An Interview with Mandy Cano Villalobos
by John Shorb
John Shorb is an artist living and working in Brooklyn, New York. He holds an M.Div. from Union Theological Seminary, and a B.A. from Carleton College. Here, he continues his editorial work for ARTS by interviewing practicing artists and curators for our “in the gallery” feature.
With a needle and pink thread, artist Mandy Cano Villalobos is sewing names onto white T-shirts on a sidewalk at the (e)merge Art Fair in Washington, D.C., as part of an artwork titled Voces. For the artist, this sewing is a sacred process to remember the tragic killings of women—femicides or las muertas—in Juarez, Mexico. According to some sources, more than 1,000 women have been systematically murdered in Juarez over the last twenty years. Villalobos began Voces to remember these discarded lives, an artwork that acts as a commemoration of atrocity in our time.
John Shorb: What compelled you to address the murders in Juarez?
Mandy Cano Villalobos: When I first learned about las muertas, it was very interesting to me that I hadn’t heard about it before—particularly given the fact that I had lived in Juarez as a child. So I started to look into it, and the more research I did, the more horrific I found it. The number of terrible things that have been done to these women, the lack of investigations or of effectiveness that has come about through the police, through the Mexican government, or from the United States[—it is atrocious]. Even before 1993, the year various organizations first began documenting the femicides, gender-specific murders were common in Juarez. Women are, and have been, killed in various ways which are absolutely horrific, with their bodies dumped into the desert in the outskirts of town. Much of this has to do with the factories that the United States has brought over the borders in order to exploit a lot of the very same women who are being murdered.
You see the murders as connected to these shifts in political and economic realities.
Definitely. The project makes real these social and political complications, which have created a climate that allows for these murders. One such complication involves the tense relationship between border factories predominately owned by United States companies and their Mexican employees. Though Juarez looks to these factories for economic stability, their presence has had a very negative effect on the city’s social stability. For example, while the majority of factory laborers were once men, post-NAFTA factory wages have dropped so low that now only women (for whom it is often difficult to find employment) are willing to take these jobs. And, due to the nation’s financial decline, more and more women are leaving the home to support their families. In turn, this has caused a massive shift in Mexico’s traditional social structure, which many researchers have connected with the increase of domestic violence. This, in conjunction with Juarez’s role as a human and narco-trafficking hub, as well as the city’s history with corrupt local officials, sets the backdrop for this horrific social phenomenon. That’s a complicated issue in terms of the United States’ relations to Mexico. So it’s frustrating to me, but it’s also something that I feel that I’m called to do.
And your work is part of calling attention to them through these visual representations.
I see the white shirts as representative of death. When I exhibited at Open Concept Gallery in Grand Rapids, Michigan, I suspended the shirts at viewers’ eye-level throughout the main floor of the gallery. So I see all of these lives, simply because there’ll be hundreds of shirts hanging, as connected. But also, it’s all of these times, and all of the histories, the family histories, the relationships, embodied in these particular shirts. In a way, I’m putting the viewer in a position to see them as individuals, but also as an entire community of these voiceless, lifeless people. The shirts are hanging before them, waiting to be contemplated, almost wanting to be contemplated.
The used shirts on which I embroider reference the personal histories of these women. Some shirts are stained and very evidently worn. At one time they covered a body, but now that body is gone. The gallery then becomes a mass collection of empty shirts, or of absent bodies. It’s a bit odd, but the very presentness of these women depends upon their absence.
That the T-shirts are fabric seems important to this work. What draws you to fabric as a material?
I have come to hold both fabric and the act of sewing in high regard. I see fabric as a personal material. It is close to us, what we wear, the sheets we sleep in, the towels we dry our faces upon. Fabric is also traditionally used as a sheath for the dead, a shroud. It is softer than paper and easily pierced. Fabric is a material rich in religious metaphor and strongly associated with feminine crafts. I associate this same sort of intimacy with sewing. In fact, I think my increasing connection with fabric and sewing has opened new paths to both physically and contemplatively be involved with the projects and social justice concerns on which I’ve been focusing.
How does this ritual action of sewing play into this work?
I transform the everyday process of sewing into something sacred. The time invested in the repetitive action of sewing translates into an investment in the subject that surrounds the sewing. So, with Voces, sewing is a persistent, present commemoration. It is to continually murmur, “I remember, I remember, I remember” to the woman whose name I am embroidering. However, as philosopher Cynthia Freeman points out, to acknowledge an action as a ritual, there must be a communal context that allows for, enforces, or even constructs, the definition of what is and is not ritual. I am using the art context as the framework for that definition. What is more, by inviting others to join in the process of sewing, I build that sense of community and ritual.
What prompted this invitation into the art-making process for you?
At a certain point, I began to question just how effective a painting was within an image-driven society, or an image-bombarded society. I became frustrated with the idea that I was an image maker, because there are so many images that are already out there. I began to question why am I making something new when there is so much that’s out there already. Why not use old stuff? That’s when I started making stuff that already had been used, that already had their lives, and started sort of resurrecting it into a new context. By manipulating previously used materials, I am trying to work out this idea of a spiritual/physical integration. Of course, I never arrive at any sort of conclusion, but I think that carries its own significance: the process and longing for what is to come should be celebrated as much as any end product.
Then that’s also when I started having more people participate in my work. I wanted others to be involved in the art-making process. You need to build relationships with people.
I worked with a variety of people in sewing circle fashion. Many of these people may or may not know of the situation in Juarez. Conversations arise during the these occasions, and over time the people with whom I work—usually U.S. natives—become deeply invested in the project and this social rights issue. In this way, I hope to make a person-by-person impact on the femicides, raising awareness on this side of the border and spurring U.S. citizens to literally help their Mexican neighbors. As so many of Mexico’s difficulties are directly connected to the country’s relationship with the U.S., I think it is important for U.S. citizens to lovingly take action. Whether this means campaigning for policy change, financially assisting women’s abuse centers, changing the kind of products you buy, or simply praying, it is up to the individual. I realize sewing circle conversations may seem an odd strategy to initiate change, but so far I’ve seen a lot of good things come from this.
This strategy connects to ideas circulating in the social practice area of the art world. Would you place it within this emerging genre?
Right, there are aspects of social practice that I respect and that I utilize in Voces. However, I should also say that I am very skeptical of this genre. I mean, the desire to employ art as a means of breaking down personal and collective alienation is admirable, but I question the limitations of a lot of social practice work, as well as the role of the social practice artist.
For example, I frequently travel to Chicago, which is a huge social practice hub, and I can’t help but wonder how (or if) a lot of the work differs from community organizations that employ art as therapy and outreach. I also question the intentions of artists. During a social practice session at a recent conference, an artist was asked to describe his desired outcomes: what was the purpose of his particular project, what sort of social impact did he desire? In response, he pointed out that he was an artist, not a social worker. His aim was to produce art that elicited personal exchange, not to directly effect societal transformation. That answer was very problematic for me. What then is the purpose of social practice work? What is good social practice work? And, in relation to Voces, what is my role as an artist who invites collaboration? I know that the project will not alter the situation in Mexico—that’s not even the goal. However, those who participate in commemorative sewing circles during an exhibition may learn more about the femicides or may increase their awareness of the systematic injustices (to which we all, at least indirectly, contribute). So, in that way, Vocesdoes generate some sort of social change and exchange, yet I see this as an aspect of this work, not its central focus.
The central focus has always been the women. The silence, the ritual, the decorative altars—all of these things create an environment of beauty that revalues what has been devalued. Arthur Danto writes of funerary beauty and ritual as our means of making sense of death. That is the objective of Voces.
What are some theological themes you see in this work?
Voces has been influenced by a variety of theological ideas, but most particularly those in Miroslav Volf’s Exclusion and Embrace. Volf writes of a social covenant founded upon the love and moral responsibility to imitate the self-giving, open-armed pose of Christ’s body upon the cross. So, there is no forced embrace. Rather, we wait for the potential for reconciliation. I think forced reconciliation with those who have been disempowered or wronged is something white privilege and U.S. policy are particularly adept at. So, as a white woman who is a native of the U.S., I hope to bring this dynamic into the project and offer an alternative means of dealing with the problem-—a means that is redemptive and that recognizes all human existence, exchange, all society, as steeped in sin.
Lament is also a large part of Voces. I’ve already talked about the ritualistic practice of sewing as a sort of physical action that embodies spiritual reality and significance. I also see that as an action of lament. I’m in the midst of reading Paul Tillich’s Eternal Now. In one chapter, he differentiates the biblical account of the flood with other ancient accounts of the same theme: basically, God wipes out the human race with a deluge. But the interesting thing about the biblical version is that God’s motive is not wrath. Instead, according to Genesis, God is sorry for having made man. That struck me because God is sad, not angry—a decision ultimately rooted in love. I’m still exploring this idea of lamentation, but I wonder to what extent lament is exceeded and encompassed by joy. Or perhaps that an eternal joy necessarily includes lament.
John Shorb is an artist living and working in Brooklyn, New York. He holds an M.Div. from Union Theological Seminary, and a B.A. from Carleton College. Here, he continues his editorial work for ARTS by interviewing practicing artists and curators for our “in the gallery” feature.
With a needle and pink thread, artist Mandy Cano Villalobos is sewing names onto white T-shirts on a sidewalk at the (e)merge Art Fair in Washington, D.C., as part of an artwork titled Voces. For the artist, this sewing is a sacred process to remember the tragic killings of women—femicides or las muertas—in Juarez, Mexico. According to some sources, more than 1,000 women have been systematically murdered in Juarez over the last twenty years. Villalobos began Voces to remember these discarded lives, an artwork that acts as a commemoration of atrocity in our time.
John Shorb: What compelled you to address the murders in Juarez?
Mandy Cano Villalobos: When I first learned about las muertas, it was very interesting to me that I hadn’t heard about it before—particularly given the fact that I had lived in Juarez as a child. So I started to look into it, and the more research I did, the more horrific I found it. The number of terrible things that have been done to these women, the lack of investigations or of effectiveness that has come about through the police, through the Mexican government, or from the United States[—it is atrocious]. Even before 1993, the year various organizations first began documenting the femicides, gender-specific murders were common in Juarez. Women are, and have been, killed in various ways which are absolutely horrific, with their bodies dumped into the desert in the outskirts of town. Much of this has to do with the factories that the United States has brought over the borders in order to exploit a lot of the very same women who are being murdered.
You see the murders as connected to these shifts in political and economic realities.
Definitely. The project makes real these social and political complications, which have created a climate that allows for these murders. One such complication involves the tense relationship between border factories predominately owned by United States companies and their Mexican employees. Though Juarez looks to these factories for economic stability, their presence has had a very negative effect on the city’s social stability. For example, while the majority of factory laborers were once men, post-NAFTA factory wages have dropped so low that now only women (for whom it is often difficult to find employment) are willing to take these jobs. And, due to the nation’s financial decline, more and more women are leaving the home to support their families. In turn, this has caused a massive shift in Mexico’s traditional social structure, which many researchers have connected with the increase of domestic violence. This, in conjunction with Juarez’s role as a human and narco-trafficking hub, as well as the city’s history with corrupt local officials, sets the backdrop for this horrific social phenomenon. That’s a complicated issue in terms of the United States’ relations to Mexico. So it’s frustrating to me, but it’s also something that I feel that I’m called to do.
And your work is part of calling attention to them through these visual representations.
I see the white shirts as representative of death. When I exhibited at Open Concept Gallery in Grand Rapids, Michigan, I suspended the shirts at viewers’ eye-level throughout the main floor of the gallery. So I see all of these lives, simply because there’ll be hundreds of shirts hanging, as connected. But also, it’s all of these times, and all of the histories, the family histories, the relationships, embodied in these particular shirts. In a way, I’m putting the viewer in a position to see them as individuals, but also as an entire community of these voiceless, lifeless people. The shirts are hanging before them, waiting to be contemplated, almost wanting to be contemplated.
The used shirts on which I embroider reference the personal histories of these women. Some shirts are stained and very evidently worn. At one time they covered a body, but now that body is gone. The gallery then becomes a mass collection of empty shirts, or of absent bodies. It’s a bit odd, but the very presentness of these women depends upon their absence.
That the T-shirts are fabric seems important to this work. What draws you to fabric as a material?
I have come to hold both fabric and the act of sewing in high regard. I see fabric as a personal material. It is close to us, what we wear, the sheets we sleep in, the towels we dry our faces upon. Fabric is also traditionally used as a sheath for the dead, a shroud. It is softer than paper and easily pierced. Fabric is a material rich in religious metaphor and strongly associated with feminine crafts. I associate this same sort of intimacy with sewing. In fact, I think my increasing connection with fabric and sewing has opened new paths to both physically and contemplatively be involved with the projects and social justice concerns on which I’ve been focusing.
How does this ritual action of sewing play into this work?
I transform the everyday process of sewing into something sacred. The time invested in the repetitive action of sewing translates into an investment in the subject that surrounds the sewing. So, with Voces, sewing is a persistent, present commemoration. It is to continually murmur, “I remember, I remember, I remember” to the woman whose name I am embroidering. However, as philosopher Cynthia Freeman points out, to acknowledge an action as a ritual, there must be a communal context that allows for, enforces, or even constructs, the definition of what is and is not ritual. I am using the art context as the framework for that definition. What is more, by inviting others to join in the process of sewing, I build that sense of community and ritual.
What prompted this invitation into the art-making process for you?
At a certain point, I began to question just how effective a painting was within an image-driven society, or an image-bombarded society. I became frustrated with the idea that I was an image maker, because there are so many images that are already out there. I began to question why am I making something new when there is so much that’s out there already. Why not use old stuff? That’s when I started making stuff that already had been used, that already had their lives, and started sort of resurrecting it into a new context. By manipulating previously used materials, I am trying to work out this idea of a spiritual/physical integration. Of course, I never arrive at any sort of conclusion, but I think that carries its own significance: the process and longing for what is to come should be celebrated as much as any end product.
Then that’s also when I started having more people participate in my work. I wanted others to be involved in the art-making process. You need to build relationships with people.
I worked with a variety of people in sewing circle fashion. Many of these people may or may not know of the situation in Juarez. Conversations arise during the these occasions, and over time the people with whom I work—usually U.S. natives—become deeply invested in the project and this social rights issue. In this way, I hope to make a person-by-person impact on the femicides, raising awareness on this side of the border and spurring U.S. citizens to literally help their Mexican neighbors. As so many of Mexico’s difficulties are directly connected to the country’s relationship with the U.S., I think it is important for U.S. citizens to lovingly take action. Whether this means campaigning for policy change, financially assisting women’s abuse centers, changing the kind of products you buy, or simply praying, it is up to the individual. I realize sewing circle conversations may seem an odd strategy to initiate change, but so far I’ve seen a lot of good things come from this.
This strategy connects to ideas circulating in the social practice area of the art world. Would you place it within this emerging genre?
Right, there are aspects of social practice that I respect and that I utilize in Voces. However, I should also say that I am very skeptical of this genre. I mean, the desire to employ art as a means of breaking down personal and collective alienation is admirable, but I question the limitations of a lot of social practice work, as well as the role of the social practice artist.
For example, I frequently travel to Chicago, which is a huge social practice hub, and I can’t help but wonder how (or if) a lot of the work differs from community organizations that employ art as therapy and outreach. I also question the intentions of artists. During a social practice session at a recent conference, an artist was asked to describe his desired outcomes: what was the purpose of his particular project, what sort of social impact did he desire? In response, he pointed out that he was an artist, not a social worker. His aim was to produce art that elicited personal exchange, not to directly effect societal transformation. That answer was very problematic for me. What then is the purpose of social practice work? What is good social practice work? And, in relation to Voces, what is my role as an artist who invites collaboration? I know that the project will not alter the situation in Mexico—that’s not even the goal. However, those who participate in commemorative sewing circles during an exhibition may learn more about the femicides or may increase their awareness of the systematic injustices (to which we all, at least indirectly, contribute). So, in that way, Vocesdoes generate some sort of social change and exchange, yet I see this as an aspect of this work, not its central focus.
The central focus has always been the women. The silence, the ritual, the decorative altars—all of these things create an environment of beauty that revalues what has been devalued. Arthur Danto writes of funerary beauty and ritual as our means of making sense of death. That is the objective of Voces.
What are some theological themes you see in this work?
Voces has been influenced by a variety of theological ideas, but most particularly those in Miroslav Volf’s Exclusion and Embrace. Volf writes of a social covenant founded upon the love and moral responsibility to imitate the self-giving, open-armed pose of Christ’s body upon the cross. So, there is no forced embrace. Rather, we wait for the potential for reconciliation. I think forced reconciliation with those who have been disempowered or wronged is something white privilege and U.S. policy are particularly adept at. So, as a white woman who is a native of the U.S., I hope to bring this dynamic into the project and offer an alternative means of dealing with the problem-—a means that is redemptive and that recognizes all human existence, exchange, all society, as steeped in sin.
Lament is also a large part of Voces. I’ve already talked about the ritualistic practice of sewing as a sort of physical action that embodies spiritual reality and significance. I also see that as an action of lament. I’m in the midst of reading Paul Tillich’s Eternal Now. In one chapter, he differentiates the biblical account of the flood with other ancient accounts of the same theme: basically, God wipes out the human race with a deluge. But the interesting thing about the biblical version is that God’s motive is not wrath. Instead, according to Genesis, God is sorry for having made man. That struck me because God is sad, not angry—a decision ultimately rooted in love. I’m still exploring this idea of lamentation, but I wonder to what extent lament is exceeded and encompassed by joy. Or perhaps that an eternal joy necessarily includes lament.
Cano Villalobos embroiders the names of individual murder victims into white T-shirts—an act of protest and commemoration—during the (e)merge 2012 art fair. Dakota Fine, 2012: Copyright Dakota Fine, image courtesy of
(e)merge art fair.
In an installation in Grand Rapids, Michigan, the shirts fill the center of the space. Photo courtesy of Mandy Cano Villalobos.
Cano Villalobos commemorates each woman, beginning with the first documented victims in 1993, with a white T-shirt and pink thread, a color choice which references the pink, wooden crosses placed throughout Juarez, Mexico, to mourn the dead. Photo courtesy of Mandy Cano Villalobos
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The Grand Rapids, Michigan, installation included memorial shrines, and missing person posters lined the walls. Photo courtesy of Mandy Cano Villalobos.
