Claiming Space Through Flags: A Conversation with Sydney Galindo about Unseen Territories and ARTS

*Unseen Territories* flags installed at Nuwu Art + Activism Studios (From left to right: Brent Holmes’ BE; Emily Sarten’s *Your Flag*; Alexys Quezada’s *Sun Rising*; Xochil Xitlalli’s *Rooted to the Land*; Naes Pierott’s *Uncover*; Hue’s *UNASSIMILABLE*; Brian Martinez’s *Brown Dreams*; Luvriot’s *Kanaka Chicana*.)

By Aaron Cowan
Photos by Anny Ayala

On an unusually cool April afternoon in Las Vegas, a caravan of cars snaked down the street, horns blaring, bold hand-sewn and painted flags rippling from their roofs, each one a burst of color and defiance against the clear blue desert sky. The banners, stitched, painted, and designed by local BIPOC artists, were part of a grassroots mobile exhibition insistent on a declaration: we are here. Featuring images of indigenous ancestry, the stars and stripes in shades of brown, cowry shells and landscapes, they could be summed up with one flag in particular—a sheer red banner with a single word cut from its center: Unassimilable. Collectively, they form Unseen Territories, an ad-hoc public art project that asked artists to reimagine flags as symbols of identity, resistance, and belonging.

When Las Vegas–based curator Sydney Galindo first envisioned Unseen Territories, she was drawn to the symbolism of flags—not the ones that carve imaginary lines in the landscape, but the flag as a site for intervention. What interpretations might communities create if given the chance to define themselves? The idea was sparked by witnessing the recent “Day Without an Immigrant” protest in Los Angeles.

“Seeing brown people take a stand—joyfully, proudly visible despite discrimination—was powerful,” Galindo recalls. “It made me think: the flags we’re expected to carry were forced on us through colonialism and societal norms. But if we had the chance to make our own flags, how would we represent ourselves, our families, our values?”

That question became the foundation of the project, bringing together 14 BIPOC artists to design and display flags that spoke to their own lived experiences. Presented as a caravan through Las Vegas, the project carved out space in a city where, Galindo says, “local artists are overlooked in favor of commercial, tourist-driven art.” It became a way “to validate the artists and the communities they come from without needing to frame them around a theme that makes their work palatable or ‘educational’ to others, to express themselves as they are: honest, powerful, and complex. It’s about acknowledging the gaps in how we’re represented and choosing to fill them on our terms.”

Flags as Artifacts

For many participants, the process of creating a flag meant confronting complicated relationships to identity. Some artists admitted they hadn’t felt permission to explore their cultural backgrounds before. Galindo explains: “I’ve sometimes felt like I was appropriating my own culture by expressing it. Being surrounded by people with similar struggles created a kind of safe zone. It gave us courage to claim space.”

Galindo positions the hard work of each artist as more than artworks: “They’re artifacts. They carry oral histories and lived experiences that institutions have filtered or ignored for centuries.” Participants in the project have embarked on creating their own narratives, questioning a system that historically has oppressed, rather than support, their cultural voices.

That refusal to filter is central to the project. “For too long, museums and galleries have presented people of color through narratives that suit their agendas,” Galindo argues. “Unseen Territories disrupted that by not asking for permission. We just did it. The flags, the stories—they’re raw, real, uncensored.”

Haide Calle, an artist whose flag reads “No One is Illegal on Stolen Land,” echoed that defiance in more visceral terms. She described the flag caravan as liberating: “The feeling of empowerment when driving the cars with our flags outside was freeing enough for me. Being able to scream and have the space to have people notice me and what I have to say felt very joyful given how suppressed many feel.”

Together, the flags transformed the familiar symbol into something else — part lineage, part protest, part celebration. “We all considered the impact of our flags and how we could best represent the communities we are speaking from,” said artist LuvRiot, who noticed that many of the designs drew on both landscapes and language. “Flags can be used as a vehicle for both division and unity.”

Flying high through the arterials of the downtown Las Vegas Arts District, the exhibition displayed itself on its own terms, without track lighting, title cards, and stuffy small-talk over cheese and crackers about polite niceties. This was intentional, a way to avoid overt censorship by governing bodies, stakeholders, and boards who answer to affluent constituents. To disrupt the Arts District, an area where artists are being ironically displaced, provides a fitting backdrop to an authentic and visible presence, an immediate visual impact on the public that rarely happens in a gallery space. Now, their flags are material memories of the event, artifacts of an unauthorized parade, a moment in time of a culture of their own making.

LuvRiot concurs: “Rather than just doing pieces and sticking them in a gallery space, we brought the art to the audience. During the caravan, people going about their day had the chance to see art, maybe when they weren’t expecting to. Those who speak up for the injustices of their communities are framed in a negative light. Emphasizing and embodying our joyful resistance puts a stop to that, preventing onlookers from taking this project and our message amiss.”

Joyful Resistance

The act of carrying the flags through public space blurred the line between celebration and protest. From the outside, it might have looked like defiance, a satirical response to the recent Pro-Trump caravans of overcompensational gas-guzzling trucks hoisting a spectrum of flags including the American, Gadsden, Confederate, and “Blue Lives Matter.” From the inside, Galindo insists, it was joy.

“These artists were expressing their authentic selves in a country that often wants to erase them. That in itself is brave. Representation matters—when others see people like themselves taking that risk, it sparks courage. What looks like protest to outsiders is, for us, a celebration of self.”

For the artists, the act of mining their pasts held a significant impact, and Naes Pierott reflected on what many shared at the gathering before the caravan began: “A lot of us are removed from our original ancestral communities and histories, so creating these flags became a meaningful way to reconnect with that sense of belonging. It gave us the opportunity to imagine symbols (the flags) that reflect who we are now, both individually and collectively, as people of color in the United States. We shared stories about how our cultural backgrounds shape the way we see ourselves, and how those experiences of resilience, struggle, and pride can be expressed visually. Even if you are not mixed race, you can be mixed culture and a lot of us are mixed culture.”

Some flags bore overtly political statements that tie personal identity to broader historical narratives. For Galindo, those declarations are grounded in survival: “My dad used to say he was Spanish instead of Mexican so he could get hired. Assimilation was often life or death. These flags confront that reality head-on.”

“When I was asked to do this project, thinking about my cultural heritage, I saw it as an opportunity to talk about these parts of myself that, I guess in a way, are kind of unseen,” Emily Sarten said. Having grown up with grandparents from Mexico who strived to assimilate in the U.S., she recreated the Mexican flag using photographs her grandfather had taken in his youth. Developed and dyed into the fabric using colored solarfast, she connects her involuntarily suppressed identity that lives on in her childhood memories and the struggles of her extended family, to her relationship with the present and presence in the United States. For her, it was the first time she had seen these photos, and they shed light on a side of her grandfather she had never seen before.

Galindo’s vision for Unseen Territories provided space for people to express themselves openly, sometimes for the first time. “The process of making a flag was deeply personal—choosing symbols, fabrics, and colors that held meaning. Some even created alongside family members, which added another layer of significance. These flags carry cultural lineages that might otherwise be overlooked or lost.”

But for LuvRiot, that’s impossible: “There is no way to erase us and our stories because we will be here to tell them; our ancestors have done this, and this is what we must do now for the generations of the future. Through documentation and community our stories cannot die no matter how deep they are buried. We raise each other up through this act of resistance and encourage our communities to do the same.”

ARTS: Funding Without Permission

Unseen Territories also connects directly to Galindo’s broader initiative: Artist Resistance Through Solidarity (ARTS), a microgrant program she launched in 2024 to address inequities in arts funding. Unlike traditional grants, ARTS requires only a name, project idea, and contact information—no citizenship requirements, no receipts, no gatekeeping, with a focus on supporting BIPOC artistic and educational projects.

“Institutional grants are full of barriers. You can’t be a student. You can’t be undocumented. You have to fit into narrow categories and prove yourself over and over,” she explains. “With ARTS, I wanted to create direct, no-red-tape support. In one year, we’ve already funded 27 artists across the U.S., Mexico, and Canada.”

Right now ARTS provides funding opportunities for artist projects, curatorial projects, and educational workshops. These grants work together to support artists in the creation of new work in any medium; the creation of exhibitions, performances, screenings, and public programs; and to facilitate workshops that share knowledge, skills, or cultural practices. Three projects are selected each month for receipt of a microgrant from the organization.

Initially funded out of her own pocket, Galindo hopes to bring in private donors to expand the program. “Institutions can’t—or won’t—do this kind of trust-based funding,” she says. “I want to prove it’s possible to support artists simply by believing in them. I trust that artists know what they need.” Currently, ARTS grants awards of up to $100 per recipient, and can be used however they’re needed. With the hopes of giving larger amounts to marginalized artists, Galindo invites those who want to support the project to donate via ARTS website.

Action as Archive

For Galindo, the project’s legacy relies on the stories it captures. “History books aren’t written by us. Institutions only archive what fits their narrative, their goals and objectives. Unseen Territories documents our voices, our joy, our resistance, in a way that can’t be erased.”

That joy, she stresses, is as important as the struggle. “Minority communities are so often depicted as suffering, needing to be saved. I want future generations to see that we also laughed, celebrated, created, and thrived. That joy is part of our survival—and it deserves to be remembered.”

Brent Holmes, another artist who contributed a flag based on his cowboy roots, urges others to take action: “We need twenty Unseen Territories every other week for the next six months, with community outreach and workshops. This is a beautiful beginning to possible new paradigms that can help art have a more engaged relationship with social identity, but I view it as a precursor to more powerful work that will help develop viable strategies of revolutionary expression.”

And Galindo agrees: “Just start. Talk to people in your community. Collaborate with folks outside your own field. Unseen Territories wasn’t originally meant to be a documentary—it became one because we realized the need to archive and share it. Don’t wait for permission, and don’t be afraid to put yourself out there.” She wants people to see that Las Vegas’ art scene exists beyond casinos and commercial galleries. “This project shines a light on the local artists of our city, and it shows how they can create temporary, public art without needing permission or permanent infrastructure. I hope it inspires other communities to think: We can do this too.”

The process also pushed artists to dig deeper. Pierott shared that “creating and documenting art through joy becomes a way of archiving our full humanity. It pushes back against narratives that try to silence or flatten us, showing instead that our identities are complex, marked by struggle, but also by resilience, pride, and community. By embracing joyful resistance, we ensure that our histories are remembered in their wholeness, not just the parts that are convenient for others to acknowledge.”

With the procession over and the sun beginning to set over the Spring Mountains, Galindo reflects on her journey, hopefully inspiring others to take action: “Sometimes it’s safe to express yourself. I hate to say sometimes, but that’s what the reality is. If we don’t express ourselves, we can’t realize how alike we all are, and wouldn’t have had this fun time connecting on a deeper level. That was the best part of this project.”

Building Community Locally + Beyond

The completed Unseen Territories documentary made its global debut on September 26th at NUWU Art + Activism Studios. There was an electricity in the air, and not just from the storm that had swept the valley just a few hours before: people were sharing laughs, food, resources, helping one another hang their flags and navigate the increasingly full parking lot. Flags from the exhibition were on display and several of the artists were also in attendance. The gallery where the screening took place filled quickly, and became standing-room only for the audience of Las Vegans––artists, activists, students, and community members filled the space elbow to elbow.

The September 26th screening of Unseen Territories at the Nuwu Art Gallery and Community Center.

The short documentary directed and produced by Galindo and edited by Las Vegas based filmmaker Shahab Zargari focuses on the individual artists and their experiences of creating their flags, what the process and caravan meant to them, all while considering their place within larger diasporas of multi-cultural backgrounds. Many often felt out of place, “not enough,” or as outsiders who may not be welcomed or “fit in” due to differences in how they were raised, where they grew up, or even the color of their skin not aligning with cultural expectations.

From left to right: Brian Martinez, Haide Calle, Elsa Cantu, Shahab Zargari, Sydney Galindo, Jesus Orozco, Lance L. Smith, LuvRiot, Naes Pierott, Emily Sarten, Brent Holmes, Alexys Quezada

A student from UNLV took great inspiration from the documentary: “I’m an art major in my senior year, and was really drawn to Naes Pierott’s flag and her research process being mathematical in a sense, where she took a percentage of how much the flag is filled up with patterns from her cultures based on her genetic makeup. I’m astonished with people who come up with a vision and then make it, but really liked that her flag was art in a way that is still based in science, and I want to incorporate similar practices into my own work. I didn’t know this event existed until two days ago, and am really glad that these communities are here in the city. It means so much to the people that are here.”

Another audience member and CSN student was deeply moved by the film: “Within 5 minutes I was crying. I didn’t have to watch the whole film to get the impact and emotional resonance—it resonates with a lot of us, it’s extremely important. I was arrested at the ICE OUT protest, and that felt like a total violation of my rights. I want to share these flags on [a student organization] page on Instagram but I’m scared, because I’m also a part of student government, and they could fire me, it is one of my jobs, they could let me go over saying something like this, and that’s not the America I grew up in. I love this country, I love being Mexican, I love being American, and it’s just not right. We need to stay together, and we need to organize, and we need to pool our resources, and let these bright minds take action because we have the capability, we can do it. Everyone go watch this movie, it’s incredible, and bring some tissues.”

What’s next for Galindo and the Unseen Territories documentary? “We’re planning on applying to film festivals, reaching out to Universities and college campuses, in the U.S. and beyond, pretty much anywhere that may screen the film. We want to share this vision and this journey with the world with the hopes of inspiring others to join together and speak truth to power all over the world.” In the meantime, please join ARTS for the next Las Vegas screening of Unseen Territories at the Winchester Dondero Cultural Center on Friday, October 17th at 7pm.

Unseen Territories artists: Alexys Quezada, Brent Holmes, Brian Martinez, Emily Sarten, Haide Calle, Hue, Isaac Roman Quezada, Jesus Orozco, Lance L. Smith, Luis Avila Chavez, LuvRiot, Montaysia Yuneek, Naes Pierott, and Xochil Xitlalli

Unseen Territories screening and artist panel on October 17 at the Winchester Dondero Cultural Center.
7-8:30 PM in the theater.
3130 S. McLeod, Las Vegas 89121.

Aaron Cowan is an artist, educator, and curator residing in Las Vegas, NV, where he earned his Masters of Fine Art from the University of Nevada Las Vegas in 2022. He was a founder and Director for the SWINE Gallery, Artist Residency Chattanooga, and curator & webmaster for the Chattanooga Film Festival. His work has been exhibited in Los Angeles, Las Vegas, South Korea, China, and the 2020 London Biennale. He currently teaches sculpture and 3D design at the University of Nevada Las Vegas in the College of Fine Arts.

Sydney Galindo is a Filipina and Indigenous curator whose work focuses on cultural reclamation and artist sovereignty. She is the founder of the ARTS Foundation, a community-led organization that supports BIPOC-driven artistic and educational initiatives. Her curatorial practice challenges dominant narratives and works to build more responsive, community-centered institutional spaces. @inaal0n @welcometoarts

Posted and published by Wendy Kveck on October 12, 2025.