4 Women Shaping San Diego’s Art Scene

Mario “OG” Lopez walks me through a maze of display cases: tapes, old photos, vintage DJ equipment. It’s all part of the New Americans Museum’s Beyond the Elements exhibition—a San Diego hip-hop retrospective and passion project he curated.

“There are four elements in hip-hop, and the vision of the exhibit was to go ‘beyond the elements’ and embrace the multicultural roots that are a huge part of hip-hop,” he says.

Through airbrushed jackets, throwback posters, and VHS footage, those four elements—deejaying, emceeing, graffiti art, and breakdancing—mix together at the Liberty Station showcase, telling the story of rap’s local beginnings.

“These are my friends,” Lopez says. “I’ve always wanted to show the art.” It’s a short answer to a long question about inspiration and ideas, about what goes into putting something like this together.

As we continue through, he points out a face. “There’s Zodak,” he says, gesturing toward a framed, black-and-white Tribal ad featuring the legendary local graffiti artist holding a name plate. Highlighting his own work (he’s a graphic designer), Lopez motions to the cover of Aztec Tribe’s cassette single Diego Town. The artifacts are a dense tapestry, a timeline four decades long of rappers, breakdancers, DJs, and painters, spread across two rooms.

It would be easy to recognize the players if this were New York or LA, but rap stars aren’t traditionally plucked from around these parts. There’s talent, for sure; however, most of it has had little influence outside of SD. That’s to say that this is a self-contained history, based on a homegrown ecosystem held together by storytellers, smooth talkers, and colorful personalities.

There’s no defining sound or even a single approach. Aztec Tribe carved out a lane as Chicano rap pioneers in the early ’90s, while San Ysidro’s Legion Of Doom (LOD)—who are featured prominently throughout the exhibition—worked their tag-team, Run-D.M.C-like chemistry into a formula that repped South Bay.

And while the vocalists were manipulating rhymes, local dancers were adopting the movements and body contortions of hip-hop’s B-boy element: a choreographed set of ticks, spasms, and spins that, in our neck of the woods, was part West Coast pop lockin’, part East Coast footwork. They’re represented, too, in the exhibit.

A wall marked “80’s Breakdance Era” shows off hand-drawn flyers and pictures of teenagers frozen mid-routine, rocking on linoleum. Inside a glass square stands a July 2, 1984, copy of Newsweek magazine that reads “BREAKING” in bold, white letters. And resting near the top sits a black medallion from the Universal Zulu Nation, an international awareness group and official fraternity of hip-hop—a true mark of legitimacy. The pieces speak for themselves. The hometown B-boys were the real deal.

That’s how Lopez got his start: managing a group of breakers called the Floor Masters. “My mom’s house was kinda like the home base,” he says. They were unique on their block, but the culture reached beyond his ’hood. It wasn’t until he and his squad ventured past their side of town that any of them realized breakdancing was everywhere.

“We didn’t know that it was happening in other neighborhoods,” Lopez says. “So, when we would go and perform at Balboa Park or something and put out the hat to make money … then [we] had other crews coming and [trying] to battle.”

Just as hip-hop in NYC was a byproduct of its boroughs (even though it started in the Bronx), rap’s local vernacular differed depending on its enclave. Aztec Tribe was based in Spring Valley, while Mario and the Floor Masters grew up in Sherman Heights.

From the county’s eastern edge to its downtown hub, there’s an extensive history documented in Beyond The Elements. The exhibit captures our rich heritage, one that’s worth exploring. And, as a narrative, this isn’t a nostalgia exercise or a trip down memory lane. Instead, it’s a commemoration, a nod to the hometown trailblazers who helped mold local culture through sound, art, and dance with imagination and virtuosity. A powerful message as hip-hop celebrates its 50th anniversary.

As my visit winds down, Lopez and I are joined by Zard One, an original member of the Floor Masters. We’re seated in the gallery space across the hall, and I notice his fingertips are stained with paint. Thoughtful and soft-spoken, he’s an artist and lifelong friend of Mario’s.

The docents are making their rounds, turning off lights and securing items. It’s a signal that I’ve overstayed my welcome. But, before I head out, I ask them both what they hope visitors take with them.

Lopez is first to answer. “We have tours coming in from different schools that are interested. It’s [about] educating the kids,” he says.

Just like hip-hop, the exhibit serves as a generational legacy. Each one teach one, as they say.

“It’s for the youth,” Zard One adds.

“I think of us as a culture of deniers,” John Halaka says. “We tend to shy away from complex topics. We tend to shy away from our responsibilities to the histories that brought us to where we are.”

The artist, a professor of visual arts at the University of San Diego, has spent much of his life immersed in those histories. Moved by the US Civil Rights Movement as a college student, Halaka developed “a deep-seated interest in justice and in human rights,” he says. He studied the history and politics of Palestine, eventually traveling there to interview and record individuals’ memories and stories. As a Fulbright scholar in 2011 and 2012, he spent nearly a year in Lebanon working with four generations of Palestinian refugees, an experience that deeply informed the pieces in his new exhibition at the Oceanside Museum of Art (OMA).

Entitled Listening to the Unheard/Drawing the Unseen: Meditations on Presence and Absence in Native Lands, the exhibition runs through February 18. Hung in stairwells and filling two galleries on OMA’s second floor, Halaka’s drawings—portraits of the people he interviewed, interpretations of the narratives they shared—are enormous, arresting, beautiful. And their meaning is undeniable.

It’d be easy to imagine the exhibition’s titular absence as emptiness, faint outlines, blank space. But Halaka’s work is the opposite. His drawings are densely layered, packed with stamped words (“RESIST” and “REMEMBER” among them) and tiny lines that coalesce into faces, hands, thorny vines. Approach too close, and they dissolve into visual snow.

“Absence and presence are essentially the two sides of a coin,” Halaka says. “When I engage with displaced individuals, there’s always this duality. They’re absent from the land, their homes; their history has been shattered. But all of that history is present within them. I try to visualize that by having two or more things exist at the same time.”

Some of Halaka’s most moving works superimpose portraits of Palestinian refugees over photographs of villages that were destroyed in Palestine in 1948—or vice versa, with the villages drawn over photos of the refugees. Faces, bodies, and buildings are rendered semi-transparent, ghostly. When underlaid beneath the portraits, the ruins appear as part of the refugees, giving texture to their skin.

A few pieces in the exhibition feature drawings of activists (including Lakota author Mary Brave Bird and Palestinian historian Hussein Lubani) on maps of the US and Palestine, visually melding people and their ancestral lands.

Other works, less layered but no less complex, are portraits and drawings made with a wood-burning tool. Thousands of scars form images on large panels of reddish oak, referencing “the cuts and burns that shaped [the refugees’] lives on a personal, communal, and national level,” Halaka explains.

I ask Halaka how he approaches the responsibility of translating others’ experiences for a wider audience. It’s a question that plagues me as a journalist, I admit to him.

He says that, in some ways, their story is his story—as the son of a Palestinian father and as an immigrant who came to the United States when he was 12, he shares many cultural touchpoints with the people whom he interviews, though he himself was not a refugee.

But even more critically, “I’m very, very aware of asking permission and of letting them guide my learning process,” he says. Behind each piece on the museum’s walls are hours of trust-and relationship-building with the refugees whose narratives he transforms into art. “I’m allowing their stories to shape me,” he adds. “I’m the empty cup waiting to receive knowledge so I can grow from that knowledge.”

Halaka hopes that, for museum visitors, viewing his art is merely the beginning of their own process of confronting the legacy of settler colonialism. “My drawings don’t tell the whole story,” he says. “They’re little stanzas of a much longer story.”

“The $105-million overhaul of MCASD, including the new Jacobs Hall, feels more connected to the topography. “It’s a delicate balance in capturing the art and architecture for each space,” says Bazzari of her approach. “Do I highlight the architecture and emphasize the artwork? Will the ocean views be the focal point, or how does the architecture connect with the landscape?”

Maha Bazzari

“I experience art within the space, sit with it, and then digest it.” That’s not the technical part, but it’s absolutely the starting point for Maha Bazzari, an architectural photographer who splits her time between San Diego and Palm Springs. The trained architectural designer and fine artist is an accidental photographer. She started by shooting her own work, then friends, and then global architecture firm Gensler came knocking.

Most recently, she was tapped by MCASD La Jolla to chronicle the quiet minimalism of the $105-million overhaul by Selldorf Architects. The photographer came often: mid-morning as the marine layer lifted. Golden hour. During a rainstorm. “I know every nook, in every light,” she says, perched on a concrete bench in the museum shop.

When she’s not traveling (Berlin, most recently) she frequents local architectural gems from the Salk Institute to Bell Pavilion. Her work has been featured in Dwell, WSJ Magazine and National Geographic. “Expressive images require an understanding of the artist’s concepts. And being selective.” Bazzari often collaborates with local artist Yomar Augusto, and there’s a fluency that develops between them. “To capture Yomar’s work is to follow the flow of lines and strong colors.”

“Bazzari maximized the rare stormy day to capture this dramatic image of architect Annabelle Selldorf and MCASD director Kathryn Kanjo. “With the use of strobe lighting and image bracketing I was able to uncover the rainy views, bring them to the foreground, and show the expansive lines of the architecture.”

Maha Bazzari

“Bazzari maximized the rare stormy day to capture this dramatic image of architect Annabelle Selldorf and MCASD director Kathryn Kanjo. “With the use of strobe lighting and image bracketing I was able to uncover the rainy views, bring them to the foreground, and show the expansive lines of the architecture.”

Maha Bazzari

“The size of the exhibit space dictates the photography style. For the smaller exhibitions, the art must be at the right scale to the architecture so they complement each other. For larger gallery spaces, I don’t want the art to get lost or capture too much information.” 

Maha Bazzari

“My love for the visual arts goes beyond a still image. I dabble in painting and explore different materials. This is a detail of Gravitational Attraction. I used acrylic paint, graphite, spray paint, and iron filings that were manipulated by the use of magnets to create this shape. Concept: The force of attraction is inescapable, especially the connections between people and their souls through interaction, sharing of ideas, stories, and experiences.”

Maha Bazzari

Macro-micro is a common theme throughout Bazzari’s photos, as shown with these two shots of a piece by San Diego artist Melissa Walters. Of All Things was a site-specific installation made of 2,600 paper tetrahedrons. “The amount of detail that went into this piece is mind-boggling,” Bazzari says. “I had to consider the physical space in relation to the theoretical Omniverse that contains it.”

Maha Bazzari

“I photographed this beautifully dramatic artwork for Yomar’s solo show at Point Loma Nazarene University. Although the mural was the main piece in the exhibition, the pieces came together through the narration of graphics throughout the gallery space.”

Maha Bazzari

For this mural, commissioned by San Diego Made Factory, Bazzari added scale with pedestrians and trolley tracks. “I wanted to underscore the urban setting of the East Village.”

Maha Bazzari

This abstract and colorful geometric calligraphy painting was commissioned for a residence in Mission Hills. “We wanted to highlight the colorful streaks and textures by enhancing the contrast, especially on the dark canvas.”

Maha Bazzari

This light fabrication is by Tecture in collaboration with Gensler San Diego. “I captured the curvilinear sculptural elements made from independent layers of milled extruded PVC with suspended lighting in between.”

Maha Bazzari

“This historic preservation of a mid-century modern house in San Diego [by architect Kristi Byers] is one of those projects that I photograph and admire all the work and consideration that went into it.”

Maha Bazzari

“We arrived before sunrise to make sure we captured the best light on the small chapel at Point Loma Nazarene University. It took us five hours to photograph the saturated colors, clean lines, and thoughtful materials.” The Lyle and Grace Prescott Memorial Prayer Chapel is a collaboration between architects Carrier Johnson and Tecture.

Maha Bazzari

On The Salk Institute by Louis Kahn: “I can spend all day capturing this monumental architecture with its details, observing the light moving across all the surfaces.”

Maha Bazzari

There are many approaches to shooting a door, especially this one designed and built by Tecture for a San Diego beachfront home. “It is a large pivot door with four operable windows, and a wheel operated gear system. So, we played around. Opening, closing and passing through it.”

Maha Bazzari

A symphony of concrete was required to show off the muscularity of this chair designed and fabricated by Tecture. “We connected this piece to its surroundings—the concrete chair to the concrete floor and walls. Aligning textures and materials was the goal.”

Maha Bazzari

What’s on stage, in studio, and… performing at a trolley station? The 2013–2014 arts season! San Diego’s best plays, musicals, dance performances, and visual art exhibits are all right here in our annual guide. But don’t just read this and then go see a movie. There’s a museum ticket with your name on it!

San Diego Fall Arts Preview

San Diego Fall Arts Preview

San Diego Fall Arts Preview

San Diego Fall Arts Preview

San Diego Fall Arts Preview

When was the last time you really looked at your fridge? Not for milk or ketchup or that takeout you hope is still good, but really looked at it. Considered it. Its texture. Its shape. Its role in your life. “Never” is probably your answer here. But once you’ve seen India Thompson’s life-size fridge made of reed, you’ll probably pause the next time you’re in your kitchen.

Thompson’s new Looks Like Home exhibit on view at Mingei International Museum takes everyday items that most of us use on a daily basis—the things that usually make our lives faster and more convenient—and renders them useless but beautiful as intricately woven reed sculptures.

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The museum’s name comes from the philosophy of Yanagi Sōetsu, who wrote in the essay “The Beauty of Miscellaneous Things” that “when one becomes too familiar with a sight, one loses the ability to truly see it. Habit robs us of the power to perceive anew, much less the power to be moved.”

Thompson joins artists who use material transformation to remake the familiar, like Katarina Kamprani who redesigns everyday objects in ways that render them physically unusable, or Do Ho Suh who recreates domestic spaces through labor-intensive processes. Thompson’s approach is quieter, more tender: She doesn’t distort. She weaves.

Seeing her work for the first time brought up emotions I hadn’t felt since I was a kid watching The Brave Little Toaster, the movie that taught me to hold space for the invisible servants that make up our homes. Thompson’s collection encourages a kind of reckoning with what it means to ignore the essential. It asks you to reconsider what “home” means in an era where so few can afford to buy one. Her sculptures are like a challenge to pause where you usually press on. Being close to her work is like taking a breath and not realizing how long you’ve been holding it.

Thompson was born in Los Angeles and is now a multidisciplinary artist based in San Diego. While ceramic is her primary artistic medium, this exhibition highlights her exploration of basketry—a thousand-year-old, time-consuming process and an art form she describes as one of “care and memory-keeping.”

Thompson also happens to 9-to-5 as Mingei’s studio program specialist. Assistant Curator Ariana Torres didn’t know about Thompson’s basketry work until she saw Thompson post a picture of her woven toilet paper on Instagram. Then came a woven microwave.

“It seemed really poignant and uncanny,” Torres says. “It was mundane, but it was also kind of quiet … something you wouldn’t think anybody would focus on.”

Thompson began making art five years ago in her college ceramic class called Handbuilding, and she immediately fell in love. The first art she ever shared with others were her ceramic figurines: round, red-clayed pot-like sculptures with minimalist, barely-there faces in a variety of expressions. Some look surprised. Some look very concerned. Some look like they spend Friday nights at a Star Wars cantina. She calls them “Moots.”

The definition of the English word moot, in verb form, is “to gather and discuss an important topic,” as Thompson explains. “They look so serious … like they’ve wriggled through the earth to talk to each other.”

Thompson found her way to basketry three years ago and learned by watching YouTube videos.

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“It’s something you can do at home,” she says. “And I love a repetitive process.”

The toilet paper roll came to her while making a cylinder that she thought looked like a roll of Charmin. Then she thought maybe she should make one on purpose. “I just thought it would be funny and really challenging, too,” she says. “Because there’s no tutorial for that. Why would there be, right?”

She figured it out and shared it on Instagram. People loved it. It received more than double the amount of likes and comments she usually got, but what really struck her was how many people came up to her in person to talk about how they connected with it. That, to her, was even more meaningful than the online response.

So she kept going and chose to make a microwave next.

“[It’s an] object we all own and we all need,” she says. “Yet no one really cares about a microwave.”

She started the collection during a time when her landlord was coming into her apartment constantly with a crew of people, making notes of what they were going to remodel without ever acknowledging her in the room.

“It was such a weird fishbowl moment,” she says. “I technically don’t own my apartment, but I still consider it home. I live here and I pay to live here, but this isn’t mine. We live in this space and I call it my apartment. I call it my refrigerator. But it could be taken away at any moment.”

It dawned on her how much we depend on things we don’t own, how little we notice the things we rely on every day, and how temporal the word “my” can be.

The woven refrigerator is the largest in Thompson’s collection at Mingei, and inside it you can find additional woven items like a ranch bottle, a Brita filter, and a sandwich on a plate. You can’t open the freezer door, but if you look carefully between the gaps of woven reed, you might be able to see a few other things Thompson made and placed inside.

“If you really look closely,” she explains, “you’ll be rewarded.”