2 September 2009
By Jonathan Jackson Photography by Chris Sataua
Like many before him, Dirian Mejía, immigrated to the United States with the hope of a better paying job and a better life and in doing so he found what he needed, but not in the way he had originally planned. While working construction with other immigrants, legal and illegal, from all over Latin America and listening to their stories and hardships, something inside him changed. He had a moment of clarity where he realized that he was living somebody else’s life. He wasn’t being true to himself and it had left him feeling trapped. Suddenly jobless and fed up with the hedonistic materialism he was surrounded by in Miami, Dirian rented a small studio apartment and for six months he lived there alone with very little contact from the outside world. He had no TV, no internet, no radio and no newspapers. But he still had the stories. They haunted him. These migrant tales, bottles of wine and an untouched box of paint supplies – a gift from years earlier – would be the final path to finding his calling and living his life.
How did you become interested in the culture of migration?
I used to work in a construction site installing cabinets for kitchens and vanities. I was listening to stories of all the illegal immigrants on my job site. Stories from everywhere in Latin America, from Argentina to Mexico, and I started documenting that in my head. And it was not only the way they get to the United States but how difficult it is once you are living there. Nothing really represents you. You only know the basic things for that country. There’s a foreign language you don’t know. Laws you don’t know. You don’t know what applies to you what doesn’t apply to you. So no flag is going to protect you, nothing is. After listening to so many stories it really moved me inside and I said I need to put this on something, either paper, to write something about it, or a newspaper, or just something – and the only thing that I found really close to me was paint.
Did you see any of yourself in that because you grew up in Nicaragua and went to the States?
Yes, somewhat. I mean I didn’t suffer the same because I took a plane and I went over there. But I was working as an immigrant as well. My family didn’t have any money so we used to live in a really tiny apartment with what eight, nine people, two bedrooms only. It was a difficult time for us. You learn and you grow after you’ve gone through so many things. You try to understand society or whatever is around you at that time. So I was really feeling that sort of love or passion for these people that even though I got there another way we all suffer together once we get there.
Of the stories you heard from the immigrants were there any that really stuck with you?
Many stories got to me. The gangs in Guatemala or Mexico would totally take advantage of them. Las Mara Salvatruchas are there. The women cry. The children cry. They take money. They beat the crap out of them. Many stories hurt my heart. They marked me.
Your current exposition is entitled ‘Las Viudas’ (The Widows). Can you explain how these viudas came about in your work and what they represent?
Widows. That specific word represents the loss of your husband or wife. I took the word and I said I’m widowed from my country because I left behind so many things and that’s what happens when you die you leave things behind. When you leave your country, you are leaving behind everything: your roots, your Grandmother, your Grandfather, el barrio, your friends, your language, your flag, whatever represents you. So las viudas represent the pain that individuals suffer every time they migrate and leave these things behind. That is how I wanted to project the definition of las viudas. Adding to that definition is the people that ‘died’ during the process of crossing the border, whether killed literally, or killed inside, for example by being molested. They take away your dignity they just don’t care. You can be black, white, a girl a child whatever. They just don’t care. They totally destroy you inside out. Las viudas also represent that pain, that suffering.
Do reactions to your work influence how you create?
Not really because my paintings are an expression. The only thing that can change that or manipulate that is what I receive from the people that are suffering. My art is something that really has a meaning, a definition of the pain that society is suffering right now.
Do you have concerns that people might see your work differently than the way you see it?
It really doesn’t matter to me how people see my work. I don’t need to literally type something for the people to understand my art, because art is so huge there are so many techniques and so many definitions of art. The artist doesn’t go around and tell you ‘I was thinking about this specific thing when I painted this.’ I paint. You can make your own perception of what the painting is expressing.
