Eric Romero
Behold Your Mother, At the beginning and the end of every life, there is one word we return to: Mother. She does not know them all, but they know her. Hands upon her shoulders, guiding her forward, asking her to become what they already were: strong, fearless, brave. A warrior without ever needing the title. When she steps forward, a thousand feet move behind her. When she raises her head, she sees a future brighter than the one left to her. Women of the tierra, of adobe and acequias, anointed by water, blessed by the sun. They give us life. They teach us prayer. They show us the light. They shaped our world with wooden spoons and tired hands,
with rosaries between their fingers, with quiet strength passed from hand to hand, shaping us for the fire. My mother. My tias. My primas. Mi hija. Their word was never questioned. Their strength was never announced. It simply was. And everything I know of strength was placed in my hands by theirs. Before you speak of where we come from, before you speak of what made us strong, behold your mother.
On the Cover A Thousand Mothers Behind Her Oil on canvas 60" h x 48" w
Romero’s bold ERIC ROMERO
What do Renaissance symbolism, cultural colonization, and family values have in common? In the hands of oil painter Eric Romero, they all become defining elements of a unique artistic vision that celebrates Hispanic culture as a vital expression of New Mexico’s storied past and promising future. Using vibrant colors and classical painting techniques, Romero blends religious iconography, Renaissance motifs, and pop culture as he pays homage to the ordinary people whose resilience and indefatigable spirit have informed local cultures for centuries. His latest series of paintings, “Querencia,” speaks to the driving force behind his own life and work. An untranslatable Spanish word, “querencia” refers to a sanctuary where one feels safe, supported, at home, and able to be one’s authentic self. Those feelings suffuse this new work as he blends cultural signposts and visual metaphors into a celebration of family, heritage, and tradition, subtly referencing colonization and religious syncretism along the way. Romero is proud of his Hispanic roots and his New Mexico home, such that his subjects, which range from church to family to the state’s car culture, are portrayed with humor, respect, and pride. “My work deals with my lived experience,” the artist explains, “and I paint people whom I admire.
colors, endearing vignettes, and clear-eyed optimism combine to bring us a message of pride and appreciation for our shared humanity ...
I incorporate elements of Greek mythology and urban folklore into the work as well. I feel like the more vulnerable I get with my painting, the more universal it becomes.” We see this in paintings such as Route of Tomorrow, where Romero shows his young daughter leaning out of the window of a Chevrolet El Camino, while behind her we see a coyote fence, a neon motel sign, and a highway marker for Route 66. “The painting is about seeing the new generation becoming the caretakers of culture, about seeing themselves in a position to learn, to grow, to embrace the obligations of tradition and heritage,” he says. Another painting, A Thousand Mothers Behind Her, features an older woman (Romero’s mother) and a young girl (his daughter) and honors the matriarchal nature of Hispanic culture. “It dispels the myth of the machismo/toxic masculinity while honoring the women who shape, nurture, and perpetuate the culture,” Romero says. “It’s a testament to the enduring power of womanhood, paying homage to the wisdom and enduring love of our mothers.” In Las Fridas, where he presents his wife and daughter dressed as Frida Kahlo, he explores the impact one woman can have on a universal level. “People worldwide can see the power that comes through vulnerability,” Romero points out. “It speaks to the cross-cultural influence, seeing that acceptance of our humanity is the only way to realize we are more powerful with faults than without them.” Romero’s bold colors, endearing vignettes, and clear-eyed optimism combine to bring us a message of pride and appreciation for our shared humanity as glimpsed through the lens of family, tradition, and multiculturalism.
Las Fridas Oil on canvas 40" h x 30" w
As one woman laid down for her final rest, millions stood up. She spoke without words. We learned to hear her voice through color, through blood, through symbols loud enough to wake the deepest sleep. Pain became a medium. Vulnerability became strength. Suffering became creation. A mother with no children gave birth to a movement. She painted herself because no one else could tell her story. She created without divinity, yet what she made was holy. Las Fridas are her children. Born from pain. Raised by color. Still carrying her voice. They carry her flowers. They wear her nails. They inherit the broken places and refuse to hide them. They know her struggle because they live it. They paint it. They wear it. They become it. And long after her eyes closed, her daughters see themselves through her vision.
Keep your eyes on the road, little one. Go get me a 9/16. Hold the light steady. Mira. See yourself for what you can become. Imagine what you can do. Pray for the time to do it. Here are the keys, mija. Take care of what you have. It is all we have. Repair what was broken. You have the tools. Make it your own. All I can give you is what my dad gave me. Purpose. So work for it. The time, the love, the stories, the hands that taught yours what to do. Toma. Take my gloves that were my dads. Take what was given to you, mija, and make something worthy of being given again. Tomorrow, go your own Route.
Route of Tomorrow Oil on canvas 28" h x 76" w
The Prayer of the Dance Oil on canvas 30" h x 24" w
Those who sleep can still hear the rhythm. It lives in the earth, in the mountains, in the deserts, in the river. It travels through generations, carried by feet that remember what the mind sometimes forgets. From every direction they come, gathering beneath the sunlight, not only to dance, but to remember. The cross is a heavy burden to carry when dancing. Heavier still when it is given to you rather than chosen. Yet she carries it as He did, not for what they did. With every step, the weight becomes part of the rhythm. The dance was already here. The prayers were already here. Then came new old rhythms, new old steps. Traditions reshaped by time, faith, migration, and memory. What appears new is often something ancient finding another way to survive. She dances for those who could not. She dances for those whose feet moved before hers, for the generations whose names may be forgotten but whose rhythm remains. She dances for famila. For faith. For La Gente. She dances for those who carried a cross. Her body becomes a bridge between what was and what will be. Each step becomes an offering. Each turn becomes tradition. Her Prayer is seen, her cross is carried, her people remember.
I thought the fence was only a fence. Wood buried in the earth, wire holding the horizon together, the old world leaning against the new. I passed it as a boy without knowing I was passing through someone else’s hands. My grandfather is gone. I don’t remember his voice.
But the farm remembers. His hands are still here, buried beneath the posts. I became a father and learned the old language work, patience, repair. Now I look at that fence and understand.
A Lifetime Along the Fence Line Oil on canvas 36" h x 24" w
The Way Home Oil on canvas 30" h x 24" w
The anticipation of home. Almost there. Painted skies light the way as the rosary sways from side to side. The desert stretches beside me, its sands moving like an ocean. A reflection of what once was crosses my view. Before the endless red lights, before that first breath of release, I imagine walking this land. I can almost hear the leather of a saddle, hear the loudness of the silence, remembering a place I have been before. I know when I see it. My chest loosens. I take a long, deep breath. I am home before I ever reach the door, before the wheels stop turning. This is The Way Home
My lungs demand less of me than the canvas does. It calls when I sleep. Even in dreams, the unfinished work waits. She is coming. I see her in every museum, in the shadows of every gallery, and I escape to the studio. Brushstroke by brushstroke, I keep the darkness away. Life is short. Eyes watch. Strangers speak. Their words become noise against the silence of the canvas. I give my body to work. My mind. My sleep. Everything my heart can surrender. She waits. I cannot afford to. Roses wither. But not here. Here, they bloom beyond me. My body will end. The painting does not have to. Art is long. Ars Longa, Vita Brevis (Life is Short, Art is Long) Oil on canvas 30" h x 30" w
The sun sets as quick as it can, while the moon waits impatiently for one last embrace. For only a moment they meet, day touching night, a last kiss until tomorrow. The mountains blush pink, the sky burns orange, and the cholla sings with the last light before we fall into deep blue. The earth has witnessed this love since the beginning, an endless parting and an endless return. The dance never grows old. When you love that deeply, even goodbye is beautiful.
Last Kiss Oil on canvas 36" h x 36" w
This painting speaks to the memory of work. The kind of work that lives in the hands and back long after the day is done. In many communities tied to the land, labor was never romantic. It was survival. It was discipline. It meant waking early, doing the job right, and returning to it again the next day. The horse skull sits like a witness to that history. Horses carried generations through long days of labor, through faith, and through the responsibility of tending land that did not always give back easily. Around it rest the tools of work, gloves worn from use, twine coiled like the repetition of daily labor. Nothing is decorative. Everything is purpose. The painting reflects an inheritance shaped by work. Not wealth or property, but the values passed down through labor: discipline, responsibility, and faith. In this way, work becomes more than survival. It becomes memory, devotion, and a quiet affirmation of heritage. Twine that Binds Oil on canvas 15" h x 30" w
She could not stop the cross. So she stood beneath it. A mother watching the world take what she loved. Her heart was pierced, but did not stop beating. Seven swords entered her heart. Still, Her arms remain open. A mother’s love.
Mater Dolorosa (Our Lady of Sorrows) Oil on canvas 76" h x 28" w
Chola Lisa Oil on canvas 40" h x 32" w
We don’t follow fashion, We carry Legacy. Hairnets worn like crowns, paños low on the brow, creases so sharp they can cut. We don’t smile for photos, We stare through them. Our ancestors never had the luxury of grinning. Holding eye contact for respect and as a warning. We keep it clean even though we come from the desert. We are not a trend, we are memory. Classic as the cars we drive. Iconic as the Montañas, familiar as the Adobe. Cultura never ages.
Sabio Pendejo (Wise Fool) Oil on canvas 30" h x 24" w
The Painter works on the shoulders of those who have created before, Birds leave the nest, fruit falls from the tree, In the pages of the dead, immortality is found, Read, listen, ask, repeat, then perish, dejar una marca. The unseen becomes what is viewed, Whispers of the past guide the hand, Silent echoes. As wisdom from the ancestors expands. The wide fool guards the sacred process, in the same vein, we nurture the Cultura. There is no retirement from the blessing/ curse, when we die our hand stops, but the creation lives on.
1912 Chimayo Red, oil on canvas, 10" h x 10" w
1912 Sandia Green, oil on canvas, 10" h x 10" w
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