Cx72 Featured Artist: Marcel Alcalá
Marcel Alcalá (b. 1990) is an LA based artist born and raised in Santa Ana, CA to Mexican immigrants. He is a performer, painter, sculptor, and all around clown.
Below are photographs and a monologue from Marcel's performance during DESIRE (FEELINGS COMMON FELT) curated by Nick Faust at the 13th Street Repertory Theater.
Feeling common felt. Open hearts to new ways of access.
Feelings never confronted, the object of desire.
Pleasant peasants pray to gods. Gods with power. Gods who hold the key to ideas such as these.
We create are own realities. This is a perfect example yours, mine, and theirs. Desire opens the doors to casted systems like these. An upside down triangle, of disease. Burnt bodies, burnt ideals. Idols of projected trauma. Most present drama. We learn young to reach for dreams, most commonly nightmares of passed associations. Our 2nd maybe 3rd birth into new themes. A world of desire, hope, and fears.
An unpleasant faith based in belief, people called to order. Subliminal. Traces of apathetic hunger for charred up mutilated bodies as pedestal. A stepping stone to enlightenment. Something defined by all types of belief. Ones truth. Thankful for hope, in times like these. Where ignorance truly becomes bliss. By little dicks, and abusive histories. Histories that seem to repeat themselves. Nightmares. I dream of the cross. So heavy it falls. Splinters my hands, breaks my neck. Dead. Bloody brilliant. A mound of dirt. Nothingness and yet the soil of this earth. Mother. White devils speak lies due to interpretation. Lack luster ideals not even truly understood by those who speak of knowing truths. False prophets. Defined even by themselves. Knowing, that a lack of knowledge outside our very understanding of thought, proves to hold no remorse. The fear of “otherness.” Lack of embrace. Apathy. Lack of faith.
How difficult is it for one to understand this virus that plagues us. even within this disease, tho truth and love speak deeply. A family. Lover. A plant in all its glory. Water.
What one lives for in troubled times. Consistent with states of darkness but unveiling the beauty in colored bodies. Colored souls. Auras of enlightened beings, so ancient to this very earth. A droplet of unfracked blood. Watery veins of life.
Simple times never existed. The trouble of understanding time. Yet time goes on with hidden meaning. Chips aways at us all. Our spirits grow. They learn. A test that many of us will fail but proof of something beyond our artifice. What causes their anger? White devils speak with hate, as if there lord told them it was the only way.
Failed interpretations of scriptures. Scriptures written by colored folks.
This idea of “ownership.”
A common concept. Worldy issues. What do you stand for. What do you deem evil. How do you fight the patriarchy.
This piece is called DESIRE.
Black tar Truth
I cackle in my Shackles
My cracked loins sprawled out on the floor,
Shackled up With my boo
Cuz my boo boos here too
Tia Maria grabs a mop, mops the floors, soaked in Mamis blood, using Fabuloso.
HOW FABULOUS. Scents of Bloody Victory. Notes of Bloody Bodies. Bloody Me.
Sounds of altered states, a burnt piece a metal in the shape of a ZERO.
Right on Your neck.
OMG did you watch that show.
On Netflix ignorant to real trauma, Constructed drama,
Reopens Tab. You got some *LIKE* Notifications
Timeline drops down. Another death. Another fight. Another trigger.
Days where you can’t leave your bed. Feeling like they aren’t out here for you. *ding* Another like
The future status of Global consciousness: Narcissists
*ding* Another like.
Synthetic feelings beat down, On you. Make em pay for your trauma,
Unapologetic dummies say NO. Stay in the dark hole of Ignorance, they say
They paid to keep saying,
Talking that talk of tongues, In Suits, privatized uniforms, A bunch of pawns
Our brothers, Our sisters, Forced to play the game.
In spaces owned by believers of pure races.
Tastes it. Figures out what character of Sex and the city am I.
Are you. Salty. You impressed with the outcome?
Goes for a walk, in hopes of using less crude oil. Her blood.
Busted the fuck building on Lucas, The hopes of new spaces, Cruel spaces, Classist Spaces.
In diamond territory, Our people forced into oblivion, In order to expand into the new age sky.
Your bank of choice makes itself present.
Walks up to the teller.
“Yo Teller, you tell me, how do you take care of my unforgiving sympathy.”
Gives em cash, a check, the reason for a visit, the reason a homie even talks to you.
At the expense of breathing.
“More Money,” the teller says.
I cringe in disgust, I knew the outcome, such a bust
In a relentless rage I walk out, Knowing I was locked up
Not only in prisons but in the reality of the every day.
On mountains, deserts, near salty oceans, filled with tears.
Your culdesack, and into the park from your earliest memories
Upon the dirt road, more hate, more destruction
Purple, red, yellow, green.
Feathers plucked, by dirty hands. In our land.
Owned by no man.
An American Eagle dies upon the Agave tree.
My agave tree. Yes MY agave tree.
In dried Brush. Brush me away.
Dip me into Holy water. Holy fucked, Holy trinity.
A gang bang of information.
Mixed messages. Mixed self.
Let’s take care of our mother.
Not capitalize on her.
All photography by Parker Bright