Tell us a little bit about yourself and what you do.
My name is Yaritza Flores Bustos.
I was born in Lázaro Cárdenas, a port city on the southern coast of Michoacán, Mexico. I migrated to Phoenix when I was two alongside my mom and older brother, as my dad had migrated a few months prior. We’ve lived in Maryvale, the westside of Phoenix ever since.
I am a careful and very passionate observer.
I work with my hands and I pray through and with my practice.

Are there any influences that are core to your work?
The people and the places that have raised me.
My families, both blood and chosen, my friends.
Maryvale and Mexico.
Maryvale is a predominantly migrant community. The visual vernacular born here, comes from memory. While I didn’t get to grow up in Mexico, I still feel it here, every day.
Community. How it has held me, lifted me up, challenges me.
Networks of care. Acts of resilience.

How were you introduced to the mediums that you work with?
I was going to school for art education originally and took a ceramics elective course at community college. I had to take maybe two semesters off after my introduction to it, because of scheduling matters and I yearned for it dailyyyyyy. I signed back up and changed my major to ceramics.
While my introduction to the medium was through an institution, I’ve always felt a deeper connection to it, a calling, an inheritance, magic, maybe.
Most of the mediums I work with now came to me in quite beautiful and timely ways; all teaching me what I need to know during those specific moments.

What kind of imagery are you drawn to?
The bootleg, always.

Is there a moment you look back on as being formative to your identity as an artist?
I’ll say two.
One:
After transferring from community college to a university, I was faced with a lot of challenges. I’m a DACA recipient which is a temporary work permit that I have to renew every two years. It’s a pretty complex way of existing here in the states, and it grants me many privileges, that I fully acknowledge like being able to obtain a job, a license, travel within the states: some sort of security. But the program is quite problematic, in that it works to establish a separation within the community, by differentiating who is “deserving” of these protections through the requisites needed to qualify. Our value is directly linked to our labor and what we can contribute to the economy. It has stunted us as a community because we’ve accepted this as a solution and it’s not, by any means.
When I was a student a ruling occurred in which I was forced to pay out-of-state tuition because of my status, even though I had lived in AZ most of my life, graduated high school here. This would triple my tuition and meant I would most likely have to drop out. I kept being faced with the fact that I didn’t belong within the institution, or upon this land. I never felt safe, I was always having to prove my worth, my standing, educate folks on my identity and it never made much of a difference. I felt this immense disregard in the studio so I stopped going, and I no longer was making fired works, as I didn’t have kiln access.
I did however find pockets of safety. This was with my community, with people facing the same realities as I. We didn’t have to educate each other on what it was we were experiencing, we just knew, there was a mutual understanding of who we were. We were resourceful, and dealt with the challenges, together. My practice began to reflect this. I began working with found materials, and utilizing whatever was accessible to me at the time and learned I didn’t need to make work reliant upon an institution, or the resources it granted me.
I’ve been witness to the ways my parents and community survived, how acts of resilience transpired into new languages, new modes of being. My practice reflected the beauty and complexities of these ecosystems of care that have and continue to hold us.  It felt and feels like an inheritance.

Two:
I graduated in 2020 when the pandemic hit, and transitioned out of my work role but of course still needed to make money, so I began doing Mexican food sales with my mom. In order to advertise the sales I would make fliers for them. I began a graphic design practice that I still tend to on a daily. At the time I didn’t view this as part of my practice or as art to be sincere. But now, I’m able to see it for what it truly was/is: the beginning of my own visual vernacular born of necessity, rooted in joy. Being able to cook with my mom, and share our offerings, was a gift. She’s one of my best friends. Making the fliers was the first time I was able to create without taking myself so seriously, it was fun and silly and taught me that I could experience this through other mediums/forms. I like to lead with this in mind.
Celebration is part of resistance, it’s necessary in fact.

Clay has been a longstanding medium in this history of art. How does it feel to be the next in line to use clay and add your voice to the stories that already exist in this medium?
Words often fail to describe what it feels like.
It feels like magic in many ways, like prayer, always. With clay I always think of the first truth I was told in regards to its materiality: clay has memory, it holds what we put into it and provides us with a physical reminder of who we were, are, and are working towards becoming. It is a connection to a deep history of the way people have and continue to record life. It’s a vessel for stories, worries, dreams; it’s a lot like the body, a vessel that allows for generations to communicate with one another. We’re able to pass down pieces of ourselves through clay.
Truthfully, I just want what I put out to be an accurate portrayal of the life being lived here now, for it to be remembered the way we are experiencing it, and for us to be remembered.

What is your process like for sculpting figurative subjects? Where do you draw reference and at what point does the story about the featured subject begin to take shape?
I’m a virgo moon so I like to go into the studio with a plan, or at least some idea of what I’m planning on making especially in regards to my figurative works. While I may come into the space with intentions of what will come out of it, I know and acknowledge, I’m not the one in control, and that is both comforting and affirming.

I use a lot of reference imagery; be it photos I’ve personally taken throughout my neighborhood, screenshots from tiktok of videos (for example LENTO, SUAVE, ABAJO I took screenshots from couples dancing at jaripeos), family photos, or images I’ve looked up based off memories, moments. I like to print them out and have them as a guide. And then I’ll make a sketch of what I’m trying to make, quite loosely. The stories of my forms are always alive to me because the stories live within me, through me, so I make them with the stories/intentions in mind. I think maybe when I begin to paint/glaze, it’s a bit more apparent. Their own personalities start to be present but truthfully, the stories are always there.

With clay it’s a dance, a push and pull; a process of surrendering to the material.

I always start with the feet, pretty big and thick, so they stand firmly upon this land. Then I go from there. I build quite quickly and usually will work on multiple pieces at once so that I can go back and forth, while the clay stiffens, in order to continue to add/build up. This is so I don’t get antsy and end up building a piece too fast, that it ends up collapsing. I like to keep my hands busy.

How was curating Down For Mines at Palabra? Were there any ideas or themes you were considering when bringing these artists together?
Being able to curate DFM #1 was extremely special to me in more ways than one.  Palabra, the space it was held at, is where I had my first solo show back in 2023, which marked a huge turning point for me as a maker, individual, but also as a community member. The show consisted of 23 folks within my immediate community, who are more like family to me. My parents actually collaborated on a piece for the show, because I asked them to be part of it. My dad drew a Nissan Pickup XE on an envelope, and then my mom wrote a prayer around it. I then went back in and put some rhinestones from the dollar store onto it. My seven year old nephew was also a part of the show <3 He’s my favorite artist, and to be able to support and uplift his creativity is a gift in itself but to be able to witness him speak to friends and family about his art is a feeling I’ll never forget.

It’s 23 artists because 23 as a number is extremely significant to me. My dad always writes Nostalgia 23, be it paper, his tools, stickers he has made; 23 has always been around me, so I try to make things in groups of 23.

When choosing and reaching out to folks, I didn’t provide them with a theme. I just asked if they were down, if they could drop off a piece, and that was it. They’re all my friends, people who have been within my community for years; all the works spoke to each other quite organically. The only marker needed really was that I love them as people.

What is your experience like as an artist living and working in Phoenix?
Sometimes it’s a little disheartening. But it’s also rooted me, and inspired me.
There isn’t much institutional support, funding, or spaces. I often feel a need to leave Phoenix, for more opportunity, and I will *at one point* but right now there’s a lot to be done here and there’s lots of beautiful and intentional work being done which fills me and excites me.
Many changes happening, many people with the same dreams and wishes; many making so much from what we do have.
I have a lot of hope for Phoenix, and its people, for our communities.
The landscape is changing constantly but I’m continuously reminded of how resilient we are; how even if we are forced out, the land knows us, remembers us and holds us.

Do you have any travel experiences that are formative to you as an individual or as an artist?
In 2023 I was able to go back home, to Mexico, since having migrated, through a program called advanced parole. Through DACA I don’t have the liberty of going back and forth (between the states and Mexico), or outside the states. I can only travel safely within the states, which is a huge privilege. With advanced parole, a DACA recipient is able to leave the country for three reasons (work, education, or humanitarian), it’s an extensive process and is costly, and also can be dangerous in that once you exit, you may not be granted a re-entrance.
I made it home, to Mexico safely, and back to Phoenix. I still think of this every day. It healed a lot in me but also broke me because I was able to experience my home, my family, where I come from, who I come from. And now I can’t just go back whenever I want. Unless I reapply, but right now it’s even less safe to leave.
I haven’t made work in relation to this, I don’t know if I will, but it changed me as an individual. And each day I’m still processing the way it has.
I miss home, everyday. But I’m grateful to have been able to witness how it’s been brought here, how both places are intertwined, how there’s threads that point me to home.
A braid of sorts.

How does your creative community now compare to your creative community when you were younger?
They’re similar in many ways.
They both feel expansive and regenerative, resilient and resourceful.
When I was younger my creative community was my friends; we expressed ourselves with what we had. Pen and lined paper, our clothes, the ways we tied our shoes, did our hair. It was a direct reflection of the environment we grew up within, the people we come from.
I also see my families, as my creative community, the families my parents established here. How they expressed themselves through gatherings, communion.
They are the same, actually.
We make with what we have. Nothing has changed, we just now have access to connect with more folks, to continue to build. Our resources have shifted but our intentions remain the same. 

How do you manage tending to the variety of responsibilities in the work you do? How do you mitigate burnout or exhaustion?
I’m still trying to find the balance. I take on a lot of weight and responsibility as a daughter, and community member; oftentimes it takes precedence over most things. I work multiple jobs and keep a consistent art practice.

I love my parents and am eternally grateful to be so close with them, for them to see me; so I do everything in my power to be there for them, to uplift them. I however, do often end up having to reach a point of burnout in order to give myself a break. I’m trying to be more cognizant though, and have more grace with myself. I want my practice to be sustainable, and for it to have longevity. But being an immigrant, a daughter, having DACA and all the baggage that comes with it, I have to take time to unlearn what I’ve been told my place/standing means; I’m not only a worker, a machine, I’m a person and that alone justifies my existence.

What’s your current studio or workspace like? Do you have any rituals when you settle in there?
I work out of two studios now.
I monitor the ceramics studio I was first introduced to clay through, and have studio access to make. And I now share a studio with my good friend (and what feels like a big sis <3) Samantha Vo, and we’re slowly finding our rhythm. It feels sacred here, so I’d rather keep this one to us.

The ceramics studio is a blessing, there’s so many resources, and materials, room to experiment, people to learn with; something I don’t take for granted in the slightest bit.

With clay making I try to come in with a list of things I plan on accomplishing. I don’t have many rituals for this space because it is shared, but I chill in my car for a bit before entering and I like to have my music ready or a podcast. I try to have grace with myself. And I set up slowly.

Are there any areas that you’re interested in exploring further in your work? Whether that be new mediums, processes, materials, etc.?
I’ve been thinking of the land, monuments, informal economies, timelines, preservation, communion, adornment, the past and the future, public space, sites for exchange, Maryvale always.

I’ve been thinking a lot of swap meets (both indoor and outdoor), mercados, sites for exchange and how to me they stand as monuments of our resilience. How they stand as informal economies that allow us to survive, monetarily but also in other ways. We go to swap meets for community, support, understanding, relief, joy, to dance, to cry, to feel safe.

With clay there is this idea that it can outlive me, us, so I always think of archives, what we make now and what it says about us, how it will be interpreted years beyond us.

I’m also exploring access and engagement to/with my work more and more. Who it is that gets to see my work, where it’s held, what is in my power to change this and how I plan to make my works accessible to the people who it’s truly for.

What do you collect?
Dollar store trinkets but only from the locally owned stores. I get material there like rhinestones, get fitted with hats that are bedazzled or embroidered, pinsas (hairclips), my studio aprons, lil bags to hold my trinkets, lip liner, deodorant from Mexico. I love the dollar store and I love supporting my community.

 

Portrait photographed by Antonio Salazar.
Fugation photographed by Jorge Ignacio Torres.
Other works photographed by Hannah Louise Koehler.
Interviewed by Luca Lotruglio.