How three documentaries — on Daniel Chester French, the Piccirilli Brothers, and George Frederick Bristow — became, almost by accident, a trilogy about the nineteenth-century American search for a cultural identity. A reflection on sculpture, music, authorship, and the long shadow of Massa-Carrara.

You probably know Piazzolla from Adiós Nonino, or from the Kronos Quartet recording that made a generation of American listeners suddenly aware that something extraordinary had been happening in Buenos Aires for thirty years without their knowing. What is harder to explain is why it took so long — not for American audiences to discover him, but for Buenos Aires itself to accept what he had made.

A stained glass window is a work of art — a dialogue between form, light, and color. Its fragility is comparable to human life, and yet like human beings it is capable of withstanding the assaults of time and oblivion. To preserve this heritage is to recognize where we come from and what road has brought us here.

Life and Music in the Age of George Frederick Bristow soon to be release through Alexander Street / ProQuest, reaching universities, colleges, and public libraries worldwide. A 65-minute documentary about a composer New York forgot — and why that forgetting matters.

A forgotten roll of film shot near Charlottesville VA resurfaces, revealing a quiet collaboration with guitarist Willie De at the abandoned Swannanoa estate in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Un vitral es una obra de arte, un diálogo entre la forma, la luz y los colores. Testigo mudo de la historia, su fragilidad es comparable a la vida humana — y como ella, capaz de resistir los embates del tiempo y del olvido. Preservar este patrimonio es reconocer de dónde venimos.

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.