each column is a series * new works are added at the bottom
about
In July 2022, the Webb telescope began sending images back to Earth, reminding us of our place in the cosmos. It confirmed a humbling truth: humanity is astonishingly small, a speck in a monstrously vast and incomprehensible universe. Yet, we are uniquely aware of this fact. We can perceive both the monumental grandiosity of existence and our own pitiful insignificance. What a beautiful contradiction.
But this isn’t about the universe—it’s about me.
Who am I? I am the son of Zelma and Miguel Ángel. Partner to one, guardian and caretaker to two, sibling to three, cousin to many, and elder to a growing number. This is how I define myself—through relationships. But is there any other way to understand who we are, except in the context of others? And if I must point to something to define myself, do I point to my mind or my heart?
This is where art comes in.
I make art because it is essential to my being. It sustains me, as nourishment sustains life. At one point, I was horrified to realize that I need to create to live. The horror stemmed from the precariousness of this path—it’s a statistically impractical, almost self-destructive way to sustain oneself.
But with that horror came gratitude. To be in this position—to create, to express—is a privilege. And because I strive to be a person of integrity, I feel an obligation to honor that privilege by producing the best work I can.
Right now, my work is not figurative. It doesn’t represent anything concrete or easily describable. Instead, it manifests specific feelings in particular moments. I don’t create because I believe my emotions are inherently valuable or worth sharing, but because I suspect others feel similar things. It is in that shared experience, in that act of relating, that I believe our humanity lies.
So, here it is—structured, blurry, orderly, blue, undulating, gold. My work is a reflection of me.
MO, 2025