Fidencio fifield-perez

November 6, 2021 - December 11, 2021

Witness To The Rain, an exhibition by Fidencio Fifield-Perez, open from Saturday November 6th until December 11th, 2021.

Fidencio Fifield-Perez was born in Oaxaca, Mexico, but raised in the U.S. after his family migrated. His current work examines borders, edges, and the people who must traverse them. In his work, Fifield-Perez manipulates paper surfaces and maps to refer to the crafts and customs used to celebrate festivals and mourn the dead, which he learned as a child in Oaxaca. For Fifield-Perez, these techniques are a way to reconnect with a time and place no longer present. 

In lieu of an Artist Statement, Fidencio chose to share the following email he received from a former Border Agent after a studio visit:

Hi Fidencio,

I hope this email finds you well. Where are you these days? No longer in Galveston, I’m guessing?

I’m writing because I’m currently working on a very short essay that sort of revolves around our meeting earlier this year. I was asked by the editor of a small biannual publication called 00000000 if I had any writing relating to the theme of their upcoming issue on “power.” For some reason, my thoughts kept returning to my conversation with you that night in Galveston, in your studio. There was a moment, you’ll probably remember, when you asked me if it felt weird being there with you, knowing that you were someone I had once been charged with tracking down in my former capacity as an agent. I remember saying to you, more or less, that it wasn’t really weird to me, that I had moved on from the work in a way. And I remember your response, how you told me that, for you, it was weird.

That moment made a deep impression on me—in reflecting on it, I think it sort of revealed all these ways that I still hold the power and privilege of my former position as an agent, and the privileged way, after quitting the job, I’m able to go through the world simply not having to think about the power I once carried in that work, while for you, that power was stark and palpable even in a seemingly casual encounter like the one we had, where we were ostensibly just talking about art.

Anyhow, I wanted to let you know that I’m currently writing up a very short essay (about 700 words) that sort of revolves around the conversation we had that night, because I’m interested in interrogating that moment in your studio as a short exploration of the subtle and insidious ways power manifests itself between people. But first, I wanted to ask you a few things about that night.

First and foremost, is it OK that I use your name, or would you prefer that I change it? I want to be sensitive to issues of privacy and safety, especially concerning your status and the disintegrating protection of DACA, etc.

Secondly, I’m interested in accurately capturing some of our conversation, and some of the memories you shared with me. I remember that at one point you shared with me some of your memories of crossing, but I can’t remember them in detail. How old were you again? I remember you talking about your memories of the desert itself—were you remembering the heat? Or was it the cold? Do I remember you saying that your parents carried you at certain points along the way as you were crossing the desert? How many days/night was the crossing for you? I remember you mentioning how you were filled with terror at the idea of encountering agents, and that the feeling stuck with you even after the crossing, even after you were far from the border. Is that right? And do I even perhaps remember you telling me that you still think about immigration agents with fear, that you still have nightmares about them? And are there any other details you remember that could help me more accurately flesh out a description of our conversation?

Third, I want to include some descriptions of your art, or at least the art that was hanging that night in your studio. I want to be sure that I’m describing some of the pieces with the right language. I remember that several of the pieces incorporated these huge pieces of paper that were cut to resemble chain link fencing, and that one of the pieces sort of spilled out from the wall onto the floor, forming a large pile. I remember that you used old classroom wall maps, the kind that teachers would pull down from tightly wound scrolls anchored above the chalkboard. Was one of them a map of Texas? Or was it somewhere like Illinois or Indiana?

And then I remember the letters that you had hanging on the walls. Am I correct in remembering that they represented all of your correspondence with the Department of Homeland Security throughout various attempts to legalize your status? Was the correspondence specific to DACA or did some of it predate it? And what was the DHS address on all of those letters? Didn’t you also draw on some of them?

Anyhow, let me know what you think of all this. And let me know if it’s OK with you that I’m writing about this. I’d love to show a draft to you as soon as I have one that’s polished enough to share.

Aside from all of the above, I’d love to hear how you’re doing. The last I heard from you, you were perhaps setting about making some new pieces of embroidery? Did my maps ever come in handy for those? Would love to see some photos if you’ve got them. Oh, and if it’s easier to talk about any of this over the phone, my number is 000-000-0000. 

Sending you all my best from Arizona,