This drawing, An Ill Wind, is modeled after an unspecified AP/El Salvador presidential press office’s photograph. The work expands on a photograph taken of the over 260 Venezuelan and El Salvadorian immigrant men packed into a holding center in El Salvador. They seem to be bowed by a harsh wind. They were deported after being accused of gang membership without evidence of their gang affiliation or due process of law and in direct opposition to a Federal Judge’s clear order to return them all to the States. Apparently the main “evidence” that ICE relied on to establish their “gang affiliation” was the fact that these fellows have body tattoos.

Donald Trump has claimed that the USA is at war with Ten De Aragua, a serious Venezuelan gang. Trump describes the deported individuals as terrorists that are part of an “invading force.” He has invoked the Alien Enemies Act. These men have been incarcerated in the infamous ECOT prison, the so-called Terrorism Confinement Center in Tecoluca, El Salvador. At this time their fate is uncertain.

The president of El Salvador, Nayib Buckle recently stated that he would be willing to receive and indefinitely detain deported US citizens in this same facility.

An ill wind
ano yes 3/25/25 

About all this: And just how exactly does this apply to my stated focus, “Ripeness is All? So far my daily offerings have included older personal materials; writings, drawings and memories brought forward and enlarged upon in the present moment. Perhaps the work has served as a kind of balm. A kind of  hopeful, stubborn distraction. However, given the current climate and how fast our country’s situation is in fact devolving, everything, including time, feels like it’s escalating, spinning out way too fast. Allow me here to remember March 15th. The day the actual deportation of these migrant men began. So far they have endured 12 days in that nightmarish facility in El Salvador. I’m very sure those 12 days are, to them, as years. We can imagine how that must feel, saturated in the stinking fear of being forgotten. I am compelled to bring their plight somehow to the surface of consciousness for myself – for us. As I color each head, rub bright pigment into the paper with my fingers, I pray, stay alive! I shape the bent shoulder and feel the plastic tie dig into a hidden wrist?  Pray, You are NOT alone! And as tears and prayers soak the pristine masks…waiting..what’s next? Pray…You are not forgotten!

and somehow bring comfort
catching hold of any bowed sufferer
because
this weird, brittle fire
and  terrible wind that drives it
touches  us all.