My sculptures stand tall and ghostly, towering over most people with their empty openings. The white plaster crackles and flakes, and some edges of the fabric hang loosely, revealing its fragility. In the folds of fabric, I see the body that once animated them—the weight of memory and the impossibility of letting go. Clothing becomes a vessel for grief, a ghost of intimacy, where the person seems to live on in what they've left behind. Church artwork has always aimed to evoke a sense of the divine, whether through complex craftsmanship or spiritual emotion. Bernini’s Ecstasy of Saint Teresa demonstrates this with its brilliant lighting and monumental marble. The costly marble, carved into dramatic folds surrounding the saint, draws viewers into a powerful religious experience. Instead of creating a divine figure, I created a void. My material is different: I chose plaster, a cheap and accessible medium, commonly used by my father and family members in construction. When they came home, I’d hear them speaking Spanish and see their clothes stained white with plaster. Yet, they urged me to learn only English—a reversal, given that Spanish once promised opportunity in South America but now felt like a disadvantage. My family is from Ecuador, and I grew up listening to my great-grandparents’ stories. Their ancestors owned land stretching from the mountaintop to the valley, but now almost nothing is left. The government stripped the land for oil, then built a Catholic church towering above dangerous highways. The church insisted on Spanish, sidelining Andean language and culture and pushing the idea of Andean "primitivism." Society followed the church’s lead: schools taught only Spanish, Christian doctrine, and European values. Politics and the economy were similarly shaped. The generation after my grandparents never learned Quechua. When my elder family members passed, I realized how quickly culture and language can disappear. This absence stayed with me. In my art, I made a sculpture that seems full, but inside, there is nothing. As a child, I remember markets full of elders in traditional dress; by age 18, I saw few people wearing or speaking of those traditions. The way their handmade clothes swayed inspired the textured, imperfect surface of my sculpture. I know those elders are gone; my aunts would argue fiercely to wear the large red skirts even when traveling to New York in 20-degree weather. Now, all that remains are the garments they wore for stories and tradition. My sculpture holds onto these remnants, trying to capture the past and the loss.

Through my art, I aim to illuminate the profound impact of literacy and education on Indigenous communities, drawing inspiration from my own family's journey. My grandmother's migration to the United States was a pivotal moment, granting me access to education and the freedom to read—privileges she was denied due to systemic barriers. This personal history fuels my commitment to advocating for the freedom to read, especially in the face of increasing book bans and challenges nationwide. In one of my paintings I depict generations of women in my family, symbolizing the sacrifices made to ensure access to education. The image of a young girl reading, with a book opening to a shadow of orange and red dust representing knowledge, serves as a testament to the transformative power of literacy. By sharing these narratives, I hope to inspire others to recognize the value of education and to support efforts that protect the freedom to read for all. Through my art, I strive to amplify underrepresented voices, challenge systemic injustices, and foster a deeper understanding of the cultural and personal significance of education. In doing so, I aim to contribute to a more inclusive and informed world.