Intensives in Action: Gala Berger

During the 2022 Curatorial Intensive in Kampala, Gala Berger shared some of the key ideas around the concept for Mother Plants and Struggling Women: Visions From Cantagallo, an exhibition co-curated with Miguel A. López, and Olinda Silvano (Reshinjabe). Commissioned by INSITE Commonplaces and developed as part of López's project "Common Thread," the exhibition showed the result of an invitation extended to Olinda and the Shinan Imabo (Our Inspirations) women's collective to rethink and represent the last two years of the health, social, and political crises based on their concerns, urgent needs, and desires. Silvano and the Shinan Imabo artists are members of the Shipibo-Konibo community, an Indigenous group living in Cantagallo, Lima, Peru, the most populous Indigenous urban settlement in the country. 

Between June 2021 and April 2022, thirty women of the Shinan Imabo group made nearly one hundred works in different sizes and materials, offering an acute testimony about the women’s community experience, the healing power of plants, solidarity among women, and forms of collective care in a moment of emergency as a result of COVID-19. The Cantagallo community was severely affected at the beginning of the pandemic and, like many other Indigenous populations, they had to deal with the virus’s advance without access to intercultural medical care.

As part of the Intensives in Action series, Gala spoke with Olinda about the experience of co-curating the exhibition and the many sources of inspiration that inform Olinda's community-based and artistic work.

After looking carefully at her hands, Olinda Silvano shows me one nail, the one she uses as a compass to make circles when drawing murals. It is a weekday at her home in Cantagallo, one of the largest communities of indigenous peoples in the urban area of ​​Lima, Peru. We are near the Rímac River, which can barely be heard, although its name came from the Quechua word rimaq, meaning “speaker/speaking”, leading it to be called the río hablador ("the talking river"). Right now, during the dry season, the river is just a line of silent water moving across the rocky ground. Everything is quiet, even in a bustling and lively community like Cantagallo. It is the time before lunch and the children are still in school. Olinda has returned from a long trip, and she is tired. She slowly stretches her arms and lets them fall gently. Her eyes follow me as I observe her new embroidered pieces that are displayed throughout the house. The intense colors of the large fabrics take a resplendent intensity under the strong sunlight. She moves in the direction of one work leaning on her only window. Olinda looks out and greets a neighbor. As part of her double task as an artist and as a community leader, much of her work revolves around building networks of collaboration, support, and communication woven into the social fabric of the place. The majority of the inhabitants of Cantagallo are Shipibo-Konibo, natives of the Ucayali River basins, who migrated to Lima from the Peruvian Amazon in the last two decades. In search of opportunities, Olinda's family was one of the first to settle in this part of Lima in the late 1990s.

She also shows me some organic materials that have arrived from her native Paoyhan. It is not the first time I have visited her house. I met Olinda as part of the Common Thread project commissioned by INSITE Commonplaces and directed by the Peruvian curator Miguel A. Lopez [1]. After almost two years of work, I co-curated, together with Olinda and Miguel, the exhibition Mother Plants and Struggling Women: Visions From Cantagallo at the Contemporary Art Museum (MAC) of Lima that was on view between November 2022 and March 2023. During this process, I also workshopped the exhibition concept during the 2022 ICI Curatorial Intensive in Kampala.

The exhibition included the work of twenty-nine women of the Shinan Imabo group, who made nearly one hundred works in different sizes and materials, such as paintings on fabrics dyed with mahogany bark, paintings on canvas, embroidery, fabric collages, and many others. The works elaborated on family bonds, histories of migration, memories of the Amazon, and the complexities of living in Lima while trying to maintain their Shipibo roots.

I came today to talk with Olinda about the research and curatorial process behind the project, but also to talk about sacred plants, healing, water scarcity, surviving a pandemic despite the racist and colonial violence inflicted by nation-states, and how art can address these experiences and the way Kené, the geometric patterns based on the anaconda skin that expresses the Shipibo worldview and spirituality, is a point of encounter of various sensitive worlds.

Gala Berger: I wanted to ask you about the curatorial process; tell us what it was like to put together the exhibition Mother Plants and Struggling Women that we curated collectively at the MAC [Museum of Contemporary Art of Lima].

Olinda Silvano: For me, it was a pleasure and honor to participate as a curator in this exhibition, it was my first time. I always dreamed about curating a show and I hope to continue doing it. Thanks to Miguel López, who led the project, and to you, Gala, for your strength and for being with us all the time. It was a wonderful team that we have made. 

For me, the exhibition was successful because we included so many women for the first time. A few years ago, when I started to collaborate with [anthropologist and curator] César Ramos [around 2012],  there was a small group of a few Shipibo women showing their embroideries and paintings. In this show, we were 30 Shipibo mothers, artists, and artisans in the gallery of the museum, each with her knowledge, with her creation, and with their stories about how we fought and experienced the COVID-19 pandemic. That was important because most of the time we have [the experience] stored here (Olinda indicates her head), and we don't take it out. We drew out the memory that we have by using ayahuasca, eucalyptus, and matico as healing remedies in the community. Even though we have migrated here to the capital of Lima, no one can take away the wisdom we have. One can live in different places, but, if one loves one's culture, one loves one's origin, there is a knowledge that lives inside; not like other people who come and leave their culture behind to be integrated into the city: No, we have to respect our rights, our wisdom, and make that proliferate because our medicines do not have chemicals. It's not poison. It is, as [my sister] Sadith [Silvano] says: "The jungle is a hidden pharmacy." You can't see it, but plants have all the cures. Rather, it has given me a lot of knowledge. So, this experience—Mothers Plants, Struggling Women, the Vision of Cantagallo—was an honor and an opportunity to share all that.

GB: Sure, they were excited.

OS: It was a time of crisis, and it was difficult for everybody, but it is never complicated to find alternatives when you love others and when you give your life to helping others. So we decided that we would share like ants. If a little piece of meat falls, the ants pile up like and take it to their colony. It was the same for us. We took the budget and decided to share it equally. In the end, we had more women working creatively, which meant that we were creating more chances for them and for the women who would come after them. After the exhibition was finalized, many of them started to ask me: Olinda, when are you going to do it again? I cannot give false hope that there will be another curatorial process and show like this at a museum. I just don't know. “Fate will tell” was my good answer, but the important thing was that the desire had already been sown.

GB: You invited only women to participate to encourage them to reclaim themselves as artists, so to speak. A few of them had already shown their paintings or embroideries, for example, Cordelia Sanchez or your sister Sadith Silvano, but many others never exhibited their work publicly although they were deeply involved in creation; most Shipibo women, from a young age, learned from their mothers the arts of translating the energetic patterns into visual geometric designs known as Kené [2,3]. How was the process for you?

OS: Indeed, some of them never picked up a brush, they were embroiderers. I remember how it was for me that first time with a brush, it was difficult too. But I trusted them because I believe in creating spaces for learning new skills. They were free to choose the language they wanted, but for many, it was an opportunity to experiment with something new. Some people said to me, "She doesn't know how to paint, why did you include her?" But I told them, "She needs space to learn; I know she will do it." You have to trust people; they'll do it. And they took an interest and did it.

GB: Of course, because art can be learned, or it comes out anyway, right?

OS: Of course, culture, creation—they know how to embroider, they know how to make kené and they know how to produce images. The important thing is to persist, to participate, to be involved. I hope there are more opportunities to develop exhibitions like this because there are many Shipibo women who want to put themselves out there, and who also want to try new things. We'll see, something will come. Or if not, we could repeat this. It is not easy to find the time to dedicate to work just like that.

GB: Let's talk about the exhibition design made by Giacomo Castagniola and Germen Studio for the exhibition. Giacomo developed a stunning concept, presenting the paintings and embroideries as if hanging from tree branches on four large trunks in the museum gallery. What did you think about the use of eucalyptus for that installation – a tree that you have here in the community? We know that the tree is one of the drivers of deforestation in the Amazon, right? But here in Cantagallo, it has another meaning, it is the tree that saved you.

OS: That is true, and look what the authorities did: they cordoned off Cantagallo with soldiers and police forces. For several weeks, no one could enter or leave. In that context, the presence of the eucalyptus tree in our community was crucial. In reality, not a single person would have died, but [those who did die, it was] because of the extreme precarity and vulnerability in our town: several people still do not have running water or basic services. It is the most basic principle to have a bathroom in your place. If you don’t have that, where to go—even more so in the middle of a pandemic? Some people had to go out at midnight to some empty areas of the community where the municipality of Lima put public toilets. It is not because COVID killed them, but because of vulnerability, because the State does not provide the basic public services we deserve. We are human, but they don't think that because we are indigenous people. We also don’t have property titles of our places; we are still fighting to have them. [The government] states that the land is contaminated, but we have lived here for 24 years and no one has died from pollution. Worrying about this is what is killing us. You go to sleep thinking that in the morning, suddenly, they’ll come to kick us out of the community. Or they could just deny our right to be here where we are, in this place that we build together. It is a worry that the Ministry of Housing will give you the answer, "No, you have to leave, you have to go live in an apartment in a building." How are we going to live in an apartment following a Western way of life that is not our custom? They have to respect our identity, and our right to live collectively in a community.  We like to make bonfires and cook with firewood in open spaces.

GB: You also dye your fabrics outdoors.

OS: Exactly, we need the space to dye the fabrics and do our work. In an apartment, I wouldn’t be able to dye fabrics or work collectively. And what am I going to live on? If I don't pay, they kick me out, I lose everything, worse. We like to live in a community because that's how we grew up. We need to keep our collective life, that is how we share our culture, and empower women and children so that they do not go down the path of violence.

GB: And the language, too. You are always fighting for intercultural, bilingual education.

OS: We have a bilingual school and the government also wanted to take that away from us. They want to cut any form of intercultural education, they only want monolingual education. No, we refuse. Nobody is going to cut our tongue, our language, because that's how we were born and that's how we have to speak. Who forbids you from speaking English to others? Who forbids you from speaking Spanish to others? Nobody, so why do it to the Shipibo? We have to identify with who we are.

GB: Yes.

OS: Because our art is a living culture. Our art empowers us as women, it opens the way for us, and it allows us to educate our children with these works. Most of us in our group didn’t study in the formal education system, not because we were donkeys and we didn’t want it, but because there were no opportunities for us. But we experienced a form of ancestral study that came from the Amazon, the study of life is moving us forward. That, for me, is my ancestral profession. Others say that we are ignorant; we are not ignorant, each person has intelligence, creativity,  and knowledge, and with that, we already survive. Probably it doesn’t fit into the traditional idea of Western wisdom, but it is ours. We are not asking anyone for charity; we offer our creative work with dignity because that is invaluable and makes us happy.

GB: You had been doing this work forever—ever since you were little, learning with your grandmother, using the plant of the piri-piri and having visions—but when did you say, "Well, I'm going to call myself an artist." How do you see yourself in what the Western world refers to as “art"?

OS: First of all, I always said "artesana" or "craftsman," because that's what we were taught. And I didn't know that there existed a huge gap between the word "craftsman" and the word "artist." I wasn’t aware of that difference. Until one day a friend told me, "Olinda, don't say you're an artisan, they're going to sell your work very cheap. You have to call yourself an artist." But I had low self-esteem at that time. "Artist, me? Where was it that I studied art?” In other words, I wanted to make people understand that I was an artist and I was also a craftsman, because for me there is no distinction. So I kept saying I am an artisan, we are the artisan mothers.

Once, Professor César Ramos told me, "You are an artist, you were born a popular artist, an artist who is always bringing women forward." From there, it begins. Coming here gave me more opportunities, like the colors of the paint—but we have never left our natural paint, which is traditional, which is mahogany, and the black color made from clay. Within that it’s mixed with different plants; that's why our nails are black. It's not because they’re filthy, but dyed with mahogany bark and then you apply the mud with your hand when you dye it yourself. It doesn't come out quickly, and you still have to wash a lot of clothes by hand to keep it clean.

GB: But, then, you are an artist, but you are also a leader, you are also president of the Cantagallo Association—the largest one in the community [4]. And that's also a lot of coordination, effort, and talking to people.

OS: Art runs in my blood, but being a leader does too, which does not mean always having a position in an organization. From 2000 [when my family moved to Cantagallo] until now, I have been doing many things; one of them being social assistance, even though I have not studied medicine. If there was a sick person, I was taking care of them or taking them to the doctor. I have always been working. Our family, the Silvanos, are leaders because our parents were one of the first families to move to Cantagallo—that is heritage too. My father was an honest man, a simple, humble man, he had no education, but he had this gift of fighting for what was right. So, we also follow the path. We do not become leaders to take advantage of being in a position of power, but rather, to seek support, support [others] with what you can, with what you earn. Helps means to be there for people.

GB: What is next for the collective Shiman Inabo?  Some of you just made a mural.

OS: We are making one big mural right now; three of us. You know, sometimes people think, “Olinda has made a mural, how much money she received.” No. It is not for me alone, it is like an ant colony, and we distribute it. It is probably not enough for [all of] us, but we are happy.

Right now many girls are improving their embroidering skills. So many little ones. Many women are already exhibiting in different places. Look at Cordelia [Sánchez]. She didn’t have any painting knowledge and now she is one of the best. She paints our sacred Shipibo knowledge and kené patterns. Her work is impressive and is being showcased in Peru and internationally in countries like Colombia and Mexico. Some others started to do clothing design, such as my sister Sadith, who is creating a collection.

GB: She is an extraordinary designer.

OS: And that makes me feel happy. If something happens to me, I already have my sister who is going to help people improve. 

We are seven sisters: Zaida, Lucy, Jéssica, Marilú, Sadith Silvano—Rosy Silvano, but she is at university. She is not far behind, she has two little children, but she keeps going because she wants to be something in life. And my sister-in-law Pilar has just given birth to a beautiful baby for the Silvano family. And I'm proud of my sister-in-law too. 

I am also very proud of Metsá Rama (Pilar Arce) because I was able to help her to move forward. She was cleaning houses, but as a house cleaner, she was usually mistreated. So one day I told her: "Pilar, you have been the beauty queen of Paoyhan, in Pucallpa. Now you are going to become a queen of art." And she laughed. "Don't laugh, let's go. I'm going to give you my materials. What you get today is going to be for you, so you can start," I told her. And we went to the stop to buy some stuff so she could start working." She is now also a teacher and a Shipibo-Spanish translator.

GB: To conclude, could you explain what Kené means to you?

OS: Kené represents the energy of the Shipibo people and symbolizes the unity of the community. It is our source of inspiration. Kené is not a geometric pattern that can be simply copied from another person or drawing. Kené appears in your mind, and it takes its design as you grab the paintbrush and get working. It draws from the energy of the plants and the energy of the Ucayali River, which is vital to our lives, providing water, fish, and more. You could even say that Kené is art, but Kené is much more complex than art –it is philosophy, medicine, and science.

GB: So Kené is like a second vision, a multiple vision. And what about art?

OS: During the pandemic, we've faced many challenges and moments of sadness. Our work and journey have been disrupted. But in these difficult times, we turn to art for healing. I believe that art is not just therapeutic but essential to life. It's life itself. I can't imagine living without art—it brings me joy and makes me feel alive. I consider myself fortunate. I value myself and my work and knowledge, even if others may not appreciate it. For me, art is everything.

[1] Founded in 1992, INSITE is a cultural initiative focused on commissioning artworks in the public sphere through collaborations among artists, cultural agents, institutions, and communities locally and abroad. The project is based in the Mexico/US border region of Baja California and Southern California. https://insiteart.org/commonplaces

[2] Cordelia Sánchez (1985, Peru) is a painter based in Cantagallo, Peru.

[3] Sadith Silvano (1990, Peru) is an artist and designer based in Cantagallo, Peru.

[4] Acushikolm Association founded in Cantagallo in 2006. 

Intensives in Action programs showcase how alumni of our flagship professional development program, the Curatorial Intensive, have brought their Intensive proposals to life. The Curatorial Intensive has, since 2010, taken place in more than 25 cities around the world and engaged almost 500 international curators. During the program, participants develop proposals for exhibitions, research, programs, or other projects through intensive study, with the guidance of international mentors, and in conversation with a cohort of peers.

Encompassing tours, texts, talks, and other content, Intensives in Action programming highlights the work and process of Curatorial Intensive alumni through the lens of these proposals, the projects they become, and the many dynamic career trajectories they shape.