Rolando Cruz
Rolando Cruz’s art asks “What would you give up for a chance to be yourself?”
Growing up in the picturesque village of Buenavista in Michoacán, Mexico, in the foothills of the Sierra Madre del Sur, Rolando Cruz knew that he was different.
“We were Roman Catholic in a very small town,” he says, seated near Gallery I at the Overture Center, where his series of uncanny, identity-shifting photographic self-portraits are on exhibit through Nov. 29. “I could not be myself.” Not accepted and not safe, the gay teenager fled to the United States 21 years ago, leaving everything behind.
Now 37, Cruz was taken in upon his arrival by family members in Delavan, where he began to learn English. But his fiercely won sexual identity was not accepted there, and he soon found himself homeless. He was able to graduate from high school, but even with a job in Madison he could not afford a place to live.
He slept in stairways until a second job allowed him to lease an efficiency apartment. During this time of struggle, the Overture Center was a refuge. He visited the galleries often, getting lost in the exhibits and fantasizing that one day his own art would hang there.
This year, he got his wish. Cruz won the 2014 Latino Art Fair of Dane County arts competition, and now his work shares the gallery space with fellow winner Yvette Pino’s powerfully wrought prints in a show called “CelebrARTE.”
On the day we meet at Overture for our interview, Cruz is preparing for another life-altering journey. He is scheduled to return for the first time to Mexico on the following day, to appear at a citizenship hearing at the American Embassy in Ciudad Juárez, across the border from El Paso, Texas. His appointment in Juárez will force Cruz to miss the opening of his Overture show.
Married to his American partner for five years, Cruz will either be granted a visa and return to the U.S., or be denied and therefore forbidden to come back. Although this would mean separation from his spouse, five children and the life he has made for himself, he is remarkably calm and self-assured.
“I have to be,” he says with a soft smile. “This is another crossroads. It’s everything or nothing.”
Cruz shoots with a Nikon D90 in his garage using techniques he learned watching YouTube instructional videos. Rather than relying on computer applications to achieve effects, he uses costumes, makeup, paint and crayons smashed to powder he applies to his skin. Prior to composing his shots, he sketches a number of studies to achieve his vision.
Viewers will inevitably encounter, in the “characters” looking soberly back at us (that is, into the camera lens), a person with a distinct physical appearance that might suggest an identity called “immigrant” or “gay” or perhaps evoke some other reaction or impression. Cruz challenges us to consider what our responses mean in a way that is both witty and artistic, even beautiful.
“I’m asking, what does it mean to be a son or a daughter, a brother or sister, a man or woman, husband, wife, straight, gay?” says Cruz. “What does it mean to be an immigrant? And what would you give up for a chance to be yourself?”
He adds, “Without knowing people, we focus on external appearances. I’m using photographic art to focus on how we can connect based on common feelings, common experiences such as love and family relationships.
“I want viewers to not only see someone different, but to see themselves.”
Note: Cruz called this week from Mexico with good news. His visa was granted, and he’s waiting for paperwork to return to the U.S. Once home he will apply for citizenship.
Year Cruz moved to United States: 1994
Number of immigrants granted U.S. residency each year: About 608,000 according to the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services
Date USCIS stopped automatically denying applications for citizenship of immigrants in same-sex marriages: June 26, 2015
