Some works are meant to be seen, others to be felt. The ones that echo emotionally, that stir a memory we didn’t know we had. This is the essence of Taquito Jocoque’s stroke: intimate, warm, fiercely Mexican.

As if drawn with fingers dipped in memory and sugar, her work takes us back to childhood, but also gently confronts us with the complexity of growing up in a country built on contrasts.

Taquito Jocoque —the pseudonym of Roxana Ramos— is a Mexican illustrator who draws from a sensitivity that embraces the intimate and the collective. Her lines seem to come from shared memory: patios with laundry hanging, markets where color and noise are language, long after-meal conversations where stories are passed on without trying.

Her visual world is like heirloom jewelry: small, yet containing centuries of story. Each line seems carved from emotion. There is something deeply handcrafted in how she builds her images—as if she were weaving the silence of a generation with color. As if she embroidered pain with crayons.

What she creates isn’t just aesthetics; it’s gesture.

A woman before a mirror, embracing herself. A steady gaze upon an absent figure. A pop icon turned into collective catharsis. Each piece illustrates an emotional landscape that quietly speaks of nation, gender, body, and heritage.

Thinking about her work is thinking about slowness.
The deliberate choice of every symbol, every format. The everyday, re-signified. The same impulse that leads someone to take a storied stone and melt it into metal to tell something greater than the object itself.

Some creative processes are almost ritual. We repeat them to remember who we are. As an act of resistance against haste, against forgetting.

That’s the feeling in Taquito Jocoque’s work: for her, to illustrate is to return home. Even if that home no longer exists. Even if it lives only in memory.