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

You may not know his name, but if you were one of the millions of people who traveled in and out of Terminal 2 at San Diego International Airport in 2024, you’ve seen his work. David Mont Virgen was born and raised in Tijuana. He earned a degree in international business and studied interior design in Madrid. In early 2020 during the global pandemic, he made one of life’s impactful pivots and decided to pursue art full time. 

David works between San Diego and Tijuana, in the cross-border corridor that is, depending on who you ask, either one of the most complicated places to build a life or one of the most generative creative regions in the country. He makes minimalist work—paintings, sculpture, objects. To do minimalism well, you have to be very good, because there is nowhere to hide. That airport piece? It’s officially entered the permanent collection of the San Diego Museum of Art. David is very good.

While his work was gaining real traction in San Diego, his marriage ended. When that relationship dissolved, the legal and physical ground beneath his feet shook: The future of his citizenship was now in limbo. David looked at his options and chose yet another life pivot.  

April 23, 2026

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An accomplished working artist with a piece in a museum’s permanent collection enlisted in the U.S. Army, at a time when this country is at war. David describes this period of his life with grace, as “…an opportunity to choose myself and move forward with greater clarity and intention. For the love of self.” 

That phrase, “For the Love of Self,” became the title of his show, which opened at the Guild Hotel in January 2026 with support from Oram Hotels and the Consulate General of Mexico in San Diego. Jennifer Findley of JFin Collective led the curation. Within weeks of the show’s debut, David shipped off to train with the army. It would be easy to read his enlistment as purely practical, and citizenship was part of his calculus, but he is precise about his reasons: He wants to continue building a future in this country and building a future for this country. Because service, he says, feels connected to art. “Both are rooted in the belief that we are responsible for contributing something larger than ourselves.”

David is one creator out of many whose story hasn’t yet been told, but whose path reflects the world we live in. The truth he represents is that the artists in this city are creating under increasingly challenging constraints even as their work actively shapes the world we move through—the places we gather, the neighborhoods we love and live in—whether we know their names or not. 

It’s time their stories are told.

This fall, we’ll be publishing an ambitious arts and culture issue made possible by the support of two organizations who are underwriting an expanded freelance budget with one question at its center: Who makes San Diego, San Diego? 

The Art & Design District—a Prebys-supported initiative to develop and shape a dedicated area of the city for creative work, led by Jonathan Glus—has joined as co-publisher of our September issue. SDFC Playmakers led by Sebastian Moura, the MLS team’s program dedicated to showcasing San Diego’s creative community, has also joined as digital co-publisher for the next six months. 

With their support, our freelance budget has tripled. In the spirit of radical transparency, and because our readers deserve to know how our work is funded, our typical monthly print freelance budget is about $6,000. That supports writing, photography, and design across more than 100 pages. Our monthly digital budget is $2,500. 

June 15, 2026

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With the support of our co-publishers, we’ve brought on Aaryn Belfer, one of San Diego’s most respected editorial voices, as the issue’s special editor. Alongside Troy Johnson, content chief; and Emma Veidt, editor; she is helping shape the editorial vision of the issue.

With an expanded team, we’ll soon bring on a digital producer and an additional art designer. We’ll produce an expansive portrait of the artists, makers, performers, and institutions defining this region’s creative life, commission original photography, and create a comprehensive fall arts and culture calendar. The issue will anchor a six-month editorial program that will extend across digital, social media, video, podcast, and newsletters through early next year.

We have been doing this for 78 years, and we have learned how to do it well with limited resources. But the conversation happening in San Diego right now—about the role arts and culture play in shaping a city and the role a city plays in shaping arts and culture—is one that demands more than what our standard monthly budget can produce. Until now. 

This partnership model is new to us but the challenges that precede it are not new to media, particularly on the local level. And yet, this collaboration serves as real proof that civic organizations and local media can work together to document and preserve the story of a place and the people who make it, for the record.

June 10, 2026

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David told me that San Diego gave him a sense of belonging. That he felt supported and encouraged to keep growing. Not because life got easier, but because he learned to trust himself through uncertainty.

Today, he’s somewhere in basic training. But he is still an artist and he will keep making work. The artists in this city are almost never just one thing. They are painters and soldiers, sculptors and teachers, dancers and mathematicians. David is a minimalist artist and a U.S. Army recruit. He is Tijuana and San Diego. He is, in the most literal sense, still becoming.

A great city knows its makers. I want San Diego to be that city. 

September is on newsstands soon.