Until several years ago, anyone could show up at Marcos Raya’s cramped studio, poke around, fork over a few bills, and leave with an original painting, collage, or assemblage. People knew a good deal when they saw one, and Raya usually needed the money.
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“I’m lucky and happy I’m still here,” says the 52-year-old Raya, the subject of a Reader cover story four years ago this month. “I must have died a thousand deaths back then. Because I was young, idealistic, and politically motivated, I thought my role as an artist was to help society. Pilsen was in total need of social services, and living in a working-class neighborhood turned me into a lumpen-proletariat bohemian. Most of the time I didn’t think about what would happen to me–if I’m gonna die poor, if I’m gonna die on the street–but it came to my mind sometimes when I was hanging myself around the lampposts.”
“Of all the surprises of the project, Marcos was the best,” says Warren. “Everyone responded to his extraordinary installation–the guards, the crew, the MCA staff, the janitorial staff, members of the press, the public, top international curators, collectors. None of my friends had ever heard of Marcos, and most didn’t quite believe he has lived in Chicago most of his life and shown his work here for years. He has a lot of admirers out there now.” Night Nurse is now part of the museum’s permanent collection.
“I don’t know where you would fit this kind of work,” he says. “I have a big problem when somebody asks me to be in a ‘Hispanic month’ show. Fuck that, man. Obviously you can see some Mexican imagery. But I’m not trying to portray how Mexican I am–I’m just working with ideas. I don’t want to be boxed into this minority bullshit. I’m not some primitive, folkloric character.
Art accompanying story in printed newspaper (not available in this archive): photo/Robert Drea.
