THE MAKESHIFT HOME
Heldenreizer Contemporary
Munich
28.06 - 27.07.24
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My parents' house is located in the south of Bogotá. The façade has visible bricks, a green roof, a green door. At first, I slept on the first floor, but with the arrival of my brothers the house was extended and I got a new room on the second floor. Built as if from nothing. One day it wasn't there, the next I was asked what colour I wanted the walls to be.
In Colombia, we don't move to a new house when the old one becomes too small. In Colombia, rooms are added, old walls are torn down and new needs are built up. We build vertically to get closer to the sky, to never have to leave. Rootedness to the territory, to the neighbourhood, to the favourite bakery and corner, is part of the cultural identity, but what if we have to go? What if my parents get divorced and the house has to be sold? What if someone takes us out by force?
Colombia is one of the countries with the highest number of internally displaced people in the world, reaching almost 7 million in 2022. A consequence of the increase in forced displacements, the confinement of communities, extortion, forced recruitment and targeted violence.
I think of all those who have to improvise a house, all those for whom the makeshift becomes permanent.
I decided to migrate, without anyone threatening to put my life at risk. I decided to leave, accepting how much I would miss the afternoon sun with my cat, but also knowing that four houses away a man had been shot when I was a child.
I decided to start a new home on the other side of the world, and although each house still feels temporary and borrowed, I know I still have my room on the second floor, on “la calle 39 b sur”.
Heldenreizer Contemporary
Munich
28.06 - 27.07.24
My parents' house is located in the south of Bogotá. The façade has visible bricks, a green roof, a green door. At first, I slept on the first floor, but with the arrival of my brothers the house was extended and I got a new room on the second floor. Built as if from nothing. One day it wasn't there, the next I was asked what colour I wanted the walls to be.
In Colombia, we don't move to a new house when the old one becomes too small. In Colombia, rooms are added, old walls are torn down and new needs are built up. We build vertically to get closer to the sky, to never have to leave. Rootedness to the territory, to the neighbourhood, to the favourite bakery and corner, is part of the cultural identity, but what if we have to go? What if my parents get divorced and the house has to be sold? What if someone takes us out by force?
Colombia is one of the countries with the highest number of internally displaced people in the world, reaching almost 7 million in 2022. A consequence of the increase in forced displacements, the confinement of communities, extortion, forced recruitment and targeted violence.
I think of all those who have to improvise a house, all those for whom the makeshift becomes permanent.
I decided to migrate, without anyone threatening to put my life at risk. I decided to leave, accepting how much I would miss the afternoon sun with my cat, but also knowing that four houses away a man had been shot when I was a child.
I decided to start a new home on the other side of the world, and although each house still feels temporary and borrowed, I know I still have my room on the second floor, on “la calle 39 b sur”.
