Walter Cruz

Interview by Marquita Flowers

Walter Cruz made an impression on me before we met in person. We were being introduced via email to coordinate a time for our interview; his away message read, “Remember to make time to reset your mind, body, and spirit. I will get back to you when I return. Until then, continue to be good to yourself and acknowledge your greatness.” Walter was a few days into a residency with Lighthouse Works, a six week program for artists, writers, and choreographers located on the tiny, mostly private Fishers Island, at the eastern point of the Long Island Sound. His email demonstrated a simple quality that proved true when I visited him there for the day, a few weeks later. For Walter, the motivation behind his creative practice is to be for the people.

Set amongst the most idyllic scenery, Walter’s studio at Lighthouse Works is a long way away from the borough we were both raised in and still call home: The Bronx. Densely lush and highly manicured roads set the stage for everything the island offers to its majority ultra wealthy residents. Mansions and pristine beaches create the facade of an intimate community while its history and politics resemble the classic American tale of Indigenous violence, colonization, militarization, and redevelopment that bore the island, the Bronx, and many of the lands within the United States.

Our day included an island tour, walks along curvy pathways, artisanal ice cream, and a sprawling conversation that went much deeper than the aesthetics of his art practice.

Marquita Flowers (MF): Tell me about the research and conceptual process behind making this image, For Los Minas’ Sake (pictured above).

Walter Cruz (WC): I knew that it was commonplace for Dominicans—and generally for people from the Caribbean—to have West African ancestry, but I wanted to dig deeper. That can't be the only place, there has to be more. I learned that folks are also descended from people in the Congo. I thought it would be interesting to have a conversation about this visually: how can I bring those two places together, and relate it to where I currently am located (New York City)?

The corner bodega—it's someplace everybody knows. I also became really interested in this parental conversation in regards to who's the driver and who's the passenger. What does it look like to try to honor the things or people that came before you?

MF: Yeah, and there's a strong sense of protection with both the parental relationship and the masks they are wearing.

WC: Absolutely. These are masks used in a ritual to protect the wearer or the bearer of the mask. Now I'm doing research on this object (the masks) that's protecting the wearer, but I'm constantly in contact with the system that's also protecting the built environment. How do I create a third object that brings those conversations together? What if we're mindful of both—of the people who navigate the space and the space itself? What if this could be a way, or an entry point, to think about the people and the environment at the same time? That's been the motivation for making these objects.

"What if we're mindful of both—of the people who navigate the space and the space itself? What if this could be a way, or an entry point, to think about the people and the environment at the same time?"

MF: What does your research process look like?

WC: Well, it's not the same every time. But, a lot of the time, it'll be a mix of me listening, and then one thing that’s said creates a rabbit hole. For example, I’ll learn about an event that happened in New York in 1975, and wonder what was happening in Senegal or Brazil during that same time. That helps me get a picture of where people are globally. I'm interested in getting away from centralizing what happens in this country (the U.S.).

MF: Clearly you dedicate a lot of your time to listening, reading, and doing research. Do you feel this is the core of your creative work?

WC: Practicing listening is sometimes the research.

MF: I'm thinking about the relationships people, and specifically New Yorkers, have to these types of masks: growing up and seeing them line street corners or hang in the African market on 116th and Lenox in Harlem. They are replicated in mass and sometimes the vendor will share a folktale about their origin, but you won’t know if it's true or not. They have very much become commodities. How are you thinking about them as you now make multiples and replicas and accumulate your own collection?

WC: I would say I'm still exploring. Part of it for me is (simply being) interested to see how far can I push myself and how many can I make and in an allotted period of time. I'm intrigued by scale. What's the experience of seeing one mask versus seeing 300 of them? How does that change your experience? My practice is very laborious. I'm always wrangling with something, so when I made one, I knew I couldn’t stop there.

5996, 2024

Concrete, spray paint

Glyphs, 2024

Concrete, spray paint

MF: Are you connecting your labor, endurance, and working until you can’t anymore to how the artists or artisans who made the original masks you’re referencing would have labored?

WC: Yeah, (I’m guessing) that was their experience, too. That was something I thought about a lot with these, and the backside of the mask. I wanted it to look like they were carved by hand. I could have easily just smoothed the surface out, but the wooden ones are carved, so I wanted to have that texture on the backside, and to make them durable. Nature won't take over on these concrete versions in the same ways it can happen with wood. It's also related to the idea that you're not even supposed to keep a lot of the wooden objects. They were supposed to be used and then eventually discarded. So it's not just that y’all (colonizers) stole it, it's that these objects were supposed to be destroyed. You are holding people's spirits, and doing so in these spaces where they shouldn’t exist.

I am more interested in your (the artist’s) relationship to the materials. How did you construct that object? Can I have a conversation about design and people at the same time? And one that isn't formally an “architectural” conversation like in the books I was reading in school? What's another way to enter that conversation that isn't just about buildings or pavilions?

"Can I have a conversation about design and people at the same time? And one that isn't formally an “architectural” conversation like in the books I was reading in school?"

MF: Tell me about your relationship to the Bronx. Tell me about your ancestors.

WC: The Bronx is such a great place and I'm glad it is slept on, even though gentrification is still creeping its ugly head in, especially where I live now. My neighbors—I love all of them. One of my neighbors, she goes by Peaches. I let her know I was leaving for this residency and that I’d be back in October. I don't think she really believed me, and then last week she called me and I'm like, “You good?” She said, “I just miss seeing you around.” I’m like, “I'll be back next month…just tell everyone I said hi.” I feel like some parts of New York, because of gentrification and the rising cost of living, don't really have that anymore. People aren’t chopping it up with their neighbors or holding each other's packages.

I love that about the Bronx. It still has a lot of that community energy. I love that there's so many creative people there who I've met or connected with, and who are unapologetic and just go for shit. And part of that, too, is thinking of ways to create possibilities. Thinking back to my experience growing up—I didn't know any professional visual artists, so I was adamant that I would get a studio in the Bronx and open it up to students. This will be the start of my third year in that studio. I've had college students, high school students, and internship programs. All these different young people have come to the space. The whole time I was in grad school, I would remind myself that all the things I was learning were with the intention of returning to The Bronx to share this newfound knowledge any way that I can. It couldn’t stay solely with me, it had to be passed on.

"I didn't know any professional visual artists growing up, so I was adamant that I would get a studio in the Bronx and open it up to students."

Now You See Me, 2024

Spray paint, street sign, concrete on wood panel

MF: That perspective sort of speaks to the question of, “Who are your ancestors?” And it reminds me of the relationship between the masks (in the photo) and of being in a parental role...

WC: Yeah, it’s something in terms of ancestors. In the last few years I've gained a lot of new ancestors. I've lost a lot of people who were very influential and pivotal in my life and, in some ways, I've felt them more after they transitioned. Ancestors can definitely serve a parental role when it comes to teaching you or reminding you of lessons, some parental guidance, too. I was able to do a traditional Ifa divination reading last year and learned more about my ancestors. I was told that I come from a long line of blacksmiths.

Up until that moment, what I knew was that a majority of my family were working class people, not necessarily people getting a chance to pursue a craft or art, though in their own way they were making things with their hands. So it was really comforting and immensely helpful to learn about that part of my ancestry. This is new to me, but it's in my blood. My people have been making things with their hands for a long time, and things that were useful. I love that. I could take a breath because I didn’t have to feel like “It’s me, I'm pioneering in my blood line.” In reality, I'm not even close, I wasn't the only one.

MF: I’m not the chosen one…

WC: Yeah, that's fire to me.

Cross the ocean streets, detail. [It is a tradition in Cruz’s family for his grandmother to provide family members with protective saint charms for their travels and homes.]

MF: This reminds me of an earlier point in our conversation. You were saying lots of people are inspired by folks from our community, but often they are not invited or don’t feel welcomed within the galleries to see the work they help produce.

WC: Yeah, I've always been way more interested in the person who walked past the art space and was like, “What is that?” but still came inside, versus the people who come in and are already indoctrinated. I love talking to people about the work, but I do it in a way where I'm not necessarily explaining what I do. I'm more into asking questions, especially if I know the person who I’m talking to doesn't know who I am. I'll ask, “What do you think about that? What stands out?” That is fun, too, because I gain new perspectives of the work like, “Wow, I would've never thought of that. I didn't look at it that way.” I don't want to inform the decisions people make when it comes to my work.

"I've always been way more interested in the person who walked past the art space and was like, “What is that?” but still came inside, versus the people who come in and are already indoctrinated."

MF: That's what's up. Are there people you do go to when you feel like, “What am I doing?” and need some guidance? I don't think it's rare for an artist to have people they look to for advice, but I do think about how artists let others into their process. How do you make sure those conversations are pushing you further, yet they are still close enough for you to trust them?

WC: I do, for sure. Even when those people are in the arts and the creative fields, 90% of our conversations are not about art. So when we do have those (art) conversations, it's more like, let me put this hat on so we can be honest with each other about this thing, rather than art being what we always talk about. These are people I talk about regular life with.

I actually avoid talking about our stuff (work) all the time. That's the easy thing to do. I'm like, how's your mom, how’s your uncle? I'm more interested in that than I am in having a five hour conversation about art every time we see each other. Because of that, there's a level of honesty we have with each other that allows us to be critical in constructive ways. I want to get an objective perspective on things, instead of talking about something technical like color or material. What is the raw feeling when you see the thing? I could do research till my face turned blue and make something that I think is the greatest thing since sliced bread, but if I don't make you feel anything, then what is the point?

Power Rangers 1, 2024

MF: It makes me think about you being here, at this residency, and taking a moment to slow down. I'm wondering if you have been able to feel more?

WC: Oh yeah. I'm always up here (in my head), nothing downstairs, so yeah, now it's kind of like, “Wow, I'm feeling things.” I almost cried while riding a bike the other day. Like what? I think that's a great point. I’m trying to make sure I'm feeling my way through the process as much as I'm thinking about it these days.

MF: I would imagine that's the only way you can know if somebody else is feeling something too…

WC: I think that's part of what's been intriguing me to make this process repetitious, for lack of a better term. It’s not a cheat code, but there's something to be said when things exist in mass. It's more confrontational. It's easy to walk up to one mask versus an eight foot pile of masks. There's something about scale that forces you to interact. And what happens when I make not just a bunch of them, but one big one? What does that look like or feel like? I keep having this vision of making one of these masks 12 feet tall, but the inside of the mask is a bench. You can hang out and sit, or you can stand and look through the eyes of the mask. It would be not just an object but a space for repose.

"It’s not a cheat code, but there's something to be said when things exist in mass. It's more confrontational. It's easy to walk up to one mask versus an eight foot pile of masks. There's something about scale that forces you to interact."

MF: When you were studying architecture, was there a particular track of study you were on?

WC: I was learning about the field as a whole. I got to explore a lot of it, from landscape architecture to traditional building design. I would say the pivotal aspect that made me appreciate architecture as a practice was the sociology of it. A lot of our studio classes were theoretical propositions; for example, I want you to design a space that is only lit using natural light, but it has to be able to stay lit for as long as possible throughout the day. Now the focus is: I need to cut the windows in a way that there's light at 6AM and at 6PM. I had to think about that for a while. I had to think about questions like, who has done that already? How can I pull it off?

MF: That's a beautiful question to receive. I wanted to revisit something you said earlier about the masks being made to protect the wearer. I think I’m really trying to understand where the intention is between the person who's making it and the person who's responsible for wearing it. Knowing that this object will be used for a predetermined ritual or action of protection, for you, Walter, where does that conversation or agreement begin in your work? Who is helping who in that relationship?

Masks in the Wild, 2024

WC: What's tricky with language is that I can't put labels on those roles or say that, in those times, an artist or artisan made the mask, because that's probably not the right way to describe their work or position. They might say it was their responsibility to create this object for a specific reason, which probably was a knowledge passed on to them.

I've come upon it as a choice to make these objects. Perhaps for them, it was more like they were chosen or was it the lineage they were part of. Historically, a lot of African artifacts don't have maker marks because these objects were made for the community, which is what I've also done, on purpose. It's almost removing your ego in that you do not need to know who made it. The point is that it was made and that it got used for what it was supposed to be used for.

That's something I've been very cognizant of with these masks and ideally, hopefully, I can present them in a way that is not attached to me for as long as possible. I'd be really interested in developing a way I could present them in which there's no way to know who made them. Because, what's more important: the person who made the object or the object itself?

Marquita Flowers

Marquita Flowers is a curator, arts educator, and creative consultant. Born in the Bronx during the ‘90s, Flowers learned from many Black artists who imparted the gift of collective thinking, action, and art making. Building within supportive ecosystems was the most crucial component to their work and is now the guiding value system she aims to uphold within her curatorial practice. Flowers is currently developing a framework for radical creative equity which is an antidotal offering to the market-oriented culture that permeates our collective capacities. Radical creative equity interrogates market ideology and asks critical questions about the creative labor of Black people under capitalism. It is a project of communal invention and reinvention with aims to produce new realities for Black artists and visual culture.