Borders are constructs, but they leave real marks—on land, on people, on memory. My work seeks to engage with these tensions, acknowledging the constraints while also imagining possibilities for permeability and reconnection.
U.S.-Mexico Narratives of Resistance: At the Edge of Borders and Belonging | Tania Candiani
Mexican artist Tania Candiani challenges the boundaries of ownership, belonging, and human intervention in the landscape. Influenced by experiences of observing nature’s fleeting transformations, her work weaves together craft, sound, and historical research to explore systems of displacement, migration, and ecological memory. From reimagining border spaces to amplifying overlooked voices through immersive installations, she creates art that is both a political and poetic act of resistance. Whether transforming discarded materials into new topographies or uncovering the hidden narratives carried by rivers and sound, their practice invites audiences to listen, reflect, and rethink their relationship with place and history.
She has developed an artistic language that challenges the rigidity of imposed boundaries, especially that of the Mexican border with the USA. Viewing borders not as static lines but as dynamic zones where histories intersect, languages blend, and alternative forms of belonging emerge. By amplifying Latin American voices that are often silenced, through oral histories, textile traditions, or environmental storytelling, she seeks to reveal the deeper, often invisible forces at play in border spaces. Her work asks us to reconsider borders not as fixed constraints but as sites of potential, where connection, resistance, and reimagination take root.
Your work challenges the concepts of ownership and belonging in relation to the land. Was a connection or relation to the land present or important growing up, or did it become more prevalent later on in your artistic practice?
My connection to land and landscape was shaped early on by my father, who taught me how to see. I remember how we would stop along the road just to observe—he would point out the reflection of trees in a still lagoon or the way the sun cast a lilac hue over the mountains, telling me, if you painted them that color, no one would believe you. These moments weren’t just about looking; they were about understanding the land as something alive, shifting, and full of meaning. Traveling, camping, and simply paying attention made the landscape feel close to me from a young age. Over time, my engagement with these ideas became more deliberate through my artistic practice.
My work explores the intersection of language, craft, and sound as ways of tracing connections to place—whether through the labor embedded in material traditions, the sonic landscapes of a region, or the ways land is mapped, claimed, and shaped by human intervention.
Rivers, in particular, have played an important role in this exploration. They are not just geographical features but autonomous entities, shaping and being shaped by history, movement, and resistance. Recognizing their agency, their capacity to carve through land, to sustain and transform ecosystems, has deepened my understanding of place beyond human ownership. Over time, my projects have questioned systems of possession, particularly in relation to land, technology, and craft. The histories of labor and displacement, the movement of materials, and the role of sound as a carrier of memory have all become central to my research. Whether working with indigenous textiles, wind-activated sound installations, or instruments that give voice to landscapes,
I am interested in how belonging is constructed—not just through habitation, but through sound, woven narratives, and the ever-changing rhythms of natural and cultural landscapes.
Borders are created in natural landscapes by deserts or rivers. How do you perceive the symbolic and physical meanings of borders in your work?
Living in Tijuana for 15 years deeply shaped my understanding of borders—not only as physical demarcations but as spaces of negotiation, resistance, and cultural hybridity. The border is an imposition on the land, cutting through deserts, rivers, and ecosystems that predate its existence. Yet, it is also a site of exchange, where languages, sounds, and materials mix in ways that challenge rigid definitions of belonging. In my work, I explore borders as both barriers and connectors. Whether through sound, craft, or collaborative processes, I examine how knowledge and traditions move across imposed boundaries. My interest in systems of translation—between technologies, languages, and disciplines—relates to the ways borders fragment yet also generate new forms of expression. I am particularly drawn to the sonic dimension of borders, where sound defies walls and fences, carrying histories and voices across landscapes.
Borders are constructs, but they leave real marks—on land, on people, on memory. My work seeks to engage with these tensions, acknowledging the constraints while also imagining possibilities for permeability and reconnection.
Your 2008 installation Cierre Libertad transforms the border fence between Mexico and the United States into a vision of openness and possibility, challenging its rigid divisiveness. In the context of the current political climate, how does this reimagined landscape invite viewers to reconsider the meaning of borders and the narratives surrounding them?
Cierre Libertad was about shifting perception—creating a temporary landscape from discarded materials, primarily car parts sourced from junkyards, and organizing them into a reimagined terrain covered in color. By modifying the visual experience of those living on the south side of the border, the piece sought to disrupt the way the fence is typically seen—not just as a rigid political division but as a malleable space shaped by human intervention and imagination. In today’s political climate, where border narratives continue to center around control, exclusion, and separation, Cierre Libertad remains relevant as an act of visual and spatial resistance. It reframed the landscape of the border as something fluid, dynamic, and open to transformation. The materials themselves carried histories of movement and circulation—car parts that once transported people and goods, now repurposed to create an alternative view of a highly contested space.
Borders impose a singular perspective, reinforcing who is inside and who is out. This work invited viewers to reconsider the meaning of that division, proposing that what is discarded or overlooked can be reorganized into something new—something that challenges the imposed narratives of restriction and instead gestures toward possibility.
Cierre Libertad (Securing Libertad), 2008, was on the cover of ArtForum 2023 January issue. How have the conversations about this work changed or transformed in the past 15 years?
Since its creation in 2008, Cierre Libertad has been a lens through which to examine the shifting conversations around borders, migration, and perception. When the work was first realized, it spoke to the immediate experience of those living along the U.S.-Mexico border, disrupting their daily visual landscape and offering a temporary reimagining of a space defined by restriction. It was about shifting perspectives—literally and metaphorically—by transforming discarded car parts into a vivid, alternative topography. Fifteen years later, as it appeared on the cover of ArtForum in 2023, the context around border discussions had both intensified and expanded.
Borders have become even more politicized, not just in the U.S.-Mexico region but globally, as questions of migration, displacement, and national identity continue to dominate political discourse. The work now resonates beyond its original site, connecting to broader conversations about how landscapes are shaped by power, movement, and resistance. What has changed is not only the urgency of these issues but also the way audiences engage with them.
Today, there is a heightened awareness of how borders are more than physical barriers; they are systems of control that impact bodies, ecologies, and economies.
Cierre Libertad continues to provoke questions about who defines borders, how they are experienced from different vantage points, and what it means to reclaim agency over spaces that are meant to confine.
Your works amplify voices that are often overloked or silenced in conversations about migration and conservation. Why do you think the spaces of art and cultural institutions are still necessary platforms for diverse and inclusive conversations?
Art and cultural institutions remain crucial platforms for fostering diverse and inclusive conversations because they offer spaces where dominant narratives can be challenged, histories can be revisited, and alternative perspectives can be made visible. My work engages with the voices, knowledge systems, and experiences that are often overlooked—whether in the context of migration, labor, or environmental conservation. These subjects are deeply interconnected, yet they are frequently discussed in ways that erase the individuals and communities most affected by them. Institutions, when engaged critically, can serve as sites for reimagining representation. Art has the capacity to make complex issues tangible—to give form to histories of displacement, to sonify resistance, or to materialize ecological interdependencies. Whether through craft, sound, or installation, my practice seeks to create spaces for dialogue that are not confined to traditional discourse but are instead embodied, immersive, and participatory.
By bringing marginalized voices into the center—through collaborations, research, and site-specific works—we can shift the terms of visibility and belonging. Cultural spaces are not neutral, but they can be activated as tools for change.
They allow for nuanced, sensorial, and multidimensional approaches to complex issues, encouraging audiences to engage beyond rhetoric and statistics. My work seeks to operate within and beyond these spaces, using art as a means of listening, translating, and amplifying voices.
The walkable labyrinth of Sayab in 2024 invited visitors to reflect on life, death, and transcendence, drawing inspiration from Maya spirituality. Do you see the experience of physically traversing, walking, participating, as ways to create a deeper understanding of ancestral traditions and contemporary conversations about sustainability?
Yes, the experience of walking Sayab is fundamental to deepening our understanding of both ancestral traditions and contemporary sustainability. Inspired by the Tza tun tzat, the only surviving Maya labyrinth, Sayab transforms an ancient cartographic and spiritual structure into an immersive, embodied experience. In Maya cosmology, labyrinths serve as portals—pathways between realms that guide the living and the departed through cycles of transformation and renewal. Walking the labyrinth becomes a ritual of reflection, connecting participants to these ancestral narratives of life, death, and transcendence. Beyond its spiritual significance, Sayab also highlights the fragility of the Yucatán’s water systems. The word Sayab means ojo de agua (spring) in Maya, referencing the underground rivers and cenotes that sustain the region. The work reveals the presence of the manto freático (water table), where groundwater rises to the surface, reinforcing the connection between the labyrinth and the hidden lifelines of the land. At a time when these ecosystems are increasingly at risk due to environmental degradation, Sayab invites contemplation not only on the symbolic cycles of renewal but also on the urgent need to protect the fragile hydrological networks that sustain life.
By integrating ancient wisdom with contemporary ecological concerns, Sayab serves as a bridge between past and present, spirituality and environment. It invites participants to move with awareness, to listen to the land and its waters, and to reflect on how indigenous knowledge can inform sustainable futures.
The politics of listening is a tool you use to expand and transform perceptions. How do you think audiovisual works and installations reshape our understanding of coexistence with both human and non-human life?
Listening is an act of generosity—one that challenges dominant ways of knowing and creates space for both human and more-than-human voices. In a political sense, listening disrupts structures of power, allowing marginalized histories and silenced communities to be heard.
In my work, sound and oral histories become tools for reactivating memory and fostering recognition. Beyond the human, listening reveals the agency of landscapes, water, and ecological networks. My installations use sound, custom instruments, and site-specific recordings to make these hidden resonances perceptible, creating a bridge between human and non-human worlds. Audiovisual works reshape our understanding of coexistence by shifting perception from control to relation. They invite attentiveness and reciprocity, amplifying voices—whether of people, places, or ecosystems—that challenge extractive ways of engaging with the world. Listening, in this sense, is not passive but transformative, a way of knowing and imagining new forms of connection.
Narratives and personal stories are woven into your works. Why do you think personal narrative and stories still resonate with audiences when we live in a time of peak content and content saturation?
Storytelling is at the core of my practice. I see myself as a narrator, weaving together voices, histories, and materials to create bridges between different worlds. Before I was an artist, I studied literature and initially wanted to be a writer. That impulse—to construct meaning through narrative—has never left me. It is present in my video scripts, in the research that informs my installations, and in the way I connect seemingly disparate elements to uncover deeper relationships. To tell a story is to invite the audience in. It is a bridge, offering a deeper connection beyond immediate perception. In an era of digital saturation, storytelling slows us down, creating space for reflection and engagement. My work often merges sound, craft, and language to tell layered stories—whether amplifying the forgotten labor behind a textile, the resonance of a machine, or the shifting frequencies of a landscape. These are not only my stories. I integrate personal and collective histories—those of artisans, workers, and communities—giving voice to knowledge and experiences that might otherwise go unheard. Research, for me, is also storytelling, as connections between materials, labor, and memory become narrative threads shaping each project.
At a time when fleeting content dominates, stories offer depth, intimacy, and anchorage. They remind us of what is essential— our shared histories, our interconnectedness, and the unseen forces shaping our world. Through storytelling, audiences don’t just observe; they participate, relate, and remember. In this way, narrative becomes a form of resistance, a means of making the invisible visible and the unheard audible.
You delve into the historical and contemporary significance of Houston’s waterways in the work Lifeblood in 2023. How do water sources reflect a city’s identity and evolution through the uncovering of the voices of the living and lost voices connected to them?
Waterways are the lifelines of a city, carrying histories, movements, and transformations within them. In Lifeblood (2023), I explored Houston’s waterways as both physical and metaphorical circulatory systems—sources of sustenance, migration, industry, and ecological change. Water not only shapes a city’s geography but also holds the stories of those who have depended on it, labored along its edges, or been displaced by its forces. Houston’s relationship with water is complex, tied to both prosperity and vulnerability. Its bayous, rivers, and underground flows are markers of Indigenous histories, colonial expansion, industrialization, and climate shifts. In Lifeblood, I sought to uncover both the living voices and the lost voices connected to these waters—the workers, the communities, and the ecologies that have been shaped by and, in some cases, erased by the city’s development. Through sound, oral histories, and archival research, the work listened to water as a witness, as a storyteller, as an entity that holds memory. Water is constantly in motion, dissolving boundaries while carrying traces of the past. In the context of Lifeblood, it became a way to reflect on Houston’s evolution—not only through its expansion but through the lives and labor entwined with its waterways. Yet this is not unique to Houston. Across cities and landscapes, water bears witness to histories of migration, industry, displacement, and ecological change. Rivers, bayous, and underground flows are not just resources; they are archives, shaping and being shaped by human and non-human forces alike. The voices embedded in Lifeblood serve as echoes of resilience, adaptation, and transformation, reminding us that waterways everywhere hold memory, narrating the past while shaping the future.
We all live in an interconnected ecosystem, and our stories are inseparable. Do you consider your work to embody this universal approach?
Water is the ultimate connector—it moves beyond national borders, carries histories across time, and sustains both human and non-human life. In my practice, I am drawn to these fluid networks of exchange, where stories, materials, and sounds travel and transform.
Bodies of water are not just landscapes; they are entities with agency, shaping and being shaped by the forces that move through them. They hold memory, respond to environmental and human pressures, and participate in the ongoing entanglement of life across species, geographies, and temporalities. The ocean, much like sound, is an archive of movement and memory. It holds the voices of migration, trade, labor, and ecological shifts. The histories of those who have crossed its waters—voluntarily or forcibly—are embedded in its currents. In this sense, the ocean operates as a platform for these interconnected narratives, bringing together perspectives from science, art, and local knowledge to rethink our relationship with the sea. We do not exist in isolation—our lives, labor, and survival are entangled with vast and complex ecosystems. The ocean reflects this by making visible the ways in which water shapes culture, identity, and politics. It invites us to listen, to engage with the unseen, and to recognize that our stories are inseparable from the larger planetary systems we inhabit. Understanding water as an active presence, rather than a passive resource, allows us to grasp the deep interdependencies that define our world—an ongoing exchange between bodies, landscapes, and histories.
Words by Tania Candiani
Introduction and Interview by Anna Borrie
