A drawing of my grandmother: the beginning of the trauma. She was the first person I investigated who had suffered abuse. Born in Huayoccari, she was a strong woman with eight children who never stopped working. Her first child was born as a result of rape. When she was dying, on several occasions, she continued to have hallucinations about that moment and said in Quechua: “Ama, ama, allichu!” – “Please, no.”
This project includes several childlike elements because the abuse occurred between the ages of 6 and 11/12.
An unfinished house painted by my niece, with a purple and pink sky. When I found this among her drawings, I immediately connected it to the title of my project. I discovered that pink skies are often the result of pollution, something seemingly beautiful that actually indicates toxicity. This reflects how my family looked after my dad’s death: we presented a strong and united image, while hiding terrible internal struggles. Not only my abuse, but fights, alcoholism, infidelity… so much damage beneath the surface. Like many Andean families who migrated to Lima, we all lived together in one house, a decision made by my father and his siblings to maintain family ties. But proximity can also intensify secrets and pain.
A Polaroid photo of my mother, my grandmother, and me. That snapshot was taken when I was 7 years old in front of the cathedral in Lima. That year was the second year of the abuse.
I often think that I wish people had listened to me when I was a child. I spoke, but no one paid attention to me.
My brother, my sister, and my cousins at the beach. Someone’s finger blocks part of the frame, creating a strange presence over the scene. This accidental obstruction seems prophetic: something was going to happen to these children. The roles of victim and aggressor had not yet been assigned, but the shadow was already there, captured by mistake.
A hand and the shadow of a hand—touching or not touching? Sometimes touch occurs in ways that cannot be seen, or is felt at different depths.
A mask covering a window. Part of me wants to take it off, but another part fears not recognizing who I am without this identity built from trauma.
A photograph of my mother, her face struck by the reflection of light. She too was a victim of abuse, something she told me only five years ago during an argument. Privacy is crucial when talking about abuse—not everyone feels free to speak up. I used to resent her for not protecting me, not knowing that she carried her own invisible wounds.
My birthday photo with my family—parents, sister, cousin, and the people who would later become the abusers. I painted over those people with pink paint, imagining what this moment would have looked like if they had never existed. Pink is the color of polluted skies—I use it to mark what polluted my family’s history. This is a gesture of rewriting the narrative by literally erasing them from the frame.
A photograph of me as a teenager with tape over my mouth. I often felt compelled to remain silent.
One of the abusers of a member of my family, found on videotapes made by my father. He is our uncle—my father’s brother. I’m not sure when the abuse took place, but here he seems to be hiding. It is a reinterpretation of the video archive.
I focused on my legs—the gesture of being open, the vulnerability between being a girl and something more.
A photograph of my sister with handwritten text on it, her face covered by light. I wrote about the moment she gave us an idea of what had happened to her—she didn’t tell us directly, but we understood.
A self-portrait that investigates the somatic manifestation of intergenerational trauma through recurring physical marks. The work explores how the body becomes both witness and repository, with unexplained bruises serving as documentation of inherited guilt and shame. Drawing on research that connects childhood trauma to adult somatic symptoms, this piece questions what the body knows that the mind has not yet processed.
A crumpled photograph of my first abuser. I spent years trying to erase these people from my mind, but this project taught me that it is impossible—they are always part of my story. Victims often hide in shame while abusers remain invisible. We need to put a face to those who cause harm.
The photo stuck on the wall is me at around 14 years old. After many years, I was able to talk freely about what happened to me, but during my adolescence it was very difficult. I had a lot of anxiety and felt more misunderstood than teenagers usually do. Sometimes I wish I could comfort or accompany that version of myself in some way, and I think I would do the same for the women in my family who went through this.
“When the sky is pink, I regret nothing” is a work in progress that investigates sexual abuse within my maternal lineage and questions how trauma moves through generations. This project arose from my own childhood experience and deepened when I discovered that other women in my nuclear family had endured similar abuse—leading me to wonder if this “wound” can be inherited and how families maintain such devastating silences.
My process begins with extensive research before constructing any narrative. I investigate my personal and family archives, explore spaces in the family home, and study literature on how sexual abuse impacts identity formation. I am interested in understanding why this violence occurs and how secrecy damages our relationships. I also investigate the Peruvian political landscape regarding family abuse—the legal and emotional complexities of accusing someone in your own family.
I work with mixed media—photography, archival materials, drawings, video, texts, and collages—because these complex stories require multiple visual languages. I focus on narrative cohesion rather than individual pieces.
Narratively, I position myself as the protagonist, beginning with my childhood self because that is where my abuse occurred. The story moves through my Andean background and the other women in my family with similar experiences. This structure reveals how we are connected not only by what happened to us, but by the difficult questions we ask ourselves.
I work with mixed media—photography, archival materials, drawings, video, texts, and collages—because these complex stories require multiple visual languages. I focus on narrative cohesion rather than individual pieces. Narratively, I position myself as the protagonist, beginning with my childhood self because that is where my abuse occurred. The story moves through my Andean background and the other women in my family with similar experiences. This structure reveals how we are connected not only by what happened to us, but by the difficult questions we ask ourselves.
This work addresses a universal theme. Through conversations with survivors, I understand that we carry similar questions about whether speaking out earlier could have prevented cycles of abuse. We share the experience of trauma and how it reshapes our understanding of family, trust, and silence. While I do not claim to answer questions about trauma, memory, or inheritance, I hope to foster conversation about this global issue. I believe that the more we talk about these silenced experiences, the fewer secrets will remain. I have learned that the most compelling work emerges when we dig into the hardest stories to tell.
