A look at the evolution of the Mexican artist’s practice and his personal reflections on contemporary art. Throughout his career, Mario García Torres has transitioned from conceptual and post-minimalist work to a more introspective and emotional approach—one that embraces personal experiences and the language of pop culture. In his words, we gain insight into how the search for relevance and authenticity has shaped his artistic journey.

You’ve described your work as conceptual and post-minimalist, but recently you’ve spoken of a more emotional and personal approach. What prompted that shift?
Conceptual art gave me a way to legitimize my practice when I was starting out. I thought intellectualism would help my work be seen as important. I was trying to convey ideas that I thought were relevant to society—but over time, I realized that approach was somewhat naïve. Society is far more complex, and my views don’t always align with everyone else’s. Eventually, I loosened my grip on the message and started exploring spaces where I had less control over what I was trying to say. That shift has been difficult but also incredibly liberating.

Your work often deals with the relationship between art, history, and memory. What specific moments have you explored, and how do you reinterpret them into new narratives?
I’ve investigated overlooked moments in art history. One example is a project about a hotel in Kabul once owned by the Italian artist Alighiero Boetti in the 1970s. I found out it had been destroyed, which deepened my interest in Afghanistan’s context and in the idea of an artist as a hotelier. That research lasted almost seven years. Another project focused on a failed attempt to build a Guggenheim museum in Jalisco in the early 2000s, which also became a source of inspiration.

What themes are driving your work today?
As I’ve leaned into emotional territory, I’ve become more drawn to pop culture than to art history alone. I want my work to reach a broader audience—people who may not know much about art but can still connect with the ideas. Lately, I’ve been exploring phenomena like viral videos, not for their content, but for how they resonate with people and become meaningful in unexpected ways.

How do you invite open interpretation from viewers when dealing with abstract ideas? What strategies do you use to convey those messages?
The dominant narrative of neoliberal success and constant progress is very limited. I’m more interested in reframing everyday life and failure from a different lens. In Mexico, we often strive to “catch up” with developed countries, but maybe we should be questioning that desire altogether.

These ideas are part of my work. In the piece about Edgar falling into a river—the viral video—I wanted to explore why we laugh at that moment. I think it deserves more reflection. Our reactions to these everyday events can say a lot about who we are.

What led you to create Cositas?
The invitation came from Arte Abierto. I was a bit apprehensive about how my work would land in a commercial space where visitors—many of whom don’t have an art background—are surrounded by visual distractions. I wondered if I could offer something meaningful to that kind of audience. That’s when I decided to rethink pop culture, especially in a Mexican context.

I saw potential in exploring themes like the Edgar video or viral cat memes. They reflect a specific cultural subjectivity that I felt was worth addressing.

Where does the name Cositas come from?
In the ’90s, musicians were always being asked about their next big thing. When Verónica Castro asked Luis Miguel what he was working on, he’d say, se vienen cositas—“little things are coming.” I found that vague promise interesting.

I wanted the audience to see these “little things” as ideas that once lived in my head and were now made physical. It may seem trivial, but I’m intrigued by how fleeting impressions and illusions can be transformed into something tangible and emotionally resonant.

Why did you incorporate Casper into Cositas? What does the character represent in your work?
Casper is fascinating. He’s not like other ghosts—he’s the outsider, the one who doesn’t fit in. That resonates with me and with the kind of art I want to make.

By using a public domain character like Casper, my work becomes part of a larger narrative—something that can evolve beyond me. Ghosts, in general, represent the things that haunt us: our doubts, illusions, and unresolved emotions. If we can engage with these “ghosts,” maybe we can start to understand and accept what worries us.

Your piece Falling Together in Time seems to question our perception of reality. How did that project take shape?
The central narrative of this piece revolves around Van Halen’s song “Jump.” It began while I was writing a script that sought to connect seemingly unrelated elements. I noticed a curious pattern—many bands achieve their greatest success just before breaking up—and saw how fans often interpret every detail of their lives as containing hidden meaning.

Through online forums, I started to notice recurring coincidences and patterns. That’s when the work shifted its focus—not toward the idea of liminal space, but toward those subliminal messages. In searching for a philosophical framework, I uncovered unexpected links to pop culture, revealing how knowledge and ideas are constantly intertwined, reshaped, and reinterpreted in our everyday lives.

How did you select the works for Walking Together, the traveling exhibition in Mexico City?
Curator Sofía Hernández and I initially designed the show for a fictional museum in the desert of Coahuila. We never installed it there, but that idea became the foundation for what we showed in Mexico City. We adapted the notion of the desert to the urban landscape, using Museo Tamayo as a starting point and expanding the show across different parts of the city.

In your Solo project, you transformed the idea of an artist’s studio into a museum space closed to the public. How did that develop?
During the pandemic, museums became these clean, empty places—almost meditative in their stillness. I proposed private 45-minute visits to several institutions. We opened Museo Anahuacalli and Casa Azul to the public that way.

When I suggested the project Museos Uno en Uno to Museo Jumex, they couldn’t participate due to some policies, but they offered me a solo exhibition. That show became a way to keep artistic activity alive while adapting to new constraints.

What are you focused on right now?
I begin each project without knowing exactly where it will go. I follow a curiosity that sometimes doesn’t make logical sense. For me, painting is as meaningful as any other daily action. It’s a way of knowing myself—of tending to needs that don’t always have a rational explanation.

Art, I believe, communicates ideas precisely because it doesn’t need to serve a purpose. I’m interested in vulnerability, uncertainty, and putting myself to the test through that process.

Where do you think conceptual art is heading?
Some say conceptual art is dead, but I don’t think they fully grasp its impact. It was the last true avant-garde, born to reject what came before. Today, change is faster, and flexibility is key. Discussions around gender, for example, have made the field more fluid—and that’s exciting.

Conceptual art may no longer dominate the scene, but its tools and ideas still help us interpret what’s happening now. It’s not just an aesthetic—it’s a way of thinking.

What role do you see yourself playing in that evolution?
That’s something I ask myself constantly. As art grows from me, it also transforms me. My goal is to stay present in the conversation.

In the past, artists were seen as isolated from society. I don’t want that. I want to be part of the cultural dialogue. I’m not looking to stand out—I’d rather the work speak for itself.

How did the Gorrita Azul Awards come about, and what were you trying to achieve with them?
They started by accident. I was running an Instagram meme account to promote an art logistics company, but the memes ended up generating more attention than the business.

That account became a place to talk about art in Mexico and Latin America—it built a small community. At one point, I jokingly posted about creating an award for the best exhibitions of the year. It stuck. We came up with real categories, evaluated shows in different contexts—from big museums to alternative spaces—and made it official. What began as a joke turned into the Gorrita Azul Awards.

Photos: Courtesy of Ramiro Chaves and HOTBOOK

Quick Questions
Strangest place you’ve found inspiration?
The shower.

If your art could speak, what would it say about you?
“See you later.”

Worst piece of advice you’ve ever received about art?
“Enjoy it while it lasts.” Sadly, it’s also accurate.

A work you didn’t expect much from, but people loved?
Open Letter to Dr. Atl.

If your creative process were a drink, what would it be?
Sotol—because it’s tough, precise, and from the north of Mexico.

Craziest art-world gossip you’ve heard?
The wildest stories always involve Jeff Koons and Richard Prince—those guys get into serious legal drama.

What inspires you more: memes or songs?
Songs.

Do memes imitate reality, or does reality imitate memes?
Memes imitate reality.

Favorite way to unwind after work?
Cooking.

One thing your studio can’t live without?
Silence.

Weirdest dream you’ve ever had?
I don’t dream.

If your art were a song, what genre would it be?
Ranchera.

If your life were a reggaeton track, which one would it be?
“Gasolina.”

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Interview: Isabel Flores

Photos: Courtesy of Ramiro Chaves