I GREW UP IN PACHACAMITA, a small village of about three hundred people in the countryside of Valparaíso, Chile. Our village was deeply marked by the four seasons—winters were wet and cool, springs were mild, summers were hot and dry, and autumns were crisp. The Aconcagua River flowed nearby, its water level changing with the seasons.

As one of six siblings, my childhood was spent outdoors—climbing trees, exploring for liolaemus lizards, and eating figs from the trees. Creativity was part of our daily life: my grandmothers knitted and sewed, my grandfathers built furniture and wrote, and my mother made our clothes. The village was tight knit; neighbors shared milk, cheese, and fruit, and kids brought horses for us to ride. On rainy days, we’d dig clay from the hills to play with indoors.

Weekends were spent at my grandparents’ house, where we shared stories and meals. This simple life, connected to nature and community, shaped my early understanding of the world and my place within it.

Living under the dictatorship, Pachacamita felt free due to its connection to the land. However, political discussions were present at my grandparents’ table. My parents never spoke about politics at home, which I suspect was to protect us. My father’s sense of community shaped me; he was one of the few with a car and helped the village in times of need.

Growing up between silence and discussion, repression and resilience, shaped my understanding of freedom as both political and personal. This understanding informs my art today.

 

During the early part of my career, teaching art in underfunded public schools forced creativity from scarcity. We made pillows, hiding dreams inside—secrets between child and cloth. Weeks later, some whispered that their dreams had come true.

Children’s joy showed me art’s power to transform lack into possibility. That ethos guides my material choices: Beauty exists in what others discard.

If you’re making art that engages with grief or injustice that isn’t your own, you have to move with humility. Respect is the foundation. I’ve worked with children who’ve experienced real violence, and it taught me that you don’t need to represent their suffering—you need to create space where it can be acknowledged, honored.

I try to ask questions rather than give answers. I want my work to open a door for reflection, not to dictate a message.

 

When I arrived in San Francisco in 2004, I was invited to join the Mission Arts Performance Project. More than an art collective, it was a living organism made up of artists, musicians, poets, community organizers, neighbors, and whoever else showed up.

We did street interventions. We once drew chalk outlines of children after learning that fifty thousand kids had been detained at the US-Mexico border. It wasn’t performative—it was necessary. It made people stop and ask questions. It reminded me that art isn’t separate from real life. MAPP taught me that creativity thrives in collaboration, not isolation.

As this century progresses, collectives will remain vital for collaboration and experimentation, offering spaces for personal conversations and activism in a world increasingly focused on individual success.

 

In my thirties, over four and a half years, my now husband and I traveled seventeen thousand miles by bicycle from the Bay Area all the way to the southernmost tip of Chile. That journey stripped everything down. We moved at what I call “the speed of a butterfly,” allowing space for real encounters. We weren’t tourists—we were guests. We were invited into homes, kitchens, and weaving circles. We listened more than we spoke.

The journey taught me about the power of media manipulation and how political representations can differ from reality. I learned to question everything, seeking truth through diverse sources and perspectives. I was witness to weaving and knitting as communication languages—forms of expression that transcend spoken words. Language isn’t just verbal; it’s also in how we dress, move, and create.

In Puerto Williams, at the southern tip of Chile, I met Abuela Cristina, the last Yagán speaker. She taught me weaving techniques that had been passed down for generations—techniques designed for a nomadic life. Her death in 2022 marked not only the loss of a language but a way of seeing and being in the world. That journey taught me about fragility and resilience—how Indigenous knowledge lives in bodies and gestures, and how urgent it is to protect it.

 

Right now, I’m in residence at Expressiones Cultural Center in New London, Connecticut, working on a performance piece. I’ve been reading, gathering, listening. Trying to resist the noise of misinformation that’s everywhere—on screens, in headlines—and instead tune in to real stories, real lives. What I love most about this country is its diversity. When that gets erased or vilified, I feel even more compelled to celebrate it in my work.

Hostility to immigrants is painful, but not new. It’s built into the system, and it comes in waves. I try not to internalize it, but it does wear on you. At the same time, it fuels my determination to stay connected to truth, to memory, to community.

 

I absorb grief in my body. When I read that a child was dying every ten minutes in Gaza, I couldn’t just scroll past it. The number stuck with me. It haunted me.

So I knit ten tears, each one flowering. A gesture of mourning, but also of life continuing. I installed them with an altar where people could leave messages. Some wrote prayers. Some left blank notes. Others simply touched the tears. That moment became communal. It wasn’t mine anymore. It was shared.

I’ve seen deep resonance, with people from all walks of life expressing their solidarity and thanking me for creating this type of work. In the interactive pieces, people wrote messages. Some just touched the work or placed a blank note—a silent acknowledgment of shared emotion. One message I remember: “May God protect your hand that makes this work.” It was a powerful reminder of the spiritual dimension of art and its ability to transcend cultural boundaries.

 

I work with various metals, each with unique properties, transforming them through a slow, meditative process. Sometimes I start with a clear idea; other times, I begin with urgency. Either way, it’s a moment of healing.

Repetition and slowness are my rituals. There’s something sacred about doing something again and again, with care and attention. Whether I’m weaving, knitting, or working with found objects, the rhythm becomes a kind of meditation, a pathway to inner peace.

In those quiet moments, I’m not trying to produce; I’m trying to listen, to open myself to inspiration and guidance. The material begins to guide me, revealing its own inherent possibilities. My body falls into a prayerful motion. It’s not about control but communion—with memory, with the past, with something greater than myself.

 

 

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Indira Urrutia Zúñiga is a Chilean-born multidisciplinary artist whose work has been exhibited internationally. She is a recipient of the Misk Art Institute Masaha Art Residency (2024) and the Sheikh Saud Bin Saqr Al Qasimi Foundation Artist Residency (2023–24) and has been recognized for her contributions to cultural diversity.