“I’ve always thought it’s important not to lose our humanity. It’s top of mind in my interactions with the people I hang out with or meet. That’s been something very shocking for me here in the United States: that it’s so easy to become a number or a box on a form, for people of color or BIPOC. I’m always advocating for taking it easy, for slowing down, looking into each other’s eyes, and recognizing that this is a person”

– Diana Marcela Cuartas

I met Diana when I was considering the program of Art + Social Practice two years ago. She’s a fellow Colombian who attended the program. We only met once, when I was in Portland, not at my best. But true to her Caleña upbringing, she was still welcoming and agreed to talk to me about her work. She facilitated the creation of an incredible book of  Mexican stories, rituals, recipes, and calaveritas, called A donde voy, el hogar viene conmigo. 

The process that brought it to life was a friendship built in the context of Diana’s work. She is a social worker who handles the cases of latino moms. Her first client, Reina, became one of her closest friends, and they embarked on the project of creating a book in which Reina and the other moms could pass down their traditions from el Dia de Muertos.  From this endeavor emerged an activist collective called Conocimiento Migrante that now advocates for community spaces and the rights of latinx people in the East of PDX. 

I thought this interview was going to be solely about this book, about her work, about her way of producing spaces for community storytelling. But it was so much more than that. It was about her, as a human, and her plea for humanity in us all. 

This interview was conducted in Spanish, and as a personal and political statement, I decided to publish it in both languages. If you want to read the original, scroll way down and you’ll find it. We are both funnier and spicier in Spanish, as Sofia Vergara would say.

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Adela: Darling Diana, I’d like to start by asking you, as another Colombian transplant, why did you end up in Portland, which is basically at the end of the world?

Diana: For love. Portland wasn’t even on my radar, but my partner, who is Colombian-American, and I were enjoying our love in Colombia, and at some point, he had to return to his planet. So, to stay together, I ended up coming to the States. First we went to Arizona, to live with his mom, which also helped us save money.

He had applied to different graduate programs, and Portland offered him the best scholarship. We visited one weekend, and it was lovely. It was spring, and sunny, and there were flowers everywhere.

Adela: That happened to me too! Sunny Portland seduces you and then throws the overcast skies on you, not unlike Bogotá’s. It pulls a fast one on you!

Diana: Totally! So when we first came here, I went to the King School Museum of Contemporary Art, and that’s how I ended up in the program, because I was looking for art, community, and public engagement. And here we are, five years later, still living here.

Adela: The universe, queen. I went to Portland for the first time in the fall of 2021, at the end of September, to visit my sister, and I fell in love with the city—it seemed divine. 

But now that you’re more rooted in Portland and simultaneously have roots in Colombia, what I call, eldoblearraigo (double-rootedness), I would like to know: What Colombian rituals or traditions, from your family, do you continue practicing in Portland? 

Diana: I think something fundamental for me is that my partner and I share our culture. I don’t think I could’ve ever fallen in love with a 100% gringo.

For me, the ritual is food: cooking, sitting down at the table, enjoying that moment, knowing what we’re eating. One of the things that’s been a cultural shock for me is seeing people eat a sandwich for lunch and then have a huge burger for dinner…

I think that’s why people are so messed up—those hormonal imbalances affect your mental health. How can you feel good if you’re not nourishing? You go to people’s houses and everything is canned and sugary,  and people are eating at weird hours.

For me, it’s like my aunt used to say: have breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince, and eat dinner like a slave. But I don’t eat like a slave; I always try to eat like a queen! (laughs)

When we lived with my mother-in-law, who is super gringa, I was trying to keep up with her. But that thing of grabbing whatever for lunch and then eating real food before going to sleep—I thought, my God, ‘this can’t go on.’

So that ritual of how we eat is key for us. Because if I eat like that, I’ll feel depressed, I’ll be sad, I won’t be able to do what I do, I’ll be tired. I’m still tired, but for other reasons. (laughs)

Another thing I maintain from our culture is Joyous Sundays. For example, every Sunday morning, I always tune into a radio station called Madrigal Stereo, from Soledad, Atlántico, and they have a program called Sundays of Flavor. The music is amazing; it puts me in the mood to put myself together. That’s the day that reminds you not to let that go-go-go routine, of eating whatever and keeping it moving, take over you.

Sometimes it’s hard because we have to do what we have to do here. But it’s about putting on some music to shake off the grayness of it all.

Adela: Speaking of food, what’s a recipe that makes you feel at home?

Diana: It depends on how busy I am. If I’m short on time, I make a chicken stew that practically cooks itself. But if I have more time, I make beans.

Adela: How do you make your beans? What do you add? Because every family is a world in itself, and that translates into the kitchen. For example, once a friend added panela to her beans, and I was like, “What the heck are you doing?”

Diana: Well, I was going to say that when I have panela, I add it too. (laughs) 

One of my variations is I boil them with garlic, bay leaf, and thyme. Also, separately, I make a sauté of onion and tomato; sometimes grated bell pepper and, if I have plantains, I throw in some green plantain while I’m cooking. I also make this sauté, this hogao, with cumin, thyme, whatever herbs and spices I have around, and cilantro. At the end, I like to sprinkle some grated panela. And sometimes, because it’s easy to find here, I swap the carrot for a piece of squash.

Adela: And in your house, who made the beans?

Diana: My mom and I. I’m the child of a single mother. It was my mom, my sister, and I.

Adela: I ask you about your rituals, because you made a book about the ritual of Dia de los Muertos with the moms you work with in Latino Network. And just as their rituals were important to them, I believe yours are also. 

Having that in mind, if you could immortalize or pass down any ritual from your family, what would you want to pass on to your kids (or your cats if you don’t want to have children)?

Diana: Oh, I don’t know, it’s hard for me to think about immortalizing something because nothing can be immortalized. We’re all going to die. Books will disintegrate. They will rot, burn, and turn to ashes; we’re all going to end up as ashes. 

I’ve always thought it’s important not to lose our humanity. It’s top of mind in my interactions with the people I hang out with or meet. That’s been something very shocking for me here in the United States: that it’s so easy to become a number or a box on a form, for people of color or BIPOC. I’m always advocating for taking it easy, for slowing down, looking into each other’s eyes, and recognizing that this is a person.

How is there such a horrible genocide happening and here people are more worried about getting the lesser evil? In the end, nobody thinks about the fact that we’re talking about people who are being killed every day. It’s frustrating.

I feel like here in Portland, it’s very easy for people to stay in their little bubble of organic coffee and tree-hugging. It’s easy for people to lose social awareness or never develop it at all. So that’s the legacy I want to leave: that the spaces I’m in, the friendships I build, don’t lose their humanity and aren’t ignorant of the context. That they have cinco centavitos de conciencia social (five cents of social awareness). 

Adela: I love that because it’s a legacy you’re creating with every interaction in your life, something you’re building with every person you engage with. And since a big part of engaging with each other in our latin culture is through dance and music, I wanted to ask, do you have a playlist that makes you feel at home, but also like a la perra, la diva, la potra, la caballota?

Diana: Right now, there’s one song I’ve been playing on repeat called. Estoy Enamorada, Mi Padre No Me Entiende. It’s hilarious, from Yolanda Pérez, La Potra, and I love it because it captures the biculturalism of Mexican immigrant families in the United States. It features a teenager telling her dad, “My boyfriend called me,” and he’s like, “What do you mean you have a boyfriend?”

I relate to it because I think about the families I work with, and I’m like, “that’s the cultural gap for kids growing up here, with parents who came from rural Mexico.

And a song that embodies that feeling of ‘necesito, poder, espíritus’ is El Mapalé. For me, listening to that song is like being possessed by it. It’s a power that takes over you. It’s for when you’re feeling like “I need to get out of this funk” or “The party is amazing, let’s turn up the heat” or “I’m feeling low, let’s spice up these arepas.” You can dance to it and sweat it out: it’s total catharsis.It’s one of my favorites; I play it on my birthday and days with friends. Any excuse is good for El Mapalé.

Adela: 100%! My mom is from Cartagena, and I remember dancing to it with my cousins. I’m about to play it when we get off this call to shake off any inner demons.

And, speaking of demons, I’d love to talk about the death rituals, which were the foundation of the book you made with your first social work client from Latino Network, Reina, and the other moms. The book  A donde voy, el hogar viene conmigo encompases their Día de Muertos rituals. If you had to design an altar for your family to build on the Día de Muertos, what would you tell your loved ones to put on it? El Mapalé, maybe?

Diana: When I was working on that project, I was listening to the song A la Memoria del Muerto by Piper Pimienta. It goes:

“I don’t want to hear about sorrow or suffering. I want to live my life joyful, happy, and content. The day I die, I don’t want tears or prayers. Ask them to bring a lot of aguardiente, and let everyone dance happily and sing in memory of the dead.”

And I thought, that’s what I’d want. Make it a party. If someone remembers me and says, “Let’s honor Diana’s memory,” they should play El Mapalé, enjoy good food and take time to truly feel like themselves. My altar should have plantains, guaritos, a shot of mezcal, some super coco, drawings, palm trees, tropical iconography, and Madrigal Stereo radio station. 

Adela: I ask you this not only because of your book’s theme but also because I’ve been working on the topic of death from a lovely and compassionate perspective of celebration. I’ve always wanted a party. I want people to dress in red, put on some lipstick, share stories about me and dance to reggaeton until your feet hurt.

Diana: Absolutely!

Día de Los Muertos: A community is born 

Adela: Talking about our death rituals is the perfect segway into your projects and processes. Specifically, the book A donde voy, el hogar viene conmigo, which I understand served as a way for the migrant women you work with, starting with Reina, to pass down their Día de Muertos traditions to their families. What happened during that process?

Diana: What happened with Reina is tied to the fact that I became a social worker—though I’m not one—but that was the job I landed because I speak decent Spanish. Like I said, I’m the daughter of a single mother. I support my mom, and I needed some cash.

So, I stumbled into this job after a long search in the arts. I thought, “surely, my ten-plus years of experience has to come in handy here.” But this opportunity felt somewhat related:  even though it wasn’t about programming art or engaging the public through art; it was about engaging it through education. And Reina was my first client as a social worker case handler.

And I could have established  just a client relationship, but I’m an artist, and it’s hard for me not to be one. So what ended up happening during that process was friendship. Same with the other moms. 

I was doing the MFA and working at the same time, so I didn’t have a chance to be creative outside of work, you know, during that magical neutral time. Sometimes I was in class while answering work calls.

And for me, one of the failures of art is when there’s this disconnection, when it’s only aimed at a specialized audience, when people in art are just talking to other people in art about art. For me, it’s a priority and an interest to connect with everyday life and as many people as possible.

That’s what I did in my work back in Colombia. We’d have this amazing exhibition, and I’d think, “What can I come up with so that a lady who lives around the corner and has no clue about this space feels curious enough to come and see if something resonates with her?”

So, talking with Reina, I said, what do I know how to do that’s useful? I can put things together in a PDF and make it look pretty. Is that useful here in this group of people? Ah, well, yes, so let’s make a book right away.

Adela: Let’s talk about the book itself, A donde voy, el hogar viene conmingo.  I found it interesting that you asked her point blank, “What kind of book do you want to make?” You put her in the center from the get-go.

Diana: Exactly. My role was more about facilitating and coordinating, making sure this person had the agency to say, “Okay, I’m getting this chance to make a book: I’ll decide how I imagine it, how I want it.”

And that’s where it all started. We invited moms from other schools where we held meetings and different workshops. That’s when some connections became stronger, and some friendships formed because COVID was just a crazy time. I mean, I spent an hour and a half on the phone with a lady, just listening to her. So I feel like that particular experience during COVID also changed the client-social worker relationship.

So we invited other moms until we ended up in a group of about six or seven. There were tons of Zoom meetings, basically just to listen: we have a platform, what do we want to include? They were all from different parts of Mexico,  and were saying, “No, in my region, we do this,” “No, in Oaxaca, we do it like this,” “In Guerrero, we do it like that.” It was a really beautiful space that felt like a cultural exchange, even though they were all Mexican. 

I was just trying to coordinate what I could. They’d say to me, “Oh, I remember we used to write calaveritas in school.” And I’d be like, “Would you like to write more calaveritas? I can find someone to come and teach us how to make them.” 

In the end, we became a collective called El Conocimiento Migrante. The experience of making the book morphed into this platform to continue sharing. We held potlucks and chatted for hours asking “What do we need? What do we like? What interests us? What are we missing?”

Creating these deep relationships takes time. The problem is that when you’re a student, you’re on a tight schedule, and everything has to happen quickly. And I had this conflict of having to rush things to deliver. Because that was precisely a space for us to slow down and really get to know each other. 

I’ve always questioned how one can just llegar en paracaidas, as we say in Colombia, and say, “I’m working with a community,” if I haven’t taken the time to connect and understand what’s going on there.

I feel horrible when people arrive and say, “Bring in Black people, latinx people, and let’s do this thing that has nothing to do with anything.” I don’t believe in those projects where people have zero agency; that’s not part of my ethics as an artist. And I think I also learned that in this space. I realized that I enjoy taking the time to be present and truly listen so that whatever I do has a relationship with the interests of these people.

Adela: And how did you create this collective with the participants with whom you formed these deep bonds?

Diana: In my work, I organize workshops for parents in the families I’m assigned to.

I started in the far East of Portland, which is a pretty unique district; it’s the poorest, the most latino. As a rookie social worker, I felt like I had arrived as a mix of  Francisco, El Matemático, with the Simpsons.

There’s a predetermined framework of what you offer to the parents of the enrolled kids. But in my creative practice, I thought, “Well, I can do this other crazy thing; I’ll invent a field trip to the Portland Art Museum, or we’ll have a celebration with crafts.” Doing things that nourish our spirits.

Adela: What did you take away from this process?

Diana: I feel like I came away with reaffirmations. Especially that you can’t go through life without looking people in the eye, without recognizing each other as human beings. I also took away the recognition that this is a labor of love. I did everything because I wanted to; nobody forced me, and it was a lot of work.

But the most important thing that came from it was a group of friends that I adore—a genuine community. I also ended up feeling tired, but in a good way, like a happy kind of tired. And I left with a desire to fight—not to “fight against the world,” but to change things.

For example, right now with the Oregon Humanities Fellowship, I met with the collective again and told them there was a chance to have an article published. In the end, the conversation turned to the lack of spaces for the community, specifically in East Portland.

Adela: Speaking of building friendships and community, how did you choose or find the poet, Luna Flores, and the illustrator, Eliana Enriquez, the collaborating artists in the project?

Diana: It was also organic. In Luna’s case, she led the calaveritas writing workshop, and I met her through Pati Vázquez Gómez, a teacher from the Art + Social Practice program. For me, Pati was a lifesaver. Thanks to her, I connected with a network of latinx artists. 

When I was feeling crazy, she invited me to a party. I danced after months of not dancing, and I was so happy. I spoke in Spanish. It was everything I needed, and I hadn’t realized how badly. Among those people, I connected with Luna Flores. She is also an immigrant and a mom. I asked the collective if they thought it was a good idea to bring her, and I did.

And with the illustrator, it was magical. In these programs, you work in pairs. I was responsible for connecting with parents; another person was the youth engagement specialist, who connects with the students. My partner was Eliana Enriquez, who is also an illustrator, and the moms adored her; she was a part of the family.

So, in the end, the book is the result of building community. And that community needs to be nurtured and respected. If I start inviting them to share their ideas, I can’t just leave it there. That would be disrespectful to their participation. And I appreciate the fact that they participate; I appreciate interest and willingness. They could say, “I have to cook, or take care of my husband,” and not come. And I feel that they appreciate the space for collective thinking.

Adela: And in that process, were there any moments of friction? Domenic Kim talks about the concept of “social lubrication”. Did you have to lubricate at any moment of tension?

Diana: One of the frictions was that some moms with more availability and better economic situations came in super prepared. But there were others with less availability. And I started to notice something weird. When I asked them what was going on, some indignantly told me that so-and-so “always arrives late and never brings anything of substance.”

So I sat them down and said, “This space is for all of us to participate to the best of our ability. This isn’t a job.” I told them:

“You love to cook. But not all of us are in the same situation. Neither am I. Maybe because you see me as the teacher, you don’t criticize me, but I’ve also shown up with a soda from the store. How would you feel if you were rejected because you didn’t bring something that someone else did? You have a husband. The other doesn’t have a husband. The other one works and has kids, and she gets here earlier. And she contributes in other ways. Everyone brings to the table what they have, and from that, we take what interests us and what serves us. That’s where we make the sancocho.”

Adela: The last question I want to ask you, Diana, is if you had a magical wand and all the money in the world, what’s the most beautiful version you could imagine for the collective El Conocimiento Migrante?

Diana: A huge house in a community center in East Portland with a dance floor, a projection room, a giant kitchen. Space for workshops, an art studio, y para hacer la guacahafita. It has to be over there in Rockwood, in Fairview, not here. 

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Diana Marcela Cuartas is a Colombian artist, educator, and cultural worker transplanted to Portland in 2019. Her work combines visual research, popular culture analysis, and participatory learning processes in publications, workshops, and curatorial projects as a framework to investigate the relationships formed between a place and those who inhabit it. With her projects, Diana is interested in cultivating spaces inviting people to slow down, think together, share questions, and have fun as a way to weave community and a sense of belonging.

Diana holds an MFA in Art and Social Practice from Portland State University and completed the Art Book Program at the Independent Publishers Resource Center. She founded The Migrant Knowledge Press, an initiative for cultural exchange and artistic experimentation among migrant communities through collective publishing exercises.

Before relocating to the US, Diana was the Head of Public Programs at Espacio Odeón in Bogotá, Colombia. She was also part of Lugar a Dudas, an organization promoting contemporary art practices with an international perspective in Cali, Colombia. As an independent researcher, she has been an artist in residence at La Usurpadora (Puerto Colombia), Bisagra (Lima), Tlatelolco Central (Mexico City), and Beta-Local (San Juan, Puerto Rico).

Adela Cardona is a “profesional en ver las maricaditas lindas de la vida” (professional in seeing the little beautiful things of life). She’s a universe made being that sometimes poses as a poet, a storyteller, a gatherer or Sustainability/ Social Impact Director. Her universe given gifts include an insane ear for music, as well as weaving words and people together. She’s now in the process of getting her MFA in Art + Social Practice at PSU, in Portland, Oregon. 

As a Colombian-Lebanese, Autistic x ADHDer, Queer woman she is constantly inhabiting the borderlines and bringing her roots everywhere, to help other people flow with the rivers of their own stories. Her art touches on the themes of family, legacy, mental health, fashion, community storytelling, identity, creativity and sustainability. 

The work she’s in the muddy middle of is The GrapeVine, a space to tell stories and inherit the skills of our ancestors, alive, dead or nature being. She’s also in the process of making a series about neurodivergent people and wanting to develop spaces to tackle decay and grief. She has a thousand ideas on her mind at a time. 

She’s the co-founder of an Open Mic called Mujeres No Graciosas, that has held the stories of more than 2000 women and LGBTQ+ people, since 2018. She’s also the producer and host of the podcast of latinx creators, La Bombillera. She has written articles in both English and Spanish on topics ranging from Alzeheimers disease to drag culture and sustainable fashion. Her journalistic work can be seen in magazines and portals such as Bacánika, Eco-Stylist, Malpensante and her own Medium. Her poetry can be read, heard and seen at the IG: oceanasoyyo.