The Larger Than Life Art Murals of El Paso

For the muralists of El Paso, immigration isn’t a “crisis.” It’s life.,

El Paso is known

as a vibrant city on the

U.S.-Mexico border.

It is also a city of murals.

El Paso is

known as a vibrant

city on the U.S.-

Mexico border.

It is also a

city of murals.

Some of these larger-than-life

works of public art tell stories of

El Paso’s rich bicultural

community. Some demand social

justice and political action.

Some of these

larger-than-life works

of public art tell

stories of El Paso’s

rich bicultural

community. Some

demand social

justice and political


Art Without Borders

By Diana Spechler
Ms. Spechler is a writer who has lived in Mexico and Texas.
April 8, 2021

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EL PASO — Victor Casas sits on an overturned crate on his front porch, his long hair in a ponytail, his expression both probing and faraway, as if he’s simultaneously planted here on Earth and searching around among the stars. His little black puppy, Kujo, celebrates my visit by running wind sprints. I am here in this city on the Texas-Mexico border to learn more about its mural art scene.

Mr. Casas, a local mural artist, goes by the name Mask. “Everything is migration,” he tells me, a perspective shaped by his upbringing between the sister cities of El Paso and Juarez on the other side of the Rio Grande. His mother lives in El Paso. When he was alive, his father resided in Juarez, making a living renting out inner tubes so that migrants could clandestinely cross. “Even my mind migrates back and forth,” Mask says.

I see what he means about his migrating mind: Our conversation drifts from his paintings inspired by television static to all the drinking he did while in the U.S. Army in South Korea to how American Border Patrol agents back in the 1980s were actually friendly and even bought burritos from the Juarenses (people from Juarez). He tells me that he joined the Army after the Sept. 11 attacks, did four tours in eight years, including three in Iraq (“It’s just like Juarez,” he says), had a rough time readjusting to civilian life and eventually found solace in painting.

He has become one of the city’s boldest muralists, known for works like “Caution: Children Crossing” which depicts youngsters on the border playing “ICE agent,” and “Chinche al Agua” (“Water Bug”), named for a childhood game he remembers. In that mural, barrio kids pile on one another’s backs, playing by the border wall that went up in 2019.



“A wall won’t keep them from

having fun. A wall won’t stop migration.

A wall won’t stop growth.”

“A wall won’t keep

them from having fun.

A wall won’t stop

migration. A wall won’t

stop growth.”


As a muralist, Mask is immersed in migration as a theme, but migration is not so much a political issue in El Paso as it is the very fabric of the city. That may sound unlikely to those who know El Paso only from the news media: In the immigration discussions most of us are used to, “the border” is a political symbol, a problem. But to many of the 680,000 El Pasoans living at this key entry point for Mexican and Central American migrants, the border is an unconvincing symbol of disunity.

It’s not that “fronterizos” won’t abide by the border; it’s just that they’re not fooled by it. How can they be when their everyday lives prove its meaninglessness? As another local muralist, Christian Cardenas of the husband-and-wife muralist team Lxs Dos, who grew up in Juarez, explains it to me: “Economically you can see the disparity, but the two cities merge seamlessly. You cross from Juarez and you still hear Spanish. You still eat gorditas and tortas. It’s not just people flowing over the border. It’s the whole culture.”


This 2017 mural by Francisco Delgado and Juan Ortiz, “Brown Mother of Exiles,” depicts the plight of immigrants. “We wanted to be as direct and as bold as possible,” says Ortiz.

“Para los que perdimos en el desierto” translates to “For those we lost in the desert.”

Barbed wire surrounds heart-shaped nopal, a cactus native to the Mexican desert, symbolizing the barriers migrants face when they dare to cross it and seek asylum in the United States.

This immigrant boy is trapped in the web of a spider whose body is an ICE helmet.

Spiders, a recurring theme in Delgado’s art, symbolize the powerful, weaving webs to trap their prey.

This Bible verse reads, “And if a stranger dwells with you in your land, you shall not mistreat him.”

An immigrant girl reaches for Lady Liberty, trying to see a reflection of herself. “The Statue of Liberty has come to represent liberty for whiteness, not for brownness,” Ortiz says. “She is not a welcoming figure to us here on the southern border.”

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If El Paso were an art supply, it would definitely be paint — rolled onto a tenement wall in the barrio, extending not just over the border but back in time, 100 years, to the streets of Guadalajara and Mexico City. In 1920, after more than 30 years of dictatorship and a decade of civil war, the Mexican Revolution finally gave way to a stable presidency. Though popular, Alvaro Obregon faced a grim task: uniting a nation splintered by allegiances and ravaged by the Spanish flu. Obregon’s public education ministry chose murals to be a grand unifier, a way to explain the country’s history to its public, and to make art free and accessible, rather than hoarded by wealthy collectors.

The ensuing Mexican muralism movement gave us some of the most important art of the 20th century, most notably from “the Three Greats”: Diego Rivera (otherwise known as Frida Kahlo’s husband), Jose Clemente Orozco (a master painter despite losing a hand to gangrene) and David Alfaro Siqueiros (who once dismissed easel painting as “aristocratic,” mentored Jackson Pollock in New York City and is said to have tried to murder Trotsky, but that’s another story for another time).

Things didn’t go exactly as planned: Obregon cozied up to the United States and was replaced, re-elected and assassinated before he could return to office. The artists went rogue, breaking ties with the government and using their murals to depict both history and current events as they saw them. Siqueiros and Rivera became radicalized, Siqueiros as a Stalinist, Rivera as a Trotskyist.

The Three Greats are also responsible for bringing muralism over the border, though that process was hardly a conflict-free bridging of cultures: In 1932, Siqueiros was commissioned to paint a large-scale public mural, “America Tropical,” on the wall of a touristy street in downtown Los Angeles. He worked under the cover of night to complete it, and the neighborhood awoke one morning to an 80-foot-by-18-foot mural featuring an Indigenous man crucified beneath an American eagle — not exactly the folksy “Mexican” art the city had envisioned. It was whitewashed partially within a year and fully within a decade. Rivera’s 1932 commission by Nelson Rockefeller met a similar fate. Rockefeller, infuriated that Rivera had worked Lenin’s image in to the scene, had the mural destroyed.

The boldness of those Mexican muralists, and the magnificence of their work, laid the groundwork for the Chicano mural movement that began in the 1960s in the Southwestern United States, when Mexican-American artists took to their city walls to paint their own struggles against racism and oppression. That century-old Mexican tradition of telling stories on public walls, which arguably goes back much further, to Aztec cave paintings, continues to thrive in El Paso.

Though the city is quite safe (or overpoliced, depending on whom you ask) and undeniably beautiful, with its palm trees and mountains and rich bicultural history, El Paso lives with an aching heart: Inextricably linked to their neighbors in Juarez, El Pasoans feel the violence of border detention facilities, ICE raids, the femicides, the narco wars, the subsequent bad press. In 2019, 23 people died, most of them Mexican or Mexican-American, after a mass shooting in a Walmart here. Officials said it was carried out by a 21-year-old man who had posted an anti-immigrant manifesto online claiming that the attack was a response to “the Hispanic invasion of Texas.” Last fall, El Pasoans were hit with a terrifying Covid-19 spike, business shutdowns and overflowing hospitals and morgues. And the muralists are the city’s documentarians. “A mural has to be didactic,” says Francisco Delgado, an El Paso artist. “It has to speak to the community. A mural without social background is just a painting.”

Walking around the city, checking out the walls, is a master class in life on the border.

Christin Apodaca, another local muralist, wears her thick dark hair piled high on her head, Ray-Ban sunglasses and a black-and-white floral bandanna as a face mask. “I’m not listening to what’s going on in the world,” she says. It’s not a breezy, privileged dismissal, but the hard boundary of a serious artist on the Texas-Mexico border, refusing to let the news cycle distract her from creating. “I like to separate art and politics,” she says.

We’re standing in front of “Contigo” (“With You”), Ms. Apodaca’s black-and-white mural on a brick-red wall — a woman’s face in profile surrounded by prickly cactuses.



“The art world is so male-driven.

So I like to paint women, to make them

large and the main focus.”

“The art world

is so male-driven.

So I like to paint

women, to make

them large and

the main focus.”


She relays a story from 2014, when, after studying art at the University of New Mexico, she moved back to El Paso and tried to connect with other artists. When she told a painter from a local collective, “I love to paint. If you’d ever like to paint together, let me know,” he responded, “Sure, you can hold our brushes for us.”

“I have to walk 10 more steps to get as much credit or notice as a male painter,” Ms. Apodaca says. “I have to work so much harder.”

To be a woman in El Paso is to be vigilant not just of everyday sexism, but also of the plight of women on the border and across the river — mothers whose babies are wrenched from their arms or whose bodies are found in mass graves. The woman on the wall is untouchable, amid the sharp spines that shield cactuses from hungry animals. Her expression reads, Just try me.

“I was listening to ‘The Great Women Artists’ podcast before I came to meet you,” Ms. Apodaca says. “And this woman said: ‘I don’t care what you say about your art. Art is always political.'”

The most striking murals around El Paso fall into two categories: One is the overtly political, including the iconic “Sister Cities/Ciudades Hermanas” by Lxs Dos. The mural, reminiscent of Frida Kahlo’s “The Two Fridas,” features identical women, fused like conjoined twins, representing the sister cities and the plight of fronterizas, women on the border. “They are not smiling,” Ms. Cardenas says. “They are not pleasing anyone.” She recounts a day in Juarez when she was almost abducted on the street. She recounts a night there when she had to venture out to buy yeast (she paid her rent selling pizzas), so she tucked a knife up her sleeve for safety. “In Juarez, we know women are expendable,” she says. “Their bodies get tossed in the desert.”

“Animo Sin Fronteras” (“Courage Without Borders”) by Miles McGregor, better known as El Mac, is a portrait of a Mexican man named Melchor Flores, flexing his biceps to show his strength even though his son, El Mac says, was “disappeared” by the police. In “Para Nosotros” (“For Us”), created by Martin Zubia, who goes by the name Blaster, we see the founder of the settlements of El Paso and Juarez, dressed like a graffiti artist, standing beneath a whirring Border Patrol helicopter.



“When our history isn’t taught in

the education system, it’s up to the artists

to portray it to the public.”

“When our history

isn’t taught in the

education system,

it’s up to the

artists to portray it

to the public.”


The murals in the other category celebrate identity and community, and are thereby political, too: Perhaps the city’s most Instagrammable attraction, “I [heart] EP” is a tribute by Tino Ortega, owner of the Lincoln Gallery, to the Walmart shooting victims. Murals by Jesus Alvarado, known as Cimi, illustrate barrio life and include Catholic iconography and Aztec symbols. Cimi, one of the kings of El Paso muralism, gathers locals before painting on their walls, conducting focus groups to learn how to best represent the community. Sometimes he invites neighborhood kids to paint with him. Once he collaborated with an app developer to make his mural portraying El Paso’s musical history interactive.


One of Cimi’s best-known murals, “El Corrido del Segundo Barrio,” tells the story of the tenement neighborhood where the artist grew up.

These musicians are playing a corrido, a Mexican ballad telling the story of life in the barrio. The spirals in the background are Aztec symbols representing speech, language and song.

Cimi’s mother bathes his nephew, who is pretending to shave — a symbol of the boys there who grow up too soon. Basins like this were often used as bathtubs in the barrio.

Cimi added two Aztec symbols that represent spirit and strength in tribute to his single working mother and others like her.

The scene takes place in the courtyard of a brick tenement. Behind the tenement is Sacred Heart Church, one of the two local Catholic churches in the mural.

This Aztec symbol represents movement. “It means to follow your path in life wholeheartedly,” Cimi says.

Here, migrants walk toward a bridge called El Puente Negro, once used as a crossing into El Paso.

Above, if you look carefully, you can see the outline of an eagle with a serpent. It evokes the flag of Mexico, a reminder of the neighborhood’s roots.

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About the conditions that preceded the Mexican muralism movement 100 years ago — a deadly pandemic, a divided country — it’s tempting to call on the cliche “history repeats itself” to employ the reflexive voice instead of the active, as if time is somehow the culprit. But what if we collectively accepted responsibility for the shadow side of humanity? And what if we repeated not just our messes, but also our most spectacular cleanups?

Part of President Franklin Roosevelt’s New Deal to save America from the Great Depression, the Emergency Relief Appropriation Act of 1935, allotted roughly $27 million to artists to make work, including approximately 2,500 murals, in the United States. Not only did the money stimulate the economy and feed the country’s starving artists; it also reminded a nation in the depths of despair that art is not a luxury — it’s lifeblood.

In the midst of a pandemic that has depleted America’s artists and art institutions, in the wake of a president whose art collection centered on imagery of his own face, in a nation that has been lied to and that is plagued by racist, xenophobic conspiracy theories — those least imaginative of fictions — we need a mode of connection beyond “reaching across the aisle.” We need art that shakes us and we need lots of it — not just in major cities, but also in rural America, in suburbs, on the brick walls of police precinct houses. We need art as commentary — not the safe, sterile kind — art to counteract deception, art that reminds us that even when things seem beyond fixing, they are not beyond describing. And we need diverse artists to execute it and a government that generously supports it. President Biden’s American Rescue Plan Act of 2021, which includes $470 million in arts funding, offers a glimpse of hope.

In “Siqueiros: Walls of Passion,” a PBS documentary about Siqueiros’s life, the filmmaker Jesus Trevino explains that time and weather slowly eroded the whitewash over “America Tropical,” Siqueiros’s mural in Los Angeles, his indictment of imperialism. By the 1960s, the image of the crucified Indigenous man began to emerge. It has since been fully restored. “This giant aparicion [apparition] became a calling,” Judy Baca, a Chicana muralist, says in the documentary. “It began to say to us, ‘Paint the streets.’ This is the way we can tell our story.”

Photographs by Eli Durst and Ivan Pierre Aguirre for The New York Times.

Diana Spechler (@DianaSpechler) is the author of the novels “Who by Fire” and “Skinny.”

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