Although hauntingly present in Ramírez-Figueroa’s practice, this traumatic history is often evoked through the creation of a fictional, almost dreamlike, universe of images and situations that depart radically from an archival or documentary approach. In a recent interview, the artist recollected the day that he was informed of his uncle’s death [1] when he woke up in tears without yet knowing what happened, while somehow already knowing what was going on. Perhaps children of such a young age still don’t have the language to process their experience of the horrors of war and their memories remain as imprinted abstract sensations that can only be fully comprehended later, when we are able to put them into a wider context. Indeed, works like Illusion of Matter seem to capture exactly these types of imprecise yet deeply affecting memories, almost as re-enactments of the simultaneously candy-coloured and terrifying sensations experienced by the artist’s childhood self, from which he retains an underlying sense of playfulness. Even without being aware of this personal history or that the Tate work was performed on the personally significant anniversary of his uncle’s death, a detail that he purposefully kept unmentioned in the project’s press materials, one can clearly grasp the mixture of sweetness and darkness conveyed through the colourful set, the cartoonish polystyrene props and the spectral presence of the dummy. The non-narrative sequence of events that unfolds before the camera is at once absurd and funny, but ultimately leaves the viewer with the nightmarish image of a glowing skeleton-like figure that advances towards the camera at the end of the performance. Naufus Ramírez-Figueroa, God's Reptilian Finger, 2015. Sculpture, installation. Produced by Gasworks, London. Courtesy of the artist, Proyectos Ultavioleta, Guatemala and Gasworks, London. Naufus Ramírez-Figueroa, God's Reptilian Finger, 2015. Sculpture, installation. Produced by Gasworks, London. Courtesy of the artist, Proyectos Ultavioleta, Guatemala and Gasworks, London. In the mid-1970s, Ramírez-Figueroa’s uncles were involved with experimental theatre in Guatemala, but increasing censorship in the following decade meant that actors had to pursue work in more palatable productions, such as children’s plays. Being an avid theatregoer, the artist remembers seeing his uncles performing in several of these plays. He also remembers hearing the words Corazón del Espantapájaros (Scarecrow’s Heart) regularly at home, not really knowing what they referred to but at the same time creating a sort of Wizard of Oz-like picture in his imagination. Some four years ago, the house where he had been living with his uncle in Vancouver burned down, and whilst drowning his sorrows in an alcohol-fuelled conversation with his nephew, the former experimental actor started to talk about Corazón in more detail. Written by Guatemalan dramatist Hugo Carillo in 1962, Corazón del Espantapájaros was loosely adapted as a piece of political resistance and performed in the mid-1970s by students of the Universidad Popular. His uncle also played a minor role in the production. The play caused such a stir among the largely upper-class audience, among which, inevitably, were government representatives, in that it deals with the persecution of political dissidents and portrays authority figures wearing clown make-up. Subsequently, it became the focus of severe censorship. Many actors received death threats, the theatre was shut down for a whole year and Carillo, whose original script hadn’t even been used, was forced into exile. Naufus Ramírez-Figueroa, Fantasma Amigable, 2013. Performance for Photograph. Courtesy of the artist. Suddenly, those mysterious words that had become imprinted in Ramírez-Figueroa’s mind started to gain a new meaning, one that connected his own early experiences with the wider political context of his home country. In a series of 2015 black and white aquatints that borrow the play’s title, the artist attempted to reconstruct some of scenes based on his uncle’s account of events taking place in 1975, since no photographic documentation could be found. These small, delicately rendered works are exemplary of his ability to encapsulate tenderness and terror in a single image. In one of them, a pair of scarecrows smiles hauntingly, their upper bodies emerge from what seems to be a field, or maybe a fire, executed in swift brushstrokes in several shades of grey that create a seemingly decorative texture. A flock of hummingbirds hover over their heads and it’s hard to tell if their presence is supposed to represent a benign omen or a Hitchcockian menace. A more openly eerie scene depicts a child hanging upside down from an ankle, hands tied behind the back, while a smiling man stretches an arm to lightly touch his chin as if to check for signs of life. The image, however, is ambiguous enough to suggest that the gesture can be interpreted as comforting, that the character’s grin is empathic rather than malicious. Naufus Ramírez-Figueroa, Props for Erendira (detail), 2014. Sculpture, installation. 10th Gwangju Biennial. Courtesy of the artist and Proyectos Ultravioleta, Guatemala. Naufus Ramírez-Figueroa, Props for Erendira, 2014. Sculpture, installation. 10th Gwangju Biennial. Courtesy of the artist and Proyectos Ultravioleta, Guatemala.