Hi. My name is Ric. I’m an artist currently living near Orlando,
Florida. What I try to do with my art is put a little bit of me in
them and hope that you will enjoy what you are seeing. You may
not like all of my art, but you know, we all have great qualities and
we all have not-so-great qualities as well. That is called being
human.
Florida. What I try to do with my art is put a little bit of me in
them and hope that you will enjoy what you are seeing. You may
not like all of my art, but you know, we all have great qualities and
we all have not-so-great qualities as well. That is called being
human.
Not even a month after my birth I contracted the disease polio. It affected my left leg, twisted
backwards. Because of this, I was not able to walk until I was age five. I had an uncle who wanted
to take me to America and have the doctors cut off my leg below the knee. My mother was ardently
against this (thank you mom) so instead they tried a leg brace when I was about two years old. This
did not work because I refused to wear it. Now, I do not recall this but apparently I am told that I
would go into hysterics each time they put it on – and not the tantrum kind (mother’s can tell) but
that of actual pain. So that lasted a week – after that I was left to heal as God saw fit.
Interestingly enough, I could not talk until I was five. The few people that know this about me see
no correlation between my leg and my ability to talk and frankly neither can I but that is a fact.
When I learned to walk, I learned to talk. And it was painful walking at first. My left leg is a bit
shorter than my right and my toes point slightly to the left and inclined so that if I am tired now, I
limp. Growing up there was absolutely no running. If I tried, my leg would swell up and ache and I
would have to limp even worse for up to three days afterward. Despite this, I was a very happy child
up until the age of 9. That was when the world I knew shattered and I entered a new universe.
In 1980, my father decided that he had enough living alone in the US so he sent for my mother and
my 6 small siblings and he told us to come to live with him in Wisconsin. Obviously I did not want to
leave my home but I had no choice. So in the fall of 1980, I was stepping on American soil in the
Dairy State. I had never seen white people before and they spoke funny and some of them laughed
at me and pointed to my leg, or pointed to me and held their nose and laughed. For two years this
went on – and I learned to build thick high walls to protect me. Long gone were the days of the
happy go lucky kid that would walk up and down the street with a broom stick singing at the top of
his longs to anyone that just happened to be around. That kid was replaced by a scared, insecure,
resentful youth lost in trying to understand a new culture and learn a new language. Suddenly, I
didn’t want to talk to anyone outside my family – I was not worthy. If I was, why would kids my age
poke fun at my leg and the colour of the skin and my accent? No, it wasn’t them – it was me. I
decided this at age 10 and believed that until the age of 26.
Art saved me. Being a loner reading and doodling all the time I had come to despise the world and
my lack of place in it. I was very resentful that I was overweight, that I couldn’t run, that I was not
pale enough, that I was not good looking enough, that I had an accent that most Americans see as
being beneath them. Why could I not be normal? Sure, I had a smile on my face when I interacted
with school chums and co-workers but my eyes were not smiling. Sometimes, late at night, if I had
had a bad night and my leg would ache, I would cry into my pillow in both despair and frustration.
Art saved me. All my life growing up in America I called my imagination my best friend and I was
never bored because in my head, I was doing all sorts of wondrous things. Then I took a writing
class and discovered that I had many issues to deal with. I could never complete the assignments
that required a simple paragraph of actual life events. I just thought my life was too boring – why
would I write about that? Who wants to hear the story of a young person living the life of a migrant
worker, picking fruit for a living, living in housing conditions that you would not think are allowable
in this day an age? So I would make up interesting things to read to the class. That lead to a
creative writing class. I loved it. I wrote two books, unpublished, and I was proud of myself (a rare
feat) for just having finished them never mind that the ideas are really good ones. Then I received a
gift that changed my life. I received a painting start-up kit with little tubes of paint, a few canvas
boards and a few brushes. I fell in love instantly. Finally, I could put what was inside me outside for
the world to see – and now, I didn’t care if they liked it or not. That was their problem, not mine. I
belong here.
All these experiences drive my art. My desires, my fears, my strengths, my weaknesses. Art saved
me for it taught me that as long as you are afraid, you will never truly be alive.
backwards. Because of this, I was not able to walk until I was age five. I had an uncle who wanted
to take me to America and have the doctors cut off my leg below the knee. My mother was ardently
against this (thank you mom) so instead they tried a leg brace when I was about two years old. This
did not work because I refused to wear it. Now, I do not recall this but apparently I am told that I
would go into hysterics each time they put it on – and not the tantrum kind (mother’s can tell) but
that of actual pain. So that lasted a week – after that I was left to heal as God saw fit.
Interestingly enough, I could not talk until I was five. The few people that know this about me see
no correlation between my leg and my ability to talk and frankly neither can I but that is a fact.
When I learned to walk, I learned to talk. And it was painful walking at first. My left leg is a bit
shorter than my right and my toes point slightly to the left and inclined so that if I am tired now, I
limp. Growing up there was absolutely no running. If I tried, my leg would swell up and ache and I
would have to limp even worse for up to three days afterward. Despite this, I was a very happy child
up until the age of 9. That was when the world I knew shattered and I entered a new universe.
In 1980, my father decided that he had enough living alone in the US so he sent for my mother and
my 6 small siblings and he told us to come to live with him in Wisconsin. Obviously I did not want to
leave my home but I had no choice. So in the fall of 1980, I was stepping on American soil in the
Dairy State. I had never seen white people before and they spoke funny and some of them laughed
at me and pointed to my leg, or pointed to me and held their nose and laughed. For two years this
went on – and I learned to build thick high walls to protect me. Long gone were the days of the
happy go lucky kid that would walk up and down the street with a broom stick singing at the top of
his longs to anyone that just happened to be around. That kid was replaced by a scared, insecure,
resentful youth lost in trying to understand a new culture and learn a new language. Suddenly, I
didn’t want to talk to anyone outside my family – I was not worthy. If I was, why would kids my age
poke fun at my leg and the colour of the skin and my accent? No, it wasn’t them – it was me. I
decided this at age 10 and believed that until the age of 26.
Art saved me. Being a loner reading and doodling all the time I had come to despise the world and
my lack of place in it. I was very resentful that I was overweight, that I couldn’t run, that I was not
pale enough, that I was not good looking enough, that I had an accent that most Americans see as
being beneath them. Why could I not be normal? Sure, I had a smile on my face when I interacted
with school chums and co-workers but my eyes were not smiling. Sometimes, late at night, if I had
had a bad night and my leg would ache, I would cry into my pillow in both despair and frustration.
Art saved me. All my life growing up in America I called my imagination my best friend and I was
never bored because in my head, I was doing all sorts of wondrous things. Then I took a writing
class and discovered that I had many issues to deal with. I could never complete the assignments
that required a simple paragraph of actual life events. I just thought my life was too boring – why
would I write about that? Who wants to hear the story of a young person living the life of a migrant
worker, picking fruit for a living, living in housing conditions that you would not think are allowable
in this day an age? So I would make up interesting things to read to the class. That lead to a
creative writing class. I loved it. I wrote two books, unpublished, and I was proud of myself (a rare
feat) for just having finished them never mind that the ideas are really good ones. Then I received a
gift that changed my life. I received a painting start-up kit with little tubes of paint, a few canvas
boards and a few brushes. I fell in love instantly. Finally, I could put what was inside me outside for
the world to see – and now, I didn’t care if they liked it or not. That was their problem, not mine. I
belong here.
All these experiences drive my art. My desires, my fears, my strengths, my weaknesses. Art saved
me for it taught me that as long as you are afraid, you will never truly be alive.
For the longest time I was not proud of my heritage. I was born
in Mexico and that in itself is a great thing but I have lived in the
United States since 1980. I am an American citizen and I am very
proud to call this country my home. I would not trade it for
anything in the world and if I could, I would die protecting it.
in Mexico and that in itself is a great thing but I have lived in the
United States since 1980. I am an American citizen and I am very
proud to call this country my home. I would not trade it for
anything in the world and if I could, I would die protecting it.
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