Crosses, Currents, and Colonial Shadows: Art of the Chamorro Struggle
Micronesia Part 2
One of the most distinctive architectural features of ancient Chamorro society is the latte stone, a two-piece megalithic pillar-and-cap form. Latte were used as foundations for important thatched houses, raising them above ground for ventilation and protection. These stone uprights (haligi) topped with hemispherical capstones (tasa) supported elite homes and men’s houses, and even served as canoe sheds in some cases. Beyond their functional role (keeping dwellings dry, safe from pests, and earthquake-resistant), latte hold deep cultural significance. They likely had spiritual connotations; burials often occurred around latte sites, suggesting a sacred space tying the living to ancestral spirits. Indeed, latte construction may have embodied the Chamorro concept of aniti (spirit) and veneration of ancestors, symbolically protecting life and marking sacred ground.
In contemporary times, the latte has become an icon of Chamorro heritage. Modern buildings in Guam incorporate the latte motif in their design, from the airport terminal to village gateways and government edifices, as a proud visual tribute to Chamorro identity. Thus, the architectural legacy of latte stones bridges past and present. These ancient stone pillars not only supported houses of the ancients, but today inspire architectural forms that celebrate the resilience and continuity of the Marianas’ indigenous people.
Textile arts, particularly weaving, have been a domain of Chamorro women since pre-colonial times. Historical and archaeological evidence shows that Chamorro women expertly wove plant fibers into mats, baskets, sails, and other daily necessities. Using pandanus leaves, coconut fronds, and other native plants, they produced items ranging from sleeping mats and food baskets to fishing nets and slings. The craft was essential to sustenance and home-life. For example, sturdy double-rim woven baskets (guagua’) carried heavy loads, and finely plaited pandanus sails propelled canoes on long voyages. Early European observers noted Chamorro women’s plaiting as one of the finest island industries, with intricate techniques and knowledge of materials passed down through generations.
Contact with Spanish missionaries in the 17th century disrupted some of these practices, as new fabrics (like imported cloth) and colonial policies deemphasized indigenous crafts. Yet Chamorro weaving persisted. Spanish school records from 1690 mention Chamorro girls still plaiting mats even as they learned European needle arts. This continuity speaks to the resilience of Chamorro culture. Women maintained core weaving knowledge (harvesting and processing leaves, creating durable plaited patterns) within families and villages. In the 20th and 21st centuries, weaving has experienced a renaissance as a cherished art form. Though plastic mats and factory goods have reduced everyday reliance on woven wares, Chamorro weavers continue to produce mats, hats, and baskets, often for cultural demonstrations or sale to visitors. At community cultural centers like Gef Pa’go in Inalåhan, master weavers (usually elder women) share their skills with younger generations and tourists, keeping the art alive. They even adapt ancient techniques to new creations, from decorative animal figures woven from palm, to innovative uses of modern dyes, blending old and new. Scholars note that pandanus and coconut leaf weaving today remains “one of the lasting artistries of Chamoru culture,” a clear example of continuity despite colonial change. In short, Chamorro weaving has evolved from a ubiquitous daily craft to a symbol of cultural identity; sustained by women’s contributions, resilient through colonial disruptions, and now thriving as an educational and artistic practice that connects the Mariana Islands’ past with its present.
The arrival of Spanish colonizers in the late 17th century profoundly transformed Guam’s visual culture, especially in religious art and architecture. As Catholicism took root, Chamorros adopted the iconography and artistic traditions of Iberian Catholic devotion. Churches were built in Spanish mission style. For example, stone churches and chapels replaced or overlay indigenous sacred spaces, introducing features like bell towers and ornate altars. Inside these churches, carved santos (statues of saints and the Virgin Mary), painted retablos, and other imported artworks became central to worship. One famous example is the statue known as Santa Marian Kamalen (Our Lady of Camarin), which became Guam’s patron saint. This 28-inch wooden-and-ivory figure of the Virgin Mary, believed to date to the 1600s, is of Spanish–Philippine origin and was likely brought to Guam via the Manila galleon trade. According to legend, a Chamorro fisherman miraculously found the statue in the sea, and it was enshrined in the Hagåtña presidio’s chapel in 1736. To this day, Santa Marian Kamalen is the most revered icon on Guam; every December 8, thousands join a procession in Hagåtña to honor her, carrying the statue on a decorated platform through the streets. The annual pageantry surrounding this centuries-old image, with floral adornments and devotees following in prayer, attests to how a piece of Spanish-era religious art became indigenized as a cornerstone of Chamorro identity.
Spanish influence extended to church décor and festivities across the Marianas. Guam’s village churches came to house statues of saints in baroque style, stained-glass windows, and gilded altar pieces similar to those in New Spain. Religious festivals introduced by missionaries, like patron saint feast days, combined Catholic art with Chamorro participation (for instance, carving floats for saints’ processions, sewing regalia for religious ceremonies). Over time, Chamorro artisans learned to carve their own wooden saints and to create hybrid religious art. Chamorro woodcarvers in the 19th century crafted images of Christ and Mary for local devotion, blending Spanish iconography with local materials. Even church architecture shows fusion. Post-war churches on Guam often feature Spanish-style façades but include local motifs (such as coral stone insets or latte-shaped design elements). Spanish colonialism redirected Guam’s artistic focus toward Catholic themes, introducing painted and sculpted representations of Christian figures where none had existed, and in doing so laid the groundwork for a unique Chamorro Catholic aesthetic that persists in churches and sacred art to this day.
Japanese rule over the Northern Mariana Islands (NMI) from 1914 to 1944, culminating in the brutal World War II battles on Saipan, Tinian, and elsewhere, had a complex impact on visual arts and cultural expression. During the pre-war decades, Japan established direct control and brought in thousands of Japanese and Okinawan settlers, marginalizing indigenous Chamorros and Carolinians politically and culturally. Formal education was in Japanese, and little support was given to indigenous arts; traditional practices were discouraged as the occupiers pressed assimilation. Local crafts that did continue (like weaving or boat-building) received no official patronage and often had to be practiced discreetly. Many Chamorro and Carolinian families focused on survival rather than art under harsh colonial policies.
Yet, even under repression, art found subtle outlets. Remarkably, the 1930s saw an artistic intersection in the Marianas via the work of Paul Jacoulet, a French artist living in Japan who traveled to Saipan. Jacoulet created vivid woodblock prints of Chamorro and Carolinian subjects, blending Japanese ukiyo-e techniques with Western portraiture. His famous Rainbow Series (1934) portrayed Chamorro women from Saipan in seven different traditional outfits, each print suffused with a single color of the rainbow. The women wear elegant local attire, translucent piña fiber blouses, gold and tortoiseshell jewelry, against richly colored backgrounds, celebrating their dignity and style. Jacoulet’s works, although created by a foreigner, document the grace of indigenous people during the Japanese period and can be seen as a form of cross-cultural wartime art. They stand in stark contrast to Japan’s own propaganda art of the time, offering an outsider’s appreciative gaze at the islands’ inhabitants.
During World War II itself (1941–1945), open artistic expression was nearly impossible amid the violence and upheaval. The Battle of Saipan (1944) devastated the population and infrastructure, leaving little room for art beyond the drive to document and remember. In the aftermath, however, visual art became a means to process trauma and assert identity for Northern Mariana islanders. For instance, in recent years Chamorro and Carolinian artists in the NMI have painted murals and created installations to memorialize WWII events and honor their ancestors’ resilience. The occupation and battles left psychological scars, and younger generations have used creative outlets, photography, painting, carving, to heal and keep those stories alive. The Japanese period thus largely stifled indigenous art at the time, but the suffering and resistance of that era have since been explored through visual media. Artworks depicting bombed landscapes, portraits of elders who lived through concentration camps, and symbols of peace now help the community work through the legacy of war. While Japanese rule suppressed most Chamorro cultural expression during its tenure, the experiences of that era later fueled a rich body of “remembering art” by NMI artists, ensuring that the history of wartime survival and resistance would not be forgotten.
Across Oceania, tattooing is a revered traditional art, but among Chamorros, the practice was lost for centuries. Early European accounts curiously make no mention of Chamorro tattoos. Archaeologists have likewise found no definite tattoo needles or decorated human images in the Marianas, suggesting that ancient Chamorros may not have tattooed, or that the custom (if it existed) was wiped out so early in the colonial era that no records remain. Whatever the case in pre-contact times, today there is a vibrant revival of Chamorro tattooing; essentially a new tradition inspired by old motifs. In the past decade, Chamorro artists and cultural practitioners have begun designing tattoos based on ancestral art forms like pottery patterns, body paint designs, and nature symbols. Because no direct “tattoo lineage” survived, modern Chamorro tattooists must extrapolate meanings from other arts. Many turn to the bold geometric motifs incised on ancient pottery and mat weavings as a source of inspiration. For example, Guam-born tattoo artist Gil Urbano has popularized tattoos composed of concentric circles and lines taken from the patterns on prehistoric redware pottery shards. These designs, once used on clay vessels, now find new life on human skin, symbolizing home and heritage for Chamorros in the Mariana Islands and abroad.
This movement is as much about healing and identity as it is about body art. Chamorro youth often describe getting these tattoos as a way to carry their culture with them “at all times”. One young woman noted that researching designs for her tattoo led her to learn how much of Chamorro tradition was lost through colonization, and by wearing a meaningful motif (even if the exact ancient meaning is unknown), she sparks conversations about Chamorro history and survival. The revival has also fostered pan-Pacific connections, as Chamorro tattooists have engaged with Polynesian and Micronesian master tattooists to learn techniques (tapping methods, hand-poking) and protocol, adapting them to Chamorro sensibilities. Thus, what we see now is a creative resurgence. Chamorros are indigenizing a global tattoo renaissance, using it to reconstruct a visibly Chamorro identity. The results are striking designs that incorporate latte stones, flying proa canoes, ancestor spirits, and other cultural icons; a modern “traditional” tattoo style that, even if not a direct continuation from ancient times, powerfully connects today’s Chamorros with their heritage through art on the body. In reviving tattooing, Chamorros are both reclaiming a pan-Pacific art form and reinventing it to tell their own post-colonial story.
The Mariana Islands’ rich marine environment has long supplied materials for exquisite shell and coral crafts. Ancient Chamorros fashioned a variety of jewelry and tools from seashells, coral, and bone, demonstrating remarkable skill in lapidary arts. Archaeologists have unearthed hundreds of shell ornaments in latte-period sites; from disc-shaped beads and rings to pendants and bracelets. Early European observers in the 1600s wrote that Chamorro women wore striking belts strung with red Spondylus shell disks, “prized among them as pearls among us,” along with tortoise-shell trinkets and small coconuts as rattles; an ensemble of adornment both beautiful and status-signifying. Indeed, Spondylus (spiny oyster shell), with its bright orange-red color, was associated with high rank; it appears especially in elite women’s graves, where strings of Spondylus beads were found around the waist and neck (such as the famous “Princess of Ypao” burial on Guam). These shells likely symbolized wealth and social importance, and their vivid hue even lent its name (agaga’, Chamorro for “red”) to the concept of beauty and value. Alongside shell beads, Chamorros carved money and amulets from giant clam shells (hima) and turtle shell. A notable example is the ålas, a traditional necklace of graded disc beads that also served as currency or valuables. One type called guinahan famagu’on (“children’s wealth”) was an elaborate strand of turtle-shell discs given as a reward to someone who saved a child’s life – a powerful reminder that crafted objects carried deep social meaning.
Coral, being abundant on reefs, was another medium. Brain coral and black coral could be shaped into tools or ornament, and coral lime was used as plaster. While we have less evidence of pure coral jewelry, Chamorros did incorporate coral sand as temper in pottery and carved coral stones for house posts. In modern times, artisans have expanded upon this legacy. Jewelers in Guam and CNMI today create pieces combining mother-of-pearl, polished red coral, and conch shell into contemporary necklaces and earrings, often featuring indigenous motifs (such as the latte or coconut leaf) for local and tourist markets. Craftsmen like the late Jesus Flores and his proteges have revived the making of sinahi pendants, crescent-shaped ornaments originally carved from giant clam, sometimes innovating by using colored coral inlays for a new twist. The renewed popularity of shell jewelry, from humble puka shell anklets to intricate Spondylus and clam shell carvings, illustrates continuity in material culture. Despite modern substitutes, Chamorro craftspeople continue to find creative inspiration in the same shells and coral their ancestors collected on the shores. These handicrafts are sold in island shops and worn during cultural events, allowing shell and coral artistry to remain a visible part of Mariana Islands culture. They are tangible links to an ancient heritage of maritime skill, natural beauty, and artistic expression carved from the very resources of the sea.
Dance in Chamorro culture has re-emerged as a vital performance art, blending historical imagination with contemporary identity-building. While early European descriptions of Chamorro dance are sparse, one Jesuit report from 1668 vividly mentions a women’s dance. A circle of twelve women swaying in rhythm, waving half-moon shaped fans in one hand and rattling little shell-filled boxes in the other, singing in three-part harmony led by a male voice. Their songs recounted history and genealogy, indicating that dance was more than entertainment; it was a medium of oral history. The women adorned themselves with fragrant garlands on their foreheads and strings of red shells at their waists, from which hung small coconut ornaments; a costume that “seemed more bird-cage than dress,” according to the puzzled missionary. This glimpse suggests that pre-colonial Chamorro dance was graceful, symbolic (the half-moon fans perhaps evoking the moon or cycle of life), and accompanied by native percussion and chanting.
Spanish colonization, however, nearly extinguished indigenous dance. By the 19th century, observers like Louis de Freycinet could find only hybrid dances. Chamorros performing Spanish bailes (waltzes and polkas) and imported Mexican ceremonial dances, complete with silk costumes, at village fiestas. During the 20th-century U.S. naval era, social dances on Guam followed American trends (big-band swing, foxtrot, then rock-and-roll), and what people called “traditional” were actually the old Spanish-style ballroom dances passed down from their grandparents. The truly indigenous dance forms, whatever they had been, were forgotten or kept alive only in fragments of songs and stories.
In the 1980s, a cultural revival began. Pioneers like Francisco “Frank” Rabon sought to reconstruct Chamorro dance as a performative art that could preserve and project Chamorro identity. Rabon studied Polynesian dances in Hawaiʻi and Tahiti, read historical documents for clues, and then choreographed new dances that drew on Chamorro legends, imagery, and what was known of pre-contact practices. Through his group Taotao Tano’ (“People of the Land”), he introduced iconic dances such as Bailan Uritao (Young Man’s Dance); a dynamic stick dance with loud whoops and high jumps, inspired by warrior training rituals. In this dance, men clash spears or long sticks in complex rhythms (said to symbolize the building of a latte house and combat moves), showcasing strength and coordination. Complementing it is the Bailan Lina’la’ (Dance of Life), a graceful women’s dance Rabon choreographed based on that 1668 Jesuit account. Women in flowing skirts made of woven coconut leaves enact gentle swaying motions, entering under an arch of men’s raised sticks; a revival of the ancient women’s role in dance but modified for modesty (Rabon provided tops and less-revealing skirts compared to the scant attire described in the 17th century).
Over the past few decades, dozens of Chamorro dance troupes on Guam and the CNMI have formed, taught by Rabon’s students and others influenced by his work. They incorporate traditional chants (with lyrics in Chamorro) and wear costumes that blend historical elements (grass or feather headdresses, shell jewelry) with creative flair. Dance festivals, especially the quadrennial Festival of Pacific Arts, have encouraged Chamorros to refine these dances and perform them on an international stage. The result today is that Chamorro dance has become a performative art that educates and energizes the community. It is consciously not an exact recreation of pre-contact dance, but rather a contemporary tradition; “a way to create an indigenous Chamorro identity that gives Chamorros pride in their heritage,” as Rabon asserted. Through movement, costume, and story, Chamorro dance groups keep cultural memories alive and provide the younger generation with a powerful sense of identity. Every performance is thus both an artistic spectacle and an act of cultural preservation, expressing through bodily art what centuries of colonialism nearly erased.
After World War II, Guam underwent rapid Americanization, which significantly influenced its art scene; particularly in painting and sculpture. Under U.S. administration, new educational institutions and economic opportunities emerged that helped train local artists in Western art styles and media. For example, the University of Guam established a Fine Arts program offering instruction in painting, printmaking, and sculpture by the 1970s. Chamorro artists exposed to U.S. mainland art schools or military arts-and-crafts programs began experimenting with oil painting on canvas, acrylics, and other non-traditional materials. By the 1980s and 1990s, Guam had a cadre of professional painters whose works fused local themes with Western techniques.
One prominent trend was the rise of large-scale murals and public art commissions during Guam’s tourism boom in the late 20th century. For instance, Chamorro painter Sal Bidaure became known for expansive murals reminiscent of Diego Rivera’s social realist style, but depicting Guam’s culture and history. His two-story mural for the Bank of Hawaii in Hagåtña and the colorful lobby paintings he created for luxury hotels in Tumon blend Western perspectival painting with images of ancient latte, Spanish galleons, and Chamorro people; essentially placing Guam’s story in a grand visual narrative for all to see. The tourist industry’s patronage meant that hotel lobbies, airports, and banks on Guam turned into galleries for local art. The Guam airport today showcases one of the largest collections of contemporary Chamorro paintings, with monumental canvases by well-known local artists like Jose Babauta, Jeff Skvaril, and David Sablan on permanent display. These works often incorporate modernist art vocabularies, abstract forms, impressionistic colors, yet their content celebrates Chamorro heritage (fishing scenes, legends, village life). In this way, American-era modernization provided both the venue and impetus for Chamorro artists to professionalize and for art to become a part of the public sphere in Guam.
Moreover, American influence introduced new genres and styles. By the late 1970s, some Chamorro artists embraced purely modern art movements, producing non-objective or abstract expressionist work, which previously had no precedent on island. Artists like Mark Dell’Isola, Vivian Chargualaf, Monica Baza, and Ric Castro staged exhibitions featuring biomorphic and abstract pieces that challenged local audiences accustomed to representational art. At first, these contemporary styles were novel; island viewers “were not used to” such imagery from Chamorro artists. But soon they were accepted as part of Guam’s art landscape, often juxtaposed alongside traditional-themed art. For example, at the University of Guam’s Business College atrium, one can find Ric Castro’s trompe-l’oeil mural of Guam’s history (from latte period to Spanish era to postwar scenes) sharing space with Robert Sajnovsky’s avant-garde silkscreen box installation. This speaks to a healthy pluralism in Guam’s art fostered under U.S. governance: the freedom for artists to explore cutting-edge art while also revisiting and reframing local tradition.
In sculpture, too, American/post-war influences are evident. The use of concrete and steel, materials common in modern construction, has enabled Chamorro sculptors to create large outdoor pieces, such as the statues of Chief Gadao and other legendary figures that dot parks in Guam. Some sculptors have been commissioned to carve heroically scaled latte stones or imaginative hybrids (e.g. a latte-shaped water fountain) as public art. Many of these works cater in part to tourists and the local desire to assert a unique identity in a modern setting. In sum, the post-WWII American era catalyzed the transformation of Chamorro art from a largely utilitarian or folk practice into a modern art scene. With galleries in cafes and hotels, support from entities like the Guam Council on the Arts & Humanities, and artists fluent in both Chamorro culture and global art trends, Guam’s art today is a dynamic amalgam; undoubtedly a legacy of American contact, but one that Chamorros have leveraged to express their own modern identity.
In the Northern Mariana Islands, particularly Saipan, the past decades have seen a blossoming of murals and street art that give voice to the islands’ political aspirations and social issues. The Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands (CNMI) has a complex political status as a U.S. commonwealth, and debates about autonomy, self-determination, and cultural preservation are often played out not just in courts or rallies, but on walls and public spaces through art. Young artists in Saipan have turned blank concrete walls into vibrant murals addressing themes like indigenous pride, resistance to economic exploitation, and environmental justice. For example, after the devastation of Super Typhoon Yutu in 2018,.a disaster that many linked to climate change and underscored colonial under-preparedness, Saipan residents responded not only with rebuilding, but also with art. Local artist Meena Benavente painted the message “#MarianasSTRONG” on sheets of tin torn from wrecked buildings, creating improvised murals that both commemorated the typhoon’s destruction and inspired communal resilience. This grassroots artwork, featuring bold hashtags and eye-catching designs on storm debris, became a social media sensation and a therapeutic outlet for a community in recovery. It even sparked a public art initiative called Project Haligi, in which artists painted uplifting images on new power poles across Saipan, Tinian, and Rota as symbols of strength (the project name “Haligi” refers to the supportive pillar of a latte). Such efforts explicitly use visual art for collective healing and to assert that the Marianas will stand strong in the face of adversity.
Murals in Saipan also tackle political topics like decolonization and indigenous rights. Another growing theme is environmental stewardship. Murals showing island marine life intertwined with messages about reef protection and anti-pollution have appeared near beach parks, painted by schoolchildren and artists in collaboration (often sponsored by NGOs). These reflect a rising consciousness of climate change and tourism impact on the islands’ natural beauty, effectively turning public art into public service announcements.
It’s worth noting that not all graffiti in the Marianas is welcomed; there is a tension between “vandalism” and art. Community leaders have bemoaned spray-painted tags on bus stops and private buildings, yet simultaneously embraced sanctioned mural projects as beautification. In Saipan, as on Guam, officials have invited artists to transform eyesores into meaningful works. Youth have painted colorful murals on school walls and utility structures as part of village pride campaigns, often incorporating Carolinian and Chamorro motifs (like canoe navigators or dancers) alongside modern graffiti lettering. These efforts legitimize street art and channel youthful energy into cultural expression rather than random tagging. The net effect is that Saipan’s public visual landscape increasingly features large, expressive artworks by local talent that highlight the CNMI’s stories; from colonial hardships to hopes for self-reliance. Murals have become, in essence, the voice of the younger generation and a form of peaceful protest and education in the Northern Marianas, catching eyes in downtown Garapan and throughout the island with their bold depiction of the community’s challenges and aspirations.
The systems of art education in Guam and the Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands share similar goals of fostering cultural awareness through the arts, but differ in scale and institutional support. On Guam, art education benefited early on from American-built infrastructure. Art has been part of the public school curriculum, and the island hosts a range of formal programs; from elective art courses in elementary and high schools to the Fine Arts Department at the University of Guam, which offers tracks in visual art, music, and theater at the undergraduate level. This means Guam has a pipeline for developing artists: students with interest can learn basic drawing, painting, or carving in school, then pursue higher training at UOG or even off-island art colleges. The presence of galleries (such as the Isla Center for the Arts) and events provides venues for young artists to showcase work, and competitions (like the annual Congressional Art Competition for high schoolers) spur students to hone their talents. Guam’s art education thus blends American-style art instruction, including exposure to global art history and techniques, with a growing emphasis on Chamorro heritage content. For instance, Guam’s Department of Education has worked with cultural agencies to incorporate weaving or dance into after-school programs, and the university frequently invites traditional masters to teach workshops, ensuring that indigenous arts are taught alongside fine arts.
In the Northern Marianas, art education has faced more limited resources given CNMI’s smaller population and younger educational institutions. Nevertheless, efforts by the Public School System (PSS) in the CNMI have expanded art and cultural curriculum in recent years. The CNMI PSS integrates Chamorro and Carolinian cultural arts into its Chamorro and Carolinian Language & Heritage Studies program. Each year, a grand “Language & Cultural Performing Arts” competition is held, where students from Saipan, Tinian, and Rota compete in categories like storytelling, chant, poster art, and even contemporary dance, all using indigenous themes. In 2020, over 500 students participated, creating visual art and performances that required researching their traditions and expressing them creatively. Such initiatives indicate that in CNMI schools, art is a key component of cultural preservation. Top CNMI student artists even travel to Guam to compete in the University of Guam’s annual Chamorro language and arts competitions, often winning high honors. On the post-secondary level, the Northern Marianas College (NMC) offers some courses in art (like drawing, digital media, or crafts) but does not yet have a full fine arts degree program. Many aspiring artists from CNMI choose to study abroad (in Hawaii, the mainland U.S., or Guam) to obtain advanced training.
To compare, Guam’s art education is somewhat more formalized and broad (covering international art and modern techniques), whereas the CNMI’s is deeply rooted in cultural transmission (ensuring that Chamorro and Refaluwasch art forms are practiced by the youth). Guam’s advantage of institutions and galleries is balanced by CNMI’s community-centric approach, where elders and cultural leaders play a big role in teaching arts (weaving, canoe carving, etc.) through heritage programs. Both territories face similar challenges: budget constraints for arts in schools, competition from core subjects, and the need for facilities (like art studios or climate-controlled galleries). But both also recognize that arts education is vital to maintaining identity. Guam’s and Saipan’s education departments continue to exchange ideas. For example, CNMI students performing so well in Guam’s cultural art competitions underscores that a focus on heritage can produce artistic excellence. As Guam further integrates Chamorro art into its standard curriculum and CNMI expands its offerings in fine arts, the two will likely converge toward a shared goal: producing a new generation of artists who are technically skilled, culturally knowledgeable, and able to navigate both local and global art worlds.
Catholicism has been entrenched in the Marianas since the 17th century, and it has profoundly shaped the isles’ devotional art and festivals. On Guam and in the CNMI, one finds a rhythm of annual feasts, processions, and home rituals that blend religious piety with artistic expression. Every village on Guam, for example, celebrates an annual fiesta for its patron saint; an inheritance from the Spanish mission system. These fiestas are multi-day events centered on the church, where art and decoration play a key role. Leading up to the feast day, families hold a nine-day nobena (novena prayer) often accompanied by flower arrangements, home altars, and decorative candles prepared for the occasion. The culmination is the festal Mass and a grand procession in which a statue of the patron saint is carried through the village streets, escorted by parishioners. During these processions, one witnesses an outpouring of creative devotion. The saint’s statue is bedecked with fresh floral garlands and mounted on a float or platform custom-adorned with palm leaves, lights, and sometimes even a backdrop painting of heaven. Devotees walk behind, many dressed in hand-crafted uniforms or traditional attire, carrying banners and candles. They often fulfill promesa, vows of thanksgiving, by decorating the float or contributing to the visual splendor as an expression of gratitude for blessings received. For instance, in the procession for Saint Joseph (patron of Inalåhan, Guam), parishioners annually build a rustic float resembling Joseph’s workshop, complete with carpentry tools and tropical flowers, merging biblical iconography with local flavor.
After the religious observances, the fiesta transforms into a community arts showcase. Village streets and homes are opened for massive feasts where tables (the fiesta tables) are laden with both traditional Chamorro dishes and modern foods, often artfully presented. Preparing a fiesta table is itself a folk art. Roasting pigs decorated with local fruits, crafting centerpieces from woven coconut fronds, and icing cakes with messages honoring the saint. The na’taotao tumano’, a communal meal offered to all visitors after the procession, continues a tradition of sharing that dates back to when distant villagers traveled for hours to attend; hosts would ensure these devotees were fed, thereby decorating their hospitality with generosity as much as with actual table décor. Music and dance follow. One might hear a church choir singing Chamorro hymns at first, then later local bands playing folk or popular music. In recent years, some fiestas have included performances by Chamorro dance troupes in traditional dress, effectively merging Catholic celebration with the revival of pre-colonial cultural arts; a perfect illustration of the blend of tradition and modernity.
Catholic devotional art also thrives in private spheres. Many Chamorro homes maintain small altars with statues of saints or the Virgin Mary adorned with candles and flowers. A special tradition is the Nobenan Niño (Christ Child novena) during the Christmas season. Families construct elaborate nativity scenes (bilen) in their living rooms as part of a nine-night devotional prayer. These bilens can be highly artistic, featuring figurines of the Holy Family amid miniature Bethlehem landscapes crafted from moss, sand, and lights. Children are taught Christmas hymns and help decorate the scene, while older women lead prayers. The creation of the nativity tableau thus becomes a multigenerational art project and a spiritual exercise in one. Such home-based art is deeply intertwined with faith: the care taken to comb the hair of a santo statue or to sew vestments for it (as was done for Santa Marian Kamalen) is considered an act of devotion as well as creativity. In the Marianas, Catholic festivals like Easter, Santa Marian Kamalen Day, and village patron feasts are not merely religious events but total works of art; integrating sculpture (statues), painting (banners and scenes), floral design, vernacular architecture (temporary altars and arches), music, and dance. This fusion has endured through centuries, continually refreshed by the community’s faith. Even as modern influences add new elements (amplified sound systems, printed t-shirts for saint’s guild members, etc.), the core visual and performing traditions remain, testifying to Catholicism’s profound role in shaping an artistic culture of devotion and celebration across the Mariana Islands.
Pottery is one of the key artifacts through which we understand ancient Chamorro life. Chamorro pottery, made from local clays, served many functional needs, but it also carries clues to social and symbolic aspects of the culture. The earliest Marianas pottery (from the Pre-Latte Period, around 1500 BC – AD 500) includes finely made, wide-mouthed bowls and jars with intricate lime-filled incised designs and geometric stamp patterns. These designs (chevrons, scrolls, concentric circles, etc.) likely had meaning. Archaeologists speculate they might have denoted clan identities or mimicked natural imagery like ocean waves or fish scales. The act of decorating a pot could have been a way for the potter to “sign” their work or to imbue it with talismanic qualities. Notably, the decorative complexity of pottery declined over time. By the Latte Period (AD 900–1700), Chamorro pots were larger, thicker-walled, and mostly plain or simply finished. This shift suggests a change in usage. Latte-period pots, with their sturdy build and incurving rims, appear well-suited for heavy cooking tasks; boiling roots like taro or breadfruit, rendering coconut oil, making stews and even sea salt. Soot residues on sherds confirm they were used on open fires to cook staple foods like taro. Thus, form followed function: as Chamorro society grew and possibly centralized (villages with latte houses), the pottery became more utilitarian, perhaps reflecting a need to prepare larger quantities of food or store more water.
Symbolically, though decoration waned, the presence of pottery in daily and ritual life remained significant. Pots were used in ritual contexts such as burials. A few human burials have been found with whole or partial pots included, possibly as spirit offerings or grave goods. We can imagine that a favorite cooking pot or a specially made ceremonial vessel might accompany a deceased family member as a sign of respect or belief in an afterlife need. Chamorros also likely shared pottery in exchange networks. Analyses of temper sands and styles show that pottery was traded or moved between islands. This means certain pottery styles might have been associated with particular regions or lineages, and possessing a pot from another island could carry social significance (perhaps a wedding gift or a token of alliance).
From a design standpoint, even the “simple” late-period pottery has its own aesthetic. Archaeologists note that the plain pots often had a smooth red slip (a clay wash) applied before firing, giving them a burnished red-brown sheen. This not only sealed the surface but was visually pleasing; a reminder that Chamorro potters balanced practicality with a touch of artistry. Some utilitarian features may also have doubled as decoration. For instance, finger-impressed patterns around a pot’s rim helped with grip but also created a rhythmic motif around the vessel. In the end, Chamorro pottery must be viewed as both tools and texts of ancient life. Their shapes, from open bowls for serving to narrow-necked jars for storage, tell us about daily activities, diet, and resource use. Their ever-present fragments in archaeological sites reveal that pottery was ubiquitous in cooking, storage, and food serving, essential to sustenance. And their decorative traces, however minimal by later eras, whisper of aesthetic preferences and perhaps stories or identities encoded in clay. The craft itself was painstaking. Without potter’s wheels or kilns, Chamorro potters (likely women) hand-coiled and pit-fired each vessel, a labor of skill and experience. Conservatively, we can say pottery offered a canvas for expression within the bounds of its utility. It symbolized the ability to transform earth into something that sustains and symbolizes life; literally vessels of culture. Today, when broken shards are unearthed at a village excavation, they connect us directly to those ancient Chamorro hands and the rhythms of their daily life.
Chamorro culture has a rich wood carving heritage that extends from the practical to the artistic. In ancient times, carving was omnipresent. Nearly every aspect of life that required an object beyond what nature provided called for carving skill. The paramount example is canoe carving. Chamorros were famed as master navigators, and their finely crafted canoes (from the small one-man galidé to the large voyaging sakman) astonished European explorers with their speed and elegance. These vessels were carved primarily from ifit wood or breadfruit tree trunks. Master carvers would spend months shaping a single hull by adze, following techniques passed down through generations. Selecting a tall straight tree, stripping its bark, marking the log with charcoal guidelines, then painstakingly hollowing and smoothing it. The canoe’s outrigger booms, paddles, and masts were likewise carved and fitted. The artistry of these canoes was not merely utilitarian; the gracefully upturned prows and sleek lines were aesthetically deliberate and often mentioned with admiration by onlookers (“cut through waves like dolphins and fly like birds” noted one account). Canoe carving was both a technical craft and a spiritual practice. Carvers likely performed rituals before felling a tree and launching a canoe, treating the process with reverence.
Beyond watercraft, ancient Chamorros carved the wooden components of their houses and tools. The raised latte houses themselves had wooden superstructures on the stone pillars; posts, rafters, and walls woven of plant material. Chamorro carpenters (considered a specialized class) used stone and shell adzes to carve these house posts, often selecting specific woods for durability. They even carved architectural joinery. Early 19th-century observers describe houses with well-fitted wooden pegs and latticework, indicating a refined wood construction tradition. On a smaller scale, daily tools were carved from wood; pestles, handles for shell adzes, and fishing spear shafts. Perhaps most intriguingly, Chamorros carved storyboards; though this form proliferated more in the 20th century (inspired by a similar practice in Palau), the idea of carving a narrative in wood has become a beloved “traditional” art in the Marianas. Contemporary Chamorro carvers create storyboards depicting legends like the twin chiefs or the mermaid Sirena, carving scenes in relief on ifit wood panels. Each storyboard is an artistic fusion of oral literature and visual art, ensuring myths are literally etched into memory.
The continuity of carving from past to present is palpable. While the need to carve a canoe or wooden plow dwindled with modernization, Chamorro carving persisted by finding new outlets. During the Spanish era and into the 20th century, Chamorros still carved dugout canoes (albeit smaller ones) for fishing, and they carved religious images, like wooden crucifixes or saint figures for churches, under missionary influence. In the post-war period, carving saw a revival as cultural heritage. Pioneers such as the late Master Carver Emilio Borja and Segundo Blas kept canoe carving knowledge alive, even building a 15-foot outrigger displayed in Guam’s museum as part of a 1990s cultural project. Their apprentices continue to produce traditional canoes and teach the methods to younger Chamorros. Meanwhile, a broader community of woodworkers craft smaller items for utilitarian or decorative use. Everything from ifit-wood coffee tables and benches to replicas of lukao (ceremonial sleds) and karabao carts are made, often embellished with carving details. Many carvers today intentionally incorporate ancient motifs such as latte stones, fish, or geometric patterns into modern pieces as a tribute to heritage.
Importantly, carving remains a male-dominated but family-oriented tradition. Fathers often teach sons (and sometimes daughters) this skill, just as Borja learned from his father and then taught his own children. The materials are the same local woods (ifit, mango, breadfruit) and shells and stone for inlay or tool use. The biggest change is that what was once vital for survival is now pursued for cultural preservation and art. Chamorro carving has thus come full circle. From shaping the essentials of life (canoes, houses, tools) to shaping the symbols of Chamorro identity (artistic carvings of latte, gods, and legends). The hands that once carved to live now carve to not forget how to live as Chamorro. In the tactile act of cutting and chiseling wood, there is a connection across time; every modern chisel stroke echoes an ancestor’s adze, and each finished carving, whether a seaworthy canoe or a wall-hanging storyboard, stands as a testament to the creativity and perseverance of Chamorro material culture.
Facing the realities of climate change and environmental fragility, artists in Guam and the Northern Marianas have increasingly woven environmental themes into contemporary art. Island communities are on the front lines of issues like rising seas, typhoon devastation, coral reef loss, and militarization of land and a new generation of Chamorro and Refaluwasch artists is using creative expression to raise awareness and demand action. One prominent trend is eco-murals and street art focused on sustainability. In Guam, for instance, a collective initiative in 2025 called the “G3 Art Corps” enlisted local artists to paint murals around the island aligned with the UN Sustainable Development Goals, including climate action. Along Marine Corps Drive in Piti, artist Paige Brock painted a striking mural in March 2025 depicting a young Marianas girl holding a globe, surrounded by marine life, with a backdrop of vibrant blues and greens. The design incorporates traditional elements like waves and twining plants, but the message is unmistakably contemporary; urging viewers to protect the environment for future generations. These public artworks, often created in collaboration with environmental NGOs like the Micronesia Climate Change Alliance, turn formerly drab walls into bold statements about conservation. They bring climate discourse into community spaces in a visually engaging way that transcends language barriers.
In addition to murals, many Pacific Island artists are exploring installation art using discarded materials to comment on pollution. On Saipan, art students recently constructed a giant sea turtle sculpture made entirely of plastic bottles collected from local beaches; a hauntingly beautiful yet tragic figure meant to highlight ocean plastic pollution to tourists and residents alike. Other artists have produced powerful photographs and digital art portraying scenarios of inundation. Images of familiar village scenes Photoshopped under water, or elders standing on eroded shorelines. These works personalize the abstract idea of climate change. Documentary art, including short films and photojournalism, has also blossomed, documenting environmental protests and the sacredness of sites like Litekyan (Ritidian) in Guam, which has seen community resistance to military construction. Such photography often doubles as activism, capturing emotional moments (a line of women chanting at a forest slated for clearing, for example) and disseminating them on social media to galvanize support.
The use of new media has enabled these messages to spread widely. Digital illustrations with environmental motifs are common on Chamorro artists’ Instagram feeds, blending graffiti aesthetics with calls to “Save Protect Respect” the land and ocean. Notably, the integration of traditional symbolism into these works gives them deeper resonance. Depictions of ancestral spirits (taotaomo’na) appearing distressed by coral bleaching, or a Hawaiian sling fishing tool embedded in a pile of crown-of-thorns starfish (a reef pest), link past and present in the fight for Mother Nature. Island poets and musicians, too, complement the visual art by writing songs and spoken-word pieces about “Tagi i Tano’” (the cry of the land), often performing at art shows or climate rallies to underscore the message.
One cannot overstate how much the shared experience of super-typhoons has influenced island art. In the wake of Typhoon Yutu, artists in CNMI not only created the #MarianasSTRONG tin piece mentioned earlier, but also 100 other painted panels as part of a mental health coping strategy; essentially art therapy for the community. These panels, featuring uplifting words and nature motifs, were displayed in public and later archived as historical artwork. The act of creating and sharing them forged community solidarity and offered a creative outlet for trauma. In Guam, after Typhoon Mawar in 2023, similar small-scale art responses occurred: children in shelters drew pictures of their homes and villages, which volunteers turned into a collage mural thanking first responders.
Through these endeavors, contemporary Marianas art has become a platform for environmental education and emotional processing. It carries an undercurrent of resistance as well; resistance to the notion that islanders are passive victims of climate change. By taking control of their narrative via art, Chamorro and Carolinian artists assert agency. They show the world that they cherish their environment and are actively engaging in its defense. The art, whether a colorful public mural or a sobering photo series, speaks to a global audience (tourists, online viewers) while remaining rooted in Pacific imagery. It is both locally grounded and universally relatable; much like the islands themselves, small in scale but significant in the climate conversation. The infusion of environmental themes in Marianas art represents a fusion of cultural guardianship and contemporary urgency, a creative response to the greatest challenge of our time, articulated through island eyes and voices.
Chamorro women have historically been the backbone of the islands’ textile arts, and their contributions are pivotal in preserving Chamorro culture. In pre-contact Chamorro society, nearly all weaving and plaiting work was done by women. They wove the thatch that roofed homes, plaited the mats families slept on, and braided the ropes that lashed together ocean-going canoes. This division of labor was more than practical; it invested women with the role of keeping vital knowledge. Through the long centuries of colonial rule, Chamorro women ensured that certain skills, like basketry and hat-weaving from pandanus and coconut leaves, did not die out, even if diminished. For example, during Spanish times when imported cloth became available, women still made coconut-fiber skirts for young girls in dances and kept plaiting essential items like fans and strainers.
In modern Chamorro communities, it is often elder women (Manåmko’) who are the repositories of traditional techniques and who deliberately teach and share them, recognizing their role as culture bearers. Master weavers such as Tan Floren Aguon and Tan Elena Benavente (to name two renowned weavers on Guam) have trained younger women in the craft, sometimes through formal programs at cultural centers. Women-led organizations and village craft groups spin and weave not only to produce beautiful handicrafts but to transmit language, values, and stories in the process. A young girl learning to weave a guagua’ basket from her grandmother is also learning patience, the Chamorro terms for plants and patterns, and the ethos of sharing.
Women have also been instrumental in what might be called the modern textile arts of the Marianas. This includes practices introduced or popularized in the 20th century, such as sewing, embroidery, and even quilt-making (probably learned from American teachers in missionary or naval times). Chamorro women incorporated their aesthetics into these new forms. One sees, for instance, Catholic liturgical cloths (altar cloths, saint banners) lovingly embroidered by Chamorro ladies with local floral designs or shell patterns, marrying Western ecclesiastical art with island motifs. In the 1930s-60s, Chamorro women often formed “Sewing Circles” in their parishes, which not only produced textiles for the church or for sale, but were social hubs where the Chamorro language and customs were maintained during a time of heavy American influence.
Perhaps the most vivid illustration of women preserving culture is the continued practice of making mwarmwar (flower crowns) and leis for dances and ceremonies. This art of assembling fresh tropical flowers and palm fronds into wearable garlands is typically done by women, and it connects to broader Micronesian and Polynesian traditions. At Chamorro dance performances or on Liberation Day in Guam, the sight of women and girls wearing beautifully crafted mwarmwar on their heads, each crown a unique mix of plumeria, orchids, bougainvillea, woven into a green tiara, speaks to a heritage kept alive largely by women’s hands and aesthetic sense. These crowns and garlands may wilt in a day, but the skill to make them is passed on continuously.
Moreover, women drive many of the cultural preservation initiatives on the islands. Female curators, scholars, and activists often come from backgrounds steeped in traditional arts. For instance, the late Ana Leon Guerrero Taitano, a respected curator, was herself a master of spinning and weaving and ensured museum exhibits highlighted women’s crafts. In the CNMI, Chamorro and Carolinian women have been at the forefront of reviving backstrap loom weaving (a Carolinian tradition) and shell ornamentation. The CNMI’s annual cultural festival features a “Women’s Handicraft Booth” where elder ladies demonstrate making things like apayak (mats) and piul (skirts) from hibiscus and banana fiber, engaging young attendees (especially girls) in trying these methods. By actively involving youth, these women are ensuring the continuity of what might otherwise be endangered knowledge.
Crucially, women’s work in textile arts is not only about objects, but about community. When a Chamorro patchwork quilt (taotaomo’na quilt) was made in the 1980s to represent Guam in a Pacific arts showcase, it was a group of women who collectively designed and stitched it, incorporating images of latte stones, fish, and slingstones in fabric applique. Such collaborative projects strengthen social bonds and create a living narrative in cloth. Through countless such acts (weaving, sewing, dyeing, threading) Chamorro women have been, and remain, central figures in cultural preservation. Their textile arts are both everyday utilities and cherished symbols of identity, wrapping the Chamorro people in the comfort of continuity. In every strand of a woven mat or every stitch of a ceremonial dress, one can trace the devotion, ingenuity, and resilience of the women who made it, and by extension, the culture they safeguard.
Guam’s village fiestas are legendary for their blend of sacred tradition and festive creativity. These annual celebrations in each of Guam’s 19 villages are ostensibly religious, honoring the patron saint, but they have evolved into broader cultural festivals that mix old and new. Artistic elements abound in fiestas. On the traditional side, one can observe aspects like the procession mentioned earlier (in Catholicism’s role) where statues and icons are ornately decorated in a time-honored fashion. The nobena prayers chanted in Chamorro for nine nights are themselves a performative oral art, maintained through generations. Likewise, the making of foods for the communal fiesta table involves traditional culinary arts: roasting pigs over wood fires, preparing kelaguen and åhu in large family groups; processes that often use traditional implements (coconut graters, stone mortars) and techniques passed down as part of cultural heritage.
However, layered onto these are modern elements, yielding an interesting fusion. A fiesta now often begins with a solemn Mass and a Spanish-era procession, but concludes with a contemporary carnival-like atmosphere. After church, the village might host live music ranging from local Latin-influenced cha-cha bands to DJs playing pop hits. Traditional stick dances or Chamorro cultural dances might be performed in the church courtyard, immediately followed by a troupe of modern hip-hop dancers; reflecting the dual identity of Chamorro youth who embrace both cultures. During the day, one might see a bicycle parade with children decorating their bikes with flowers and images of the saint; a modern improvisation on the idea of a religious parade. At night, fireworks paid for by the village mayor light up the sky, a decidedly modern spectacle that villagers have incorporated as a symbol of joyous celebration. The melding is seamless: no one finds it odd to have a sacred relic carried under a neon “Viva San Antonio!” arch, or to have the traditional sharing of food accompanied by a raffle of electronics to raise funds for the parish. Fiestas thus encapsulate the Chamorro ability to adapt and incorporate new practices without losing the core spirit of inafa’maolek (hospitality and harmony).
Visually, one of the most striking blended elements is in fiesta decorations. In earlier times, coconut fronds and lanterns might adorn the route of the procession. Today, those are still used, woven coconut fronds are tied into archways and decorations in front of homes, but alongside them you’ll find glossy vinyl banners printed with the saint’s image and “Happy Fiesta” hanging over streets. On stage, behind the live band, might hang a backdrop painted with a scene of the saint appearing in Guam or a collage of village landmarks; often these backdrops are commissioned from local artists specifically for the fiesta. The churches themselves usually get a facelift. Parishioners put up strings of electric lights around the church facade and line the interior with fresh flowers and sometimes balloons. The mix of plastic pennant streamers and woven palm décor, of LED lights and beeswax candles, is a charming illustration of how Chamorros blend the modern with the traditional. It’s not done arbitrarily; each innovation is integrated in a way that respects the event. For example, if an LED sign is used to display “San Roke, Ora Pro Nobis” (St. Roch, Pray for Us), it’s a high-tech medium delivering a centuries-old prayer.
The Guam Island Fair (Liberation Day festivities) each July is another example of blending: it has roots in American post-war tradition (a fair to mark U.S. victory and Guam’s liberation in 1944), but Chamorro cultural arts have been infused over time. At the fairgrounds, one finds graffiti art contests next to exhibits of coconut husking and traditional singing. Similarly, the village fiestas have come to include things like hotdog stands and video game booths next to the traditional coconut candy sellers and vernacular games (like spinning balakbaol, a top game). This juxtaposition might seem incongruous, but on Guam it feels natural; a reflection of an island that is both ancient and thoroughly modern.
In essence, Guam’s fiesta celebrations are microcosms of Chamorro culture’s adaptability. They preserve the religious and communal arts of the past (prayer, cooking, crafting, decorating) while seamlessly incorporating modern entertainment and art forms. The result is a living, dynamic tradition. A tourist visiting a village fiesta might at one moment witness a procession that looks straight out of the 1800s Spain or Philippines, and an hour later enjoy a young Chamorro singer’s pop ballad performance. Both moments are equally Guam. And through it all, the artistic expressions, whether a beautifully arranged plate of local food or a teenager’s prize-winning village-theme t-shirt design, tell the story of a people confidently blending tradition with modernity in their celebrations.
In the Marianas, photography and documentary art have become powerful tools for capturing and interrogating the post-colonial experience. After centuries where outsiders controlled the images and narratives of Chamorros and Carolinians (from early engravings to wartime propaganda photos), contemporary island photographers have taken back the camera to tell their own stories. Their work often centers on themes of identity, memory, and change; essentially visual narratives of what it means to be Chamorro in a post-colonial context.
One striking example is the photographic work done around the 50th anniversary of Guam’s WWII Liberation in 1994. Chamorro photographers like Jose “Joe” Garrido compiled portraits of war survivors at the very sites where pivotal events occurred; an elder woman standing at the edge of Apra Harbor where she remembers fleeing Japanese bombardment, a man at the Malesso’ cave where villagers were massacred. These images, sometimes presented alongside first-person testimonies, constitute a form of documentary art that reframes history from the indigenous perspective. They were displayed in local exhibitions and included in books, ensuring that the Chamorro voice was foregrounded in historical narrative, not subsumed by American liberator vs. Japanese aggressor binaries. Through the lens, these photographers made a political statement: This is our story to tell. The emotional weight visible in the subjects’ faces and the island landscapes behind them create a deeply moving record that words alone could not convey.
Beyond war memory, photographers have chronicled the everyday impacts of Americanization and the struggle to maintain culture. Lina’la’: Portraits of Life was a well-known photo series that juxtaposed images of traditional practices (such as a suruhåna, or healer, gathering herbs in the jungle) with images of modern Guam (a glaring American fast-food strip in Tamuning), inviting viewers to ponder contrasts and continuity. Many young Chamorro photographers find rich subject matter in the interplay of old and new. A group of tattooed teens practicing throw-net fishing at a beach backdropped by luxury hotels, or a great-grandmother teaching a child to husk rice in a backyard while planes from Andersen Air Force Base streak the sky above. Such compositions speak volumes about the layered reality of Guam’s post-colonial life; how the indigenous and the imported coexist, sometimes uneasily. The post-colonial narrative captured here is not overtly confrontational but subtly reflective, encouraging discussion about what has been gained and lost under American influence.
In the Northern Marianas, documentary filmmakers have tackled the more recent political story; the Covenant with the U.S. and what Commonwealth status means. One documentary art project by a group of Saipan students involved taking photographs of ordinary citizens holding up handwritten signs stating their personal dreams or grievances (for example, “More Culture in Our Schools” or “My Land, Not For Sale”). These candid black-and-white photos were arranged into a short film intercut with historical footage of the Covenant signing in the 1970s, thus creating a conversation between generations on screen. The project, which aired on local TV and at a museum event, exemplifies how art is used to engage critical thinking about autonomy, American military presence, and local agency.
We also see a rise in digital storytelling as art. Chamorros abroad have made short video documentaries about reconnecting with their roots, often blending old family photos, new footage of Guam’s landscape, and spoken narrative. For instance, the film I Am Chamorro by a California-raised Chamorro artist weaves his personal journey (visiting his ancestral village, learning Chamorro phrases) with images of Spanish-era ruins and U.S. naval flags, reflecting on the complexity of Chamorro identity after colonization. It’s both art and anthropology, meant to resonate with diaspora Chamorros questioning their identity.
One noteworthy photographer, Tony C. Palomo, in the 1980s compiled a then-and-now photo book of Hagåtña (Agana) city. He paired photographs of pre-war Spanish architecture and the lively Chamorro society of the 1930s with his own photographs of the same locations in the 1980s (where often a parking lot or modern government building stands). The visual impact of these side-by-side images is profound. It documents not just physical change but a narrative of loss, survival, and adaptation; essentially, the story of a people who endured colonization, war destruction, and rebuilding. The art lies in the curation and perspective: Palomo centered the Chamorro community’s experience, making viewers ask, “What was taken? What persists?”
Photography and documentary art in the Marianas serve as a mirror and a window; a mirror for Chamorros and Carolinians to see themselves and validate their experiences, and a window for the outside world to better understand the nuances of Pacific Islander life beyond tourist brochures and strategic narratives. Through portrait series, comparative imagery, and mixed-media storytelling, these visual artists are writing the post-colonial narratives of the Marianas in light and shadow. They bridge generations by preserving memories and spark dialogue by questioning the status quo, thereby continuing the work of decolonization through art.
The booming tourism industries on Guam and Saipan since the late 20th century have had significant effects on local art markets and production. On one hand, tourism created new demand and venues for Mariana Islands art; on the other, it introduced pressures of commercialization and standardization of cultural products.
In Guam, the influx of visitors (primarily from Japan, Korea, and the U.S. mainland) in the 1970s–1990s led to a proliferation of souvenir shops and galleries in the Tumon resort area. Local artists and craftsmen found ready customers in tourists eager to take home a piece of “Chamorro culture.” This spurred increased production of certain art forms. For example, carving of small latte stone replicas, once a purely cultural or educational craft, turned into a cottage industry to supply souvenir outlets with everything from stone latte paperweights to wooden latte-shaped candleholders. Similarly, weavers began making more compact, easily portable items like palm leaf mini-baskets, hats, and fans that could be sold as island décor. The content of art also sometimes shifted to cater to visitor tastes; bright tropical scenes and comforting cultural motifs became common in paintings and prints because they sell well. As one observer noted, Guam’s modern artists in the 80s and 90s often had two modes; one for the fine art world and one for the tourist market. A painter like Jose Babauta might create abstract political pieces for a gallery, but also produce idyllic beach sunset watercolors for hotel shops. The tourism economy, in effect, expanded the art market and allowed some artists to make a living, yet also subtly nudged them towards “safe” themes and smaller, decorative works.
The presence of art in public and commercial spaces grew thanks to tourism. Guam’s major hotels frequently commissioned local art to beautify their properties; large murals, latte-inspired sculptures, and paintings of Chamorro village life adorn many lobbies. This not only provided income to artists like Sal Bidaure (whose murals grace hotel walls) but also gave tourists a curated experience of Guam’s culture. The airport, as mentioned, turned into a de facto art gallery where departing tourists could get a last dose of Guam’s artistic heritage in the form of giant canvases and installations. Thus, tourism encouraged the institutional support of art. The Guam Visitors Bureau and other agencies started funding cultural shows, dance performances, and art exhibitions as part of tourism promotions. Events like the annual Guam Micronesia Island Fair were designed partly for tourists and featured numerous local artisans demonstrating and selling crafts. While the primary goal was entertainment and commerce, these events have helped sustain crafts that might otherwise decline by giving artisans regular outlets.
In Saipan, the tourism boom (peaking in the 1990s with Japanese and then later a surge of Chinese tourists) similarly shaped art production. The CNMI saw an uptick in small businesses selling Carolinian mats, Chamorro jewelry (e.g., shell necklaces), and so forth. A number of workshops sprang up where older weavers and carvers would train younger workers to create items quickly for sale; a form of commercialization that, critics argue, can reduce quality or authenticity. For instance, some souvenir stores began importing cheap “island-style” trinkets from the Philippines or Taiwan, which then competed with genuine local handmade crafts. This forced local artisans either to lower prices or differentiate their products by emphasizing authenticity. Many chose the latter, marketing pieces as “handmade on Saipan” or including explanatory cards about the cultural significance to appeal to discerning tourists. The dynamic essentially pushed local artists to be entrepreneurs and cultural ambassadors at once.
However, tourism has also brought in foreign art influences that intermingle with local ones. Galleries on Guam occasionally feature visiting artists or sell prints of Polynesian or Asian-Pacific art, broadening the art scene but also possibly diluting focus on local creators. And some Chamorro artists produce work specifically targeting tourist preferences; seascapes, hula girls (even though hula is Hawaiian, some tourists expect any Pacific island to have that imagery), generic tropical designs, which might not accurately reflect Chamorro culture but sell because they fit a stereotyped paradise image.
Economically, the gift and souvenir sector became a pillar of island economies. In Guam by 2016, spending on gifts and souvenirs by tourists was estimated to have grown by tens of millions of dollars over a few years. This money trickles down to artisans in part. One can clearly see that if a local artist can tap into the tourist market, there’s profit to be made. This incentivized more people to take up or continue traditional arts, as a viable job. The risk is that the art can become more about quantity than quality. For example, where a weaver might traditionally spend weeks meticulously crafting a large pandanus sleeping mat with family symbols woven in, now she might spend that time making dozens of simpler placemats for sale to tourists at $20 each. The art shifts to meet external demand.
Tourism has also stimulated cultural performance arts. Dance groups and musicians often perform at hotel luaus or dinner shows. While some shows simplified or altered dances for tourist entertainment, others use the platform to educate. Either way, tourism made performance an employment option for Chamorro youth, keeping them engaged with cultural dance and music (even if in a commercialized format).
In Saipan, one interesting development is the establishment of shops like Gloria’s Art Gallery where local artists not only sell fine art to visitors but sometimes involve them in the process (workshops on painting latte stones or making maracas, for instance). This interactive form of cultural tourism turns the tourist into a student of Chamorro art for a day, potentially deepening appreciation beyond mere consumption.
Tourism’s effect on Guam and CNMI art is double-edged. It undoubtedly expanded markets and visibility for local art and provided financial support that helped some art forms survive, but it also introduced pressures to simplify and commodify art to suit tourist expectations. The challenge for Mariana Islands artists is to strike a balance; leveraging tourism to sustain and share their art without allowing commercial interests to strip those creations of their soul and context. Many are meeting that challenge, producing work that is accessible yet genuine, thus turning tourists into informal ambassadors for Chamorro art when they take a piece of the Marianas home with them.
Contemporary artists in Guam and the CNMI frequently create hybrid art forms, fusing indigenous Chamorro motifs with Western (and other) artistic styles. This hybridity is a reflection of the islands’ multicultural history and the artists’ desire to innovate while honoring tradition. In painting, for example, one can observe Chamorro symbols, such as latte stones, fish, and taotaomo’na spirits, rendered in styles ranging from European realism to cubism to Japanese manga-like illustration. The result is art that doesn’t fit neatly into one category but is uniquely “Marianas.”
A case in point is the work of painter Adriano Pangelinan in the 1970s. He was strongly influenced by the Fauvist movement (with bold, non-naturalistic colors) and by modern abstract art, but he embedded Chamorro cultural imagery in those vibrant canvases. One of his well-known pieces portrays a village scene with women pounding rice, but the composition is semi-abstract with vivid patches of color and distorted perspectives, reminiscent of European modernists, effectively a Chamorro folk scene seen through a Picasso-esque lens. Pangelinan’s and his contemporaries’ ability to intermingle these elements signaled that Chamorro art had entered the global chat, so to speak, without losing its local voice.
The performing arts also show fusion. A prominent choreographer on Guam might set a traditional Chamorro chant to hip-hop beats, creating a dance that features both ancient footwork and breakdance moves. Audiences, especially the youth, respond enthusiastically to such blends because they reflect their bicultural reality. Guam’s fashion designers, too, have gotten into the act by incorporating Chamorro motifs (like the sacred galån geometric patterns or coconut leaf weaves) into contemporary streetwear and high fashion. Native Girl is a Guam clothing brand that prints outlines of latte stones and slingstones onto trendy shirts and hats; essentially pop art meets heritage symbol. These designs are worn proudly by young Chamorros, showing how traditional symbols can gain fresh life in a new graphic context.
Literature and graphic art provide further examples. Chamorro comic book artists have produced graphic novels where ancient Chamorro warriors or legendary figures like Sirena (the mermaid) are cast in superhero-style narratives with anime-influenced drawing styles. The stories might have a Marvel-like pacing but are rooted in Chamorro legend; a true hybrid of content and form. In one comic, Marpi (Ghost), a Carolinian boy with supernatural powers (based on Carolinian spiritual beliefs) navigates a dystopian future Saipan; the visual style is very much Japanese manga inspired, yet all the cultural references and motifs are local.
What drives this fusion is a combination of necessity and creativity. Chamorro artists have grown up exposed to American, Asian, and global media, so those influences naturally seep into their creative process. At the same time, a strong cultural renaissance ensures they have ample access to traditional knowledge and imagery. The intersection yields art that is layered and sometimes subversive. A hybrid piece often invites multiple interpretations. A Westerner might see one thing, a Chamorro another, and both are valid. For example, a painting of Our Lady Santa Marian Kamalen in a graffiti style with tattoos might just look like a funky modern Virgin Mary to some, but a Chamorro viewer might pick up that the tattoos are ancient symbols and the graffiti background spells out a Chamorro prayer in stylized letters; thereby the piece speaks simultaneously to Catholic devotion and indigenous resurgence.
Art critics have observed that these hybrid forms are building a new visual vocabulary for the Marianas’ post-colonial identity. They neither reject the West categorically nor imitate it passively; instead, they appropriate and indigenize. The fact that one gallery exhibit can comfortably hang a realistic painting of a two lovers legend alongside a color-field canvas titled "Isa Tasi Guåhan (Rainbow, Ocean, Guam)"speaks to an audience that is open to both, and even to works that combine both in one. This versatility is one of the strengths of Mariana Islands art in the 21st century; it is capable of resonating on multiple frequencies, keeping local culture at its core while engaging in global artistic dialogues. As Ric Castro’s exhibit at UOG shows, you can have a scene of Chamorro history painted to “appear like a giant carved storyboard” yet executed with trompe-l’oeil illusion technique developed in Europe. The result is simultaneously a Chamorro storyboard and a Western trompe-l’oeil painting; 100% both. Such hybrid art forms represent the plural identities of Chamorro people today and prove that art can be a harmonious conversation of cultures rather than a clash.
Amid the Marianas’ long history of colonization, war, and rapid social change, many Chamorros have turned to art as a form of therapy; a means of healing individual and collective traumas. This therapeutic role of art has gained recognition in recent years, with structured programs and informal community initiatives alike leveraging creative expression to address historical wounds.
During workshops organized by groups like Healing Hearts and the Guam Behavioral Health, elders who survived WWII atrocities are sometimes encouraged to draw or paint their experiences as part of their therapy. Some have produced heartbreaking yet cathartic images. One woman drew in crayons her memory of hiding in a cave during bombardment, depicting herself as a small child in the dark cave with bright explosions outside. Sharing this drawing with younger participants and other survivors has helped her process fear long held inside, essentially transferring the pain from memory to paper. Similarly, younger Chamorros who struggle with the inheritance of historical trauma, such as feelings of inferiority or dislocation linked to colonization, find empowerment in reviving traditional arts. Learning to weave or to chant has been cited as “healing” because it reconnects them with an identity that colonial narratives had eroded. In this sense, practicing art (be it performing a dance or carving a canoe) can heal by restoring pride and continuity, counteracting the intergenerational trauma of cultural loss.
A poignant contemporary example came after Super Typhoon Yutu in 2018 in CNMI. The community, reeling from destruction, engaged in an art initiative as part of trauma recovery. As noted earlier, artist Meena Benavente’s project of painting encouraging messages like “#OneMarianas” on storm debris served to cope with emotional and mental health struggles in the aftermath. Creating and viewing these makeshift murals helped residents feel solidarity and hope, mitigating feelings of despair. Likewise, Project Haligi invited people of all ages to paint on new utility poles; turning a symbol of reconstruction into a canvas for community support messages (“We are still here,” “Familia is Strength” etc.). Participants described the painting days as incredibly therapeutic; they could channel anxiety and grief from the disaster into something constructive and beautiful, literally coloring their world back to life.
On Guam, the concept of “decolonizing through art” has also been seen as a path to healing colonial trauma. Multi-disciplinary artist Cathy Tydingco facilitated a series of art therapy sessions for young Chamorro women dealing with self-esteem issues. They used techniques like journal collage (combining writing and images) to explore what being Chamorro meant to them, confronting feelings of cultural loss or confusion. Many collages ended up incorporating images of strong Maga’håga (female leaders) from Chamorro history alongside personal photos, as the young women re-imagined themselves as part of a continuum of strength. This creative re-framing proved healing in terms of personal identity formation; participants reported decreased feelings of shame about their culture and greater sense of purpose.
There is also a movement of literal art therapy facilitated by clinicians. At Guam’s Department of Mental Health, some counselors use traditional basket-weaving as a calming practice for patients with anxiety and PTSD, noting that the repetitive motions and focus required in weaving can ground patients in the present and give a sense of accomplishment. In Saipan’s community centers, war survivors have been invited to engage in group quilting projects where each person designs a square that represents something they lost or something they cherish about their home. Sewing these together into a quilt is a metaphor for communal healing; everyone’s story, painful or joyful, is part of the larger fabric. One such quilt made in 2004 to commemorate the 60th anniversary of the Battle of Saipan included squares with Japanese and Chamorro perspectives side by side, helping former enemies find closure through empathy and creativity.
Performance art is another outlet. The story of Påle’ Jesús Baza Dueñas, a Chamorro priest executed by the Japanese, was turned into a stage play featuring dance, chant, and contemporary theater by a local troupe. Many in the audience were descendants of those who lived that war period; watching their history acknowledged and performed was a moving experience that some described as healing; an artistic catharsis that allowed suppressed grief to be released. The mere act of telling and witnessing their stories in art broke a silence and validated their suffering and resilience.
In a broader sense, the resurgence of Chamorro art in all forms can be viewed as therapeutic for the society as a whole, addressing the cultural trauma of colonization. By reclaiming narratives and aesthetics, Chamorros undo some of the damage of past oppression. Art provides a safe space to express anger, sorrow, and hope. Whether it’s a young poet performing a piece about the military buildup on Guam or a Carolinian carver teaching inmates at the prison to carve canoes as rehabilitation, the underlying theme is healing; healing of historical wounds, personal wounds, and sometimes even the relationship between people and their land. The Marianas have thus seen art transform into a medicine of the spirit, a way to confront the past and imagine a healthier future. As one artist succinctly put it, “We create to heal.” Through creativity, the Chamorro and Carolinian people continue to survive and thrive, turning pain into beauty and trauma into strength, ensuring that art is not just seen but felt as a pathway to wholeness.
In the 21st century, digital media has opened up entirely new frontiers for Chamorro artists, giving rise to emerging art forms that blend technology with cultural expression. Young Chamorros, both in the islands and the diaspora, are adept at using computers, tablets, and smartphones as creative tools and they are infusing Chamorro motifs and sensibilities into these modern mediums.
One major development is in digital illustration and graphic design. A new wave of Chamorro graphic artists produce stunning digital art that often circulates on social media. They create images of legendary figures or historical heroes using software like Adobe Illustrator or Procreate, resulting in a slick, vibrant style that appeals to the younger generation. For example, an artist might draw a digital portrait of Chief Hurao or Queen Agueda Johnston in a comic-book style, post it on Instagram, and get thousands of likes and shares among Chamorro audiences. These images become viral symbols of pride; easily reproducible, shareable, and even printable on merchandise. Digital art has also enabled the resurrection of the nearly lost Chamorro writing system (cho’cho’ script), as typographers have designed Unicode Chamorro fonts. One can now see digital posters or online posts with Chamorro language written in a stylized ancient script, something that merges cutting-edge graphic design with ancestral heritage.
Animation and video game design are burgeoning fields as well. A team of Guam-based programmers and artists recently developed a demo for a mobile game called "Gadao’s Quest," in which players guide the legendary strongman Chief Gadao through a series of challenges in an island landscape. The game’s artwork is fully digital, but it draws on Chamorro folklore for its characters and storyline. This gamification of Chamorro myths not only entertains but educates players about cultural lore, representing a new form of interactive art. Similarly, short animated films on YouTube now depict tales like the origin of Guam’s firefly (a cautionary legend) or the story of Sirena, all made with digital animation techniques and often narrated in Chamorro. These have become popular among Chamorro kids, essentially updating oral storytelling into a digital cartoon format.
Photography has also gone high-tech with the use of drones and digital editing. Chamorro photographers are creating breathtaking aerial videography of cultural sites (like latte parks, Spanish fort ruins, etc.) and overlaying them with spoken word poetry or music to produce digital art films that celebrate the islands. The combination of drone footage with archival images is especially powerful. For instance, a video might start with a drone sweep over modern Hagåtña, then morph into wartime photos of the same location, and finally into a 3D re-creation of how it looked in 1940, all set to a Chamorro song. These multimedia creations are only possible with digital tools and show how Chamorro artists are mastering those tools to tell their story.
Social media itself has become a canvas. The ephemeral “story” features on Instagram/Facebook see Chamorro designers making quick pieces of art; a filter that puts a Guam flag face-paint on your selfie, or a GIF sticker of a dancing Guam seal that anyone can add to posts. Chamorro meme-makers also constitute a sort of grassroots digital art movement. They splice together images from popular culture with Chamorro humor and language, creating jokes that simultaneously comment on cultural issues (like a meme about the hot Pacific sun using a well-known SpongeBob scene but captioned in Chamorro). While humorous, memes are an art form of our time and, in the Marianas, they often serve as witty commentary on colonial hangovers or everyday island life quirks.
Another sphere is music production, which has gone digital. Chamorro musicians are producing hip-hop and EDM tracks with Chamorro lyrics and cultural themes, using digital audio workstations. The music videos for these tracks, shared on YouTube, often feature creative visuals layered with CGI effects and cultural symbolism. For example, one music video by a young rapper overlays historical footage of Guam with neon animation and glitch effects, as he raps about reclaiming identity; it's a striking collage of old and new, enabled entirely by digital editing suites.
All these innovative art forms have a democratizing effect. They allow more Chamorros (especially youth) to participate in art creation without needing traditional materials or studios. A teenager with an iPad in Yigo can draw and publish her interpretation of a Chamorro creation myth to the world without needing gallery approval. This has expanded the voices in Chamorro art, bringing in those who might not engage with conventional art scenes. It also facilitates diaspora engagement; Chamorro artists in California or Texas frequently collaborate online with those in Guam and CNMI, sharing files and co-creating digital projects in a way that distance no longer hinders.
To be sure, challenges exist. The digital realm is saturated with global content, and Chamorro digital art must compete for attention. There is also the issue of protecting traditional knowledge in digital spaces; some elders worry about sacred symbols being misused or misunderstood when they become widely circulated online art. However, many are optimistic that the more Chamorros express themselves digitally, the more their culture stays relevant and alive. Already, the presence of Chamorro-themed stickers, filters, and content across platforms means that a young Chamorro scrolling their feed regularly encounters affirmations of their identity.
Digital media has become both a new medium and a new meeting ground for Chamorro art. It has unleashed a wave of creativity that respects no boundaries; geographic or stylistic. From digital paintings of latte stones glowing in cyberspace to Chamorro-language podcasts that are themselves oral art, technology is being indigenized. The Marianas’ artists are not passively consuming digital culture; they are actively shaping it, ensuring that Chamorro art moves with the times into virtual galleries, feeds, and games, carrying the essence of the culture forward on the pixels and wavelengths of the modern world.
The built environment of the Marianas has undergone dramatic evolution, from traditional thatched huts to reinforced concrete structures, yet it retains threads of continuity. Pre-contact Chamorro architecture consisted of homes built of wood, bamboo, and thatch, often raised on latte stone pillars in Guam and the larger Northern Islands. These pole-and-thatch houses were ingeniously adapted to the tropical climate. Their thatched roofs shed rain and kept interiors cool, and their elevated floors (sometimes on wooden posts when latte were not used) allowed airflow and kept out pests. The construction was entirely with organic materials and coconut fiber cordage; yet these structures could withstand typhoons surprisingly well, flexing with the wind. Spanish colonizers noted the houses’ stability and the skill of Chamorro carpenters, who could lash frames without nails and create comfortable, roomy interiors.
The Spanish colonial era introduced new materials and styles, though for a long time many Chamorros outside the presidio still lived in pole-and-thatch homes. In the 18th and 19th centuries, those of higher status or in colonial administration began building mampostería houses; stone-and-lime mortar structures influenced by Spanish Caribbean architecture. These featured thick ground-floor walls of stone (often with a storage cellar, or budega, below) and wooden upper floors with overhanging balconies. The Lujan House in Hagåtña is a classic example: a blend of Spanish design (masonry lower floor, capiz shell windows) with Chamorro touches (ifil wood framework, open ventilation). Spanish churches and forts in Guam and Rota likewise used stone, cementing a more permanent architectural legacy. Still, into the early 20th century, most Chamorro homes were simple thatched cottages, though by then often incorporating a few “modern” elements like glass windows or metal nails, thanks to trade.
After World War II, especially on Guam which saw massive destruction in 1944, the American rebuild transformed the architectural landscape. U.S. Navy Seabees and later private contractors constructed concrete and tin houses to replace villages flattened by war. The practicality of concrete (resistant to termites, fire, and storms) meant that throughout the 1950s–60s, Chamorros moved into cement-block homes with metal roofs. These were very different from thatch houses, hotter inside if not designed with eaves or ventilation, but they promised durability. Over time, Guam developed a hybrid residential style; concrete houses with decorative elements reflecting island motifs, like carved latte designs on a facade or porch pillars that subtly mimic the shape of haligi. By the 1970s–80s, prosperity brought more American-style suburban homes, yet even in these, one might find a traditional lanai (open porch) akin to the oto of old, where families gather to catch evening breezes much as they did under thatched eaves generations before.
In the Northern Marianas, post-war construction was less intensive (the population was smaller and more rural). Through the 1950s many families on Saipan and Tinian still lived in structures not unlike pre-war ones; wood frames with tin or thatch roofing. But by the late 20th century, especially after CNMI’s economic boom, modern concrete structures became the norm there as well. However, a renaissance of interest in traditional architecture has led to projects like the building of new guma’ latte (latte house reconstructions) for cultural demonstration. In Guam’s Gef Pa’go cultural park, for instance, traditional houses have been reconstructed using historical descriptions: tall wood posts, woven coconut leaf thatch, and hemp rope lashings. These serve as living museums where younger Chamorros can experience the space of a thatched home and visitors can appreciate its cooling design (remarkably cooler than nearby modern buildings on a hot day).
Architecturally, one also sees deliberate aesthetic blending in public buildings. The Guam Museum, completed in 2016, is a state-of-the-art concrete and glass edifice, but its entrance features stylized latte stone columns and patterns evoking woven thatch, symbolically rooting the modern building in Chamorro design. The southern facade even resembles a giant latte profile when lit up at night. Similarly, village community centers often incorporate a latte motif or an open-air pavilion with a thatched roof as a nod to the past. The use of these motifs is conscious; it asserts a continuity of culture even as construction methods have changed drastically.
The shift from åsot (lassoing and lashing) to steel rebar and concrete was also a shift in lifestyle. Traditional homes had no rigid rooms; living was communal and fluid. Modern homes introduced fixed bedrooms, kitchens, etc., aligning with Western concepts of privacy and function. Some elders lamented that families became more fragmented once they moved out of one big room huts into houses with separate spaces. But Chamorros adapted space to maintain togetherness; one sees many modern houses where the carport or yard is converted into an outdoor kitchen and hangout area, effectively recreating the communal feel of a thatched cookhouse under a mango tree but in a new form.
Environmental factors push architectural innovation still. Recent decades of intense typhoons mean architects design homes to be more resilient. Roofs are poured concrete or tied down better, windows are typhoon-rated. But even here, traditional knowledge finds a place. Chamorros historically built rounder roofs and structures that fared well in typhoons; architects note that incorporating hip roofs (four-sided) instead of gable (two-sided) helps in storms, something island forebears intuitively knew and practiced with their steeply pitched hip thatch roofs.
In rural CNMI and some parts of Guam, you can still find a few last thatched structures; used for ranch shelters, tourist cultural exhibits, or picnic pavilions. And interestingly, there’s a slow movement toward sustainable building which looks again at pre-contact architecture for inspiration (shade, airflow, local materials). A handful of eco-resorts in the Marianas now build nipa huts and bamboo cottages drawing from Chamorro and Carolinian techniques, proving that the old ways still hold wisdom for comfortable tropical living.
The Marianas have journeyed from coconut fiber to steel, from lattices of wood to lattices of rebar. The evolution of architecture here is a story of adaptation; adopting new materials and methods from colonizers and occupiers but infusing them with local design sensibilities whenever possible. The result today is an architectural landscape where a Spanish-era church ruin might sit near a glass office building with latte emblems; where inside a concrete home you’ll find a family gathering on the tile floor much like they would have on a woven mat; and where the silhouette of a thatched roof can still be seen echoing in the eaves of a modern GovGuam building. It is a built environment that, like the Chamorro people themselves, bridges eras and styles, resilient and continually reshaped by history.
Chamorro art is rich with mythological symbolism, as artists draw upon a pantheon of spirits, legends, and ancestral tales that pervade the Marianas’ cultural memory. Whether in ancient petroglyphs or contemporary paintings, depictions of taotaomo’na (ancestral spirits), legendary creatures, and epic heroes serve to connect the seen and unseen worlds.
One prevalent figure is the taotaomo’na, often conceptualized as ancestral spirits residing in banyan trees or in nature. In Chamorro belief, these spirits can bless or haunt the living. Artists frequently incorporate taotaomo’na imagery to evoke that spiritual dimension of the islands. For example, renowned Guam batik artist Judy Flores has a piece entitled “Banyan Tree Spirits,” showing translucent human-like forms entwined in the roots of a huge banyan, watching over children playing beneath. The humans are rendered in subtle tones, almost hidden; a typical technique to signify that the spirits are present but not always visible to us. This kind of artwork reflects the Chamorro worldview where everyday life is interwoven with the spiritual realm. Many carvings and storyboard panels similarly portray mythic events. One may see the duendes (mischievous jungle spirits) carved as tiny elf-like beings lurking behind breadfruit leaves on a wooden storyboard about a village legend. Including these mythic beings is not merely decorative; it’s a narrative strategy that teaches and reminds viewers of moral lessons and cultural values (like respecting nature and elders, as taotaomo’na demand).
Another beloved legend in Chamorro art is that of Sirena, the girl who became a mermaid. Sirena symbolizes the clash between obedience and personal longing; her story is taught to every schoolchild. Chamorro artists depict Sirena in various forms; murals in schools, bronze statues by beaches, and in countless paintings. Unlike the typical Western mermaid (like Disney’s Ariel) who is often portrayed whimsically, Chamorro representations of Sirena imbue her with local identity. She is drawn with brown islander skin and flowing black hair, sometimes with a pådu’ (hibiscus) behind her ear, and her fish tail often features scales that morph into latte stone shapes or reef fish patterns. For instance, a mural in Saipan shows Sirena underwater reaching toward the sun, her tail covered in a mosaic of tropical marine life, while above water her mother calls out regretfully. This illustrates how Chamorro mythic symbolism is adapted into modern art with local aesthetics and emotional depth, often serving as cautionary or inspirational tale about choices and consequences.
Chamorro art also honors legendary heroes like Chiefs Gadao and Malaguana, whose epic strength contest is an origin story for the division of Guam. Many woodcarvings and even modern comic illustrations capture the famous scene of Chief Gadao rowing his canoe so powerfully it tears in half; a testament to strength and wit. These heroes are depicted as muscular figures with traditional attire (Gadao often with a sling and loincloth), and artists might incorporate iconography such as a sun motif behind Gadao to signify his legendary status. A recent sculpture at the Gadao heritage park in Inarajan portrays him as part human, part supernatural; his form merges with a latte stone behind him, suggesting he is foundational to Chamorro identity.
Animals in Chamorro myths also appear symbolically in art. The ko’ko’ bird (Guam rail), now the territorial bird, is linked with stories of how it saved the Chamorros from a great flood by carrying messages. As such, a painting might show a ko’ko’ with water swirling at its feet, referencing that mythic role. The fanihi (fruit bat), associated with tales of transformation and sometimes considered a spirit messenger, is another creature often stylized in Chamorro graphic design and tattoos; its wings possibly drawn to contain geometric patterns that represent bat eyes or teeth, an interplay of natural and supernatural.
Storyboards carved by master carvers like Greg Pangelinan and the late Tun Segundo Blas cover a gamut of myths. The creation of the world by twin gods Puntan and Fu’una, the legend of the lustful priest “Chaife” who turned into a monster, the cautionary tale of the Sihek bird’s lost voice. Each storyboard panel is a dense tableau of symbols. For instance, the Fu’una creation story might be carved with the goddess scattering seeds that turn into humans, with a background pattern of ocean waves and stars to indicate the birth of the universe. What’s remarkable is that even without text, Chamorro viewers can “read” these symbols and know the story; the art thus functions as a visual myth-book.
In tattoo revival, mythic symbols are extremely popular, many Chamorro tattoos feature the fo’na (first woman) symbol, represented as a sinuous figure or a symbol that means creation. Likewise, a male might get a slingstone tattoo to channel the strength of legendary warriors like Tasi (said to have hurled a colossal slingstone across a bay). All these show how deeply mythology informs identity; wearing or displaying those symbols is like carrying ancestral magic on one’s skin or wall.
In essence, mythological imagery in Chamorro art is a vessel of cultural continuity. Through spirits, legends, and symbols, artists assert a distinctly Chamorro worldview. These images educate, teaching youth the old stories, and also empower, suggesting that the ancestors and their wisdom are still here guiding and protecting. The interplay of myth and art also keeps the mamåhlao (taboo/respect) alive; for example, depicting taotaomo’na in trees implicitly reminds people to act respectfully around ancient trees. Chamorro art is therefore not just about aesthetic, but also about cultural pedagogy and spiritual invocation. In galleries, street murals, and tattoos alike, the presence of mythic iconography ensures that the Marianas’ ancient soul endures in the modern world, visually speaking its truths and tales.
The Mariana Islands’ tropical environment poses serious challenges for conserving artifacts and art objects. The heat, humidity, salty air, insects, and typhoons all threaten the longevity of cultural treasures, necessitating proactive and often innovative preservation measures. Curators and conservators in Guam and CNMI have become especially aware of these issues as they establish museums and historical repositories.
Humidity and mold are perhaps the biggest culprits. Guam’s average relative humidity often exceeds 80%, a level at which paper, textiles, and wood readily absorb moisture and can develop mold or mildew. Mold can stain or consume organic materials, sometimes in a matter of weeks if not checked. To combat this, the new Guam Museum in Hagåtña was designed with a high-quality climate control system aiming to keep storage areas at around 50% relative humidity and about 75°F. This is within the range recommended by conservation experts for mixed collections. Maintaining such conditions is expensive; continuous dehumidification in an environment where outside humidity is high sucks a lot of power. Still, it’s deemed necessary. Artifacts recovered from archaeological digs, like fragile latte-period pottery fragments or old Spanish documents, would disintegrate quickly if left in uncontrolled conditions. The museum’s collections management plan explicitly notes the need for preventative conservation through environmental control and pest management.
Insect pests are a constant battle. Termites (håyu) famously devour wood, including wooden artifacts, old hardwood tools, frames, even canvases (the cellulose in canvas can attract them). On Guam, periodic termite swarms mark the end of the dry season, and the insects infiltrate any untreated wooden structure. The historic Lujan House, for instance, required major restoration due to termite damage in its ifil beams. Conservators often must treat wooden artifacts with insecticides or fumigation and then ensure storage in sealed, monitored conditions. Integrated Pest Management (IPM) is the mantra: the Guam Museum employs IPM by regularly inspecting for droppings or bore-holes, using traps, and minimizing food or plants near storage. Booklice, silverfish, and cockroaches also thrive in the climate and can eat paper, bindings, and textiles. Therefore, archives and libraries in the islands keep air-conditioning running, not just for human comfort but to deter these pests (who prefer damp, warm niches). Some rare artifacts have been moved off-island for safer storage; for example, extremely delicate documents might be loaned to U.S. mainland institutions less plagued by humidity and insects.
Salt air and corrosion affect metal objects. Near the coasts (which is most of the inhabited areas), chloride in sea spray accelerates rusting of iron and tarnishing of bronze and copper. War relics like helmets or bayonets found in Guam’s earth present a huge challenge. Once excavated and exposed to fresh air, they can start corroding anew because of salt residues. These often require desalination baths and then storage in controlled dryness. The Navy museum in Guam has learned to coat some metal relics in microcrystalline wax as a protective barrier after stabilization.
Typhoons and environmental disasters pose acute risks. A direct hit typhoon can wreck a building, as happened in 2002 when Supertyphoon Pongsona pummeled Guam, causing roof leaks in the temporary Guam museum facility that damaged some exhibits. Today’s artifact custodians incorporate disaster planning. Important pieces are stored in vaults or at least waterproof cabinets, and emergency procedures exist to relocate items if a big storm is forecast. The use of scanning and digitization is another strategy; many irreplaceable photographs, maps, and documents have been digitized so that if the original is lost or damaged, the information isn’t entirely gone. However, digital storage itself must be climate-controlled and updated, as the tropics can shorten the life of electronic equipment too.
Another challenge is limited resources and expertise locally. For complex conservation, say, stabilizing a centuries-old latten sundial recovered underwater, Guam or CNMI often must send items off-island or bring in specialists (which can be costly). Training local conservators is underway, but it’s a slow process. In the meantime, some artifacts simply degrade in storage for lack of timely conservation intervention.
Even something as simple as displaying artifacts is tricky. Exhibits must carefully balance accessibility with protection. Strong UV from tropical sunlight can fade pigments and fabrics quickly, so museum displays use UV-filtering glass and keep lighting low for sensitive materials (one reason some galleries feel dim). Air conditioning in galleries is a must, even if it runs up energy bills, because fluctuations in temperature/humidity can cause materials to swell, contract, and crack. Exhibition cases often have silica gel or other buffering agents hidden inside to maintain micro-climate stability.
Community-held artifacts like church statues and relics also face climate wear. Wooden santos in village churches can suffer from wormholes and mold; some parishes periodically send their statues to Manila or the U.S. for professional restoration. One example; the 300-year-old Santa Marian Kamalen statue is kept in an air-conditioned niche when not being paraded, and when it was sent for refurbishment in 1948, experts identified wood-boring insect damage and treated it. Nowadays, local caretakers carefully monitor it for any signs of deterioration, and the church has contingency plans to shelter it during extreme weather.
In the outdoor environment, preserving sites like latte stone parks is another issue; vegetation overgrowth, erosion from heavy rains, and invasive vines can physically disturb stone structures. Entities like the Guam Preservation Trust actively do site maintenance. Clearing brush and applying sealants to some Spanish-era masonry to prevent water ingress. The Trust’s long-range plans include addressing climate change impacts, as sea level rise could threaten coastal sites (like some ancient beachside villages).
Overall, conservation in the Marianas is an ongoing race against a very aggressive environment. It requires constant vigilance and often creative solutions. The newly built Guam Museum attempted to incorporate a state-of-the-art storage with controlled temperature and humidity precisely to combat these relentless tropical effects. Even then, power failures (not uncommon on Guam) can jeopardize those systems, so backup generators are crucial.
The bright side is that awareness has grown. There’s more funding and public support now for preserving the islands’ heritage than, say, 50 years ago when many artifacts just moldered away in attics or ruins crumbled unrecorded. The collaborative approach (linking with off-island institutions for expertise) and investing in local capacity is gradually improving preservation outcomes. In essence, conservationists in Guam and CNMI strive to create a kind of “microclimate bubble” around their artifacts, a facsimile of the temperate, pest-free conditions artifacts enjoy in big mainland museums, amidst one of the harshest climates for materials. With careful control (stable 75°F, 50% RH) and rigorous pest prevention, they work to prolong the life of these physical links to the past for future generations, fighting time, weather, and biology at every step.
From latte stones to digital murals, the artistic heritage of Guam and the Northern Marianas is a rich tapestry woven from ancient fibers and contemporary threads. The Chamorro and Carolinian people have continually adapted their art forms, be it architecture, weaving, dance, or visual arts, to survive colonization, war, modernization, and globalization. In doing so, they have preserved the essence of their culture while innovating new modes of expression.
Latte period achievements in architecture and craft still inform the islands’ identity today: the latte, once a literal house foundation, now symbolically buttresses modern buildings and logos; traditional plaiting, once vital for making sails and mats, now produces works of art and livelihood that connect generations. Spanish and American influences undeniably altered the course of Mariana Islands art, introducing Catholic iconography, Western musical instruments, concrete construction, and new media, but island artists indigenized those influences. Guam’s churches may have baroque statues, yet a Chamorro soul infuses the way they are honored with local flowers and carried in village processions. American-era painters might use oil on canvas, but they memorialize ancient legends and depict rural scenes that evoke a Chamorro ethos.
Throughout their history, Mariana Islanders have turned to art not only for aesthetic purpose but as a repository of memory and a means of resistance. When language and rights were suppressed, art became a vessel in which culture could be encoded and passed on. Tattooing, for instance, is now reclaiming that role on the skin, inscribing pottery inspired motifs as statements of identity and reclamation. War survivors and their descendants have used painting, carving, and photography to process trauma and assert their narratives. Every carving of a storyboard, every woven belt of Spondylus shells, and every contemporary mural of a taotaomo’na is, in effect, an act of endurance and healing “we are still here, and this is our story.”
In recent decades, the Marianas’ art scene has blossomed in diversity. The conversation between tradition and modernity is dynamic and ongoing. We now find Chamorro hip-hop songs built on ancient chants, digital graphic art embellished with latte icons, and graffiti that shares space with breadfruit trees. Far from eroding under globalization, Chamorro and Carolinian arts are proving remarkably vibrant. Part of this success owes to deliberate cultural revival efforts. Masters teaching apprentices, communities supporting festivals, and educational integration. Part of it comes from the intrinsic strength of the art forms themselves; rooted deeply enough to grow anew in any soil, whether the village square or the internet.
Women’s stewardship in weaving, textiles, and ritual has ensured continuity, while youth-driven expressions in street art and digital media are pushing the culture into the future. The synergy of older and younger generations working together, like elders guiding public mural projects or young artists reimagining old tales in film, bodes well for a holistic preservation of cultural heritage that is not static, but living.
Challenges certainly remain. The fragility of artifacts in a harsh climate, the pressure of tourism to commercialize, and the ongoing negotiation of identity in a colonized, now heavily Americanized context. Yet, art appears to be one of the Marianas’ greatest tools for meeting these challenges. Art bridges languages and political divides; it can communicate what academic discourse cannot. A visitor might not read a history book about Chamorro resistance, but seeing a powerful latte stone sculpture or a poignant exhibit of war photographs can impart an emotional understanding of Chamorro resilience. Likewise, a Chamorro teenager may feel disconnected from formal cultural activities, but find pride and curiosity awakened when encountering a striking mural of Chief Hurao or a YouTube animation of a Chamorro legend.
The arts of Guam and the Northern Marianas are more than the sum of their beautiful parts; they are the heartbeat of the islands’ cultural survival. They carry forward ancient significance (latte as strength, shells as wealth, dance as identity), even as they serve contemporary needs (education, therapy, protest, and economic opportunity). The journey of Mariana Islands art is ultimately one of continuity amidst change. A story of a people who have never ceased to create, adapt, and narrate their unique experience through visual, tactile, and performative means. Through this journey, from latte stones to digital screens, we appreciate not only the creativity of Chamorro and Carolinian artists, but also their indomitable spirit. The art of the Marianas reveals a community that honors its ancestors by innovating for its descendants, ensuring that the creative flame burns bright on these islands, now and for generations to come.
References:
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