It is a little-known fact that two women, Victoria Ocampo and Lola Álvarez Bravo, brought the celebrated avant-garde film Un chien andalou (Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dalí, 1929) to Argentina and Mexico for the first time. Acting as cultural mediators, they successfully organized the film’s premieres in 1929 and 1938, respectively, at the Cine Club de Buenos Aires, where Ocampo was a key player, and the 16mm Cinema film society, which Álvarez Bravo ran. Álvarez Bravo and Ocampo’s intervention...

In 1961, the Venezuelan artist Elsa Gramcko (1925–94) completed Sin título (Untitled; fig. 1). In the work, cratered sheets of corroded metal are caught in a permanent stasis of decomposition. Ochre and burnt sienna spread from the tarnished and oxidized surfaces of the irregularly shaped pieces of metal, creating a chromatic palette both earthen and industrial. Facture engenders form, as each metal piece assumes its character from the haptic quality produced from its own process of corrosion. According to an apocryphal story, the fragments of metal Gramcko affixed to the surface of this work were harvested from the side panels of a jeep she discovered abandoned at the coast. To control the found metal’s degradation, Gramcko further exposed these sheets to the elements as well as acidic solutions and other chemical baths. The roughly textured surface of Sin título—as well as those of her other works produced throughout the 1960s—marked a dramatic shift away from the smooth painted surfaces of Gramcko’s abstract compositions of the previous decade. In spite of Gramcko’s early success both in Venezuela and abroad, her career faded from the anglophone canon of Latin American modernism. Only recently has her work come to receive renewed critical attention, most notably through the exhibition, Contesting Modernity, held in 2019 at the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston. Contesting Modernity presented the largest number of works by Gramcko assembled in the United States in over half a century, providing a rare survey of her career. In her catalog essay on Gramcko for the exhibition, Mari Carmen Ramírez mused on the marginal position Gramcko’s oeuvre has held until recently. She pointed, in part, to the artist’s reserved nature and her desire to publicly eschew any affiliation with contemporaneous artistic movements, particularly informalism in the 1960s. This was compounded, Ramírez suggested, by a “hermetic discourse,” partially rooted in Carl Jung’s ideas on the collective unconscious, which “she and a handful of her critics carefully knit around both her introspective personality and her unconventional oeuvre.” Within the limited historiography on Gramcko’s career many writers have adopted this discursive framework when engaging her material experimentations. These authors frequently employed such terms as “alchemy” to describe her creative process, while focusing almost exclusively on the apolitical and material aspects of her works. Yet, Gramcko was not disconnected from the milieu which she inhabited. Rather, her oeuvre was far more porous to the dynamic events of postwar Venezuela than previously acknowledged in the existing literature.

Julia de Burgos (1914–53), one of Puerto Rico’s greatest poets, haunts the American literary imagination from the borders of the modern. Her ghostly presence, desperate and furious, searches for interlocutors on the bridge to Welfare Island, historically a warehouse for the poor, the criminalized and sick just east of the United Nations. Julia’s barefoot figure wandering across that bridge in her bata, just as she describes in letters to her sister Consuelo in 1953, positions her to catch the eye of today’s visitors to the newly restored and renamed Roosevelt Island, which offers no physical reminders of this important Puerto Rican and American poet’s residence there. Nothing in the island’s glistening white granite park mentions the two poems Burgos wrote in English when Roosevelt Island was Welfare Island, months before her death in Spanish Harlem.