Bailey
Browne |
| The buildings of the Proyecto Altos de La Cruz, and a guardería located inside one. |
The Proyecto Altos de La Cruz consists of three apartments buildings that loom high above the other homes in La Cruz, a barrio en Comuna 3 (Manrique). The project is part of ISVIMED (Instituto Social de vivienda y Hábitat de Medellín), as well as the Alcaldía here in Medellín, and the national government. In my time in the field, several of my interviews and even more of the visits I sat in on were with families who received housing through this project. Some of these families have lived in these apartments for just two months, while others moved in when they opened, in February of this year.
What most of these families have in common, however, is that they moved to this new housing project due to violence or danger in their previous homes and neighborhoods. One woman I interviewed told me that the home she had lived in before was deemed alto riesgo by Medellín Solidaria, and was at risk of falling down due to extreme damage to the house. Three sisters I visited, who all live together with their families now in the apartments, spoke of their previous living conditions - one house, with ten other families. Another woman, who had been displaced twice, now lives in this apartment building where she runs a guardería, or daycare, out of her home; many of the kids she cares for live in the same buildings.
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| This sign is outside the apartment buildings, and reads "Here we are constructing 345 free houses". |
From speaking to and spending time with these families, I can tell how much these new housing opportunities mean in their lives. For some, it is the first home that is truly theirs. For others, it represents a safe place for their children and family, where they can work and live safely and happily. There was also a clear sense of community in these apartments - the older kids run back and forth between each others' apartments, while the mothers can be seen gossiping against the stair railings. The woman who runs the daycare says that her favorite part of her job is running into her kids in the neighborhood, hearing them shout out "profe, profe".
Our project is called Medellín, mi hogar (Medellín, my home), and I think that these apartments highlight not only how Medellín is home, but also how homes are part of Medellín.
The León Rivera family. They were the first family I interviewed, and left me almost in tears. A beautiful family with so little, but that feels they have everything simply because they’re together. We’re pictured here on the bed they all sleep in together when it’s too cold to split up the boys and girls into their two separate beds. I was moving to sit on the end but they split apart and insisted I sit in the middle. When I see this picture I think of the incredible attitude that family had. I think about all the times I’ve complained about my showers not being hot enough, or not having enough water pressure. I think about the times I complained about the twin bed I was given at the private university I attend being too small. I think about all the times I’ve opened the fridge, and not liked any of the 20 options in front of me. I think about the smile on the childrens’ faces as I handed them a bar Toblerone. I remember Pilar, the mother, so thankful that even though sometimes they can only have one meal a day, they are together.
Kate
Nikita
Who knew so much negotiation could occur over a cup of coffee? My cogestora and I walked down some uncertain steps to reach a caged, iron-wrought door. Although the exterior was a bit gloomy, the inside proved to be warm and festive. Salsa music was blasting from a tattered radio, and five people were bustling around one small room. This room served the purpose of a dining room, kitchen, and bathroom – including a shower stall and toilet. The stall was also where they brushed their teeth in a tiny sink and stored their mops. I know this because one of her children was performing his daily routine in front of us. She offered me one of the two chairs she had, and my cogestora sat on the other. Both the bathroom and the kitchen were only inches away from me, and I saw what little means she had to cook for her large family. The woman had one large pot that she repeatedly rinsed to make rice for her son, an arepa for her daughter, and a pot of coffee for us. I do not drink coffee because my tolerance for the strong and the bitter is weak. I much prefer hot chocolate with added sugar and chocolate sauce. When she offered me some tinto, I hesitated. She only had a little bit of coffee powder in her can, but was excited to have me, an extranjera, as a visitor in her home. I asked for very little, and she used the rest of her coffee to make two steaming cups of coffee for my cogestora and I. My cogestora received a plastic bowl because she only had one cup with handles, which she gave to me. The coffee was boiling, hot and strong and black. The woman looked at me, then offered me some sugar. These were immense negotiations that were occurring in my mind. “Should I accept her offer of coffee? If I do not, would it hurt her? Am I being selfish by accepting a pinch of sugar? How do I navigate this sharing of resources and conversation so as to show appreciation and respect?” She brought out a small plastic container filled with both brown and white granules of sugar. I took a pinch, and thanked her. She then proceeded to take a large spoonful, and pour it into my cup. I do not know why this was one of the most significant memories I have of working in the field, but I was amazed at her generosity and kindness. This woman did not have much to offer me, someone she had never met before, and no one particularly important, but she shared all she had. She even offered me the food she had made her children. The sharing of food is an ancient and intimate practice, and so much was being wordlessly uttered by that cup of coffee.
Ryan
In the mountains | En las montañas from Ryan Catalani on Vimeo.
Vaib
Often when in service, you walk with determination, knowing your work shall undoubtedly benefit someone. But where does that smugness come from? In terms of giving, we lose something of ourself for the benefit of others, whether it be time, wealth, or energy, making it inherently less productive. However, don't we in turn gain a internal satisfaction from our work? This satisfaction works in odd ways, as, only in my giving do I receive, deriving it from another person's existence.
A tear began to well in my right eye. While I stared forward, precariously attempting to keep the camera steady, my glance shifted onto 79 year old Lolita's glasses. The sun's glare continued to beat into the back of my eyes as I strained to peer through, searching for a tear. Was this ok? Lost in translation moments had happened time after time in the barrios, but none had actually amounted to anything. Why was she doing this to herself, why was she subscribing to this self-inflicted pain. Sure enough, this is what I had eventually wanted for the film. It was for the better good. The project.
She looked to her note with flat, painted eyes. Her words stumbled as her hands shook.
I had only asked for her to explain how she found the letter, not read every single word. She finished the second paragraph, my awkwardness finally surmounted itself, "si quieres…," hoping to stop her at the pause. I couldn't finish my statement, she continued, reading her only son's last words, a note to his beloved mother found on his dead body. Guerrillas killed her eighteen year old son Reuben, just because he didn't want to add to the bloodshed of San Carlos, Antioquia, a city which had 80% old its population displaced because of the paramilitary war. I maintained my silence, and my qualms.
My walk home, has been a long one. 2 weeks later, I still doubt I can coherently relay a thought on my time with Lolita, making this piece a struggle. In such a transient moment of time, Lolita felt the need to tell me those fatal words, reopening a long-scarred wound. In my supposed service for her, it felt as if she was helping me. Bearing the weight of her sorrow, she colluded in me a sense of trust for her story and her persona, as if to illustrate the beauty of her scar. I now stood to either relate my own fears to Lolita's or see how she had overcome such feelings.
In the barrios, the boundaries between helping and being helped skew indefinitely. In both many symbiotic and endangering ways, the relationships formed within a short series of videos adds to the depth of my 'satisfaction' here in Colombia. Every experience of interviewing helps in shuttling me into an experience so far from my own or in turn relays a sense of accomplishment or notice to my interviewees. Even so, my satisfaction differs from that of my previous service. The notion of trust between my camera and Lolita's words, or myself and Lolita, alludes my conventional thoughts on service. I stand to gain much more than a conceited notion that I successfully and selflessly transported my dollar to a good cause. But rather, to smile and learn from a friend is the reward for my service.
During both of my visits with a family in El Robledo, Camila, the youngest daughter of the family, played with Barbies. On the second visit, she arranged Barbie and Ken and asked me to photograph the scene. This post is a visual brainstorm about cultural constructions of beauty—in Camila’s life, in my life, in Medellín, in America, and inevitably and implicitly around the world. I have included pictures from this visit, from a personal photo project I completed in high school, from Colombian and non-Colombian magazines, from Facebook, from guides to battling eating disorders written in Medellín, and more. The visual brainstorm reflects an ongoing stream of consciousness I have had here as I encounter perfectly sculpted bodies on billboards, blonde, blue-eyed faces on the sides of buses, examples of cosmetic reconstruction on the streets, gym aficionados, and breathtaking shopping centers. Camila playing with Barbie reminds me that she too sees these things, walks these streets, rides these buses, plays with these toys.
My work in ‘the field,’ in Colombia, that’s elusive and abstract, easily relegated to ‘over there’ and compartmentalized. Easily made distinct from life, and its troubles, in wealthier communities, in El Poblado, in Durham, and in Brookline, MA my hometown. Camila and Barbie are a reminder. Despite differing levels of privilege between me and those I meet in El Robledo, Camila and I are seeing and hearing some of the same messages that commodify beauty and turn a profit off the seductive promise to be something other, something better, than oneself.
This post is not meant to be an exhaustive look at the topics of cultural exportation, commodification of beauty, or my personal experiences. It’s not meant to blame one place—Colombia or America—or one culture or the other. I am grappling with just the opposite: one culture cannot be blamed because our cultural spheres, even ‘in the field,’ are not separate. It’s not a closed network. I hope connecting these images will inspire others to imagine in new ways how ideas of worth and beauty permeate borders.
Barbies cross borders. Dollars and pesos cross borders. Drugs cross borders. I want to acknowledge what else is slipping past. I’m not border control, I’m not Don Draper selling ads, and I don’t move commodities between countries. But I want to keep in my back pocket the question: how am I a part of this?
Camila is never going to look like Barbie. I don’t know if she cares.
But to Camila, and to all the women I know, I want to say:
Don’t ever imagine you aren’t beautiful.
Nicholas
Nicholas
Who knew so much negotiation could occur over a cup of coffee? My cogestora and I walked down some uncertain steps to reach a caged, iron-wrought door. Although the exterior was a bit gloomy, the inside proved to be warm and festive. Salsa music was blasting from a tattered radio, and five people were bustling around one small room. This room served the purpose of a dining room, kitchen, and bathroom – including a shower stall and toilet. The stall was also where they brushed their teeth in a tiny sink and stored their mops. I know this because one of her children was performing his daily routine in front of us. She offered me one of the two chairs she had, and my cogestora sat on the other. Both the bathroom and the kitchen were only inches away from me, and I saw what little means she had to cook for her large family. The woman had one large pot that she repeatedly rinsed to make rice for her son, an arepa for her daughter, and a pot of coffee for us. I do not drink coffee because my tolerance for the strong and the bitter is weak. I much prefer hot chocolate with added sugar and chocolate sauce. When she offered me some tinto, I hesitated. She only had a little bit of coffee powder in her can, but was excited to have me, an extranjera, as a visitor in her home. I asked for very little, and she used the rest of her coffee to make two steaming cups of coffee for my cogestora and I. My cogestora received a plastic bowl because she only had one cup with handles, which she gave to me. The coffee was boiling, hot and strong and black. The woman looked at me, then offered me some sugar. These were immense negotiations that were occurring in my mind. “Should I accept her offer of coffee? If I do not, would it hurt her? Am I being selfish by accepting a pinch of sugar? How do I navigate this sharing of resources and conversation so as to show appreciation and respect?” She brought out a small plastic container filled with both brown and white granules of sugar. I took a pinch, and thanked her. She then proceeded to take a large spoonful, and pour it into my cup. I do not know why this was one of the most significant memories I have of working in the field, but I was amazed at her generosity and kindness. This woman did not have much to offer me, someone she had never met before, and no one particularly important, but she shared all she had. She even offered me the food she had made her children. The sharing of food is an ancient and intimate practice, and so much was being wordlessly uttered by that cup of coffee.Ryan
In the mountains | En las montañas from Ryan Catalani on Vimeo.
 |
| It took a long time to decide on this picture. This experience with Doña Lolita conjured thoughts on numerous subjects, so much that I was thinking about putting up picture of my own mother and me. Instead, I decided on a beautiful picture of Doña Lolita herself and edited her background. Not because her environment isn't beautiful, but since amazing people like Doña Lolita shouldn't be stereotyped b their surroundings and in turn, be listened to by all. |
This has been the storied history of volunteerism throughout my life. Fix a roof. Feel great. Paint a mural. Feel accomplished. Babysit immigrant children. Feel fantastic. Successfully smirking after some had the "fortune" of being mixed in with my so called service. I did something good today, glad I filled that quota.
Often when in service, you walk with determination, knowing your work shall undoubtedly benefit someone. But where does that smugness come from? In terms of giving, we lose something of ourself for the benefit of others, whether it be time, wealth, or energy, making it inherently less productive. However, don't we in turn gain a internal satisfaction from our work? This satisfaction works in odd ways, as, only in my giving do I receive, deriving it from another person's existence.
A tear began to well in my right eye. While I stared forward, precariously attempting to keep the camera steady, my glance shifted onto 79 year old Lolita's glasses. The sun's glare continued to beat into the back of my eyes as I strained to peer through, searching for a tear. Was this ok? Lost in translation moments had happened time after time in the barrios, but none had actually amounted to anything. Why was she doing this to herself, why was she subscribing to this self-inflicted pain. Sure enough, this is what I had eventually wanted for the film. It was for the better good. The project.
She looked to her note with flat, painted eyes. Her words stumbled as her hands shook.
I had only asked for her to explain how she found the letter, not read every single word. She finished the second paragraph, my awkwardness finally surmounted itself, "si quieres…," hoping to stop her at the pause. I couldn't finish my statement, she continued, reading her only son's last words, a note to his beloved mother found on his dead body. Guerrillas killed her eighteen year old son Reuben, just because he didn't want to add to the bloodshed of San Carlos, Antioquia, a city which had 80% old its population displaced because of the paramilitary war. I maintained my silence, and my qualms.
My walk home, has been a long one. 2 weeks later, I still doubt I can coherently relay a thought on my time with Lolita, making this piece a struggle. In such a transient moment of time, Lolita felt the need to tell me those fatal words, reopening a long-scarred wound. In my supposed service for her, it felt as if she was helping me. Bearing the weight of her sorrow, she colluded in me a sense of trust for her story and her persona, as if to illustrate the beauty of her scar. I now stood to either relate my own fears to Lolita's or see how she had overcome such feelings.
In the barrios, the boundaries between helping and being helped skew indefinitely. In both many symbiotic and endangering ways, the relationships formed within a short series of videos adds to the depth of my 'satisfaction' here in Colombia. Every experience of interviewing helps in shuttling me into an experience so far from my own or in turn relays a sense of accomplishment or notice to my interviewees. Even so, my satisfaction differs from that of my previous service. The notion of trust between my camera and Lolita's words, or myself and Lolita, alludes my conventional thoughts on service. I stand to gain much more than a conceited notion that I successfully and selflessly transported my dollar to a good cause. But rather, to smile and learn from a friend is the reward for my service.
