Last week I came across this image in nearly every major newspaper I usually consult. The moment I first saw it, I saved it immediately—not only because it gave me a sense of quiet delight, but also because it seemed perfectly suited for this very section. When it began multiplying across the media, I imagined the exhilaration must have been universal. Most readers, I suspect, felt a similar surge of joy.

This image seized my attention at once. I suppose it was conceived—or chosen—precisely to provoke that effect on a massive scale. Within the advancing ranks of women soldiers of the People’s Liberation Army of China, one face stands out: the second from left to right. Is it mere chance?

I hold vivid the memory of the spring of 2020, when the pandemic, near-total isolation, and the severe quarantines imposed by the government left me trapped in a suffocating mental standstill. My partner at the time managed to stay in my apartment on weekends. Among the few sources of solace that reached us within that suspended atmosphere created by the city’s restrictions were the videos of the Chinese YouTuber Li Ziqi (李子柒)...

It’s astonishing—over 40,000 people have signed a petition to block the French government from lending the Bayeux Tapestry to Britain. Yes, that’s right: a concerned multitude insists the ancient fabric is too fragile for the journey.
The campaign was spearheaded by Didier Rykner, the art historian behind La Tribune de l’Art, who argues that President Macron should have heeded the advice of conservators and restorers instead of green-lighting the loan to the British Museum.

Perhaps prompted by a timely confession—or by something closer to a revelation tinged with the paranormal—a journalist from El Español published today an article suggesting that sharing every moment is no longer the axis of the digital experience. It reads as if announcing a trend I cannot find anywhere. Perhaps it is simply that my generation, the people I follow and who follow me, are no longer inclined to chase trends.

This article has little of true interest. What catches my attention, however, is the way its original content has drifted from one outlet to another, as if there were nothing else in the world worth recounting. Perhaps it belongs to a secret chain of good fortune. This is my extract of an extract of yet another extract, and so on, until the original author dissolves into the distance. Take it as a nocturnal diversion and as a reiteration of the open secret that most cultural blogs venture into the fields to harvest the grain that will be baked into the bread of the mornings to come.

This past weekend, Annex Gallery carried out a working visit to Louisville, Kentucky, with the purpose of attending a talk offered by several Cuban artists on the challenging process of sustaining their creative practice within an economic, social, political, and even climatic context radically different from the one they had once known. The conversation took place at noon in the main hall of Louisville Visual Art and extended for nearly two hours. Four Cuban artists from the group engaged the local audience in dialogue about their experiences as emigrants while also delving into specific aspects of their work.

Leafing —digitally— through the latest issue of Tech Life magazine, I come across this advertisement for Luminar 4. I was almost seduced—abducted, rather—by the promise of a digitally retouched future.
A brief investigation confirms that Luminar is a photo-editing software developed by Skylum. It is built upon artificial intelligence and stirs considerable curiosity in the market of credulous souls, among the devotees of technological tinsel and those with very little resistance to the allure of advertising.

For those arriving from South Florida—particularly from cities like Miami—Michael Coppage’s exhibition at the Annex Gallery may resonate differently than it would for a viewer from the Midwest. This is not to suggest a hierarchy of readings, but rather to acknowledge that the lived experience of Caribbean and Latin American diasporas, especially those who have made a life in Miami, offers a particular lens through which to approach this work.

American fashion designer Willy Chavarría, in collaboration with Adidas Originals, introduced the Oaxaca Slip-On, a black-molded, open-toe shoe whose aesthetic directly recalls the huaraches of Villa Hidalgo Yalálag, Oaxaca. The controversy erupted when it came to light that the shoe was being manufactured in China, and that the communities responsible for the craft had neither been consulted nor acknowledged in the creative process.

In the cloistered hush of an archive room, where light is meted out so as not to wound the paper, a witness from another world surfaces once more: a sheet written and signed by Hernán Cortés on February 20, 1527. Five centuries have passed since the ink was still wet; more than thirty years since it was wrenched from the collection safeguarded by Mexico’s National Archives and disappeared without a trace.

A few days ago, I published a review of an exhibition held in Cincinnati, where the banana—liberated from its role as a trivial fruit—rose as an object of symbolic power, invested with a political density far exceeding what its modest morphology might at first suggest.

There is always that day in October or November when we sense, with unnerving clarity, that a definitive seasonal shift is approaching. In South Florida, such a prelude might be dismissed as a joke; here, in the North, it must be taken a little more seriously.

Throughout my life, I have felt a peculiar pleasure whenever I’ve had the chance to witness a birth. These beginnings—first steps, embryonic shapes of future realities—emerge every minute, every second. They are part of the unending dynamic of existence in the physical realm. Most will go unnoticed, for only God can foresee the majestic tree that may rise from a given blade of grass.

I've known Leticia for so many years that I can’t quite find the thread of the memory. What I do remember—clearly—is that while she was studying design, I suddenly realized she would never be a designer. Because she was an artist, and because she couldn't, wouldn't, and had no interest in being or doing anything else. I can’t recall the first time I saw her work either. But what I do know is that her work has been orbiting my gaze for a very long time, as if it had always been there—lurking, silent, waiting for unsuspecting, gentle eyes.