Octavio Quintanilla is the author of the poetry collections If I Go Missing (Slough Press, 2014), The Book of Wounded Sparrows (Texas Review Press, 2024), which was longlisted for the National Book Award, and Las Horas Imposibles /The Impossible Hours, winner of the 2024 Charles Ambroggio Prize given by the Academy of American Poets, newly released from the University of Arizona Press.
Octavio is the founder and director of VersoFrontera, a literature and arts festival, publisher of Alabrava Press, and former Poet Laureate of San Antonio, TX. His Frontextos (visual poems) have been published and exhibited widely. In March 2025, he was inducted into the Texas Institute of Letters (TIL). He teaches Literature and Creative Writing at Our Lady of the Lake University.
Website: octavioquintanilla.com
IG: @writeroctavioquintanilla
Twitter: @OctQuintanilla
CANTOMUNDO: When were your CantoMundo years? What made your experience memorable?
OCTAVIO QUINTANILLA: I participated in CantoMundo in the years 2014, 2015, and 2016. Back then, the conference took place at UT-Austin, and I live in San Antonio, so it was pretty easy for me to travel and attend. I met a lot of good people, poets that I am still in touch with or friends with. So many experiences made my participation in CantoMundo memorable, including taking a workshop with Juan Felipe Herrera, hearing keynotes by Sherwin Bitsui and Natasha Trethewey, and hanging out with fellow CantoMundistas til the wee hours of the morning. Most fun were the public readings by the poetry faculty and CM Fellows.
CM: You began Frontextos in 2018 in response to the time limitations imposed by teaching. Were you always doing visual art and poetry before or was this the first time you purposely brought the two media together?
OQ: I have always worked with text and image, a practice that began in elementary school and continued throughout high school, always sketching or doodling in my notebooks and book covers. In fourth grade, I got obsessed with making sketches of Michael Jackson, often adding thinking bubbles or other types of text. Back then, I also had an interest in making comics. This is to say that I’ve always had a deep connection to how text and image work together to evoke meaning, amplify, and allow the silences between them to speak. I also did these things independently of each other, especially throughout high school and right after. I was painting quite a bit. When I had money for canvases, I would paint on canvas. If not, I would paint on leftover sheetrock my father would have lying around. Of course, this latter work would not survive long since that material easily breaks and comes undone. But it was important for me to practice painting and for my friends to see my work. As for writing, I’ve always done it. It’s my first love when it comes to making art. As a boy, I was always surrounded by the stories of my elders, so I think that’s one of the reasons why I can’t silence my internal monologue, one that has always been making up stories. Those stories turned into poetry the more I learned about what it means to write a poem, which is an idea that I am still considering.
CM: Do you consider your poetry and visual art separate artistic pursuits? Does one inform the other?
OQ: As for your first question, I do and don’t. I am not sure how well I can articulate my answer since I’ve been thinking a lot about this, so much so that I want to write a more formal essay about it. Eventually, at one point, say in 2018, when I retook my painting practice with a greater sense of commitment and dedication, I considered writing poetry and painting two separate endeavors. I would paint, and then when I was done, I would write, often not considering how, when painting, I was also writing with images. However, the more I did these two creative acts almost simultaneously, or often within the same timeframe, the more the lines of creativity, which I considered to exist between them, blurred; the more the process blended into one. I noticed that both actions, the writing and the painting, had common synthesis, serendipity, and experimentation. And in both, I tried to find form. In many ways, that was the goal. So, it has become easier for me to think of painting as writing a poem or composing music. These creative acts share forms and iterations. Since 2018, I’ve been sharing my Frontextos (visual poems) on social media daily, meaning I paint almost every day. I do not finish a Frontexto every day, but every day, I do throw some paint on canvas, or do some mark-making, or write text on the canvas, or paint over something I had already considered “done.” I could do all these things more easily once I realized that the canvas is a “blank page,” and I can either use it to write, paint, or do both.
CM: In terms of artistic expression—when do you know when an idea should be expressed as a poem or a painting?
OQ: I don’t go into making art with the idea of an idea. I usually go about it with an emotion. I rely on and trust my intuition a lot, which often means I do not have an idea or even an emotion to begin with. I find this to be the best and possibly the most genuine way to unleash creativity. To dive into the process and to allow the process to be a guide, a form of brainstorming. To see where you go. To get lost so you can find your way back. The key for me is to go about it without fear of failure. And without the fear of destroying something you like. If anything, I welcome failure. It makes me think of solutions, textually and visually.
CM: Do you have a poem and a Frontexto about the same subject or theme?
OQ: I do. More than one. I’d like to share these two Frontextos so you can see how they have evolved. The first one is a Frontexto from 2020 and has text in Spanish. It’s an anaphoric poem, and the text can easily be related to the images. Or the images can also be the ones evoking the text. This Frontexto was done on paper with acrylic and ink. There is plenty of text here, something that I do not do in the second Frontexto, which is from 2025. This one is on canvas size 20”x24”; the only thing that felt right to write on it was “Mo /th / r.” And because the materials are different and the size is larger, it is harder to write a whole poem with the image itself. I mean, I could, but then I’d have to accommodate the image, the flow, etc. I’ve done it, of course, but it didn’t feel right to do so on this one. So, when I don’t write the whole text to accompany the image, I usually write it on the back of the canvas or print it on archival paper to go with it. The poem that goes with this Frontexto reads: “Suddenly they want him / they want his shadow / they want his mercy / they want his black hair / Suddenly, Madre, they want the sea of him / your son / your only true refuge / soft yearning.”
CM: Tell us about your tools. What do you prefer to write with? What do you prefer to paint with?
OQ: When it comes to poetry, I handwrite everything. I have tons of notebooks. And my preference is to write with archival ink. I really try to protect what I write, even if it’s just notes or ideas. I see my whole writing system as process. Same with painting. I see it as process. In painting, more than in writing, nothing is truly ever done for me until it is out of my hands, meaning someone acquires it. Then it’s no longer mine. Which means, I can’t paint over it to start something new. I am getting very comfortable with the idea of letting things go, of recycling material, and not being wedded to the things I make. To make something, knowing that eventually I will return to it to destroy it because I am evolving. As for tools, I love to use stainless steel palette knives.
CM: When you were a little boy, what did you want to be when you grew up?
OQ: As a boy, I wanted to be a cowboy. Then, I realized that I was afraid of horses. Then, I wanted to be an “Indian.” But I realized I couldn’t make my own bow and arrow. Then, I wanted to make lots of money. Then I realized I loved books. So here I am.
