Moments ago, I posted about the illness that flattened me for a year after my last visit to Tierralta—highlands of Córdoba near the Antioquia border. Those days, and the angry, xenophobic U.S. administration, don't matter to me now. I'm leaving in June for yet another journey to finish this installation. Something tells me it won’t be the last.
It only took a phone call with a historian. I held my breath before dialing—his work parallels mine, both of us chasing something fleeting and elegiac. His project is about preserving the architectural landmarks of the region, a fight against not just time and climate, but also a local skepticism rooted in survival. For many who live there, preservation feels like a luxury they can’t afford.
 |
| A bulldog's snout is a bottle cap opener. |
As I described my work again, our visions aligned. He asked me to send more information, and—generously—offered his time. He’s opening a window into a history I would struggle to access alone. I’ll be meeting friends and colleagues of his from the region to help fill in the missing pieces—essential fragments of a story about how tradition is being left behind.
Even without the Venezuelan crisis spilling across the border, Colombia has its hands full: fighting corruption, confronting the legacy of cocaine, and striving to be seen as a serious center of American culture. Tourism helps. Planes to Cartagena are packed with gringos flying in for the weekend, partying to the rhythms of Palenque music. The old city, which I’ve written about before, is a 500-year-old sleeping beauty, stirred awake by a rapid and tasteful renovation. It’s charming and expensive. I don't know if the same can be said for the interior. I'm focused on the Coast.
I’ve been thinking about this project for years—through the pandemic, through politics, through my absorbing work of printmaking. I'm packing. My heart aches to tell this beautiful story.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Thanks for your feedback.