Chapter 1 Part 1 Xavier Lopez Performance Art Biography 2025

  

Chapter 1:

Where We flash Back to the Beginning of Time. ​

Once, maybe twice, perhaps even a near infinitude of onces upon a time, there was a group of apes trapped in a holographic projection of a multi-millennia-long game of Sid Meyer's “Civilization.” The rules of this game have always been relatively simple—stay alive long enough to procreate, try to come up with something/anything that will advance your tribe and don't let the vandals destroy everything you've built up.  Don't get annihilated by a giant asteroid like the dinosaurs, don't fall into the ocean like the Atlanteans, don't fuck yourself out of existence like the Neanderthals and by any and all means don't end up as slaves to the fascists in the very matrix you are living in, filled with its undercover agents in business suits and sunglasses—preparing you for a very short and brutal existence—all without single-payer healthcare.  And definitely don’t allow yourself to die when humanity yet again finds itself going through another worldwide holocaust, wherein millions die and the only thing a person can do is to stay as much out of the way as possible and pray that you are one of the lucky ones.

This is, of course where we find ourselves again, as I write this—in a situation that appears to happen every hundred years or so and which, to be fair shouldn’t have come as a surprise as it had been foreshadowed for at least the last thirty years, but it appears that humans always need to be present, experiencing things in the first person, before we pay the slightest attention to even the greatest tragedies!  We need to be present, knee-deep in the hoopla so to speak, before we break out of our state of ennui—even if that may sometimes mean that it is too late to get out alive. 

The first person, in language as a concept and a form of communication always conveys intimate, personal experience and information and it is always a performative act, even when it comes to us disguised in the passive attire of the written word and through the passage of time.

​Whether accomplished through the expelling of air past vibrating vocal cords, pushing ink onto a blank page, the movement of microscopic waves of electricity through tiny tendrils of blood from the brain to the body, the tapping of keys in front of a pulsing computer screen or by a performer moving from one point in space and time to another, the transfer of information and performance are inextricably linked.

In fact, the first person-singular is the perfect metaphor for the complexities of Performance.  By its very nature, speaking and writing in the first person imparts as much information about its author as it does of the description of an event—it says clearly in words and the documentation of those words through an impression left on paper, sand, or audiotape; “I was here! This is what I saw!” “This is what it all meant to me.” The first person voice, then, is also always about identity, as much as it is about identification--it is always both a performance and an artifact left after describing the events of a performance—that is why it is also art and not just a conversation—but a conversation taken to the stage, no matter what that stage may consist of, and it has the function of both welcoming and confronting the audience at the same time.

 

Performance is always an attempt to say something—to make a point, to change some small pocket of the world and to leave a mark, but I will circle back to that later. This is the "I" of the first person and it asks, and, if very lucky, answers, what have "I" been trying to say, what am "I" struggling to say right now and what might "I" be attempting to say in the future. It is the "I" in "I Am." But it is also the trepidatious "I" in "Am I?" It is an echo of Shakespeare's Iambs, with which he created Hamlet's soliloquies signaling the mortal and universal state of existence of humans and killed fair Ophelia off-screen—words made into actions—performed on and off the stage.

Over time, I have learned that whether my own performance work denies the body, celebrates my fat, unathletic, Latinx physique, whether the work is painfully honestly diaristic or secretive, masked and elusive—all my work is in fact about me and—for the most part—continues to be presented in the first person—and likely will, until I shuffle off this mortal coil.  This, then, is the least perceived distance between the author (me) and the audience (you). Here, I speak directly to you and my body and my mind are presented directly to you, whether I am masked or not, whether it is through text, live or on Youtube. Here, I perform and communicate directly to you, if not for you—though what and how much is actually communicated depends on both of us. Sometimes.

Performance, and the idea of performance as something more than just a television show, a movie or a play in a theater, for me, began long before I even knew what any of this meant, or what art was.  When I was still very young my parents would often take us to Chicano art galleries and art museums in Los Angeles where I was introduced to artists like Andy Warhol, Joseph Beuys; where I watched breathlessly, films showing Jackson Pollock splashing his paints onto canvases laying on his studio floors and where I rooted for Yoko Ono staring down her audiences as she experimented with the darkest sides of humanity and the frightening vision of men with scissors.

​It should not be surprising then that when I finally got to college, I practically glommed onto Butler, Wilson and Silverman, but also Foucault, Lacan, Derrida, Guillermo Gomez-Pena, Performative Theory, Queer and Feminist Theory--and scoffed openly at my pro-hegemonic "Masculinities" professors at UC Davis with their simplistic, "Iron John" self-help psychologies. I particularly derided "Masculinities’" apparent inability to create a theoretical and conceptual basis for critique, unlike their more intellectual siblings and swore that if I ever had the opportunity to shape an intellectual discourse that it would reflect the complexities of feminism's children and ignore its simplistic modernist fathers.

​In college, I ate, drank and slept this "Postmodernist" stuff, but only—If I'm completely honest, after a very strong—if short-lived—period of mourning over the death of modernism. For a time, I was definitely in shock—who wouldn't be-—-artists before Postmodernity, were heroes, great big faux-masculine gods plowing their way through life by the power of their presumably oversized penises and their equally exaggerated imaginations—think of artists like Jackson Pollock, Willem de Kooning and Barnett Newman with raging hard, abstract expressionist erections and you get the picture—but do not think of artists like Helen Frankenthaler, Elaine de Kooning or Norman Lewis—as they were supposed to be relegated to the sidelines, the margins and we were told they had nothing to say. Not nothing valuable to say through their artwork—nothing at all.

​As a child, of course, I didn’t realize that I would be placed into this “silenced minority,” but that would change soon enough, even before I got to school.  I believe that we tend to ignore the fact that the first times we navigate race and issues of racism happen when we are children, at a period of our development in which we don't have the distance or ability to understand the nature of this world that we have suddenly become a part of.  I see race, issues of race and the whole universe of ideas that center around race and racism, at that age, as almost a kind of murder mystery.  Where we are following the clues to make sense of what we have gotten ourselves into, it is big and dark and terrifying and does not reveal itself all at once, but rather comes out in riddles, jokes, jabs, taunts, imposed limitations and fights—many fights—and loss of faith in everything as we realize the rules that are being set before us are not in our best interests. 

 

Slowly. I began to become aware of the world that my Chicano parents were wrestling with, aware of the turmoil that my homosexual/Mexican, favorite uncle was going through.  I was becoming aware of all of it--living in Montclair, CA--in an age before guns were rampant and gangs ruled the streets. I think the very first time I even became aware of racism and especially the implied threat of the mob--occurred when I was about four and my family found ourselves in Malibu after hours.  I remember the night as though it were yesterday, the night air was beautiful, and we were listening to a local radio station on the A.M. that was playing some Ventures, Jan and Dean and the Beach Boys--even then, I loved the echoing guitars of the Ventures and how they cut through the salty, humid California air. I was in the back seat and I think my brother was asleep--a pretty safe bet, since during that time he was almost always asleep.  I remember that a group of very blond teens began following us and I remember being excited--maybe they were the Beach Boys or Jan and Dean or some famous musical group.  I was overjoyed when they attempted to pull us over and one of the men/boys walked over to the car, then I heard clearly, "You better get your beaner ass and your family out of our town." 

There is something that happens to a person the very first time this occurs—it’s not something that you can describe to someone who does not experience it as a child--it is something akin to letting go--in this case a letting go of innocence and especially letting go of the faith in your fellow man.  These blond gods fell from heaven that moment and joined Lucifer in the netherworlds of my childish brain.  And I saw my father, have to back down, to swallow his pride in front of his wife and family.  I don't think he said, "Yes sir." or anything that dramatic or cinematic--but the message was the same--suck up your pride because there is danger in the air and it was the kind of danger that did not care if your wife and your children were riding with you in the car. It was primal and terrifying and it changed everything. But it was in elementary school that I would see how racism was tied up in society and that I would experience racism mixed with power—again, first hand.

Flash forward a few years to Sacred Heart Academy in Southern California and another story from my childhood—documenting a set of events that probably ring true for many people's childhood's.  This is especially true I’d wager for any child of color who is intelligent or special in any way—as I said—I actually mean every child. 

Her name was Sybil Anne Warren, she was my primary teacher in third grade at the Catholic Elementary school.  I have not changed her name, nor the location where this happened in the hope that if she is still living that she will possibly read this and know that she failed—that at least one person triumphed over her covert and overt desire that the world operate by her strict laws of racism.

My parents had always been perversely religious—strong, if albeit convoluted Catholics in my childhood—crazy religious, end-of-the-world nutters later in my early teen years until this very day.  When they found out that I was put in the California Mentally Gifted Minor program they completely freaked out as it became clear that my school wanted to send me to a special school—apparently my parents were afraid that I would become an atheist—a slave to logic.  I never said that they were too bright—and I will never truly understand the religious fear of intellect—or maybe, if I'm honest—I understand it perfectly.  After-all, what do you get when you deconstruct God?

Anyway, back to Ms. Warren—she took an immediate dislike toward me.  I would learn, later that she had told my parents upon hearing that I had been in the "Mentally Gifted Minors" program that, that was impossible—that no Mexican could be "gifted."  But at this point, I just knew that she had decided that she didn't like me and that she was going to make my life a kind of personal hell—what follows came after about a week of little things.  For example, she accused me of mispronouncing the word "Geyser" when I thought it was the word "Geezer" and put me in the lower reading group as punishment—until it became clear that I was reading so far beyond the rest of the class that she had to give me my own reading material.

But, later that same week it happened, I was sent out of class—which was fine by me.  We were reading Steinbeck—so I had no problem not being part of the discussion—instead, I bought two of my favorite popsicles—the red, white and blue one and a 50/50 Bar"  Aaaah!—that was the life.  It wasn't until recess that I would realize that I had been made the butt of a racist joke--that joke, of course being society, history and in this case—the villain was the very same teacher who had been a jerk to me all week!  I was told by my breathless comrades that they had been sworn to secrecy, but that she had called Mexicans—my self included—"Beaners," "Taco Benders and Spics" that she had said that all Mexicans were "lazy, dirty and not very smart."  One of the boys turned to me and said, "My father says these things about Mexicans—but you aren't like that at all!"  It was agreed all-around that I was one of the "good ones," and in its own way things were immediately made better between me and the other kids--they understood, I think, at a very basic level that this could have happened to any one of them—that this was purely an accident of birth—and that Ms. Warren's madness could get any one of them at any moment.  In a way I had become a celebrity, something to rally around—a cause!—Americans have never like bullies and mine was a pretty spectacular case of unfair and irrational treatment and it was impossible to keep this story from reaching epic proportions—especially after I told my parents who never saw a social injustice that they wouldn't face with overwhelming force.  My mom could make even the biggest bully eviscerate himself with a pretty blistering look and the well-chosen words of someone with a community college education.  And as for my dad, he was at the height of his powers—having just run for city council and won.

I don't remember if they forced Ms. Warren to find a different line of work or not.  But at the time one thing that struck me was her perception of difference, her stupid, small-minded belief that someone should be perceived as different because of something that was outside of their control, something they were born as, some state of their being—rather than a decision they had any control over.  This pissed me off.  Fast forward to today—and I am now an adult.  Ms. Warren is either very old now or more than likely quite dead.  I would like to say that her ideas are dead as well—that people are no longer judged by their race—but we all know that that just ain't the way that things are—even in this new millennium.  

Today it still galls me when I realize that what Sybill Warren firmly believed was that I somehow saw the world differently than every non-"othered" white kid in that classroom.  That my ideas were somehow impoverished because I was born to Mexican/American parents.  That I should expect less because I was born with slightly more melanin in my skin.  Now, I want you to take a moment and let those ideas sink in a bit.  Ms. Warren—a teacher, at a private school in California—someone who was supposed to look after the children in her class—felt that at least one of those children was inferior—simply because they were born brown—because I was born brown.  Let me repeat—because these things bear repeating—she believed that my view of the world, my ability to appreciate philosophy, art, comic books, television—a glass of wine, Christmas carols, snowmen, sex, my ability to ponder the eternal verities, the shape of the universe, evolution, the scent of cocoa, to pet a puppy, my ability to love, to listen to Electronic Body Music or to let the beat drop--was somehow impoverished, lessened, cheapened—inferior to a supposedly "white" person’s.  Even at ten, or however old I was at the time—I knew enough to call bullshit on that.  And that sense has not changed one scintilla.

Flash forward again: Modernism and especially the Abstract Expressionist movement was the last collective gasp of western-humanity's ideal of "Manifest Destiny" and artists were its "chosen Zen warriors"—the Obi-Wan Kenobi's of that era—the focal point of society's last need for magic—these artists became a walking, talking Bakhtinian parade of warriors, jokers and clowns--and for one last moment I was sad to see that go away forever.  Not knowing that what would replace it was larger and more inclusive than any of us could imagine at the time.

​Today, in fact, something very similar is happening at a national level as the majority shifts, and loses its status as the majority.

​I remember hearing about the Abstract Expressionists at a very young age—they were my father's heroes—and I remember watching an episode of the old “Batman” television show in which the Joker posed as an Abstract Expressionist artist and bamboozled the dynamic duo.  I also remember asking my father, who was working on a large painting at the time, whether he was a good guy or a bad guy—he told me that it was much more complicated than that.

​He also told me that only other artists can truly understand what it really means to be an artist–that artists must think and paint with their eyes and with their minds. He told me about Giorgio Vasari–the very first art critic and art biographer and gave me a copy of the book, “Lives of the Most Excellent Painters, Sculptors, and Architects”—and he said that it was of the utmost importance that Vasari was also a very accomplished artist and worked alongside his peers—for he could truly understand every word that he wrote in a way that a mere watcher could not.

​He taught me that artists have been arguing about art since the beginning of time, what it was and what it meant–and the greatest artist of them all was a man named Marcel Duchamp, (who I wouldn’t truly understand until college,) because he took art out of the realm of the purely retinal and placed it firmly in the arena of the mind.  My father was a very wise man and his words still guide me in many ways. But what did I know then, I was, what? Four? Five? I knew so little about the shape and substance of the world I lived in.