The Perez Bros

Written By Alex Martinez

Some artists spend years searching for a subject. For the Perez Bros., it was there from the start.

Before the paintings, before the shows, before the two of them began building work as one voice, there were notebooks, loose paper, cartoons on TV, and the kind of childhood where drawing was always close by. Alejandro and Vicente Perez, the identical twin artists known as the Perez Bros., trace their beginnings back to being kids in and around South Gate, always carrying something to draw on, always sketching, always finding their way back to images.

“We always used to have our books with us,” one of the brothers says in the interview. “We always had something on us… always drawing stuff on paper.”

That beginning matters because nothing about their work feels forced. It comes from repetition, habit, and memories. The kind of interest that starts early and never really leaves.

As kids, they were drawn to cartoons first, the kind of imagery that makes you want to pick up a pencil and try it yourself. X-Men. The Simpsons. Characters with attitude, movement, and style. That impulse to emulate what they loved became the first real step toward becoming artists.

“As kids, when I would draw, I’d go to X-Men characters.”

That instinct stayed with them through school. By high school, both were still taking art seriously enough that a teacher recognized something in them and pushed them to think beyond just getting a job after graduation. That teacher opened the door to art school and helped point them toward Otis.

At the time, that future was not guaranteed. Like a lot of kids, the path ahead still felt wide open and uncertain. Work was one option. Something else entirely was another. But once art school became real, they went for it together.

And got in together.

That part still feels important when talking about the Perez Bros. because so much of their story moves in parallel. Same upbringing. Same interests. Same pull toward image-making. Even before they became a duo in the formal sense, they were already building on the same ground.

In school, they were still making their own work individually. But the overlap was obvious. Their interests were always close. Their visual instincts were similar. They were drawn to the same kinds of images, the same ideas, the same energy. Eventually, the idea of working together stopped feeling like a choice and started feeling like the natural next step.

“We always had the same interests.”

“Why not?”

That question sits at the center of the Perez Bros.’ practice.

Why not work together if the vision already overlaps? Why not turn twin perspective into a shared process? Why not build something as a team if it makes the work better?

For them, collaboration is not a gimmick. It is the engine.

They talk about how being together makes things easier, stronger, sharper. They bounce ideas off each other. They argue through paintings, colors, direction, and composition. Sometimes one gives in. Sometimes the other does. Sometimes they disagree constantly. But the push and pull is part of the work.

It is how the work becomes theirs.

That same sense of closeness also shapes what they paint.

For the Perez Bros., lowrider culture was not some distant fascination. It was part of what they grew up around. Their dad was in a car club and always had a lowrider, so from the time they were young, they were already going to car shows, cruise nights, and seeing that world up close. The visuals stuck. So did the feeling around them.

That is where the real root of the work lies.

Not just in the cars themselves, but in the atmosphere surrounding them. The party. The DJ. The body language. The sense of people being together. The way a moment can feel alive before anyone says a word.

“I just look for something that looks like fun.”

That line says almost everything about their outlook.

When the brothers talk about what they are trying to capture, they come back to the same word again and again: vibe.

They are not just painting vehicles. They are looking for a scene that says something. A moment that holds a story. A feeling that can still come through once it hits the canvas.

If a photo has a vibe, if it feels fun, if it feels chill, if it feels like something is happening inside it, that is what pulls them in.

“Our goal is to make that obvious in the piece… It’s fun, and it’s chill.”

That is why their paintings feel bigger than single subjects. Even when a car anchors the image, the work is really about the whole scene. The culture as a whole. The people around it. The clothes. The logos. The hats. The jerseys. The specific details locals recognize right away.

They talked in the interview about looking for those smaller pieces too, LA hats, Dodger jerseys, Lakers jerseys, certain shoes, brands, anything that carries the feeling of place. Those details matter because they help root the work in the world it came from.

And for the Perez Bros., authenticity matters.

They do not want to overwork the photos or turn them into something artificial. Their process is about subtraction, not invention. They shoot at events, go back through the photos, remove what they do not need, and keep the parts that matter. The goal is to preserve the truth of the scene, not dress it up into something it was not.

“We don’t make our own something… so we could keep it authentically as it is.”

That commitment feels especially important in the way they talk about lowrider culture itself.

In the interview, one of the brothers reflected on how, growing up, the culture could be stereotyped from the outside as something negative or misunderstood. What they want to show instead is what they know from within it: good vibes, togetherness, pride, and identity.

That is a huge part of the reason they paint it.

Not to sanitize it. Not to explain it away. But to show it honestly, through the lens of people who know it is about much more than the surface.

“It’s not about that. It’s about good vibes.”

That sense of representation shows up in other parts of their work, too, especially in the pieces tied to Eddie Guerrero and Rey Mysterio. Those works do not come from nowhere. They come from being fans as kids, from wrestling being part of their lives, and from recognizing something bigger in those figures.

Pride. Skin color. Culture. Representation.

They talk about seeing themselves in that kind of presence, not literally, but in what it meant to see brown identity carried with confidence and style. In the same way Eddie and Rey meant something to them growing up, the brothers seem to think about their own art as a way of bringing what they love into spaces where it may not always have been taken seriously.

There is a quiet ambition in that.

Not ambition in the loud or flashy sense, but in the sense of wanting the work to elevate what inspired it without losing what made it real in the first place.

That applies to their process, too.

People see the finished work. They do not always see the structure behind it, the day jobs, the long hours after work, the constant reviewing of photos, the patience it takes to wait for the right image to surface. The brothers talk about coming home tired and still putting in a few more hours painting through the week. They talk about sitting with archives, going through images again and again, comparing, revisiting, waiting for something to click.

Sometimes the image is immediate. Sometimes it takes time.

Sometimes they go to a show with no expectations and just happen to catch something. Sometimes nothing comes from it, and that is fine too. At this point, they already have a deep archive to work from, and when they need more, they go back out.

That rhythm has become part of the work as much as the painting itself.

They are not forcing moments. They are staying open to them.

And when the right image does appear, it usually says something before they fully know how to explain it.

A party. A mood. A whole story in one frame.

That is what they are after.

That is also what they want younger readers to take from their story.

When asked what they would want a kid from their neighborhood to get from the feature, the answer was not complicated. Inspiration. Permission. The confidence to make something out of what already feels personal to them.

“It’s okay to paint things about them.”

That may be the clearest line in the entire interview.

Because beneath the cars, the scenes, the culture, the back-and-forth of collaboration, and the years of work, there seems to be a deeper point of what the Perez Bros. are doing. They are making work from who they are, where they are from, and what shaped them, and they want other people to know that is enough.

Even if it feels strange at first. Even if people do not get it right away. Even if it does not fit somebody else’s idea of what art is supposed to be.

“Even if it sounds weird… just do it.”

That attitude feels true to both the brothers and the work itself. There are no shortcuts in what they do, but there is clarity. They are not chasing somebody else’s vision. They are not waiting for permission to paint what matters to them. They are building from SG, from memory, from culture, from the images that stayed with them as kids and still stay with them now.

And maybe that is why the work lands the way it does.

Because it does not feel borrowed. It feels lived.

The Perez Bros. are not just painting lowriders. They are painting the atmosphere. Pride. Familiarity. A city seen from the inside. A moment that feels good while it is happening and still feels good later when you look back at it.

A vibe, made visible.

Want to keep up with the Perez Bros. beyond these pages? Follow them on Instagram @theperezbros or at their upcoming show on September 11, 2026 at Charlie James Gallery.