My friend pointed out to me, when we walked in the small gallery, that what I thought was the titular snake, in the exhibition “One of My Fingers is a Snake,” was, in fact, a human colon. The exhibition at SITUATIONS in New York featured the sculpture of Bolivian-born, Mexico City-based artist, Andrés Bedoya. In this subtle, smart, and challenging show, the artist explored what it is to revere, to hold something or someone in one’s heart, as sacred. This was done through playing with the Catholic tradition of ex-voto.

        For the uninitiated, ex-voto is a shortened form of the Latin phrase, ex voto suscepto, “from the vow made.” A votive offering is when, in a moment of faith or hope or crisis, one leaves an offering at a place of worship, praying for grace, or some sort of favor from God, often through the intercession of a saint. This act is one often sees in movies; a person in need enters a church, finds an altar, kneels, prays, and lights a votive candle—the short thick candles one may use at home come from this tradition.

        Beyond the simple votive candle, there are two votive traditions that Bedoya is evoking in his exhibition, Retablo and Milagro. Retablos are small devotional paintings that depict a holy figure or that quite often employ images and text to depict a scenario for which the devoted is making said offering. Milagros are very much the same idea, but rather than paintings, Milagros are sculptural depictions of objects—most frequently body parts that represent a situation for which one is praying. Sometimes a Milagro is a life-size wax sculpture. The style of Milagros that Bedoya is primarily using in this body of work are more akin to small metal charms.

        Five of the seven works in the exhibition consisted of a selection of Milagros attached to antique mirrors. The mirrors were fairly small—they could easily fit in most any home. The use of antique mirrors was a smart choice in that it evokes the tin on which traditional Retablos are commonly made. These mirrors had worn edges and some of the reflective silver was spotty, tarnished, or missing.

        One of these mirrors, Looking Glass V, was adorned with a small crescent moon made of silver. Then in bronze, there were tiny, and, excuse the pun, charming depictions of:

        A candle tipped over onto its side and yet still burning.

        A coiled snake with a protruding bifurcated tongue.

        A pair of lips holding the last bit of a burning cigarette.

        Two amoeba-like shapes that to me suggest something like the splitting of a cell, but at the same time, a distorted pair of eyes.

        As is the experience of seeing an accumulation of ex-voto left at a place of worship, each of these ex-votos is its own tiny mystery—but then collectively, they tell a larger story that potentially reveals something about the viewer and (dare I say?) their relationship to faith. The artist plays with this phenomenon throughout the gallery. As one looks at the individual Milagros that populate the Retablos, a narrative begins to form. A viewer catches glimpses of their self in the antique glass behind the Milagros. Among the other tiny objects depicted in the works, there were the limbs of a small lizard, another lizard severed from its own tail, a hand with the titular snake for a finger, a pair of lungs, an hourglass, a skull, a ghost.

        One mirror piece, Untitled, 2024,appears to have a section cut away from one corner and then, with a metallic thread, stitched back onto the mirror in a different place. Nearby, another work, Cigarette I, 2024, consisted of a Milagro, all on its own, not attached to a mirror, depicting a nearly life-size, crumpling cigarette, emitting a flora-like waft of smoke. The little object elegantly displays nothing of how it is attached to the gallery wall. To this point, the gallerist was kind enough to show me the back of one of the mirrors. Each one is expertly crafted using wood and tiny hardware. These are not a hot glue situation; rather, each one is a carefully assembled object; the craftsmanship feels ritualistic; and the care given is the care one gives to something special, beloved, sacred.

        This same care was readily apparent in the final work in the show—perhaps the star of the show–the snake/colon. This somewhat larger than life, mixed media sculpture, Intestine, 2021-2024, is hung from the ceiling and attached to a mechanism that caused it to rotate the way a disco ball would. The sculpture was, in fact, covered in tiny bits of mirror, creating a surface that suggested dried and crackled earth. Each mirror was lovingly hand sewn to the form which appeared to be fabric, yet also appeared firm and impliable. As the sculpture spun in space, it spread moving dots of light around the gallery. In a way, it was vulgar. It was also decidedly beautiful.

        The charm of the retablos and the boldness of the spinning sculpture belie another level of this work: the excitement and intrigue of creating work at the boundary of the sacred and the secular. I have questions in my own heart as to whether these are capital S sacred objects. Do they hold the prayers of the artist who made them? Do these objects shift in substance or in spirit by virtue of being in a commercial gallery as opposed to a shrine somewhere? Does the loving hand of an artist imbue their work with a certain sacredness, and do we not revere that as art lovers? By evoking these questions, the artist is imparting something to the viewer–if the viewer takes the time to look closely, to listen as if trying to hear a whisper.

Paul Moreno is an artist, designer, and writer working in Brooklyn, New York. He is a founder and organizer of the New York Queer Zine Fair. His work can be found on Instagram @bathedinaftherthought. He is the New York City editor of the New Art Examiner.