Essay About Mural
Last summer I went on a bit of fact-finding mission to little National City, just across the municipal border from San Diego’s south side. Every summer and school break when I was growing up, my mother took my siblings and me to spend time at the National City Public Library. It was a place we all liked. We went to preschool in the building next door, got library cards as soon as we were old enough, and spent long days in the stacks, absorbing stories of distant lands.
I remember a huge mural loomed from behind the library’s reception desk, depicting scenes of Mexican American life in the San Diego area in the late 1970s and early 1980s: a quinceñera celebration, students lifting up their diplomas, a backyard carne asada, a news reporter interviewing a vintage car enthusiast before the painted pillars of Chicano Park. The colors were rich, the images drawn with an appealing cleanliness, the lines easy to follow. I knew nothing about who painted the mural or how long it had been there, but I probably gazed at it hundreds of times over the years. As a child I didn’t fully understand what the images in each panel meant or represented, but I remember regarding the mural’s presence as a sort of silent anchor.
When I finally arrived to check it out, the library was shut down, the 1970s-style brown-on-brown building locked and unused. It turned out National City had built a new library a few years back, down the way in Kimball Park. When I walked over to see if the mural was there, I couldn’t find it. I asked around, spurred both by reportorial instinct and by a more personal desire I couldn’t quite identify. No one knew what I was talking about. But I needed an answer.
Upstairs, in the municipal history archive, a librarian helped me find clippings on the mural’s inauguration, on June 6, 1981. I was less than a year old at the time. “A mural depicting four facets of Chicano life – family, education, friendship and pride, will be unveiled today in ceremonies at the National City Library,” reported the San Diego Union. “Fifteen to 20 students, mostly teenagers, chose the themes. They said they did so because those aspects of Chicano life are often overlooked by the mass media. They painted the mural as part of a campaign by the library to attract more Chicano youths.” It was thrilling to read. I learned the mural’s dimensions-four panels totaling a length of 42 feet. I found that it was created as a project with a civil rights organization called PUEDO, or Proudly United for Educational Development Organizing. And the artists were local kids like me and my siblings.
I asked the librarian if he knew where the old mural might be, but it was a mystery to him as well. The National City officials I asked admitted they lost track of the artwork in the course of moving the public library from one building to another. I dug around for contacts for two artists who coordinated the mural project, David Avalos and Juan Parrino. They explained that the mural emerged in the political current of the time, making it in my view a historical document, a monument to a moment. Parrino told me that the students who painted it chose to dedicate the mural to Luis “Tato” Rivera, a young man shot in the back and killed by a National City police officer in 1975. The San Diego Union didn’t report the detail of the politically charged dedication, but Lowrider magazine did.
I kept digging. I needed to know the mural was okay. Avalos and I met up one day outside the old library and walked over to City Hall together to knock on some doors. We finally met with an administrator in the Community Services Department who promised the city was diligently searching its records and storage facilities to locate the mural.
Sometime later, they found it, in a basement storage room in City Hall. Avalos examined it and noted only a few small tears of damage. Last I checked, National City was looking to put the mural on view again.
The news soothed me. As I realized talking to Avalos and Parrino, and looking at the clips in the municipal archive, the mural is an artifact in my personal history. Its images helped shape my sense of self – as a reader, as a member of my community growing up in South San Diego, as a writer, as a journalist. Now I knew the mural must have had the same effect on other kids, and at least on the young people who helped design it.
Investigating the mural got me thinking about what “home” means to the wandering adult. I’ve lived up and down California. I’ve traveled. I live in Mexico now. My family heritage is in Tijuana. San Diego is my hometown, but it is no longer my home.
Home seems to me less a city or a place than your footprints, your archeology. I needed to find what happened to the mural behind the reception desk at the National City Public Library because I needed to relocate an essential intellectual and creative point of reference. I needed to relocate a fragment of home.
Daniel Hernandez is a journalist and writer based in Mexico City, where he contributes to the Los Angeles Times’ Latin American news blog,La Plaza. He is author of a forthcoming book, Down and Delirious in Mexico City, to be published by Scribner.
*Photo of National City Public Library mural by David Avalos.
Arts + Design
The wonder and humanity of a mural that spans 50 buildingsMay 3, 2016 / eL Seed
In his instantly recognizable, grandly sweeping style, eL Seed has painted Arabic calligraffiti murals everywhere from Tunisia to Paris. Recently, he created his most ambitious project yet: a mural that spans 50 buildings that can only be fully seen from a nearby mountain. eL Seed pursued this self-funded project as a way to make a political point, but as he describes, the real transformation was personal.
“Anyone who wants to see the sunlight clearly needs to wipe his eyes first.”
– Saint Athanasius of Alexandria, a Coptic bishop from the 3rd century
Whenever I paint a mural, I choose a quote that resonates with the site and purpose of the piece. I chose this quote for Manshiyat Naser — the part of Cairo where the garbage collectors live — to say that if you want to go to a place and know its people, you cannot judge them without knowing them. You must get rid of the wrong ideas you have about them.
The people of Manshiyat Naser, also known as Garbage City, are called the Zabaleen by outsiders. This means “the people of the garbage.” They have been collecting Cairo’s garbage for decades. But they don’t call themselves Zabaleen, which is a put-down. They call themselves Zaraeeb, which means “the pig breeders” — because they keep pigs that eat the organic garbage and provide meat. The community is made up of 98% Coptic Christian and 2% Muslim people. They have created the most powerful recycling system in the world here: they recycle 80% of the garbage they collect, which is amazing.
I heard about this community without having any idea about them, other than knowing they were associated with garbage. So, like anyone else, I went in with many misconceptions. I assumed these people would be poor and dirty. I got a slap in the face — my perceptions were entirely wrong. The Zaraeeb were not living in the garbage but from the garbage, which is totally different. They are very proud of of what they do, because they know that without them, the whole city of Cairo would be engulfed in garbage. In fact, they ironically call the people of Cairo Zabaleen — as it’s they who are producing the garbage.
I knew I wanted to call attention to the importance of the Zaraeeb, but I was an outsider. Last summer, I went to Manshiyat Naser and decided to paint the mural across 50 walls. My approach: to knock on doors and convince each owner of each house to give me permission. Finally somebody came to me and said, “Look you don’t need to convince everybody; you only need to convince one person – the priest, Father Samaan.” I managed to meet him, and he liked the idea and the quote. Once Father Samaan was OK with it, everybody was OK with it.
I had never done an anamorphic mural before, but I chose this technique here because I wanted to raise the topic of how people tend to judge others without knowing them at all, with wrong ideas based on their own paradigms or on something they’d seen in the media. I wanted to create a symbol that forced people to look from the correct angle in order to see clearly.
This meant I had to work differently from how I’m used to. Typically, I don’t even make sketches. I know what quote I’ll use, I know the shape I want – then it’s just freestyle. But for Perception, I absolutely needed each fragment to match. This meant that for every wall in the foreground, the one in the background had to have the same proportion, but at a different scale – the image on the building at the back had to be, say, ten times bigger than the one in front. I took photographs with a zoom lens, and counted bricks as a point of reference. You never have the same brick on the wall, which helps. Some are more broken, some are darker, some are lighter. I used the bricks of each building as a grid.
When you paint on 50 buildings, crazy logistics are required to make sure you finish on time. All those buildings were just numbers: building number 1, number 2, number 6, 18, 29… But by the end, all those buildings were associated with families. This is the house of Uncle Ibrahim, this is the house of Uncle Bakheet. I’d never received this kind of welcome anywhere in the world. Not only did people from the neighborhood help me work, but they opened their hearts, they opened their houses, we played soccer with them, they invited us to weddings. All those families in the houses became names, became people, became memories that we now share. The community became family, and we became family for them.
Street art is ephemeral by essence. This piece will disappear at some point. Somebody will someday will build over the walls, or they will get defaced or knocked down. But we will always have the memories of the moments we spent there, the emotional bonds we made. When we left, people cried, and tears came to our eyes, too. The experience of Perception was all about this. It went far beyond the artistic achievement and challenge.
A few months ago, when the Paris terrorist attacks happened, TED asked me to write something in response. I said I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t write anything because I didn’t have an answer. Now, after this project, I realize that it’s all about perception – how we perceive people that we don’t like, or that we judge in the wrong way. I think it’s time to bring back our humanity. This project made me feel that humanity is still here. I saw so many people who need so much less than anyone else around the world, but who were so generous. The most important thing was the human experience, which will never leave me.