers to crickets and let them spark as they hopped around. Cousins who would dare each other to eat the now-fried cricket. Cousins who taught me how to tie a string around a bee and walk it like a dog—or fly it, like a bee might.
I have cousins in Mexico
Many are married now and have beautiful lives in my once-hometown.
I have cousins in Mexico
A phrase I often used to validate my Mexicanness. It’s so near, yet so far. It could have been me. But it wasn’t, and I don’t think I ever fully understood what that meant. Somehow, all my work became about identity. Every piece of art I made was an attempt to understand who I was. When I started acting, I wanted to crawl inside someone else’s skin—except I sucked at British accents. When I started playwriting, I wanted to relive the memories I grew up with—except I hated feeling lonely. When I started directing, it felt like hanging out with my cousins. Just a bunch of kids with two pesos, being traviesos, and asking for forgiveness.