Guadalupe Maravilla has endured various illnesses throughout his life. None without cause or consequence. But it's better to say that this doesn't matter, and that Maravilla, a 49-year-old Salvadoran—artist, immigrant, cancer survivor, healer, and more—is defined by what he has made of himself. His work and his life are a narrative that unfolds between a war, an exile, and a cancer that would have had to happen to him for him to be the healing artist he is today.
Maravilla's work is in the permanent collections of the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA), the Whitney Museum, and the ICA Miami; he has exhibited intermittently around the world. His major work, however, is not on display. It has been performed and occurs since 2019 in rituals, workshops, and sound baths. He began at El Clemente, a cultural center in New York City open to undocumented immigrants. He taught meditation. He invited experts to offer ways to heal the body, spirit, and mind. Much later, he continued to do so at a Lutheran church in Brooklyn.
At the beginning of his story, Guadalupe wasn't Guadalupe, nor was he an immigrant. His name was Irvin Morazán, and he was four years old during the Salvadoran Civil War. He was also four when his father crossed the border, and then six when his mother followed him. He was left alone. Two years later, he would cross the border at Tijuana at the hands of coyotes. And so began the life of someone who would become another immigrant.
In the United States, Guadalupe experienced the trials and tribulations of an undocumented person. At 20, he told himself something wasn't right and began meditating. He studied art, but it didn't completely save him. At 35, he suffered from colon cancer.
She has said that cancer was a blessing. Through the illness, she learned to look into her spirit. The day she was cured, she changed her name: Guadalupe, in honor of the Virgin Mary, whose day is celebrated on her birthday; and Maravilla, because it was the surname her father took after recovering from alcoholism.
Question: You say that cancer is a consequence of your migration experience.
Answer: I discovered, during ceremonies, that my cancer came from being involved in a war. In many indigenous cultures, they try to heal the spirit before the body. And I saw that I had that trauma. The undocumented community is going through the same thing I went through 30 years ago. They're arriving here in New York right now and trying to survive. The trauma comes much later.
P. Trauma brews over time.
A. Exactly, they're not thinking about that. When I started these workshops at Clemente, they started meditating and doing all this work. They paid attention, they wrote notes. They wanted to heal. It was very beautiful. But then the pandemic started.
Q. How did they do it then?
A. The entire undocumented community lost their jobs. So I took a stimulus check that the government sent to all residents and divided it up. I gave it to four families and posted it on Instagram: "I'm doing this, in case anyone can help." I thought I'd get a little extra money to share, but in six months, a total of $80,000 arrived. People I didn't even know called me. And I said, wow, how strange is this position I'm in as an artist, right?
Q. How did you come to Juan Carlos Ruiz's church?
A woman told me there was a pastor in Brooklyn who was feeding 600 people a day and needed help because no one wanted to leave their homes. So I got involved.
Q: And how did you start doing these sound rituals in the church?
A: I felt comfortable with him. I had read an article during the pandemic about Ruiz, called The Renegade Priest. And he says he was undocumented. He was a pastor from Central America, one of those revolutionaries who always helped the people. After being there for a month distributing food, he asked me what I was doing. I told him what I was doing at the Clemente, and he said, “Put that box on the floor and start healing all the people here.” I brought my gongs, my instruments, and started doing the ceremonies. At that time, ICE was releasing detained migrants because it was overwhelmed. Migrants started coming to the church and going to the ceremonies, every Saturday for four years.
Q. How did you handle the arrival of Donald Trump?
A. I stopped the ceremonies. The day before Trump's inauguration, I told them it would be the last one for a while. I can't imagine a ceremony, 60 undocumented people, and ICE arriving.
Q. It doesn't look like things are going to change in the near future. Have you thought about a plan B?
A: For me, the strategy is: I'm going to stop and think, and I'm not going to put anyone in danger. If I don't have that plan, I'm not going to do anything. I don't want any chance of anything happening to them.
Q. How did you create that connection so that participants stayed and felt that sound could help them?
A. Whenever I tell them where I come from, what I've been through, they open up more. That's when they connect with me.
Q. Your story is connection.
A. Yes, immediately. I once taught art classes at a detention center. There were children ages 12 to 18. The people who worked there warned me that they might not listen to me because they weren't. Within two minutes, they were hugging me and talking to me. Afterward, we did a performance. People couldn't understand how I won them over. But I have the same story.
Q. Where else have you performed rituals?
A. I've performed ceremonies all over the world. In Korea, Brazil, Australia, France, everywhere. And people have felt the same. Because we're 60%-70% water. And when the vibration reaches the body, the water moves and you feel it. I noticed, when I was sick, that all the healers or shamans always used sound. Drums, someone's singing, any instrument. There was always a sound with the ritual. And that state is universal throughout the world.