Donde caen los cuerpos
The thin line that connects and runs through each of these photographs remains tied to the concepts of memory and youth. That's why this selection's main motive is to challenge the user about the way we encapsulate moments that shake the fibers of nostalgia. Thus, leaving an open invitation to guide a future discussion about how those memories that survive the erosion of forgetfulness are perceived.
What is the space in our memory where bodies fall to be remembered?
Chilean living in Buenos Aires, Argentina
What do you find in your photography?
I try to follow a slightly more testimonial approach, closely tied to the concept of identity. For me, photography as a personal interest is strongly connected to an anthropological sense—understanding what lies within the frame of the photo and what defines the human being in their uniqueness. I don’t see myself taking pictures of buildings or landscapes; it feels foreign to me.
I think about the difference between a beautiful photo and a good photo. How do you define what separates them? A good photo contains a narrative, a testimony, that substantial element. I would like my photography to be understood from that perspective—as something testimonial, something that invites reflection to understand why there is something in that photo that defines the person captured within it.
Does your photographic work reflect your own testimony or the one of the person you are taking pictures at?
It’s a combination, a hybrid, because the authorial value is inherently tied to the content that is captured. What I think is that I deliver what I perceive as the essence of the person I photograph through various means, even before taking the picture. For example, on my birthday, just before traveling back to Buenos Aires. I don’t like celebrating it, so to distract myself from the date, I told everyone who came that I would take their portraits. I had gotten some flashes and even sought a bit of advice on how to use them. Then, I locked them in my room one by one.
The idea was first to explain the purpose of the photos to each person. I also asked everyone to give me five or six songs to play, to create an atmosphere that would help them feel comfortable and forget they were being photographed—as if it were more of a game.
What inspires your work?
At first, it was a mix between the search for aesthetics—how to take beautiful photos using manual film cameras, which was my first experience—and understanding why I liked the photos I liked. But the most important part was to express, through my photos, how I conveyed my own uniqueness within the same visual language. My interest in photography began with protest photography at my school. Later, I realized, by comparing them, that the other students who focused on this kind of photography were capturing violence, confrontation, and stimuli. But I was more drawn to highlighting the pathetic and the more naïve interactions present in that environment. Amid the chaos, there were moments that revealed a kind of harmony in the composition, something that felt foreign to others but was visible to me. Over time, I came to understand that this more journalistic style of photography could carry much deeper symbolism—it could tell stories, evoke sensations like anguish, despair, and rage, but in a way that wasn’t so direct.
How are memory and youth intertwined?
I believe that memory and youth are deeply intertwined through a powerful sense of nostalgia. When we are young, we experience stimuli and moments with a freshness and novelty, with a kind of innocence that fades before adulthood fully sets in. There are small fragments in our memory—little flashes—that survive. But what is it that allowed those particular memories to endure, resisting the erosion of forgetting? That’s the invitation: for each person to reflect on whether there’s an aesthetic within memory. What does the aesthetic of forgetting look like? What does the aesthetic of melancholy or nostalgia look like?
So, I think nostalgia is the bridge between memory and youth. It’s about recalling the past with a kind of fatalistic romance—though it doesn’t have to be that way, necessarily.
So, I think nostalgia is the bridge between memory and youth. It’s about recalling the past with a kind of fatalistic romance—though it doesn’t have to be that way, necessarily.
Is youth a concept frozen in time, or is it a living resource that endures?
I think it’s a bit of both. I feel it as something alive because of its ability to express emotions with great force and intensity. But at the same time, youth acquires a nostalgic quality, as we often struggle during that period to fully grasp where our lives are headed.
These two aspects intertwine because, over time, we revisit memories through the lens of the intense emotions that shaped them. It’s as if the emotional charge from youth remains alive within us, fueling our memories, even as we view them from a distance. This connection between memory and emotion keeps youth present, but always with a trace of nostalgia for what we couldn’t fully understand at the time.
These two aspects intertwine because, over time, we revisit memories through the lens of the intense emotions that shaped them. It’s as if the emotional charge from youth remains alive within us, fueling our memories, even as we view them from a distance. This connection between memory and emotion keeps youth present, but always with a trace of nostalgia for what we couldn’t fully understand at the time.
Last year, I finally had the opportunity to engage more deeply in productive spaces and work with a great team of people genuinely interested in certain projects. However, it’s challenging to access that level because it’s hard to find people who are motivated, authentically good at what they do, and not driven by ego. Fortunately, I was able to collaborate with open-minded individuals who were willing to listen and exchange ideas. I found that kind of feedback process fascinating, as it refined the final outcome significantly. But these spaces are incredibly rare or almost non-existent in Chile, and only a few artists manage to gain visibility.
It’s very hard to grow creatively in Chile, which contrasts somewhat with Buenos Aires. I admire the sheer volume of production and the Argentine approach to creative work. I have a lot of respect for the industry there—the quality of their output, the dedication to delivering results, and the public’s ability to recognize genuine value in the work.
However, what I find less appealing in Buenos Aires—at least in my initial interactions—is that the defense of the project often seems more about personal promotion than about the project itself.
It’s very hard to grow creatively in Chile, which contrasts somewhat with Buenos Aires. I admire the sheer volume of production and the Argentine approach to creative work. I have a lot of respect for the industry there—the quality of their output, the dedication to delivering results, and the public’s ability to recognize genuine value in the work.
However, what I find less appealing in Buenos Aires—at least in my initial interactions—is that the defense of the project often seems more about personal promotion than about the project itself.
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