ALTERNATE SIDES ART PROJECT

MAMÁ
It has been roughly a year since my mother had the last of 3 brain surgeries. Neither before nor after have I ever seen her waiver from optimism and faith.In a recent conversation with some amazing fellow artists, I was reminded of the Japanese practice of kintsugi. Broken pottery is repaired with gold so that the breaks are accentuated, highlighting the beauty in imperfection.“Kintsugi…is a reminder to stay optimistic when things fall apart and to celebrate the flaws and missteps of life.”
TORRES
Acrylic on modular wood blocks + fish hook
2025
My thoughts of Puerto Rico are always filled with nostalgia. Having been raised in the U.S., I often turn to family photos as a window into my culture, a way to reconnect with my roots.
My father rarely speaks of his childhood, but every so often, he shares a small detail—a glimpse into our family history. He once told me about a visit to his grandparents in Villalba, Puerto Rico. He spent the night there with his father and younger sister. At dawn, he woke to the sound of his grandfather, Don Ramón, singing Jíbaro music as he milked a cow. The sound of his singing mixed with the crowing of the morning roosters. As my father recounted this story, it reminded me of when I would visit my mother’s parents in the hills of Yauco, waking to the lowing of cattle and the earthy scent of damp grass and warm soil.
My grandfather spent a portion of his life in New Jersey, and we would visit him around the holidays. He was an avid fisherman. I remember one trip when my father, my grandfather, and I took a charter boat from Orient Point, Long Island. That day, we caught 94 porgies. But the most memorable catch was my grandfather’s—a small black shark with green eyes. I remember him pulling the line up as the shark stared at me, its gaze steady and unblinking. For a moment, I felt as if it were studying me as much as I was studying it. Then, with a quiet certainty, my grandfather released it back into the ocean. That day, I learned how to spot a group of fish feeding at the surface, the ripples in the water revealing the best place to cast a line. My grandfather’s patience, his knowing way with the sea, stayed with me.
In his later years, he returned to Puerto Rico, settling in Cabo Rojo. Even in old age, he would take his small blue fishing boat out onto the water. The paint, faded by the sun, seemed to merge with the crystal-clear waves it navigated. I never got to see him use it, but when I visited, it sat in his marquesina, waiting. His life in Cabo Rojo felt peaceful, simpler—far from the hurried pace of the states.
We didn’t communicate much, which I often regret, but I find comfort in the memories I do have. Though we spoke little, I hold onto these moments as a way to connect with him even now. I believe that whatever Native Taíno blood runs through me comes from his side of the family. While researching, I found my great-grandfather Don Ramón’s draft card—it listed his race as Indio. Seeing that document felt like discovering a tangible link to the Taíno roots I always felt. My art has come to serve as a form of deep study, a way to trace and honor my family’s history.