Early this morning I wandered down to 6th Avenue and 17th Street to sit at one of my favorite murals - Himdag ‘o Wud T-gewkdag painted by Diety, Moxie, and Yukue. I’ve always been drawn to this mural because of the pink and purple sky, the airbrushed qualities, the desert scene, and the unforgettable face of Amy Juan. Her expression always makes me stop in my tracks.

So, to start my Mural Meditation series there seemed obvious.

I posted up across the street, and I sat.

The city started waking up; some stumblers, some teens, workers catching the bus. A woman with a backpack, a man in his shorty running shorts, a big guy with a tiny dog. 17th Street is being paved so as the sun came up the trucks started rumbling. Big aggregate haulers making lots of noise. And I sat.

At one point, I realized a camera was pointed at me, affixed to the mural. Watching. Seeing. Looking. I laughed at how surveillance has become such a thing these days, but started to consider how Amy’s eyes were also watching me. In that moment, I was able to remember that all our relatives are seeing us, observing how we move and what we do… the saguaros - young and old - the bats, the nopal, the cholla. They see us, too.

It’s easy to get caught up in believing we live in a human land, where everything is about us. Which is so obviously not the case when you can soften your gaze on objective ‘reality’. Amy may be looking at me, with that expression that makes me consider whether I’m acting in good faith or being a little bitchass… but so are the other beings around us.

So I get to start my Monday thankful for the reminder that I am, we are, but one species of many, with a niche to occupy, a way to act, a purpose. Art can do that for you if you let it.

Pato paints what matters to him, and he does the research to back it up. He doesn’t shy away from political or cultural themes—and frankly, I think that’s what public art should do. But too often, cities and institutions want the aesthetic of art without the ideas. They want color, not confrontation. That’s why I think this mural matters.

Let’s not forget Diego Rivera’s Detroit Industry Murals, painted in the middle of the Great Depression. A Mexican Marxist depicting American factory workers in the heart of the Motor City? That was a bold move—funded by the Ford family, no less. The mural stirred controversy then and still sparks conversation today. It’s a reminder that powerful art doesn’t happen by accident. It happens when people in charge say yes, even when the content might challenge the status quo.

The University of Arizona’s School of Journalism gave Pato the go-ahead to make something real. And he delivered.

The mural, splashed across a long hallway inside the school, pulses with saturated pinks, purples, and blues. Barrel cacti glow in neon hues. Saguaros double as antennas, broadcasting symbols in electric bolts and glowing icons. One holds a vintage camera. Old-school televisions float across the sky, showing scenes from the moon landing and a mission to Mars.

In the center of the piece is a striking black typewriter. A scorched piece of paper emerges from its rollers, bearing a powerful message in four languages:

• S-wohocudag (O’odham)

• Lutu’uria (Yaqui)

• Verdad (Spanish)

• Truth (English)

These aren’t just translations. They’re reminders of whose truths get told—and whose get erased.

Blood stains mark the typewriter’s keys—specifically those that spell “truth.” But look closer at the letter strikes and you’ll see “LOVE.” Above the spools, a quiet desert vignette: a saguaro silhouetted on a hill, printed in gray on black.

Pato’s visual language is deeply rooted. His murals often feature braids, hands, hummingbirds, and references to O’odham and Yaqui culture. This one includes a floating head—braided and poised—wrapped in a green visor of data, maps, graphs, and university logos. The Man in the Maze ties off the end of one braid, threading tradition into the future.

I saw the early mock-up before he started painting, and I was already excited. But the finished mural is more layered and detailed than I expected. Honestly, it deserves a wall outdoors, where the whole city can see it.

And that brings me back to my original point: municipalities need to be brave. If cities want to support the arts, they have to support artists with a point of view. Political art isn’t a threat—it’s a pulse check. It tells us who we are and where we’re headed.

Tucson, are you listening?

Check out more of Pato Aguilar’s work on instagram: @patoaguilarart