Art is a curse

Mar182026

Art is a curse

Art is a curse

February 24, 2026.

Ladies and gentlemen and those who are neither.

First of all, we want to thank Gabriel Pascal, David Olguín, Philippe Amand, and the entire team that made this event possible. Thanks to Steph for her unwavering support.

We also thank Lenin and Marina, who were kind enough to read our contributions.

I want to clarify that we were not invited to this tribute to the teacher Luis de Tavira. I say this not as a reproach, but as proof of innocence of those who, in good faith, organized this gathering. Let this statement serve as a pretext for dealing with complaints, insults, and other forms of abuse, legal proceedings, and whatever else may arise from this caso, o cosa [issue or tissue], whatever it may be.

So, you could say we’re here as «intruders.» I imagine your displeasure, but keep in mind that it would be worse if we had dado portazo [crashed the gate]—that healthy citizen’s custom of showing up without an invitation or paying for tickets.

We are here not only to celebrate the greetings of those close to the teacher, but also, and above all, to express the embrace of those of us far away who think of him.

And this celebration, in which the teacher serves as a kind of pretext, raises several questions. Namely: what makes it possible for such diverse and distant communities to converge in a single geography and calendar? Because that is what those present here are—some of the best of the artistic community. And, well, our words are to acknowledge those who are far away: some of the indigenous communities, originally of Mayan roots—the Zapatistas.

An artistic community and indigenous communities coming together. Different peoples meeting without ceasing to be who they are. And a theater teacher, Luis de Tavira, as the involuntary convener.

The first group is summoned by the dramatic arts. “The supreme artistic challenge,” the late Subcommander Marcos —may God have him in his holy glory and may the Blessed Virgin Mary shower him with blessings— used to say, to distinguish it from the other arts. And I suppose, though I can’t be sure, that the deceased was referring to the fact that reality storms Theater (as well as dance and, in some cases, music) in a vertiginous present. Unlike film, graphic arts, sculpture, literature, and architecture, for example, where the artistic act is created in a space different from where it is seen or heard by sighted and unsighted people, theater relates to the other in a special spatio-temporal situation. This means that geography and calendar are also created as part of that artistic creation. Thus, when we say “theater,” we are referring both to the work being performed and to the space where it is sometimes confronted.

We, the Zapatista people, are here despite protests from those who organized this tribute, in a theatrical space called «The Miracle,» perhaps because the practice of dramatic art, at least in Mexico, is a miracle achieved despite all the difficulties encountered.

But in these dark times of an Artificial Intelligence that threatens the arts, theater seems to be safe. At least for now, it seems impossible for a cybernetic organism to emulate that marvelous confrontation that occurs between theater artists and the audience.

It seems difficult (at least for now) for Artificial Intelligence to even approach the various characterizations of Adela in The House of Bernarda Alba, who, with the fire of forbidden love, defies authoritarianism:

“Here the voices of prison end! (Adela snatches a cane from her mother and breaks it in two.) This is what I do with the rod of the dominator. Don’t you take another step. No one commands me but Marcos!”

(Okay, okay, okay, the original text says “Pepe,” but let’s say it’s a poetic license.)

It’s true, you’re right that my choice of a play by Federico García Lorca, someone different, distinct, persecuted and murdered for who he was and for the cause he embraced, is not accidental. Nor the fact that I chose a speech by a rebellious woman. And it can’t be insignificant that a female artist, Marina, reads this text.

But in reality, what prompted this mention is the subversive love that emerges in that play. And, of course, the theatrical challenge that those few lines pose to any man, woman, or ‘otroa’ [other] theater artist: Adela breaking the bleached tomb in which, along with the rest of her daughters, Bernarda Alba had imprisoned her.

And all this is relevant, or rather, pertinent, because, in the December 2025 workshop, Don Luis de Tavira, our teacher, was the only one who understood what we intended by introducing the themes of love and heartbreak. When I wrote to him inviting him, I told him that it was highly unlikely any of the speakers would cover those points, apart from us, of course. So he didn’t need to worry about it. He immediately understood that those were precisely the most important themes of that and all the reflections that had been and would be made. The teacher accepted the challenge (in reality, theater itself is a challenge). And his participation, from afar—like these words—focused on the mystery to be revealed: love and heartbreak.

Brilliant as ever, the teacher revealed and underscored the leitmotif of human history, its successes and failures, its rises and falls, its wars hidden behind heartbreak and its loves hidden behind wars, its resistance and rebellion.

In his remarks, the teacher said that I said what actually he said: art is a declaration of love for humanity. And if he said that I said what he said I said he said, then it’s not a misunderstanding, but a happy coincidence. A coincidence between two distant places, like those that miraculously meet here today in El Milagro.

You must be strong: in this terrible and wonderful love, that is art, you walk toward heartbreak. Because humanity will not reciprocate. She is unruly, stubborn, ungrateful, treacherous, [romántica insoluta” [incorrigible romantic]—as the Mexican philosopher Salvador Flores Rivera so aptly said. And yet you must persevere. This is how you’ll come to understand that the arts are a curse. A beautiful curse, certainly, but a curse nonetheless.

Now I imagine Steph’s expressions, she who is a co-author of this intrusion. I must say, in her defense, that she hasn’t only been complicit in this one, and that there are other crimes on the horizon that await the same dedication and commitment from her. Because theater, friends and foes alike, is also that: complicity, dedication, and commitment.

I can also imagine Marina’s suppressed laughter, since I told her it would be a serious text, and that she should read it on the spot, without having seen it beforehand. Not only that, I also told her the script required her to comb her hair, something you’ll see for yourselves, depending on whether or not her artistic discipline prevailed. I suppose she’ll make faces of displeasure and reproach. A grimace of discomfort, or a prelude to a false whimper, wouldn’t be out of place when she gets to these lines. Thanks, Marina, but I think you need to practice more your lip quivers, in front of the mirror.

Because that’s too what theater is: a mirror reflecting the best and worst of humanity, challenging the spectator’s imagination and making them a tacit accomplice through applause, booing, or a naive plea of »Give me back the ticket price, plus the cost of the ride-hailing service, my valuable time, and VAT!»—all because the SAT, the Tax Administration Service, has become like Immigration, like ICE, chasing down artists as if art were a business and not what it truly is: a miracle.

-*-

But don’t get distracted. The teacher has been given the role of pretext, a role he has assumed, I imagine, bajo protesta [protesting or under protest]. But the central theme of this meeting is theater. Or, more generally, the arts.

A year ago, I drew a parallel between a theater director and a military commander. No matter how much they rehearse or practice, when it comes to facing reality (the confrontation with the audience in the case of theater (also dance and, in some cases, music) and with the enemy in the case of a combatant), there is no opportunity to repeat the scene. Perhaps that explains the spontaneous friendliness I observed at the Arts Encounter a year ago between the two of them, when Subcommander Insurgent Moisés and Maestro Luis de Tavira shared a table and a conversation. Steph and I were there as sentinels, along with the interventions of Iván Prado, Los Zurdos, and, from a distance, Antonio Ramírez.

This is why I said earlier that dramatic art, like dance, presents a greater challenge.

And moreover: in the theater, a multitude of factors converge in the fleeting moment of the performance.

The elements that the whole requires to become art. The lighting, the costumes, the set design, the sound, and even the announcements, the ticketing, and the seating arrangements. Now I imagine Gabriel, Philipe, and David wondering if we’re the only gatecrashers, because there are attendees who, it’s suspected, only came to see if there were cocktails and refreshments. And they’re already muttering, under their breath, that there’s only sugary water with an indescribable flavor and a sad little sandwich that’s seen better days. Of course, todos, todas y todoas [everyone] smiles and says aloud, «Ah, the theater!» as they stealthily approach the exit.

-*-

I already warned you, don’t get distracted, concentrate.

Much has been said about theater as entertainment, as protest, as reflection, and as a teaching tool. Therefore, a theater teacher is, in reality, an educator of educators. Here we call them «formadores» [trainers]. There are education trainers – who train education promoters – and health trainers – who prepare health promoters, first aid, preventive medicine, midwives, herbalists, laboratory technicians and, one day, will train butchers or “mete cuchillo” [«knife-wielders»], which is what we call those who know how to do surgeries.

In short, we have theater as entertainment, as protest, as an image of our times and culture, as reflection, and as pedagogy.

There are certainly more sharp edges to the thorny world of dramatic art, but I’m going to point out one thorn you may be unaware of. That is, theater is also love and heartbreak.

And to illustrate this, I’ll share a story I told at a meeting with jóvenes y jóvenas [young] arts and culture coordinators, as well as quite a few theater artists, and Zapatista men and women.

The story is called…

(to be continued)

From the Mountains of the Mexican Southeast