Bolivia is a paradox. It’s one of the richestlands in South America (with vast depositsof lithium, silver, tin, natural gas and more),and it’s also one of the continent’s poorestnations, with extreme income inequality. Dueto Bolivia’s varied climate and topography – from the arid altiplano to the dense rainforests of the Amazon and thedry forests of the Chaco – its plant and animal diversityis unmatched. But for the Bolivian people, these naturalresources have turned out to be both a blessing and acurse.
This curse materialised with the 16th-century arrival of the Spaniards, who tried to homogenise and dilute the diversityof indigenous identities in order to exploit these resources.This continued until recently as the criolla upper classreinvented Bolivian identity upon the central notion ofbeing mestizo, and indigenous people were thwartedunder the assimilatory and reductive term of campesino.
Since 2006 and the election of the current president,Evo Morales (the first indigenous president in the history of Bolivia), the country has had to grapple with thesecontradictions which have been defining it for hundredsof years: How to respect and value the diversity of ethnic particularities while at the same time uniting a nation around common ideas and values such as vivir bien? How to protect nature and culture and yet still exploit naturalresources whilst addressing environmental concerns andprotecting people’s rights? And how to build a unifying Bolivian national identity?
This issue of Bolivian Express deals with these weighty contradictions but also with the smaller concerns that surround us and are part of our everyday life: thealtiplano weather where one wears short sleeves at 4pm and a winter coat by 7pm, the eco-trucks carting away garbage whilst spewing dark gasoline emissions, the grumpy caserita who begrudgingly does you a favour byselling you a chocolate bar and the thousands of otheridiosyncrasies which make Bolivia the place we know andlove – but don’t always quite understand.But there are also a few less obvious contradictions thatare much more problematic and paint a darker Bolivia.Prisons here are places where children sometimes live,exiting and entering freely while their parents stay lockedinside. Despite achieving gender parity in the highestinstitutional offices and ranking second in the world infemale representation in government, Bolivia still hashigh rates of domestic violence, femicides and sexualharassment. Ultimately, to answer these questions and move past itsentangled history, Bolivia will have to base its future onlived and shared experiences; on its unique tapestry ofparticularities, specificities and richness; and on newlyforged paths that allow modernity and indigeneity tomove forward together, whilst the coountry navigates thecontradictions of its own identity.
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Photos: Marion Joubert
The talent of amalgamating art and politics
A spacious workshop with a large window overlooking the mountains, home to an array of paints, brushes, oils, pencils and hundreds of books, is also home to Alejandro Salazar, the Bolivian artist known as: Al-Azar. Salazar produces many forms of artworks; he doesn’t adhere to just one style or technique. He has put on gallery exhibitions, created flip books, and is a regular contributor to local Bolivian newspaper La Razón. His political caricatures have been the subject of great controversy over the years, particularly his infamous caricature depicting the disaster at the Carnival of Oruro in which five people died. The illustration titled ‘Welcome to the Carnival’, which features a band of skeletons observed by a crowd of cadavers, was deemed insensitive.
In response to critics, Al-Azar maintains: ‘If a subject interests me I’m not bothered if people protest, it’s what I’m interested in. There are matters that affect me, and if I feel like saying something about things I have witnessed, I draw to express myself. You comment on it in conversation, whereas I use art.’
His defiance in continuing to produce art that is relevant to him, regardless of public opinion, is admirable. Despite this, Salazar recognises that some matters necessitate a more sensitive approach. ‘You have to be careful in how you say things,’ he admits. ‘Generally, I try to create drawings that are much more subtle and that don’t cause such a strong reaction.’ According to Salazar, this way his art is more effective. ‘People don’t get angry and they accept the message,’ he explains.
Flicking through Salazar’s cuadernillo of recent work was like opening the pages to his mind. ‘An American once asked me if I was unwell after looking at my work,’ Salazar remembers. A sense of magical realism emanates from his workbook; the personification of animals and nature and the abstraction of the human form is prominent throughout.
‘What I struggle with is knowing what is true.’
—Alejandro Salazar
Although primarily a source of humour, through oversimplification and exaggeration caricatures give their subject a new prominence, so much so that they can portray them in a different or potentially damaging light. Salazar’s piece of the current Bolivian president, Evo Morales, stood out in his workbook. Morales appears with his arms and legs merging into the chair on which he is sitting. For some the image could signify inactivity on the part of the government. Others might see it a symbol of the restraints that the president faces – bringing to life the idea of metaphorically having your hands tied. Regardless of how the drawing is interpreted, it has the potential to provoke a change in opinion. With little or no written description, caricatures reach audiences of all literacy levels. With the stroke of a pen, artists such as Al-Azar have the power to influence in a way that reasoned, written argument may be unable to.
The purpose of Salazar’s work, however, isn’t to influence others, although he appreciates that it is a consequence of his drawings. His work is rather a form of expression. Salazar is a humble man, whose passion for art and creativity overshadows any desire for political power. ‘What I struggle with is knowing what is true,’ he asserts. ‘I see the same news via different platforms, and essentially the same piece of news is manipulated to say something different. That is the difficulty.’
A sense of magical realism emanates from his workbook; the personification of animals and nature and the abstraction of the human form is prominent throughout.
The conflict between what is portrayed in the media and the ‘truth’ is prevalent in Al-Azar’s work. The beauty of his art is that it provides an alternative perspective on life that isn’t readily available through standard news media. Amalgamating political opinions, humour and artistic design to produce striking pieces of art is a true talent, and one that ought to be cherished.
The prominent Bolivian street artist Knorke Leaf has much to say on the power of street and urban art: ‘It’s a spiritual power...’ she muses. ‘It’s in the colours.’ Her artistic actions and her involvement in several projects aim to highlight the power that street art can have. In previous years, she was involved in a project associated with #TimeToAct, which addressed the issue of sexual violence. In addition, she has collaborated with ‘Habitat for Humanity’ to provide adequate housing conditions for children returning home after cancer treatment. At present, Leaf is working on a mural for the youth section of Fundación La Paz, which is a community style project that provides art therapy for people facing social, economic and familial issues.
With art, there is often no need to talk because the art does the talking. Although Leaf holds a Masters in Fine Arts, she has seemingly realigned her creative spirit to the forms of urban art. She often emphasises the notion that the streets are free from rules and judgement, and do not limit the styles people have to abide by. What is important is what you ‘feel inside,’ Leaf says. Street art is not limited in the way many traditional art forms are. For Leaf, galleries are evidence of how institutionalised and exclusive the art world has become, while in contrast the streets are inclusive spaces, somewhere everyone belongs.
‘There is a power in art.’
—Knorke Leaf
But, there are challenges involved in being a female artist in a predominantly male scene. The main challenge is not fitting in or seeking approval from her peers, but rather representing Bolivia as a female artist. She was once invited to Denmark, for example, as the only female artist among seven men who were more experienced than she was at the time. It was a valuable learning opportunity for her. Although Leaf has been invited to a number of arts festivals in Europe, this has not been the case in her home country. ‘In Bolivia,’ she says, ‘it seems festivals are only for guys.’
There is a special passion and appreciation for street art in Bolivia that makes it different to how street art is viewed and produced in Europe and North America. According to Leaf, ‘street art in Europe and North America is about individuals’, it is rebellious in nature. In Bolivia and Latin America, however, street art is a platform for the communal and national struggles. It is another way to express political feelings.
‘At the beginning people are always reserved,’ Leaf says, describing the reactions she has observed to her artwork. ‘It’s always a struggle,’ she continues. Recently, she was involved in a project in Sucre with a number of children and people who ‘freaked out’ at them painting a wall in black. However, once the mural was complete, reactions were quite different. Although reactions to her work can be extreme at time, she does not receive much negativity: ‘At the end they love it,’ she says, with a hint of satisfaction.
Leaf sustains that she has no style. ‘Or if I do, I don’t care about it,’ she says, but she is visible influenced by images in nature and by animals as well as by the rights and struggles of women. She claims that the stories of people she meets on the street are what most influence her work ‘and give [it] a lot of sensitivity.’
Her philosophy towards nature and people is very inspiring: by harming nature we harm ourselves, she asserts. ‘We forget what is important. Violence against the bodies of women is violence against mother nature,’ Leaf says, suggesting that as humans we have a great responsibility toward nature. She believes that we are more than ‘just people’, that we have relationships with other beings and thus have a responsibility with the rest of the world.
‘We forget what is important. Violence against the bodies of women is violence against mother nature.’
—Knorke Leaf
In a similar line of thought, Leaf sees a special link between painting and self. Painting has limitations, just like people. People are not perfect and do not have to be. ‘The idea of perfect makes you crazy,’ Leaf explains. This is why painting is a humbling activity for her that involves creating imperfections. Perfection is an unattainable ideal and street art is about these imperfections.
Photos: William Wroblewski
La Paz’s LGBT+ Community Celebrates
Last month saw Pride marches across the globe celebrating the LGBT+ community. For some people, Pride is more than just that – it’s a celebration of humanity and, as important, of love. The majority of Pride events occur annually in the month of June to commemorate the Stonewall Inn riots in New York City on 28 June 1969, when the LGBT+ community fought back against police repression.
Pride can mean different things to different people, whether it be a celebration, a protest or even a party – it’s subjective, and one cannot generalise given the constantly evolving LGBT+ community. Perhaps it is best thought of as a celebration of life, a celebration of humanity and love.
In La Paz, Pride wasn’t heavily promoted, but the turnout this 30 June was immense, and people from all walks of life were out in support. On Facebook a mere 70 people claimed to be attending; however, the Prado was thronged with thousands of celebrants marching from Plaza Bolivia to Plaza San Francisco. The La Paz City Council sponsored the event, and it featured a gigantic rainbow flag that participants clutched as they chanted for love and equality. The sense of community and cohesion was palpable, and marchers waved handmade signs that promoted inclusion.
‘Pride is the feeling you get when you are able to be yourself, and you can tell everyone who you are.’
—Juan Pablo Álvarez Kawai
Paceño Juan Pablo Álvarez Kawai summed up La Paz’s Pride march perfectly: ‘Pride is the feeling that you get when you can act freely and be responsible for your actions, when you don’t violate other people’s rights. Pride is the feeling you get when you are able to be yourself, and you can tell everyone who you are. Not because you have to, but because you want to, without being afraid. You have the right to be a human, a person, to be respected and respect others. Pride means to me to fight for everybody’s rights. The moment someone’s rights are violated or neglected is the moment everyone’s rights are taken for granted.’
