Podcast
¡El Arte no Calla! x Caminero - Episode 3: Sites of resistance and collective action
¡El Arte no Calla! x Caminero - Episode 3: Sites of resistance and collective action. A conversation with Julx Morales and Solveig Font
In this episode, a collaboration between Artists at Risk Connection (ARC) and Rialta, we explore two diverse contexts and approaches where art becomes a driving force for political and social projects. On one hand, Julx Morales, a muralist and feminist activist, speaks to us about the Galería Feminista Siempre Vivas in Bogotá, Colombia. Additionally, Solveig Font, curator and activist, shares her experience with Avecez Art Space, an independent gallery situated in a Havana apartment. Stemming from the differences between these two spaces emerges a crossroads turned into a gallery and a domestic space, showing confluence in their methods. We speak about how attacks on their projects have brought them to redefine strategies without losing sight of their objectives and how collective action and artistic creation keep the political struggle alive.
Hilda Landrove: This program seeks to put artists in dialogue who come from diverse backgrounds but coincide in their focus on community. That which is highlighted in the work of Sol and Julx is how their spaces —one domestic and one public— do not only show art, but also generate processes of discussion and social impact.
I wanted to start by asking you: why did you choose these spaces? What kind of importance does working in an apartment or under a bridge warrant to convert it into the epicenter of your artistic activity?
Solveig Font: Avecez Art Space is my home, where I lived with my partner and my son. In 2014, through connections with friends, artists, and curators, it converted into an exhibition space. At the beginning we called it an “alternative contemporary art space” because the term “independent” didn’t have the negative connotation that it later acquired.
Avecez was born as a response to the need for young curators and artists to have a space where they could show their work and discuss topics that could not be addressed in traditional institutions. Those spaces were outdated and did not allow for interesting conversations about contemporary art. Avecez, along with other similar spaces, came about as a way to fill that void.
We founded it together with the artist Julio Llopiz Casal, and we wanted to tell little stories in an intimate setting, far away from the large institutional galleries. Furthermore, we worked with objects in the space to create exhibitions and to try out new curatorial practices in a reduced space. There were no written rules, but they were understood by our family: my partner, my son, and the artists close to me.
Avecez also opened its doors to young artists, such as Camila Lobón, whose critical work was censored in Cuban institutions. The space became a place of resistance, where we could express ourselves and reflect about contemporary art, something that in a totalitarian state such as Cuba generated fear, given that it exposed the institutional and cultural crisis.
Beyond exhibitions, we also ran workshops. This helped to position the space within what we would call the “mainstream,” although there doesn’t really exist a mainstream in Cuba.
I would close with this: Avecez has a very interesting name, given that although it suggests something temporal or sporadic, what it describes is a permanent dynamic of generating dialogue, conversations, and learning that are necessary to produce the exhibitions. It is a lovely name because it reflects a background process that is occurring at all times.
HL: Now, Julx, tell us about your feminist gallery and the space where it is located. Why did you decide to have it there?
Julx Morales: We chose that space because it is an area under a bridge located at 26th and 30th street in Bogotá, because it is characterized as one of the least safe areas for women in the city. In 2019, when data came out on these areas, it was the second least safe for women in Bogotá. Despite it being a central place, an important corridor that crosses from the airport to the center of the city, it is one of the most dangerous stretches for us [women].
We decided to intervene in that insecure space because it is necessary to talk about forms of gender-based violence. Thus, in 2019, we called on different women and gender-dissenting individuals to do a mural intervention in that place. Through that process, we created, along with those who joined us, the feminist gallery “Siempre Vivas,” which is now a space on the street where we constantly undertake exercises to make visible and create dialogue around forms of gender violence.
This space has become a place of memory of women fighters in Latin America, with a criterion focused on rescuing the stories of lesser known women, because we specifically seek to restore the memory of those who have been involved in processes of territorial defense, of their autonomy and that of their bodies. Many of these colleagues have participated in struggles in distinct spaces and it is also a kind of memory that rescues our indigenous and afro-descendant roots, from the feminine– the deities and the native cosmogonies. We strongly emphasize the knowledge of medicinal plants, that is feminine knowledge that has been taken away from us.
Moreover, we restore the memory of women and girls who have been victims of femicide in Colombia. In this moment, the gender violence we see is alarming: they have already documented more than 500 cases of femicide in the country and more than 15,000 cases of sexual abuse against minors. Because of this, it is an urgent issue for us to talk about this topic and bring it into public discussion. The space in the street allows us to converse with the passerby and with other groups and collectives that join this process, to talk about these kinds of violence and how to transform them.
One important thing that we place/insert here are pedagogical tools, because we also aim for this space to be a site of learning and training. We collectively developed a “violentómetro” that is an identifier of the kinds of gender violence and the pathways of care for these violences, as many women are victims of violence and do not even recognize it. We also include information about the pathways of care that the Colombian state offers, the types of gender violence, which are not very well known, and tips and tools for autonomy and empowerment that help to leave cycles of violence. For example, we talk about how to live a harmonious relationship of meeting, exchange, and that allows people to develop themselves and grow.
This space has been a meeting point among diverse feminisms and processes. We organized a festival called “La Toma Cultural Feminista,” that arose as part of the feminist gallery. In it, we shower feminist art in distinct disciplines such as music, theater, performance, installation, audiovisual, graphic design, and photography completed with feminist gastronomy through vegan community pots/cooking. Feminist art has a political character, and these actions involve various collectives.
This space has been converted into a reference point for the feminist movement in Bogotá, Colombia and Latin America. I also participated in the “Femin” in Mexico City, invited by a colleague who investigated feminist actions in the region. We believe that it is the first feminist public-space art gallery in Latin America.
Through this gallery, many women have shown their artistic work for the first time and have been empowered. Although not all of them have training in the arts, the space reflects the artist spirit and the importance of taking to the streets with art.
HL: Now I want to speak briefly about the reactions these spaces have generated. We shouldn’t dedicate more space to that than to our own work, but it is important to speak about how those [reactions] transformed the logic of what you were doing. How did it change what you were doing in terms of organization, thinking in the long term, or if you had to establish defense mechanisms?
Going back to what you mentioned, Julx, about reactions from fascist groups, it is interesting how feminism is the subject of attacks by these groups. My question is not as much about them, but rather, how those reactions transformed your project.
SF: Regarding the Cuban context, as I told you, Cuba is a totalitarian state that puts a lot of energy into controlling what happens in the art world. Not as much in terms of money, but more so employing human resources to control and inform what happens in the arts. The first interactions with State Security within the space were when they visited inaugurations [of exhibitions], where you knew who they were because they didn’t form part of your close circle. And although you don’t think of it as paranoia, it does make you question who those people are. We know how the control of art works in Cuba. The fundamental transformation it had is not exactly in the creative aspect, but in the responses that were generated in the face of the control.
I believe what this really did was open up to us more doors. For example, José Luis Marrero, an established mainstream Cuban artist, did an exhibition in my house called “Para mirar la tierra por tus ojos.” In this exhibition, Marrero threw on the walls of my house the “churre” of the art institutions in Cuba. “Churre” in Cuba refers to dirty water one uses to clean places. Marrero spoke with cleaning workers, and asked them for dirty water from four art institutions and threw the water onto the walls of my home.
Of course, the exhibition only lasted a few days, but it was a symbolic response to institutional control. The art institutions were not interested in these types of projects, as they did not ascribe them any value. Nevertheless, for the artists and friends, it reinforced the sensation of freedom in our space.
We didn’t think of it as a direct response, but following Decree 349 in 2018, we started to see more clearly how our work was linked to the resistance against institutional control.
That decree, of course, regulated, controlled, and denied the existence or possibility that artists or creatives that did not pass through art schools or belonged to state institutions could exercise their right to create.
My space, in my house, did not pass through the Ministry nor the Council; it was my space. Of course, it isn’t that we were afraid, but yes we were worried, because they could now control us. Although the decree was apparently not yet in place, [this control] did occur with Tania Bruguera and Luis Manuel Otero Alcántara, for example. From then on, a lot changed in the way we did things, because my space became a place of discussion, not just of art, but also politics.
One time, we drafted a letter among a closed group —because of the paranoia and the complications it could bring. In my house, this declaration was discussed and written, and then we brought it to a kind of demonstration if you could call it that. Some odd 30 people, we met at the Council for Plastic Arts and had a meeting with the management. There, we read the declaration and questioned Decree 349, breaking it down article by article and offering our responses. I believe that was the first response that we gave, and since then we haven’t stopped. From the moment on, the responses from the state were always worse than the questions, which strengthened our position.
It is also important to mention that, in 2018, the state canceled the Bienal de La Habana, the most important visual arts event in Cuba. The official reason was because of a hurricane, but we knew that was an excuse. Then, a group of artists decided to organize the “Bienal 00,” an independent biennial that worked, but which further unleashed state control over culture.
This provoked an escalation in the responses and reactions, as you mention. There is always a reaction from the institutional apparatus. In the end, our space, which was always seen as a space of freedom, ended up strengthening itself against the attack. We didn’t enter into a counterattack dynamic; rather we reaffirmed that this was our only free space.
HL: Now, returning to Julx, I find it interesting how these attacks against the feminist gallery transformed your work. How was that process?
JM: Yes, of course, we increased our artistic actions. Originally, we had planned to do mural interventions every two years, but following the attacks, we started to paint much more often, which increased our artistic production. We also had to review our security risks. These groups, although they do not always act directly like in Cuba, have connections with the state, and there are entities like the National Electoral Council that we know are infiltrated. This complicated our situation, as these attacks started right after we presented our project in a moment of political participation. We realized that these groups identified us and started the attacks from then on.
We had to create safety protocols, including protection in the face of symbolic threats of sexual violence. We also joined with other feminist and human rights organizations to support us. This whole process, while painful, ended up strengthening us as a feminist movement. Seeing your work damaged is devastating, but it fomented a greeted sense of unity and more calls to restore the mural and continue fighting. These attacks evidenced the forms of gender violence that had always been there, but that many times weren’t visible, and this strengthened our work.
HL: That is great. I feel it is really important to highlight how the attacks sometimes end up strengthening the original project. It doesn’t only mean a kind of resistance, but also a reactivation and strengthening of work, something that speaks to the resilience and capacity of reinvention. This leads me to open up the last part of the conversation: who you organized internally. Because, it isn’t possible to do all of this without an organizational structure, without agreements and decisions.
SF: I wanted to make a quick clarification, which is that spaces of freedom always create “roncha” (a context specific term that can refer to causing bother or disgust, as well as consequences). That happens to everyone, whether with the state or alt-right groups. These spaces of freedom generate a sense of uncomfortableness among certain groups. What is interesting is that, in the midst of this arise pedagogic projects. For example, in our case, we started to organize workshops, do silk screen printing, and invite young artists. All of this helped us to create consciousness and strengthen the space of freedom we had created.
These spaces were not only to make us feel happy or safe, but also to advance, evolve, and organize ourselves.
HL: In the end, it's about having the conversations that many refuse to have. The state refuses, men refuse... there are sites and systems that want to remain immovable; the important thing is to destabilize those systems.
I close with this idea of building from art. That’s to say, art as a political project, in the sense that it can generate other forms of relations, open spaces for discussions and encourage collective participation. This is a fundamental path [forward] that you have both demonstrated through your work in Colombia and Cuba. Although at certain moments it may be more or less successful, in the long run it always shows its relevance.
I am very grateful for your dedication and work. I am very happy that we have been able to open this space to talk. I hope it is only the beginning and that our paths continue to cross on these ideas that enrich us, despite our differences, so as to build a common space full of love, creativity, and freedom.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all that you have shared today and to those who listen to us. I hope this inspires you to continue fighting against the systems that try to oppress us. Best wishes to everyone, and as we say in Cuba: the fight goes on!
Published on October 8th, 2024.