On my desk sits a first edition of Domingos en Hyde Park, published by Ediciones Sur, Buenos Aires, 1936. On the flyleaf, in a confident cursive hand: "A R. E. Montes Bradley, con toda simpatía — Victoria Ocampo." The essay it introduces — La Historia Viva — is one of the most remarkable political documents written by a Latin American intellectual in the twentieth century. It is remarkable not because Ocampo admired Mussolini. Many did. Between 1921 and 1935, Franklin D. Roos

A filmmaker's meditation on the African diaspora across Brazil, Cuba, and the United States — beginning in a restaurant in California in the early 1980s and arriving, decades later, at the Bay of Guanabara, where historian Haroldo Costa offered the sentence that changed everything: We did not cut the umbilical cord. The first in a series of essays exploring Black History not as a month but as a living, continuous thread.

There is a painting in the Art Institute of Chicago that almost no one stops to look at. Thomas Birch painted it sometime between 1806 and 1812, and he called it Capture of the Tripoli by the Enterprise. It commemorates a war that has been almost entirely forgotten — which is a pity, because that war contains the most important argument the United States ever made about the freedom of the seas. And that argument is more urgently relevant today than it has been in two centurie

Aged beef. Kimchi. Gnocchi with chitterlings. The menu at Urondo Bar does not court trends, nor does it apologize for its stubbornness. It simply is — rooted, specific, unapologetically itself. And that, it turns out, is a political act.

Of Thee I Sing traces the country's musical identity through the instruments that shaped it — from Native American traditions and the colonial period through the waves of immigrant innovation that defined the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

A partir de una carta escrita por Ana María Shua en 2002 en apoyo al proyecto Perfiles, este ensayo recorre el origen de una iniciativa que, con el tiempo, se expandió hasta convertirse en un cuerpo de obra documental de alcance continental. Desde Argentina hacia las Américas, el Heritage Film Project explora la memoria cultural a través de artistas, escritores y creadores cuyas historias revelan los vínculos profundos entre identidad, migración y creación.

This research provides the first comprehensive documentation of systematic homophobic erasure in early 20th-century Latin American letters. Using diplomatic archives, the study reveals how Carlos María Ocantos (1860-1949), despite publishing 37 volumes and earning Royal Spanish Academy recognition, was deliberately excluded from Argentine literary canon due to his sexuality."

That stroke Paul Mescal cuts through the water with in Hamnet has a remarkable history. It traces back to Buenos Aires, where a young English boy first watched local children swim with an overarm technique in the 1860s — knowledge that would eventually cross the Pacific and become the modern freestyle. One of the most quietly powerful moments in an Oscar-worthy performance, carrying centuries of borrowed, forgotten expertise.

More than twenty years after it was made, the work Alberto Laiseca and I created together is receiving a new moment of recognition. My documentary Deliciosas Perversiones Polimorfas will be screened at the Auditorio Jorge Luis Borges of the Biblioteca Nacional Mariano Moreno in Buenos Aires, as part of the exhibition “Laiseca, el iniciado.”

En breve se cumplen veinte años del estreno de “Yo y el tiempo”, film de Norberto "Negro" Ramírez sobre José Juan Botelli que tuve el gusto de producir bajo el sello Contrakultura. Contrakultura fue un un experimento curioso nacido en los albores de la era kirchnerista cuando reemplazar una consonante por la otra tenía connotaciones contraculturales. Con el tiempo eso también cambió. Creo que esa idea del tiempo es una constante en la relación que establece Ramírez con el poe

Qualiton occupies a distinctive place in the history of recorded music as a cultural endeavor. Founded in Buenos Aires in the mid-twentieth century, the label emerged at a moment when recording technology, artistic ambition, and questions of cultural memory converged. Qualiton was conceived not merely as a commercial venture, but as a platform for documenting and disseminating music of substance—classical, folkloric, contemporary, and experimental—often at a time when such re

When we talk about George Augustus Polgreen Bridgetower (1778–1860) we tend to leap from one dazzling highlight to another: the child prodigy who, at age ten, performed a Viotti concerto in Paris before an audience that included Thomas Jefferson, to the electrifying 1803 Vienna premiere of Beethoven’s Violin Sonata No. 9 in A major, Op. 47—the fiery work later rededicated as the “Kreutzer” Sonata after the famous falling-out between the two musicians.

And then, in William Hill’s New York there are the specifics. My favorite: the Daguerreian Gallery of Illustrious Americans, located at 205 Broadway, already present in the city by the mid-1840s. Its inclusion is not incidental. It places this image at the threshold between older forms of representation and the emerging modern world of mechanical reproduction.

As America strove to forge identity through music, literature, painting, and the arts more broadly, a remarkable innovation was quietly reshaping the musical landscape. It was precisely in this context that the piano, transformed by the invention of the iron frame by Bostonian piano maker Alpheus Babcock, entered the scene.

Those vast canvases—painted by artists paid to glorify emperors and battles—have now become our raw material. They are documents, not simply works of art. They are the visual record that allows us to animate history, to give shape to events, to place our subjects in a world that would otherwise exist only in text and memory.

Workflow is changing. Production models are changing. The way we capture, process, and share images is changing. And the audience — students, scholars, the public — is consuming information faster, with greater intensity, and through tools that barely existed a few years ago. In the middle of this shifting landscape, I asked ChatGPT an opinion...

This article is not an argument for restoring the former name or returning the monument. Reasonable people may still disagree about symbols in public space. But we should all agree that history must be based on what we can prove — not on what we “find fair to assume.”

The following unsigned article appeared in The Choir Leader in December 1898—the very month of George Frederick Bristow’s death. The author could not have known that the composer would pass away only weeks later, and thus the piece stands midway between tribute and obituary. Written in the past tense yet with the expectation of further work to come, it praises Bristow’s integrity, idealism, and devotion to American musical life while lamenting the nation’s failure to recogniz

Charlottesville, a city that once aspired to be a center of learning and culture, now bears the shame of this desecration.

As a documentary filmmaker, I was moved by Lankes’s vision and by his friendship with Robert Frost and Sherwood Anderson. With J.J. Lankes: Yankee Printmaker in Virginia, I aimed to explore how his art and his dialogue with Frost, Anderson and others framed an American understanding of work, place, and purpose.