Preserving and Reimagining Cultural Memory
Still from the experimental film Coyolxauhqui (2017) by Colectivo Los Ingrávidos, which confronts femicides in rural Mexico. Featured in a screening co-curated with film scholar EveOishi for MIX NYC 2019. Credit: Colectivo Los Ingrávidos.
Marisa Hicks-Alcaraz is a curator, educator, and scholar. She’s curated Fotos, Recuerdos y Rememoria: Old Media Exhibition and Digitization Workshop at the Independent Media Center in Urbana, Illinois; The Exiles at the Vincent Price Art Museum in Monterey Park, California; and, alongside Dan Streible, Orphans at MoMA: An Amateur Cinema League of Nations at the New York Museum of Modern Art.
Read on to learn more about Hicks-Alcaraz’s practice.
What are some salient currents you are witnessing in contemporary art today?
I’ve been noticing a few key currents in contemporary art right now. There’s been a huge shift toward digital technologies—AI, virtual reality, and immersive media are being used in interesting ways. And I’m seeing a lot of artists experimenting with organic, found, and ephemeral materials in their work, which feels like a response to conversations around sustainability and impermanence.
But one of the most exciting and enduring trends for me is the way artists are engaging with the archive. Since the 1990s, we’ve seen a growing movement of artists using archives—not just to preserve history but to actively challenge dominant narratives, reclaim erased histories, and create new ways of understanding the past. Latinx artists, in particular, have been central to this, even though they’re often overlooked in broader discussions on archival art.
Artists like Juan Sánchez, Pepón Osario, and Amalia Mesa-Bains—and more recently Guadalupe Rosales, Felicita “Felli” Maynard, William Camargo, Lorena Molina, Diana Guerra, and José Luis Benavides—are expanding and redefining the very concept of the archive. They’re moving beyond static institutional collections and creating living, participatory, and even speculative spaces. Their work reflects a larger shift in contemporary art—one that questions who gets to tell history and how memory is preserved.
Looking ahead, I think we’ll see even more artists pushing the boundaries of digital and speculative archives—finding ways to document histories that have been erased while creating new forms of storytelling that aren’t bound by traditional institutions.
Does the work ever feel isolating, or do you feel like you are a part of an artistic community? If so, how would you describe that community?
Curatorial work is definitely a mix of both solitude and collaboration. A lot of my work starts in isolation—diving into research, writing proposals, and handling logistics, especially as an independent curator without institutional backing. There’s also a certain emotional weight to working with archives, oral histories, and politically charged materials, particularly when dealing with histories of erasure or injustice. And of course, financial precarity can make things feel even more isolating, since independent curators don’t always have the built-in support networks that institutions provide.
But at the same time, curation is ultimately about connection. It’s about bringing together artists, scholars, and audiences to engage in meaningful conversations. I feel deeply rooted in an artistic community that spans both local and transnational spaces—working with BIPOC artist collectives, community archives, and cultural workers who are invested in feminist, anticolonial, and Latinx artistic practices. In this way, I’ve built relationships that sustain me, not just professionally but personally.
So while there are certainly moments of solitude, I always see my work as part of something much bigger—a collective effort to preserve and reimagine cultural memory.
Image of an ofrenda candle created during a 2024 Day of the Dead workshop at the Memory Lab in the Urbana Makerspace, where participants designed custom stickers of loved ones for their personal altars. Credit: Ty Lewis and Marisa Hicks-Alcaraz. Credit Ty Lewis and Marisa Hicks-Alcaraz.
As an independent laborer, how do you establish and maintain links of solidarity with other arts workers in the field? In terms of labor, what do you think are some of the most pressing concerns we are facing today?
I try to support fellow artists and cultural workers in a few different ways—whether that’s attending and promoting their events, sharing resources and opportunities, or volunteering with arts and cultural organizations. I also love connecting people. If I meet someone whose work aligns with someone in my network, I’ll introduce them and help foster new relationships that strengthen our collective work.
Collaboration is really important to me, and I’ve been fortunate to build long-term working relationships, like with my friend and colleague William Camargo. We met in grad school nearly a decade ago and have been supporting each other’s projects ever since.
I also focus on creating spaces for knowledge-sharing and community-building. Through the memory arts lab I founded last year, I provide a space where artists and community members can exchange skills, document personal and collective histories, and engage in creative dialogue.
So for me, it’s all about keeping connections strong and making sure resources and opportunities circulate within the community. That’s how I try to contribute to a thriving, interconnected network of independent art workers.
As for the second part of your question, one of the biggest challenges independent art workers face today is financial instability. Since most of us work on a project-to-project basis, there’s very little security—funding is competitive, institutional budgets are tight, and many opportunities still don’t come with fair pay or benefits. And as someone living with multiple invisible disabilities, the lack of healthcare benefits as an independent worker is something that deeply impacts me personally.
These issues are only being exacerbated under the Trump administration’s recent executive orders. Cuts to federal arts funding and elimination of DEI programs are already impacting major institutions like the National Endowment of the Arts and the Smithsonian. On top of that, proposed tariffs could make art materials more expensive and harder to access. All of this just adds more financial strain and uncertainty for independent artists and curators, making it even more difficult to create and share diverse art and cultural work.
How do the arts intersect with other areas in your city? How do you like to work with artists, institutions, and the public?
One of the areas I see arts intersecting with others issues in Urbana-Champaign—a small college town in Central Illinois— is with community-building. Local galleries, artist-run spaces, community projects, and university institutions all play a role in bringing people together through the arts here.
Festivals like Boneyard Arts Festival and the Black and African Arts Festival connect local, regional, national, and international artists with the broader community, creating opportunities for engagement and collaboration. Beyond that, public murals, poetry readings, and independent film screenings also serve as gathering spaces where people can come together, share stories, and explore different social and cultural perspectives.
Organizations like the Urbana-Champaign Independent Media Center show how art can be a powerful tool for political education and community organizing. From murals honoring local activists to performances addressing racial justice, and zine workshops documenting community struggles, these projects go beyond aesthetics—they’re about resistance, storytelling, and reclaiming space. They also serve as acts of healing, creating spaces where people can see their stories reflected in the community and engage in creative expression. This can be especially meaningful for individuals navigating experiences of injustice, displacement, and systemic violence.
In terms of the second question, when working with artists, institutions, and the public, I prioritize collaboration and a horizontal approach. It’s important to be receptive, flexible, and create a genuine partnership between artists and institutions while fostering an open dialogue with the public.
I believe in making art and creative spaces more accessible, ensuring that audiences don’t just observe but actively engage and participate. Whether I’m working with artists, institutions, or the public, I strive to create a process that is collaborative, inclusive, and rooted in the lived experiences of the communities involved.
What kind of artwork inspires you lately?
Lately, I’ve been really drawn to the ways art can be used as a tool for healing. Across cultures and throughout history, people have turned to creative expression—whether it’s storytelling, painting, music, sculpture, or weaving—as a way to process emotions and make sense of their experiences. I think there’s something deeply transformative about the act of creating—it allows people to tap into emotions that can be hard to put into words and provides a sense of meaning-making and release.
This interest actually grew out of my work on the Counter-Memorias Digital Testimonio Project, an oral history initiative I developed during my PhD. The project focused on women from intersectional backgrounds who are often left out of dominant narratives of Latinidad. Many participants told me that sharing their stories was empowering—it reaffirmed their identities and gave them a sense of resilience. That really got me thinking about the therapeutic potential of art.
As a curator and cultural worker, I don’t just want to showcase art—I want to create opportunities for people to engage in the creative process themselves. Art isn’t just something to observe; it’s something to experience. I’m most inspired by work that invites participation, fosters connection, and allows people to see themselves as part of the artistic process.
What does representation mean to you? Do you feel represented in the work that you do and where it is circulated?
When I think about representation, I don’t just consider who is visible, but how they are represented, who is telling the story, and who has access to those narratives. True representation isn’t just about numbers—it’s about ensuring that people have the support, resources, and agency to fully participate and shape the spaces they’re in. It’s not just about being included; it’s about being heard, valued, and having the power to tell your own story on your own terms, rather than having it told for you.
In some ways, yes—I feel represented in my work because I’m actively looking to center the histories, narratives, and creative practices of Latinx communities. But there is still a lot of gatekeeping in the academic and institutional settings I work in that has prevented me or put barriers on me for doing this work. And even when my work is featured in these settings, I’m always thinking about how to make it more accessible to the communities it represents.
Institutions can determine whose work is seen and who gets to participate in shaping historical narratives, so I actively work to break down those barriers by collaborating with community organizations and public art initiatives.
I see my work as part of a larger effort to shift the structures of power in knowledge and artistic production. While I do feel represented in the stories I tell and the relationships I build, there’s still work to be done in ensuring that these histories circulate in ways that are truly accessible and transformative for the communities they come from.
Image from a demonstration of a 16mm Kodak Pageant Sound Projector from the 2023 Fotos, Videos y Remdmoria exhibition on analog media, held alongside a workshop on digitizing photographs and VHS tapes in collaboration with lens-based artist William Camargo at the Urbana-Champaign Independent Media Center. Credit: Marisa Hicks-Alcaraz.
How often are your curatorial decisions influenced by organizational or financial pressure?
Curatorial work is always a balancing act between creative vision and financial or institutional realities. Of course, funding constraints and organizational priorities shape what’s possible, but I try not to let them dictate the integrity of the work. Instead, I see them as challenges that push me to be more creative and resourceful.
I often work in environments with limited resources, which is where I tap into what Tomás Ybarra-Frausto calls rasquachismo—that Mexican American sensibility of making do with what’s at hand, adapting, repurposing, and innovating when traditional support structures aren’t available.
One example is my work with the Home Movie Remezcla Project. Instead of relying on traditional institutional archives, I worked directly with community members, helping them digitize and narrate their home movies. With minimal funding, I use accessible tools and a collaborative approach to create something meaningful. This project isn’t just about preservation—it’s about reimagining archives as living, participatory spaces where people can creatively engage with their own histories.
For me, financial limitations don’t stop the work—they just push me to rethink how exhibitions and programming can be realized in ways that are community-driven, sustainable, and impactful. It’s about finding ways to make space for important stories, no matter the budget.
What does the future look like to you?
Over the past few months, there has been a powerful mobilization across Latinx communities, both locally and nationally, in response to the second Trump administration, particularly its immigration policies. Cultural workers play a critical role in this moment, and I see the future as one where art and activism continue to intersect in meaningful ways.
Curation, at its core, is an inherently political act—one that can advance social justice by amplifying marginalized voices, preserving cultural memory, and creating spaces for resistance and dialogue. I’m currently having conversation with artists, educators, students, and cultural organizations about ways we can collaborate to leverage local funding and resources to develop arts and cultural programming that center migrant communities and others disproportionately affected by these policies.
Resistance takes many forms—it’s not just about direct action but also about creating spaces for joy, visibility, and celebration. Sometimes, resistance is as simple as bringing people together through music, dance, and storytelling, reaffirming our presence and contributions. And this doesn’t require institutional backing—anyone can create these moments of connection and empowerment.
I see the future as one where communities continue to find ways to uplift one another through creative expression and collective action, ensuring that our histories and experiences are not erased but centered and actively engaged with.