Humans, Plants, Gold, and Dust: David Anaya Maya Queers the Limits of Art
David Anaya Maya, Coat of Arms, 2023. Powder on linen sewn to wire stretcher reinforced with epoxy resin. 10 x 17 x 2 in. Photo courtesy of High Noon Gallery.
David Anaya Maya’s recent exhibition, Providentia, at High Noon Gallery vined an exploration of natural sexuality, universal evolution, and divinity. Using epoxy resin, the artist grapples with themes of permanence and transformation by juxtaposing their material’s toxicity with the physical manipulation of organic fabric. Works such as Coat of Arms, made from powder on linen, interrogate symbols of power and identity through the interplay of metal and flesh, while Fallen Patriarch and National Flower displayed ornamental representations of genitalia. Imbued with tropical sensibilities, Providentia showcased contoured paint-objects that renavigated the notions of European art history’s canonicality, as well as its periods’ ever-evolving fascinations with alternative, non-Western perspectives.
Anaya Maya’s engagement with Pre-Columbian art, particularly the myth of El Dorado, infuses their works with such compelling depth that one might wish for an accompanying audio guide while viewing the show. Using Inspirations from Muisca cultural symbols and narratives, their artworks sternly nodded to colonial legacies and ideas, underscoring Anaya Maya’s profound sense of self-awareness and declaration of respect for both their then, and now.
Clare Gemima’s interview with Anaya Maya delves into how Providentia queered binary systems, revitalized rags-to-riches narratives, unearthed oral histories and folklore, and succulently replanted humans, plants, gold, and dust.
Clare Gemima: David, it was such a treat to serendipitously meet you at your exhibition, Providentia. You spoke extensively about the show’s conceptual considerations and your overall process. Many points deserve further inquiry, but one that particularly intrigued me was your deliberate departure from the traditional rectangular canvas. In moving away from this conventional format and its traditions, how do you interpret working with organically shaped forms, and what does this subversion symbolize in your work?
David Anaya Maya: If I remember correctly, we even got to talk sensibly about the serendipities of life and the impact those have in shaping vital circumstances. It was also a true pleasure to witness your immediate curiosity as you were having a first sight of the show—it’s always beautiful when you can witness someone else’s moment of connection with your own work. I also feel your connection with the show when you talk about symbolic subversions. Although my work as an artist is not to interpret the subversions I exert. What I’m rather drawn to, is to interpret the role of the traditions I encounter in the process of painting the images that have to be seen. Window-shaped paintings still play a fundamental role in the tradition of painting, but my work as a painter is not to represent a single vision of the world but to envision an expanded world through a tropical sensibility.
David Anaya Maya, Common Fruit, 2023. Oil and synthetic filaments on hardened linen reinforced with epoxy resin, 9” x 7” x 1.5”. Photo courtesy of High Noon Gallery.
Clare Gemima: Providentia also evokes a sense of moving beyond other binary systems through playful material intervention, and your artwork’s poetically personal inspiration. Could you share an example of a binary framework, perhaps one you encounter in your immediate surroundings, and describe how it fails to capture alternative artistic avenues, identities, or narratives that you would otherwise want to learn more about?
David Anaya Maya: I often talk about Gerhard Richter’s 6 Gray Mirrors (2003) which has been on view at Dia Beacon for a long time. This monochromatic installation, mostly made out of glass and steel, works as a powerful metaphor for the long tradition of painting. The severity of the industrial architecture of the room as well as the flattened reality of the gray mirrors with architectural proportions recalls the historical role of painting in reflecting the world—not only in the way artists wanted to see it, but also in the way they were able to see it. This is a very intelligent work of art because it reflects a live image of the present time and place, and it even captures the architecture around itself – but those precisely are the very limits of its own. It contains the world, but it doesn’t expand it. I’m rather interested in forms of art that tend to queer its own limits. The work of art has the potential to exist beyond the rectilinear edges of a canvas, beyond the object of art itself, and even beyond the materiality of art.
Clare Gemima: The exhibition’s installation at High Noon Gallery appears to physically mimic the body. For example, Kikuyo (2023) a veiny arched foot contour, is installed close to the ground, while Divine Providence (2023) , featuring a rendering of your grandmother’s gaze, is hung at eye level. What is the intention behind these specific placements? How do they enhance the viewer’s experience?
David Anaya Maya: The installation doesn’t really mimic the body as such, but the body as seen throughout the history of art. My paintings are points of encounter for images that come from many places, but once they land in the realm of painting, they quickly signal their own historical trajectory. Many examples of mural painting show feet depicted with either realistic or distorted proportions, often aligning with the physical dimensions and spatial relationships of the place where the mural is painted. In this case, the white cube also serves as a historical reference to the role architecture has played in shaping painting and interior sculpture. At the same time, the current circumstances of the gallery—physical and practical—also have an influence on those formal decisions. Recalling Divine Providence, I think of the famous Roman carving, Bocca della Verità (1632), an imposing ancient mask with a gaping mouth where one can daringly insert their hand, feeling intimidated by the power of this massive marble deity with hollow eyes which is believed to bite off the hands of liars. This might be a good example of how the body and/or the mind completes the cycle that sparks mythologies, and how art and architecture determine the way in which all of this occurs. Let’s think for a second about the Sistine Chapel…
David Anaya Maya, Divine Providence, 2023. Oil on linen reinforced with epoxy resin and acrylic on stainless steel. 11 x 9 x 3 in. Photo courtesy of High Noon Gallery.
Clare Gemima: Divine Providence also features a trompe l’oeil citrus-fruit vine that incages the central core of the sculpture. Could you explain how you made this structure, and how these vines relate to memories of your grandmother, loved ones, or themes of camouflage and identity?
David Anaya Maya: It’s interesting to think of this piece as an example of trompe l’oeil because I’m not lying to you when I say that I haven’t noticed the skin of a citrus before. I think this is an effective object of art because it actively connects worlds I am not necessarily aware of. At the same time, this image clearly emerges from a tropical sensibility because, among other features, it reveals images of interconnected natures. At this point, I can see a citrus fruit as much as a wrinkled human face, or the camouflage of a feline. What seems more persistent in the piece, however, comes from the appearing/disappearing dynamic of the plant/images, and the visible interdependence of the materials that constitute the piece, almost mirroring the organisms involved in the ecosystems where they thrive. Uchuvas (or Golden Berries as they are called in New York) are wild berries that grow serendipitously in the fertile soils of the Tropical Andes, producing a sweet and generous fruit protected by a delicate calyx. My grandmother was a dedicated gardener who cultivated the land where I grew up, surrounded by trees, flowers, and animals. I owe her my deep connection to the ecosystems that sustained my life then, as well as my familiarity with the myths that celebrate natural forces everywhere in the world. Technically speaking, this piece is one of the most complex works I have ever made because it involves sewing, drawing, wire bending, oil painting on prepared linen, reinforcement with epoxy resin, stainless steel welding, and acrylic paint. The piece was created by exploring connections between the images I was interested in and those that provided technical solutions to bring them to life. The way the calyx emerged as part of the painting helped me to find a sense of divinity in the sexual organs of the plant. It was a magical process.
Clare Gemima: Additionally, how does the definition of “Providentia”—a Latin term once used in religious contexts to describe a divine personification of foresight and provision—relate to the phallic avocado corpse of Fallen Patriarch, 2023, or the clitorially shaped, crushed-petal textures of National Flower, 2023?
David Anaya Maya: In antiquity, Providentia was considered a powerful virtue related to the ability of foreseeing the future. Within the conceptual forces of this show, I can foresee a future country. Also, as a modern interpretation of the concept, in Colombia, where I was born, Providencia is a very well-known island in a protected natural area, and it’s one of the most beautiful places I have ever been to. So the meaning of this ancient concept has evolved as a prospect of good fortune and beauty. In that sense, Fallen Patriarch can be seen as a dead corpse but also as a beautiful seedless fruit that has split in half after falling off of a tree, or that has had its seeds eaten deliberately. National Flower is a small and delicate clit/glans in a non-erect state and can be a symbol of non-penetrative sexualities, gentle pleasure, and beauty.
David Anaya Maya, Kikuyo, 2023. Oil on linen sewn to wire stretcher reinforced with epoxy resin. 10 x 7.5 in. Photo courtesy of High Noon Gallery.
Clare Gemima: The use of epoxy resin in your works adds a unique texture and permanence to organic forms made with natural materials. What attracted you to this rather toxic tool, and how does it support your exploration of themes like transformation and protection?
David Anaya Maya: Although it has been the case for some of my paintings, epoxy resin is not responsible for any visual outcome in this show. Its sole purpose is to preserve the shapes of the fabric once I encounter them. I first solidify formal conclusions with fabric hardener or PVA and continuously evaluate whether further structuring is needed to preserve the piece. In some cases, resin is needed; in some cases, it isn’t. Twenty years ago, I first started experimenting and shaping my own canvases. I wasn’t concerned about preserving my own art at all, so most of it faded or became merely vestiges. But at that time, I didn’t quite understand the importance of reshaping the way we look at the world and securing those changes for the future.
Toxicity in art has a fascinating history as well. Lead, mercury, cobalt, turpentine, and many other toxic materials have been used by artists for centuries. Some of them have been more successful than others in controlling these effects or even in embracing their harm as part of the narrative of their own lives and art. Of course, I hope to accomplish the former, but securing points of connection between images and concepts that reshape the world through effective technical strategies is a priority for me.
Clare Gemima: In Coat of Arms, 2023, you utilize a monochrome bronze oil powder that blurs the line between metal and flesh. Can you elaborate on how this piece explores concepts of inheritance and the symbols associated with biological, or ‘natural’ sex?
David Anaya Maya: As we all have seen, metal and flesh share a common ground in the political dimension of life. At the same time, as a symbolic material, metal has intense associations with symbologies of inheritance but even more so with the role of military forces in imposing structures of power with lasting effects. Most images I touched for this piece are images of bodies crossing political borders that redefine gender, identity, and pleasure, but at the same time rejoice in the simplicity of loving—themselves and others. These are corporeal identities that embody other forms of being human. A coat of arms is one of the most distinctive symbols of a state, so it was easy to depart from the simplicity of this image and pull it away from its defensive nature, transforming it with receptivity and variability. All of this feels very natural to me.
David Anaya Maya, National Flower, 2023. Oil on dried linseed oil reinforced with epoxy resin. 1.25 x 1.75 in. Photo courtesy of High Noon Gallery.
Clare Gemima: Does your work incorporate elements of Pre-Columbian art? I am curious about the show’s historical, and non-western influences, and what connections you draw specifically between the past and the present?
David Anaya Maya: Absolutely, although I must note, when I talk about a tropical sensibility, I’m talking about something I’m certain about. Something I perceive with all of my senses. However, because it’s something that hasn’t been widely theorized just yet, I do not have many words for it. I don’t consider myself a theorist, but I have done my own research and writing, and in doing so, I had to look at societies and cultures that had a relationship with their environment before being influenced by Eurocentric perspectives. I often pay special attention to the specific territory where I grew up, but there are also fascinating resonances between ancient cultures that once — or still to this day — thrive along the tropical belt of the planet. Since the 6th century BC, in the high mountains of the Tropical Andes, the Muisca culture developed sophisticated visual languages that connected their material and immaterial worlds. They established a vision for art, mostly through votive objects that reflected human’s aspirations of reconciling with nature, as well as their role within the sacred realms and ecosystems in which they inhabited.
One of the most interesting places to consider, if we want to understand the relevance of this vision, is the Guatavita Lake – a magnificent sacred body of water at the top of a mountain that looks just like the mouth of a volcano. Here, during epic rituals of supreme beauty, the Zipa (Muisca’s spiritual ruler), with his body covered in gold dust, dropped exquisite masterpieces into the lake as an offering. When the first Europeans invaded this region, they witnessed the ritual that fed their own type of gold delirium and gave ground to the already old legend of “El Dorado.” What follows is a centuries-old history of failed attempts to extract the pieces that left behind several bankrupt companies and a massive crack in the crater as an attempt to drain the lake. To this day, that crack is a metaphor for the scar that we all carry – as a result of the greedy power and the imposition of political structures that keep centering a patriarchal vision of the world. I think that crack has to be healed, our place within the ecosystems that sustain life has to be visible, and political boundaries of all sorts have to be queered. Muisca cultural practices also reveal their understanding of the object of art as a momentary medium for images and concepts to be visible. Their purpose in making art was not just to make an object but to channel visions from different worlds to connect them. This relates to the little-known Non-Object art movement that congregated a distinguished group of artists in Medellin, Colombia, around 1981, when artists like Ana Mendieta, Marta Minujín, and Cildo Meireles gathered to discuss ideas about art beyond the object. All of this informs Latin American artistic practices today and has profoundly influenced my work.
Clare Gemima: Your narrative, collagist format challenges traditional art forms by merging exterior and interior spaces. How does this unique approach reflect your themes of queerness, identity, connection to nature, and your personal experiences as a Colombian immigrant and queer non-binary artist?
David Anaya Maya: Interior and exterior dynamics are more differentiated as the weather gets more extreme, and as conditions to sustain life require more artificial systems and structures. I think these circumstances ultimately shape human sensibilities and the cultural forms that emerge from them. That’s only one part of the equation, though. As a response to political, social, cultural, and environmental conditions, architecture everywhere shapes the way we understand and experience art – painting in particular. In this sense, I’m interested in developing architectural strategies that potentially challenge the binary logic behind interiors and exteriors, bi- and tri-dimensionality, and sculpture and painting. If you look at my paintings from behind, you’ll see the laborious processes I encounter in order to formulate architectural strategies that expand the formal conditions and possibilities of the images I work with. Not surprisingly, this sometimes leads to paintings becoming sculptures, simply because the formal conditions of the work move beyond the rigid categories established by Western traditions. Similarly, identifying as a mixed-race-non-binary-tropical-artist is a way to reflect my own political vision. It’s a conceptual architecture that aims to queer the political walls of the world I live in. It also explains the very diverse places where the images I use in my work originate.
This interview was edited for length and clarity.
David Anaya Maya: Providentia was on view from June 27 to August 3, 2024, at High Noon Gallery, New York.
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