An Interview With:
Héctor Muñoz-Guzmán
Héctor Muñoz-Guzmán
The Mexican-American Creative who is Exploring his Heritage Through Art.
Héctor Muñoz-Guzmán (b. 1999) is a disabled, first-generation Mexican-American painter and illustrator from South Berkeley, California. His art is a rich tapestry woven from the influences of Mexican artists, revolutionaries, and icons, blending the realistic colonial Mexican Spanish caste paintings with the flat, evocative aesthetics of Aztec pre-Columbian art. This unique fusion vividly represents his Mestizo identity.
Drawing from moments of his life, Héctor incorporates recurring personal elements alongside Mesoamerican imagery and diverse environments he has inhabited. His depictions of himself and his family serve as powerful reminders to honour the working-class individuals often absent from contemporary art spaces. His broad use of mixed media, initially born from a lack of resources, has evolved into a hallmark of his everyday practice, reflecting his adaptability and resourcefulness.
Muñoz-Guzmán’s work is a continuous dialogue of ideas, memories, and thoughts, offering an ongoing source of reflection. His art possesses a matter-of-fact quality typical of social realism, where saturated colours capture the vibrant atmospheres of his childhood in South Berkeley and his family’s ancestral home in Tepatitlán, Jalisco, Mexico.
The seamless integration of past, present, and future in his work underscores a profound understanding that all aspects of life contribute to the person he is today. Héctor’s artistic journey includes a foundational year at Parsons School of Design and a subsequent year in the painting program at Rhode Island School of Design. This fall, he will further his studies at UC Berkeley’s Master of Fine Arts Program. Currently living and working in Oakland, California, Héctor Muñoz-Guzmán continues to explore and express the rich complexities of his heritage and experiences through his compelling and thoughtful art.
901: Thank you so much for speaking with me, Hector. To start off, I'd love to hear more about your childhood in South Berkeley. Are there specific memories from growing up in the East Bay that stand out to you, and how have they influenced your artwork?
Hector Munoz-Guzman: Growing up in South Berkeley, I had a pretty complicated relationship with my father. He was in and out of jail, and our relationship was rocky, especially with how he treated my mother and the family. But one thing that always stuck with me was how, during his downtime, he would make art—drawings, sculptures. He was incredibly artistic, and I found myself wanting to mimic that part of him. It’s the only way I feel connected to him now. That connection to art, despite everything, is what started me down this path.
It’s powerful how art became a way to connect with your father. Beyond that, were there other aspects of your upbringing in South Berkeley that inspired your artistic journey?
Definitely. I remember my fifth-grade art teacher, Joe. He was a huge influence on me. Even as a 10-year-old, he would give me real critiques, support me with good art supplies, and just encouraged me to pursue art. English wasn’t my first language, so I struggled in school, but art was where I excelled. Later, in high school, my art teacher helped me understand why I was making art and who I was making it for. These
teachers played a crucial role in nurturing my passion for art from a young age.
You’ve mentioned making money through creative means before you were old enough to work, like screen printing t-shirts and collecting cans. How did these early experiences shape your work ethic and approach to art?
My family, especially my mother, instilled a strong work ethic in me. Even though they didn’t fully understand my desire to be an artist, they taught me that if you want something, you have to work hard for it. We didn’t come from generational wealth or anything, so I had to hustle to support myself, and that work ethic carries through in my art practice. Seeing how hard my family worked, especially as immigrants, I didn’t want to take that for granted. I wanted to honour that in my work.
Before moving to Mexico, I was attending the Rhode Island School of Design, but during my second year, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and ended up in a mental hospital for a month and a half. It was all new to me and my family because those topics weren’t ones we usually talked about or have the privilege to understand. My mother decided that it wasn’t healthy for me to go bac because she didn’t feel the environment was good for my mental health. But at that time, I really wanted to go back so I fell into this really deep depression. Eventually, I moved back to the Bay Area, but I was alone and struggling. My father, who I hadn’t seen in 13 years, invited me to come live with him in Tepititlán, so I did. Living there, I was surrounded by my family’s history, working for less than ten dollars a week, and really experiencing the life my mother left behind for me to have a better one. It was a humbling experience that reminded me of where I come from, and it deeply influenced my art. I realized that even though I’m in the art world, which can be very elitist, I’m still a working-class person at heart.
It made me remember that I come from Mexico, from all these things that I feel like I shouldn’t have forgotten. But being there and reconnecting with my father was equally amazing but also traumatizing at the same time because he struggles a lot with his own mental health. I realised that I grew up differently in the States and I was kind of perverse enough to have my own thoughts and my own free speech. But we ended up butting heads a lot and being unable to co-exist together.
How was the transition from an elite art school in Rhode Island to working in rural Mexico? Did it impact your perspective on your artwork?
It definitely humbled me. At RISD, I felt isolated—there weren’t many people from my community, and I often felt out of place. In Mexico, I was living the life I wanted to represent in my art. It wasn’t just about creating a home away from home through my art; I was actually living it. That experience reminded me of who I am and where I come from, and it’s something I carry with me in my art practice.
You mentioned some conflict with your father during your time in Mexico, especially regarding your art. Could you talk more about that?
There was one piece I made that depicted a crucifixion of myself surrounded by bottles, symbolizing my struggle with depression and unhealthy habits like drinking. My father found it one day, and he lost it. Looking back now, I understand where he was coming from. In that small, religious town, using religious imagery in that way was shocking to him, and he couldn’t understand it. We couldn’t have a dialogue about it because of his own struggles with mental health and substance abuse. That experience taught me that not everyone, not even my own people, will always understand or accept my art. But it also made me realize that I’m my own person and artist, and I have to stay true to my vision.
But I’m still thankful that I was able to go back and reconnect with my father and try to make something out of our relationship, and even if it didn’t work out, I’m still grateful. We’d still make art together and I remember him sculpting this Jesus from a piece of tree that he’d cut down.
It must have been challenging to navigate that tension. Despite the difficulties, you also worked with a mentor, a Mexican muralist, during your time in Mexico. How did that relationship influence your work?
Working with him, even though it was only for a few weeks, was eye-opening. Coming from RISD, where everything was so structured and elitist, to taking free art classes at a cultural center meant for everyone, felt more natural and right. He gave me honest critiques and inspired me to see what I could become. It made a big difference to have a mentor who looked like me and understood where I was coming from.
You’ve spoken about elitism in the art industry, especially at RISD. Can you expand on your experience there and how it shaped your perspective on the art world?
At RISD, I often felt out of place, like I didn’t belong there. I was creating art about my family, my struggles, and my culture, but I was in this private, elite institution where the demographic didn’t reflect where I came from. It made me question if my art and who I was as a person was meant for that space. I was young, just 18 or 19, and it was a lot to process. But it also made me more determined to carve out a space for myself and my art in this world, even if it meant going against the grain.
After your time in Mexico, how did your experiences influence your artwork moving forward, especially with the intense emotions you went through during your time in Mexico?
Ever since my diagnosis, my mental state has always dictated my artwork. Whether I’m manic, depressed, or stable, it all influences what I create. Art has become like a journal for me, a way to express where I’m at mentally. When I moved back to the States, I had to start over. I was working at Walmart, trying to make ends meet, and I hadn’t shown in galleries or made connections in the art world yet. It was a struggle, but I was determined to make up for lost time. In school I just kind of did my best to create as much artwork and make as many connections as I could.
Your paintings seem to blend personal experiences, Mexican history, and cultural symbolism. How do you integrate all these elements into your work to create a cohesive narrative?
My artwork is like all my thoughts blending together on one canvas. I’m influenced by so many things—Mexican greats like Diego Rivera and Orozco, my family, my daily life. There’s no hierarchy; it’s all equally important to me and they are all part of my story. For example, I did a seven-foot painting of one of my uncles who taught me a lot about revolution and knowing your culture. I wanted to put him on a pedestal because he’s a hero in my story. At the end of the day, I’m painting what I know and what’s around me.
You use recurring elements from Mexican history and folklore in your work. How do you choose which symbols to incorporate, and what do you hope they convey to your audience?
It’s really case by case, based on the artwork. The images I choose, whether historical figures, family members, or aspects of Mexican culture, are what I feel connected to and what makes me feel safe. My paintings are like artifacts of my own history, extensions of myself. The process of creating them is about uncovering what’s already within me and bringing it out onto the canvas.
Your work is deeply personal, especially as it relates to embracing Mexican culture. What challenges have you faced in this journey, and where do you stand now in terms of embracing your cultural identity?
Embracing my culture through art has helped me understand it on a more intimate level. Growing up in American schools, I struggled with being proud of my culture and wanting to be part of it. But now, in my mid-20s, I have a much better grasp of where I come from, my history, and my people. It’s an ongoing process of research and understanding, but my art practice is the reason I feel so connected to my culture.
You've mentioned that ideas come to you spontaneously. How important is intuition in your work, and can you describe an example of a piece that was inspired by this spontaneity?
Yeah, I think it’s a 50/50 mix of planning and spontaneity. Before starting a big painting, I always create small, intimate collages—like 8.5 by 11 inches—to get all my main ideas out there. Once I have those ideas sketched out, I use that as a foundation. The rest is more unplanned; I let the painting develop on its own. For example, one of my recent large-scale works started with a tiny sketch that just felt right. I let that initial impulse guide the rest of the piece, and it turned into something that felt very organic and true to my initial vision.
So your work includes both those intimate collages and the large-scale pieces. How do you think these two approaches interact and influence each other?
Definitely. The small collages are crucial—they’re like the blueprint for the big paintings. Without those initial pieces, I wouldn’t have the same clarity or direction for the larger works. They’re both integral parts of my process, where the small pieces inform the big ones, and the large paintings bring out elements that I might not have fully explored in the smaller pieces. It’s in the big paintings where I feel like I really get to express myself.
In terms of your personal experiences, particularly with bipolar disorder, how has this affected your artwork? Have you faced challenges in conveying those emotions onto the canvas?
Conveying those emotions comes in waves. When I was first diagnosed, I went through a period where I couldn’t create at all—overmedication left me feeling numb. But once I found a balance with my medication and started feeling more in touch with my emotions again, I could start expressing myself through my art. Now, I try to centre myself and use my art practice as a way to regulate my emotions. It’s a constant cycle of highs and lows, and my art is a reflection of that journey. Even when I’m in a stable place, I use my work to process and manage those feelings. I feel like when I’m making art I’m in my best state, where I feel calm and collected.
What do you hope viewers take away from your art, especially in terms of understanding the personal struggles and Mexican culture that is depicted in your art?
At the end of the day, I feel like I’m making artwork for myself and my community. If I’m touching people outside of that, then that’s a plus because it means I’m doing well. But when I see my family members, people that look like me, especially people that are younger, connect with the images without knowing who I am, it’s a really special feeling. I had my first solo show in East LA and there were so many visitors from the Mexican community, all having these beautiful reactions. It’s an amazing feeling because I felt like I knew them and they knew who I was without even having a conversation. I also have a memory of my uncle walking into the gallery and seeing the painting of himself. Those moments just mean everything to me.
As you look forward, considering your journey from South Berkeley to New York to Mexico, how do you see your artistic identity evolving in the future? What are your aspirations for this next chapter?
I’m extremely grateful to have been accepted into the MFA program at Berkeley, especially without having finished my undergrad. It feels like coming full circle—returning to the place where a lot of my work was originally influenced. I’m excited about having a stable environment, with financial support and a dedicated studio space for the first time. I see this next chapter as an opportunity to really hone my craft and deepen my artistic practice. I’m looking forward to evolving, mastering my technique, and seeing where this journey takes me.
Congratulations on the MFA acceptance! Finally, do you have any last messages or thoughts for the readers?
I’d like to give a shout-out to my younger siblings, Hendrix and Bianca. I hope that as they grow up, they see what I’m doing and understand that pursuing happiness and passion is more important than just chasing money. I want them to know that everything works out with time and dedication. Hopefully, they’ll read this one day and take that message to heart.
Thank you so much for sharing your story, Hector. Your journey is incredibly inspiring, and we look forward to seeing how your work continues to evolve.
Thank you. I appreciate the opportunity to share my experiences and thoughts.