Antonio Lapierre

To you who reads this,

I’m Antonio Lapierre — I’m from Los Cabos, and I make things that try to hold a little bit of wonder. I don’t write this as an artist on a pedestal; I write it as a person who found, by accident and stubbornness, a way to turn memory and play into something people can step inside.

I learned at my hands. I learned from cutting, fixing, failing, and fixing again. I learned from Roger Lapierre, who taught me patience and the quiet pride of making by hand. He wasn’t a teacher in a school — he was the kind of master who shows you how to care for a thing until it becomes better than it began. His voice sits in my work.

My puppets grew out of that practice. At first they were experiments — papier-mâché heads, clumsy frames, wild ideas. The first time I climbed inside one of my own mojigangas, something changed: hidden inside that large shell, I felt how people’s faces opened. Laughter, surprise, tears — the puppet only truly lived when a person gave it motion and heart. That moment taught me that my work is not sculpture alone; it is a place for humans to become story.

I make Catrinas, Catrines, wedding figures, and characters who walk in parades and rest in hotel lobbies. I make them to honor tradition and to invite celebration. Each piece carries color, memory, and a little mischief — the way our lives do. I try to make them light enough to wear, strong enough to travel, and honest enough to hold a moment that people will remember.

My studio in Los Cabos is a small noisy laboratory of glue, paint, and conversation. I keep experimenting — lighter frames, truer expressions, easier movement — because every improvement is a way to give a better performance to the person who will wear the puppet and to the people who will watch.

If there is one thing I believe, it is this: art is finished when it meets people. Until then it is only possibility. When someone puts on a puppet and steps into the light, we all breathe together.

With gratitude,
— Antonio Lapierre