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Detail: Natalia Iguiñiz, Buscando a María Elena Moyano. From moyano's mother's archive

Artist Archives: Experimentation in Peruvian Art about the Memory of the Armed Conflict

Olga Rodríguez Ulloa | Columbia University

Abstract: This work explores contemporary art’s capacity to generate archives and intervene in the memory processes surrounding Peru’s internal armed conflict (1980-2001). In order to do this, it studies the last volume of Fernando Bryce’s Atlas Perú 1980-2001 (2005) and Natalia Iguiñiz’s Buscando a María Elena Moyano (Searching for María Elena Moyano 2010). Both of these works make possible the articulation of both old and new significations of the conflict—both armed and political—within a contemporary framework in which historical memory itself has come under attack (and been defended by) diverse sectors of the Peruvian political sphere as well as in public opinion. This essay also suggests that the historical memory of the conflict has been subjected to a policy of erasure by state and governmental policies.

The registration of MOVADEF (Movimiento por la Amnistía y Derechos Fundamentales; Movement for Amnesty and Fundamental Rights) as a political party––an organization born out of Sendero Luminoso (Shining Path)––has generated a public debate on the memory of the internal armed conflict in Peru (1980-2001).1 State institutions and political parties have engaged in systematic efforts to erase the memory of the conflict, coming to tacit but effective agreements favoring its dissolution through policies aimed at rendering it invisible. Some of these policies have focused on rejecting projects to build memorials that would enable the diffusion of knowledge about this recent and painful reality through their very materiality and objectuality.2 In the current moment, certain political sectors and media outlets are working to emphasize the urgency of developing a pedagogy about the armed conflict that distances young people—the main target of groups like MOVADEF—from terrorist discourses. Recent polls show that younger members of this movement advocate for a general amnesty that would free terrorists, members of the military, and implicated politicians, while the majority of Lima’s youth are ignorant about the basic facts and the main actors in the conflict. The media take advantage of this situation to play on the public’s emotions, portraying those who experienced the violence as hysteric, while consigning the violence to ignorance and oblivion. It is from these conditions that we can begin to articulate the question of the value of historical memory in society.

The archive is one of the articulating axes of historical memory, as are museums, monuments, their formal subversions (the anti-museum, the anti-monument), and other alternative practices (itinerant museums, monuments, or ephemeral architectures).3 The archive bears the potential of becoming a space for memory, but only through some form of mediation; that is, only if there is an arrangement, a selection, and a critical proposal that gathers materials and makes them legible in the present. As Andreas Huyssen points out: “It is this tenuous fissure between past and present that constitutes memory, making it powerfully alive and distinct from the archive or any other mere system of storage and retrieval” (1995, 12). This is one of the operations produced by the artist archives I will examine here, as they deploy a understanding of the archive as place, concept, and procedure in contemporary art. Fernando Bryce’s Atlas Perú (2005) and Natalia Iguiñiz’s Buscando a María Elena Moyano (Searching for María Elena Moyano 2010) activate the archive as an instrument of memory, generating a possible narrative about Peruvian history. From the standpoint of contemporary art, they respond to the growing social need for historical memory in the current moment. While these particular responses preceded the present state of affairs, they serve to clarify the social and artistic politics of post-conflict memory.

The concept of the archive is certainly problematic and its ubiquity in academic circles has served as an invitation to diffusion. I am not interested, however, in giving in to the temptation of delimiting and defining. Instead, I use these theoretical and historical notions as starting points for understanding experimental archival practices. Following Derrida, thinking of the archive as a house (oikos) requires an examination of the associated figure of the archon—the one that guards and determines the contents and ordering of the archive. This is a figure of power founded on knowledge, both its accessibility and restriction. In the case of Peru, the archives of the armed conflict are zealously guarded by the State—particularly by the DIRCOTE (National Directorate Against Terrorism). They are also in charge of safekeeping texts, images, and objects of terrorist propaganda in an archive called the Museo Histórico del Terrorismo (MHT; Historical Museum of Terrorism). Although the MHT is officially open to researchers, access is extremely restricted.4 This double policy of openness and censorship not only petrifies the contents of the archive, but also inscribes them with artificial transgressive potential, as it defines the materials as subversive even in the present.5 In effect, prohibiting the consultation of all of the Sendero Luminoso and MRTA’s (Movimiento Revolucionario Tupac Amaru; Tupac Amaru Revolutionary Movement) printed material, imbues their discourses with a transgressive capacity that they no longer posses, having been dismantled by the judicial system and repudiated by the majority of the population.6 Similarly, it also gives terrorism the same aura of mystery that surrounded it in the first years of the conflict, effectively paralyzing memory.

Although the shift from the private to the public is not a prerequisite for the functioning of the archive, it is a necessary condition for the elaboration of a historical memory on the basis of the archive. Working against this policy of censorship, prohibition, and erasure of memory, Iguiñiz and Bryce use the archive as a repository of images and as a site of epistemology. Through a strategic deployment of the image, they are able to problematize the narratives of memory. Bryce carries this out on the basis of a totalizing conception of history, while Iguiñiz focuses on the politicization of the body and the figure of community activist and leader María Helena Moyano, who was assassinated by the Shining Path in 1992. Hal Foster defines the recourse to the archive in contemporary art as an “archival impulse” that, despite originating in the pre-war (World War II) period, has gained increasing importance in the current moment, in which, following Foster, contemporary art has become a practice of chance. His idea of the “anarchive”—a fusion of “anarchy” and “archive”—is particularly suggestive as it takes into account the appearance of disorder in the act of selection. This chaos delineates multiple routes of mnemotechnical meaning.

Redrawing the Nation

Atlas Perú presents us with a history of Peru in five volumes, beginning in 1932 with the aprista revolt in Piura against the mandate of the military dictator Sánchez Cerro and culminating in 2001 with the beginning of the government of Alejandro Toledo after the popular uprising that removed the dictator Alberto Fujimori from power.7 Bryce describes his technique as “mimetic analysis” because his ink drawings copy episodes of national life from media, state, and advertising sources: newspapers, magazines, pamphlets, screenshots from television, propaganda, booklets, signs, etc.8 He thus reconstructs national history, at times on the basis of heterodox images––typically archival in their rarity––and at others reproducing well-known photographs of widely-recognized events. As such, Bryce injects a tension into events and personalities that are part of recent history, at the same time drawing out the relation of text to image, archive to outside, and original to copy. The mechanism of mimetic analysis here decontextualizes the fragment of a publication and relocates it in a new succession of images and texts, constituting a new archive. The series begins in 1997 and has the Berlin Ibero-American Institute as one of its most important research repositories; Atlas Perú in and of itself includes more than four hundred drawings.9

I restrict my analysis here to the portion of Altas Perú that deals with the years of violence in Peru—that is, from 1980 to 2001; this constitutes the last volume of the series. The periodization employed by Bryce takes 1980 as the starting point of another period in national history—that of the violence unleashed by Sendero Luminoso. The conclusion of this period in 2001 implies an interpretation of history and politics that does not associate the end of the armed conflict with the capture of Abimael Guzmán (1992) or the MRTA’s last attack (1996)—the takeover of the Japanese ambassador’s residence in Lima—but, rather, with the end of fujimorismo. Bryce thus outlines, both materially and conceptually, a period whose political rationale feeds on the violence of the armed conflict.

Note: These two images are not contiguous

The book begins its narrative with a copy of a photograph of a peasant walking in front of the façade of the District Government Office of Chuschi, a town that was the scene of the first senderista terrorist action, thus configuring both a chronology and a space.10 Within this foundational moment, the images corresponding to the conflict sporadically spring from the archival narrative and maintain a complex relationship with the images of state propaganda of the time, which are anxious to publicize commercial improvements and mask the economic crisis that defined the entire decade. In that sense, the images created by the State are not concerned with defining terrorism, since their focus is the economy. In these drawings, we can see a State acting through the repressive violence of its Armed Forces, while refraining from elaborating an anti-terrorist discourse through its media agencies or its public figures. However, this changes radically in the drawings representing the 1990s.

During this period, Fujimori and his advisor Vladimiro Montesinos constructed a presidential image based on the idea of martial power and instituted political practices that tended towards militarization.11 The government’s declaration of state of emergency in many provinces entailed not only the suspension of constitutionally guaranteed rights but also forced, following the logic of war, the coexistence of civilians and members of the military. In ceremonies and speeches, Fujimori presented himself as a military leader, making use of his title of General Commander of the Armed Forces, which is inherent to presidential authority. This posture was a response to the demands by different sectors of the public, who having witnessed the terrorist movements’ displays of forces and the military failures of presidents Belaúnde Terry (1980-1984) and Alan García (1985-1990), were receptive to a strong display of vertical power. In the final days of his term, the figure of a military Fujimori became a parody, particularly in the context of the televised and theatrical search for the then-fugitive Montesinos. Within Atlas Perú, this episode constitutes the final drawing of the Peruvian-Japanese leader, which carries the caption: “President seeking Advisor.” Alongside this image there is a copy of an ad for the Ripley department store chain, a play on the reference to the television program De Ripley, which points to the absurd impunity that suffused the highest spheres of national political life.

In this sense, the drawings juxtapose the political propaganda of fujimorista power in contrast with the consumerist advertising that was part and parcel of the neoliberal “opening” that was taking place during that same period.12 This contrast reveals the moral and ethical decadence of those in power as a necessary precondition for the influx of new capital. Bryce thus forges a memory narrative in which the criticism of power is written from the standpoint of the staging of a politics of impunity that is co-extensive with neoliberalism. From this perspective, the internal armed conflict in Peru serves as an accessory to the spectacular nature of politics, which contributed to the popularity of Fujimori and functioned as a logic justifying all acts of authoritarianism. Authoritarianism was read, therefore, not as an abuse of power, but as an exercise of the strong leadership Peru needed. In the final years of this period, it became evident that the terrorist threat was losing political steam, while accusations of human rights violations on the part of the military forces started to gain notice. Responding to this, the emphasis on social assistance programs in the political agenda of the period served as means to clean up the military’s image: the Fujimori walking amid the corpses of terrorists in the residence of the Japanese ambassador is the same Fujimori who spoon-feeds a peasant girl.  

The black-and-white drawing can be thought of as a system that homogenizes a history that seems to be sketched exclusively by the hand of power. It can also articulate an alternative tale on the basis of the distribution and temporality that the artist injects in it: the tale of a subject that is first spectator and then becomes artist, curator, and archivist. The artist recomposes the images produced by power––originally intended to numb readers and television audiences––on the basis of his personal archive. This re-composition, a new distribution of the historically sensitive, however, signals the extent to which subjects are able to respond to publicity and party politics. Atlas Perú is an ironic and personal anarchive that charges against the propaganda of terrorism, the media, and the state.

Exposing the Body

from the archives of la república

February 2012 marked the twentieth anniversary of the death of the activist and community leader María Elena Moyano, who was undoubtedly one of the most visible and publicized victims of terrorist violence. This is because Moyano undertook a difficult struggle against terrorism, working mainly with neighborhood associations in Villa El Salvador, a district in Lima’s urban periphery. María Elena’s political aim was to achieve a level of prosperity for her district and to empower women by strengthening organizations independent from the State and the Church.13 For the Sendero Luminoso, any kind of civic organization represented a threat against its ideas and practices, which is why the terrorists took revenge against her body, blowing it to pieces in order to impede her burial by family members and hinder her peace in the afterlife. It was a symbolic gesture that exacerbated people’s indignation and brought multitudes to her funeral.

from iguñiz's mother's archive

Since then, different sectors of the political spectrum have made use of the figure of Moyano. Fujimorismo brought her sister Marta Moyano into politics, getting her elected to the incumbent’s congressional bloc during Fujimori’s second term (2000-2001). Within this narrative, María Elena is one of the victims of the terrorist groups defeated by the Peruvian-Japanese president. Other uses of Moyano relate to the epic trope of “Mother Courage.” The figure of the woman who builds a space of survival and solidarity from nothing in Lima’s sand fields appears in Alberto Durant’s film Coraje (Courage 1998). Likewise, there came into circulation a definition of María Elena as a “social heroine” and a feminist.14 On the basis of these diverging and overlapping memories and meanings, the artist Natalia Iguiñiz sought to create a portrait of María Elena that transcended this circuit of images.15 To carry this out, she undertook research in private and institutional archives, looking for photographs and testimonies to help her conceptualize María Elena as a subject. The need to find the person underneath the public figure forced Iguiñiz to confront her own subjectivity. As the artist points out: “The idea of this work was an attempt to weave a thread from one side of the divide to the other, but balancing atop this tight-rope made me confront my own history, which is what tends to happens in any portrait” (Iguiñiz 2011).

from the archives of la república

Iguiñiz surveyed the image archives from the daily newspaper La República, the personal archives of Eugenia Delgado Cabrera—Moyano’s mother—as well as those of María Rosa del Carmen Boggio—the artist’s mother and a leftist activist and educator who knew Moyano well.16 I would argue, with Kellie Jones, that these latter two repositories constitute an alternative modality of the archive because their starting point is a private and familiar world which, despite not being institutionally managed, can constitute that step from the private to the public spheres which creates memory. However, Buscando a María Elena Moyano calls for a rethinking of the personal archives in different terms. As Jones posits, the family archive would be the place within the private sphere that constitutes a window into the interior and anterior life of the political subject. Nevertheless, the images chosen by Iguiñiz do not document Moyano’s childhood but rather her political life: the meetings, marches, and the bombing of her tomb in 1993. Meanwhile, it is in the collection of La República that we find pictures of Moyano as a child in school and of her first communion. This inversion speaks of a transposition of spaces and narratives that aims at a complex understanding of the figure of the leader. In the search for the subject, it is evident that the private sphere—normally thought of as beyond the field of politics—is not simply a point of origin but in itself political. In María Elena’s family life, the image of María Elena the activist predominates. In the same vein, Moyano’s public history can only be complete with the memory of her childhood in Villa El Salvador.

from moyano's mother's archive

Iguiñiz problematizes this conceptual framework with the documentation of the very moment of photographic research, using photography as a gesture that should be understood as forming part of a broader photographic network. As Okwui Enwezor argues: “The advent of mechanical reproduction initiated an archival formation that would overtake all relations to the photographic record: the systems of production and, more recently, the processes of permanent digital archivization and inscription” (2008, 12). Iguiñiz takes a picture of Moyano’s picture and creates a new archive: the archive of the artist’s work in which research has a privileged location because it is embedded in it as a reflection on a reflection that is part of the creation of the portrait. The photographs that show us family tablecloths and the feet of the artist also signal that moment of irruption into the private sphere, in which the artist is researcher and curator of her own work. The processes of selection and perusal of the photos is marked by the partial appearance of Iguiñiz’s body, remitting the viewer to the study of the model––in the sense of the traditional study of the painter, but also in the sense of a research program that includes albums and testimonies. In this case, the figure of the model is deconstructed and reconstructed on the basis of archival practices. But the problem that persists is this: how does one portray someone who is physically no longer present?

screen prints IN EL BARRANCO

The portrait is, in the end, the product of a program of study and research into the coming together (mixture) of the subjectivities of artist and model. In order to corporally reproduce the figure of Moyano, Iguiñiz draws her own body and alters it on the basis of documents and testimonies.17 In the end, the portrait is composed of five screen printed images that divide María Elena’s body into head, trunk, and extremities. It ends up being a reference to the circumstances of her murder, but it is also a powerful metaphor bearing Andean resonances:

The way in which Moyano is torn to pieces and the different promises that her life could symbolize are related with the myth of the inkarri, which refers to the return of the Inca, who, after being dismembered to deplete his strength, waits for the moment to rearm and reestablish himself in a new order. (Iguiñiz)

The work is thus elaborated on the basis of an idea of cultural resistance, and Moyano becomes the symbol of a new subject that transcends death, violence, and power.

women tearing down the screen prints; villa el salvador

As Hal Foster argues, referencing the work of Thomas Hischhorn, the archival impulse in art does not culminate in the museum, but outside, in the street. Following this train of thought, Iguiñiz places her screen printed images in traditional neighborhoods like Barranco and Miraflores, but also in those neighborhoods built thanks to the effort of people like Moyano. These neighborhoods have ceased to be peripheral and have become functional centers of many aspects of urban life: San Martín de Porres, Villa El Salvador, Independencia.18 There, the partial screen printed portraits of María Elena are placed into fruitful dialogue with an urban landscape that is being permanently reformulated. The dialogue is complex and not exempt of impasses, as registered by the photograph in which women tear Iguiñiz’s images from the walls. For these women, the allegorical reproduction of the dismemberment was unbearable. As they told the artist: “that is how they killed María Elena.” In this sense, the portrait problematizes archival research that the same time that it continues to generate anarchives. Iguiñiz’s anarchive is constituted by pictures of pictures of Moyano’s life, the screen printed images that flooded urban space in commemoration of the ninth anniversary of her death, and, finally, a booklet that compiles the images and some of the artist’s texts, which accompanied commemorations in 2012.

These two pieces by contemporary artists recollect the past and generate a historical memory of the armed conflict that runs counter to the policies of silence of the incumbent government and the political parties. Bryce and Iguiñiz generate artist archives and anarchives that confront discourses of the past on the basis of their personal archival arrangements while escaping the spatial workings of the censored archives of the government. Through the new orderings of images they propose, Bryce and Iguiñiz pronounce the name of political figures, events, dislocations, and ironies that resonate forcefully in the political practices of the present, offering us new possibilities to understand and debate Peru’s internal armed conflict.

Traducción de Miguel Winograd

Olga Rodríguez Ulloa is a Ph.D. candidate in the department of Latin American and Iberian Cultures at Columbia University. Currently, she is writing her doctoral dissertation on cultural practices, historical memory, and violence. Together with other students at Columbia and NYU, she organizes a discussion group, Crítica Latinoamericana, which will soon launch its own electronic publication. In Peru, she has worked in the editorial departments of the journals Casa de Citas: Revista de Literatura (2005-2007) and Libros y Artes de la Biblioteca Nacional del Perú (2005-2007).

1 The Movimiento por la Amnistía y Derechos Fundamentales (Movement for Amnesty and Fundamental Rights)—led by Alfredo Crespo, Abimael Guzmán’s lawyer—aims, as its name suggests, for the liberation of terrorists, military members, and politicians responsible for or implicated in the conflict. MOVADEF also sought to become a political party and participate in the elections. They claim to have abandoned the postulates of armed struggle, but remain paradoxically faithful to the thought of Gonzalo, which is Guzmán’s interpretation of a hybrid Marxism, Leninisn, and Maoism. Crespo was part of Sendero Luminoso and served time after being convicted.  

2 These silencing policies can be summarized by four examples: (1) The critiques and repulsion with which the Commission of Truth and Reconciliation’s final report was received by broad political sectors, especially those linked to the human rights violations like Aprismo (from the APRA political party) and Fujimorismo (the followers of former president Alberto Fujimori). These sectors focused on the terminology used in the report, as well as in its categorical declaration imputing political actors and the armed forces as responsible for disappearances and extrajudicial executions. (2) The partial destruction of the monument “El ojo que llora” (“The crying eye”), undertaken by Fujimorista militants and the later approval of the action expressed by their leaders. (3) The rejection of a donation from the government of Germany to construct a Museum of Memory (2009) during Alan García’s second presidential term (2006-2011), which was then overturned after a complaint by Mario Vargas Llosa. (4) The pro-amnesty bills (Legislative Decree 1097) aimed at members of the military implicated in human rights violations, which was not promulgated due to Vargas Llosa’s resignation to the direction of the Lugar de Memoria and the objection of a sector of public opinion, again during Alan García’s second term. “Lugar de la Memoria” (“Place of Memory”) is the title given to the project financed by the German donation.

3 In this field, one can highlight the work of the Museo Itinerante de Arte por la Memoria (Itinerant Art Museum for Memory) that defines itself as an interdisciplinary “citizen initiative” which, through a decentralized and mobile museum practice, has been able to generate a space for discussing the years of violence in Peru (encompassing, in their view, not only the internal armed conflict but also later social confrontations, like the death of 33 indigenous people in the jungle region of Bagua in 2009).

4 Here we can see how this “inscription,” defined by Derrida as the violence of the archive, functions as that reading-between-the-lines that is always an obstacle: “The exergue consists in capitalizing on an ellipsis. In accumulating capital in advance and in preparing the surplus value of an archive. An exergue serves to stock in anticipation and to prearchive a lexicon which, from there on, ought to lay down the law and give the order, even if this means contenting itself with naming the problem, that is, the subject. In this way, the exergue has at once an institutive and a conservative function: the violence of a power (Gewalt) which at once posits and conserves the law, as the Benjamin of Zur Kritik der Gewalt would say. What is at issue here, starting with the exergue, is the violence of the archive itself, as archive, as archival violence (10).

5 The state’s distrust is grounded on the Antiterrorist Law, parts of which punishes all justifications of terrorism. Following the same logic, in 2009, Abimael Guzmán’s book Puño y letra was removed from circulation immediately upon its release.

6 The appearance of MOVADEF could serve as an argument against this possible opening, but the existence of this organization does not imply the triumph or the potential activation of senderista discourses. MOVADEF is a symptom of the politics of forgetting and the apotheosis of a false idea of national reconciliation.

7 Rodrigo Quijano references Gerhard Richter’s Atlas, to which Bryce no doubt had access, as this work has canonical status in the studies of the archive as art.

8 Jorge Villacorta reads into this way of drawing a shift with respect to the typical document of contemporary art, resorting to the mechanical reproduction of photography or other media (51). Rodrigo Quijano, for his part, refers to it as a lo-fi response to the proliferation of hi-fi that characterizes the beginning of the century (116).

9 Bryce has also explored the possibilities of mimetic analysis in other series, including Américas (2009), Revolución (2004), Visión de la pintura occidental (2002), South of the Border (2002), as well as those devoted to historical figures: Leon Trotsky (2003) and Walter Benjamin (2002) presented in galleries in Los Angeles, New York, Berlin, Barcelona, and Lima. The MOMA, Tate, the St. Gallen Kunstmseum, and the Museo de Arte Peruano, among other museums, hold Bryce’s works in their collections. We could say that Bryce is one of the Peruvian artists with the widest international resonance. One could also add that he lives between Lima and Berlin.

10 The space constituted by the town Chuschi has been read by urban imaginaries as a reference to the Shining Path. A township in the region of Ayacucho, where Quechua is predominantly spoken, which is perceived as existing outside the time of the city, Chuschi constitutes from this perspective a different chronology and a different space. For the social sciences, on the other hand, it is an interesting territory due to its social and commercial relations with the city, see Isbell.

11 This military Fujimori complements the technocratic Fujimori of the campaign against Vargas Llosa. The fujimorista regime promised “honesty, technology, and work.” The photo of Fujimori in a tractor famously illustrated technology, while honesty and work ethic were projected as qualities derived from his Japanese origins. Beatriz Sarlo explores these within the broader framework of Latin American neoliberalism in “Aesthetics and Politics

12 In Atlas Perú he copies McDonald’s, Saga Falabella, Ripley, Telefonica, and Repsol ads, denouncing the presence of foreign companies granted unfair competitive advantages after negotiations with the government. The series also presents national capital as that other great accomplice of fujimorismo, not only in terms of the pact between capital and the media, but also in the unconditional support granted to Fujimori by organizations like CONFIEP (Confederación Nacional de Instituciones Empresariales Privadas; National Confederation of Private Business Institutions).

13 Her work as two-term president of FEPOMUVES (Federación Popular de Mujeres de Villa El Salvador; Popular Federation of Women of Villa El Salvador) strengthened the organization and drew recognition from various sectors of Lima society. In a period of scarcity and impoverishment, the exercise of politics consisted in obtaining resources for the Popular Cafeterias and the Glass of Milk program, as much as it did petitioning other entities of municipal government. In 1987, she received, in representation of her district, the Príncipe de Asturias Prize at la Concordia and was elected lieutenant mayor of Villa El Salvador in 1990.

14 In the series of events organized by the Flora Tristán Center for Peruvian Women to mark the twenty years since the assassination of María Elena Moyano, it was claimed that Moyano sought to argue for a “feminism of popular women.”

15 Iguiñiz’s work has been devoted to exploring questions of gender; for example, within the public sphere, in her collection Perro habla (Speak Dog 1999) and with within the private sphere, in the relationships of power between women and their domestic servants in La otra (The Other 1999). In 2004, in the series of photographs Chunniqwasi, she worked on post-conflict memory on the basis of the abandonment of this locality, while in 2005 and 2008 she was devoted to the theme of maternity with Pequeñas historias de la maternidad 1 y 2 (Little stories of maternity 1 and 2). Searching for MEM unites these two areas of reflection in her work: gender and political violence.

16 Beyond these archives, on which my discussion will focus, Iguiñiz also consulted issues of the journal Caretas, the newspaper La República, and the album of Diana Miloslavich, who was a friend of Moyano and who, through the NGO Flora Tristán, worked with her on different projects.

17 In a conversation with the artist, Iguiñiz explained that she enlarged the body of Moyano to make it correspond more closely to her build and height.

18 Taking Derrida’s idea of a functional center as an legitimizing and translating operation of practices and significations, we can say that these neighborhoods are spaces where culture and politics are articulated in a vital and independent way.

Works Cited
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---. 2005. Fernando Bryce. Barcelona: Fundació Antoni Tàpies.

---. 2005. Atlas Perú. Lima: FB.

Comisión de la Verdad y la Reconciliación. 2003. Informe Final. Lima. 

Derrida, Jacques. 1995. “Archive Fever. A Freudian Impression.” Diacritics 25.2: 9-63.

---. 1978. Writting on Difference. Chicago: Chicago Universit Press.

Durant, Alberto. 1999. Coraje. Agua Dulce Films.

Enwezor, Okwui. 2008. Archive Fever. Uses of the Document in Contemporary Art. New York: International Center of Photography.

Hal Foster. 2004. “An Archival Impulse.” October 110: 3-22.

Huyssen, Andreas. 1995. Twilight Memories. Marking Time in a Culture of Amnesia. New York: Routledge.

Iguiñiz, Natalia. "Buscando a María Helena Moyano." January 13, 2011.

Isbell, Billie Jean. 1978. To Defend Ourselves: Ecology and Ritual in an Andean Village. Austin: Texas UP.

Jones, Kellie. 2011. “Curator in the Classroom: The Artistic Eye of Prof. Kellie Jones” Interviewed by John Uhl. Research.

Museo Itinerante Arte por la Memoria. “¿Qué somos?”.¿que-somos/

Quijano, Rodrigo. 2005. “El presente aludido”. Fernando Bryce. Barcelona: Fundació Antoni Tàpies.

Sarlo, Beatriz. 1995. “Aesthetics and Post-Politics: From Fujimori to the Gulf War.” In The Postmodernism debate in Latin America, ed. Jon Beverley et. al. Durham: Duke UP.

Villacorta, Jorge and Fernando Bryce. 2002. Puntos cardinales: arte contemporáneo. Lima: FB.