Jonathan Yubi’s work merges history, identity, and labor, charged with energy that refuses easy answers. His paintings go beyond imagery, questioning the foundational myths of America. "Washington's Crew Crossing Delaware River St." critiques the American hero myth, peeling back its surface to reveal the human struggle. "Una Historia Gringa" tackles racial tension, using a construction crew defeating a Klansman to intertwine his family’s immigrant history.
"Atomized History of Whiskey and Rebellion" connects centuries of rebellion, from the Whiskey Rebellion to the Capitol attack, showing that these struggles are ongoing. "Perils of Mismanagement" addresses the disconnect in immigration policy, highlighting the divide between public perception and the reality faced by those caught in the system.
Yubi’s work underscores that history and identity are complex and often painful. His paintings don’t offer comfort; they push us to engage, reflect, and reconsider the narratives we’ve been given.
Q: Your work is deeply rooted in historical narratives, often reimagining foundational American myths. What draws you to this particular approach?
A: There is power in storytelling. A fantastic book on storytelling by Salman Rushdie, Haroun and the Sea of Stories, asks, “What’s the use of stories that aren’t even true?” That’s where my approach to some of these foundational American myths germinates. What’s the use of some of our stories? Next year is the semiquincentennial of the United States. Which story of America are we celebrating? Which vision of America has emerged in the twenty-first century? This line of questioning attracts me to the narratives I create—an understanding that shared mythology is what makes a society function.
Q: The figures in your paintings are often construction workers, depicted with both contemporary and historical tools. How did you arrive at this symbolism, and what does it mean to you?
A: It started with an Intro to Photography class at Lehman College. One of the assignments took me to Jerome Avenue during the Jerome Avenue Rezoning, so there was a heavy concentration of construction sites along a stretch of the avenue. I began photographing the workers. There was one crew in particular that was re-asphalting one of the streets. It was almost as if they were posing for some pre-Renaissance-era painting. Those photo assignments transitioned into painting during my thesis work. I wasn’t aware of the significance of painting these workers or the stories they might tell until I submitted a painting to LaborArts, an art contest sponsored by the CUNY School of Labor and Urban Studies. That’s when the proverbial floodgates opened.
The spears I painted in the hands of these laborers happened to be the common weapon of a levy. Construction site hard hats are color-coded to differentiate “class” and profession: white for foremen and managers, yellow for laborers. The reflective safety vests worn by construction workers, delivery drivers, and all manner of laborers are a reflection of the sans-culottes. These symbols have slowly developed and morphed throughout each painting.
Q: Your "Work I(s/n) Progress" series draws inspiration from the Works Progress Administration. What parallels do you see between that era and today’s labor landscape?
A: I turned my wheels in place for a good bit trying to intelligently share my thoughts—I whiffed it. Please pass on this question.
Q: "Una historia gringa" reflects themes of resistance and immigration. How do your personal experiences and perspectives shape these narratives?
A: Una historia gringa depicts a construction crew on the tracks of 86th Street Station in Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Two workers gore a Klansman, a third holds his hood, and others brandish pikes. Two flags wave gallantly—one representing the motherland, the other the fatherland. This scene of triumph also serves as a biographical work, presenting four stories of immigration from my family’s history.
The 86th Street Station symbolizes my parents' emigration from Ecuador in 1986. My stepfather’s immigration to Brooklyn from Puerto Rico is represented by 1901, the start of a series of Supreme Court cases on America’s unincorporated territories—a date tattooed on the knuckles of the gored Klansman. I came of age in the Florida Panhandle, constructing an identity against the backdrop of a region with a deep history of racial and class division. This is illustrated by the machinery surrounding the workers and the cross in the background.
I grew up in the Florida Panhandle. Most of the people in my parents’ orbit were undocumented laborers. The women worked as housekeepers and the men in construction. My mother cleaned houses, hospitals, and hotels for nearly two decades. It’s a lie to say that there’s a linear trajectory from my childhood experiences to the compositions I create. But surely, the work would be different without those experiences.
It’s a continuous journey to patch together my experiences with the stories I tell.
Q: In "Atomized History of Whiskey and Rebellion," you explore themes of rebellion and resistance across different moments in American history. How do you use artistic composition to connect these past and present struggles?
A: I don’t start a painting with a narrative already established—or when I do, that seldom ends up being the story. The canvas for Atomized History of Whiskey and Rebellion had sat unfinished since 2021. It depicted three construction workers on a train station platform: one holding a MAGA flag, another stepping on it, and a third looking on. It seemed too obvious—like an ’80s-era anti-drug commercial, “Crack is Wack”—so it sat unfinished.
In 2024, I began honing in on what this body of work means and how important it is to tie into America’s semiquincentennial. I was going through a book on uprisings and rebellions during post-Revolution America and settled on the Whiskey Rebellion. I worked backward to find a common thread between 18th-century back-country farmers and a mob of pro-Trump insurrectionists attacking our nation’s Capitol.
Q: "Perils of Mismanagement" addresses the relationship between political figures and immigration policies. How do you navigate creating art that is both personal and politically charged?
A: Perils of Mismanagement developed in response to the back-and-forth between Eric Adams and Greg Abbott. From August 2022 to January 2024, thirty-seven thousand migrants have been bussed from Texas to New York. What does this number mean?
As Brent Dykes wrote, “Without the right context and explanation, [facts] can easily be misunderstood, forgotten, or dismissed.” That’s what my paintings are—they’re the context and explanation. The local news in a globalized world.
Q: Your compositions are often dense with figures, movement, and symbolism. What is your process when constructing a scene, and how do you balance history with storytelling?
A: I don’t start a painting with a narrative already established—or when I do, that seldom ends up being the story. The scenes are also built piecemeal. I rarely build my compositions all at once. After painting the main figure and a few secondary figures, I start filling in the space with machinery, medieval weaponry, and other accouterments.
A lot of my studio time is spent reading through books. It’s usually those books that establish the framework through which I interpret the painting as it forms, and I use that to guide the work to its finality. I like that you used “dense” to describe the work. I think that describes so many facets of my practice very well. “Dynamic” isn’t a word I strive for when describing movement—I prefer “stiff.” Think Ancient Egyptian versus Hellenistic. Stiff movement describes me more than dynamic, and so it makes sense that it bleeds through in the work.
Q: What’s next for you? Are there any new directions you’re exploring in your work?
A: I recently returned from Mexico City after the Apapacho Residency. My time there was spent researching the Mexican-American relationship. It’s such an odd story—I think historically, we see culture as a one-way road, flowing from the U.S. to Mexico and South America. I’ve been working on incorporating this into my current body of work, Work I(s/n) Progress.
Otherwise, it’ll be what I explore next after Work I(s/n) Progress reaches its conclusion after the semiquincentennial in 2026.