ART IS A CURSE
February 24th, 2026.
Ladies, gentlemen, and those who are neither:
First of all, we want to thank Gabriel Pascal, David Olguín, Philippe Amand, and the entire team that made this event possible. Thanks to Steph for her unwavering support.
We also thank Lenin and Marina, who were kind enough to read our contributions.
I want to clarify that we were not invited to this tribute to the master Luis de Tavira. I say this not as a reproach, but as proof of our innocence for those who, in good faith, organized this gathering. Let this statement serve as a pretext for dealing with complaints, insults, and other forms of abuse, legal proceedings, and whatever else may arise from this case, or thing, as it may be.
So, you could say we’re here as “gatecrashers.” I imagine your displeasure, but keep in mind that it would be worse if we had “slammed the door”—that healthy civic custom of barging in without an invitation or paying for tickets.
We celebrate not only the greetings of his loved ones to the maestro, but also, and above all, to express the embrace of those of us who, far away, think of him.
And this celebration, in which the maestro serves as a kind of pretext, raises several questions. Namely: what makes it possible for such diverse and distant communities to converge in a single geography and calendar? Because that is what those present here are—some of the best of the artistic community. And, well, our words are to acknowledge those who are far away: some of the indigenous communities, originally of Maya origin—the Zapatistas.
An artistic community and indigenous communities coinciding. Different, meeting without ceasing to be who they are. And a master of theater, Luis de Tavira, as the unwitting convener.
The former are brought together by the dramatic arts. “The ultimate artistic challenge,” the late Sub-commander Marcos—may God have him in his holy glory and may the Blessed Virgin Mary shower him with blessings—used to say, to distinguish it from the other arts. And I suppose, though I can’t be sure, that the deceased was referring to the fact that reality constantly confronts theater (as well as dance and, in some cases, music) in our dizzying present. Unlike film, graphic arts, sculpture, literature, and architecture, for example, where the artistic act is created in a space different from where it is experienced by sighted and blind people, theater relates to the other in a special spatio-temporal situation. This means that geography and the calendar are also created as part of that artistic creation. Thus, when we say “theater,” we are referring both to the work being performed and to the space where it is sometimes experienced.
We, the Zapatista people, are here, protesting those who organized this tribute, in a theater called “El Milagro” (The Miracle), perhaps because the practice of dramatic art, at least in Mexico, is a miracle achieved despite all the difficulties encountered.
But in these dark times of Artificial Intelligence that harasses the arts, theater seems to be safe. At least for now, it seems impossible for a cybernetic organism to emulate that marvelous confrontation that occurs between theater artists and the audience.
It seems difficult (at least for now) for Artificial Intelligence to even approach the various characterizations of Adela in The House of Bernarda Alba, who, with the fire of forbidden love, defies authoritarianism:
“Here the voices of the prison are silenced! (Adela snatches a cane from her mother and breaks it in two.) This is what I do with the rod of the oppressor. Don’t take another step. No one commands me but Marcos!”
(Okay, okay, okay, the original text says “Pepe,” but let’s call it poetic license.)
True, you’re right that it’s not innocent that I chose a play by Federico García Lorca, someone different, distinct, persecuted and murdered for who he was and for the cause he embraced. Nor is it random that I chose a speech by a rebellious woman. And it can’t be idle that an artist, Marina, reads this text.
But in reality, what prompted this mention is the subversive love that is expressed in that play. And, of course, the theatrical challenge that those brief lines pose to any man, woman, or other theater artist: Adela breaking the whitewashed sepulcher in which, along with the rest of her daughters, Bernarda Alba had imprisoned them.
And all this is relevant, or rather, pertinent, because, at the workshop in December 2025, Don Luis de Tavira, the master, was the only one who understood what we intended by introducing the themes of love and heartbreak. When I wrote to him inviting him, I told him that it was highly unlikely that any of the speakers would touch on those points, apart from us, of course. So he didn’t need to worry about that. He immediately understood that these were precisely the most important themes of that workshop and of all reflections, past and present. The master accepted the challenge (in reality, theater itself is a challenge). And his participation, from afar—like these words—focused on the mystery to be unveiled: love and heartbreak.
Brilliant, as always, the master revealed and exposed the leitmotif of human history, of its successes and failures, its rises and falls, of wars hidden behind heartbreak and loves hidden behind wars, of resistance and rebellion.
In his remarks, the master says that I said what he actually said: art is a declaration of love for humanity. And if he said that I said what he said I said that he said, then it’s not a misunderstanding, but a happy coincidence. A coincidence between two distant places, like those that meet here today, miraculously, in El Milagro.
You must be strong: in this terrible and wonderful love, in art, you walk toward heartbreak. Because humanity will not reciprocate. She is unruly, stubborn, ungrateful, treacherous, an incorrigible romantic—as the Mexican philosopher Salvador Flores Rivera so aptly described her. And yet you must persevere. That is how you will come to understand that the arts are a curse. A beautiful curse, certainly, but a curse nonetheless.
Now I imagine Steph’s expressions, she who is a co-author of this intrusion. I must say, in her defense, that she has not only been complicit in this one, and that there are other crimes on the horizon that await the same dedication and commitment from her. Because theater, friends and foes alike, is also that: complicity, dedication, and commitment.
I also imagine Marina’s suppressed laughter, to whom I let know that it would be a serious text, and that she should read it on the spot, without having seen it beforehand. Not only that, I also told her the script required her to comb her hair, something you may or may not notice, depending on whether or not her artistic discipline prevailed. I imagine she’ll make faces of displeasure and reproach. A pout of discomfort, or a prelude to a mock whimper, wouldn’t be out of place when we get to these lines. Thanks, Marina, but I think you need to practice your pouting more, in front of the mirror.
Because that’s what theater is too: a mirror reflecting the best and worst of humanity, challenging the spectator’s imagination and making them a tacit accomplice through applause, jeers, or a naive plea of ”Give me back the ticket price, plus the cost of the taxi service, my valuable time, and VAT!”—because the SAT, the Tax Administration Service, has become like Immigration, like ICE, chasing artists as if art were a business and not what it truly is: a miracle.
-*-
But don’t get distracted. The maestro has been given the role of pretext, a role he has assumed, I imagine, under protest. But the central theme of this meeting is theater. Or, more generally, the arts.
I already drew a parallel between a theater director and a military commander a year ago. No matter how much they rehearse or practice, when it comes to facing reality (the confrontation with the audience in the case of theater—also dance and, in some cases, music—and with the enemy in the case of the combatant), there is no opportunity to repeat the scene. Perhaps that explains the spontaneous rapport I observed at the Arts Encounter a year ago between the two of them, when Insurgent Sub-commander Moisés and Maestro Luis de Tavira shared the table and the conversation. Steph and I were there as guardians of the flanks, along with Iván Prado, Los Zurdos, and, from a distance, Antonio Ramírez.
This is why I have said before that dramatic art, like dance, represents a greater challenge.
And more: in the theater, a multitude of factors converge in the fleeting moment of the performance.
The parts that the whole requires to constitute itself as art. The lighting, the costumes, the set design, the sound, and even the announcements, the ticketing, and the seating arrangements. Now I imagine Gabriel, Philipe, and David wondering if we’re the only gatecrashers, because there are attendees who, it’s suspected, only came to see if there were cocktails and refreshments. And they’re already muttering, under their breath, that there’s only sugary water with an indescribable flavor, and a sad little sandwich that’s seen better days. Of course, everyone smiles and says aloud, “Ah, the theater!” as they stealthily approach the exit.
-*-
I already warned you, don’t get distracted, concentrate.
Much has been said about theater as entertainment, as protest, as reflection, and as a teaching tool. So, a theater teacher is, in reality, an educator of educators. Here we call them “trainers.” There are education trainers—who train education promoters—and health trainers—who prepare health promoters, first aiders, preventative medicine practitioners, midwives, herbalists, lab technicians, and, someday, they’ll train butchers or “knife-wielders,” which is what we call those who know about surgery.
In short, we have theater as entertainment, as protest, as a reflection of our times and culture, as a form of reflection, and as a pedagogy.
There are certainly more sharp points on the hedgehog of dramatic art, but I’m going to point out a thorn you may be unaware of. That is, theater as love and heartbreak.
And to illustrate this, I’ll share a story I told at a meeting with young art and culture coordinators, as well as quite a few theater artists, and Zapatista men and women.
The story is called…
(to be continued)
From the mountains of Southeastern Mexico.
The Captain.
Mexico, March 2026.
Original article at Enlace Zapatista, March 15th, 2025.
Translated by Schools for Chiapas.