So what really goes on inside a girls’ room? Through photographer Thalía Gochez’s lens, you’ll find a delicate world of frills, fishnets, and cheetos.

In her latest photo series “Baile,” Gochez drew inspiration from late 90s and early 2000s’ disposable film photographs of girls getting ready in their rooms. “I love the energy: the sacred moments before going to a party with your homegirls. It’s almost ritualistic, figuring out whose house you’re gonna get ready at, what you’re wearing, and [finding] a space to escape any reality you may be battling at home. There’s something special that happens in that room that I feel like a lot of people can relate to.”

Gochez is a Salvadoran-American photographer whose work has been featured in Office Magazine, The New York Times, at Harvard University, and in international exhibitions. At once tender and unflinching, Gochez’s vibrant portraits of women in her community of Los Angeles reveal the raw glamour of girlhood.

Check out Baile by Thalía Gochez below.

Credits: Photography, creative direction, and hair by Thalía Gochez, styling by César Álvarez @triste_juventud, lighting by María Evelyn @f0t0gal & Alma Lucia @alma.luciia.

Models: Maya Salinas @mayasalinas_ , Kandrex Millones @kandrexx, & Gabriela Alaniz @gabrielaalanizz.

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Gabriella Aguirre is a writer, filmmaker, ceramicist, and the Editor of LATINA.

Last Friday, Freak City L.A. brought us into the world of the “freaks” with the debut of their Spring/Summer ‘24 collection, “THE NEW LA”, at L.A.’ s Stomping Ground. The essence of their brand mixes referential pop-nostalgia with the identity of L.A.— that is, their L.A. — the city of outcasts, music, graffiti, and underground nightlife culture. The show was an explosion of their punky spirit that veered close to camp but landed right at the sweet spot of humor, diversity, self-expression and rebellion.

The outfits debuted were as ironic as they were celebratory, many with printed phrases like “Pro Slut,” “I [heart] AI,” “Welcome to Hollywood,” “Pussy Boy,” and of course, “FREAK.” An ensemble of artists and musicians performed at the show, including N8noface, Avalon Lurks, Princess Gollum, Maxine Ashley, Rico Nasty and Dorian Electra.

Ahead of the show, founders Justin Romero and Valerie “Vally” Campbell told the Los Angeles Times, “Some of the stuff is a joke. We’re making fun of ourselves or reality. And some s— could be really deep, and it’s something we really believe in and it’s meaningful and powerful. From surface level, we’re making fun of everything, but this is actually from our culture, from our spirit. From the superficial to the super spiritual and everything in between.”

Had the show been anything less, it wouldn’t have been Freak City L.A. Check out our visual recap of the show below.

Images courtesy of Freak City L.A. BTS images by Valerie J. Bower. Runway images by Alex Oley.

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Gabriella Aguirre is a writer, filmmaker, ceramicist, and Editor of LATINA.

In the glittering realm of burlesque, where elegance intertwines with sensuality, one group from Mexico City stands out: Delirio Tropical. Patricia Kattkins, a classically trained ballet and contemporary dancer from Mexico, founded the group in 2019 to create a space for queer and trans performers like herself, as there weren’t many opportunities for her in the classic dance world after her transition.

What began as a small group of dancers performing at bars and casinos has now blossomed into a troupe of ten acts, all of whom draw inspiration from classic burlesque icons while featuring their own unique flair. The group’s name, Delirio Tropical, is derived from the 1952 Mexican film, and a typical show features cascades of fishnets, feathers, and boas tossed and teased by captivating vedettes, or showgirls, of many genres.

Ficheraz, a digital archive dedicated to preserving the legacy of vintage showgirls across Latin America, the Caribbean diaspora, and beyond, recognizes the role burlesque has played in gender and identity politics. “Burlesque was a way to challenge the barriers of sexuality in the mid 20th century with the sexual revolution,” Ficheraz’s founder tells LATINA. “Now that we are living in an era where our perception of gender is changing, burlesque is a platform where people can express their authentic identity.”

Caption: Ninón Sevilla, Mexican actor and showgirl performing in the 1953 film “Aventura en Río.”

In Mexico, where femicide and anti-LGBTQ+ violence are still rampant, Delirio Tropical is a type of rebellion. Their performances celebrate femininity, sexuality, and identity, all through their interpretations of classic Latin songs and histories. In place of fear, Delirio Tropical projects empowerment. “We no longer dance to please men,” they say. “We dance for ourselves, for freedom.”

Alejandra Bogue, described by another member as the group’s “godmother of sorts,” is a pioneer in the LGBTQ+ community, known as being the first trans Mexican woman to appear on television. Her experience of Mexican burlesque in the 80s is first-hand — she remembers how the 1985 earthquake destroyed many of the clubs where the icons of that decade would perform. She acts as a bridge between the boomer generation of vedettes and the current era of performers. When Bogue performs with Delirio Tropical, she feels that the group is reviving a bygone era of burlesque. “We’re picking up and rescuing what was once left — not forgotten, because it’s in everyone’s hearts. Everyone still remembers the vedettes of the seventies. That’s what we’re alluding to with [Delirio Tropical],” Bogue tells LATINA.

Today, Delirio Tropical’s founder Kattkins says that the goal is to evoke nostalgia for those times “and give it a touch of modernity, of what we want to express now.” One of the group’s original performers, Solange del Rio, exemplifies this, mixing modern songs with 50s-era jazz and big band music in her sets. Solange added, “that’s the difference between burlesque and neo-burlesque. We try to rescue as much as we can, but we also bring to it our own style, our own knowledge, and our own experiences.”

One of the group’s performers, the drag artist La Coral, feels emboldened by the group and the support they get from their audiences. “Our audience is filled with women, queer people, young people who had never experienced gender [diversity], who had only seen it in magazines or movies. [They] are excited to celebrate the new ways of being a woman and enjoying ourselves.”

Among many things, Delirio Tropical is a celebration of femininity, of love, and of self-expression. It is a beacon of inclusion, diversity, and sexual liberation, showing audiences that there is power in identity, one strip tease at a time.

“Delirio Tropical is a celebration of Mexican destiny, of Mexican cabaret, but also of self-love. That love we all have for what we are and for what we do is reflected [in our show], and I think that’s what people appreciate. That’s what matters.” – Patricia Kattins, founder of Delirio Tropical

“As a woman, being able to do drag on stage represents diversity, strength, and community.” – Andromeda

“It’s not just about technique, it’s about feeling. Yes, there is a lot of technique because we have to be well-supported, but we also have to understand [that feeling] in order to fit together and to convey our message. That is the magic, us being in harmony with each other.” – Alejandra Bogue (left) with founder Patricia Kattins

“Every time I step on the Delirio Tropical stage, every time I arrive at the dressing room with my sisters, it’s fire. It fills my soul every time I stand up to dance and perform. For me, it’s dancing with the heart. For me and for my sisters.” – Kika Brava

Purrlette with Astrid Hadad, a famous performance artist from the Neo-Mexicanismo era of the 90s.

Purlette with Lyn May, iconic Chinese-Mexican showgirl of the 70s and 80s.

Deana Molina, dancer and contortionist showgirl.

Founder Patricia Kattkins in an original costume worn by the legendary showgirl Alejandra Moral.

“For me, Delirio Tropical is a celebration of femininity, a celebration of these amazing bodies, a celebration of unity and of how much we love to dance and enjoy ourselves on stage.” – Coral (left) with Alejandra Bogue

“Delirio Tropical is not an ensemble show, it’s not musical theater where we all dance choreographed routines all the time. Instead, we are rescuing the format of burlesque artists from the last century like Olga Breeskin, Wanda Seux Siux, and Princesa Lea. Each of us has our own individual show, our own burlesque style. Delirio Tropical is a celebration of freedom, of beauty, of empowerment.” – Solange Del Rio, wearing an original costume worn by legendary showgirl Alejandra Moral.

(L to R) Andromeda, Lyn May, and Solange del Rio backstage

Images courtesy of @FICHERAZ

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Gabriella Aguirre is a writer, filmmaker, ceramicist, and the Editor of LATINA.

Long pants, high socks, long sleeves, hats, bandanas. Surgical tape wraps around the thumb, middle finger, index finger to protect blistered hands; gloves are too bulky for picking cherries. A howling Washington wind stirs dust around the field, distant chatter and laughter hanging low like morning dew. Farm workers bend, reach, collect. Behind a white picket fence, it would be called harvesting, but under the hot Washington sun, it’s called picking. The massive corporations that operate here see profits by the minute — one worker envisioned charcoal outlines, figures, portraits on a canvas.

Narsiso Martinez was a student at California State University earning his BFA in painting. Born in Oaxaca, Mexico, Martinez immigrated to the U.S. with his family when he was 20. He worked with them in the agricultural fields of Washington state every season during his undergraduate studies, and again for three years afterward to fund his MFA. Today, Martinez is an established fine artist who was recently awarded the 2023 Frieze Impact Award and has exhibited in prestigious galleries around the world, including the Smithsonian’s National Portrait Gallery in Washington, D.C. Now, he aims to invest in pathways for migrant farm workers in the U.S. to get an education. “There was a lot of cheering for farm workers during the pandemic. Now that it’s ‘over,’ I feel like nothing has changed, at least legislatively. Farm workers are still in the same position. There’s still a lack of opportunities… One of the solutions is to make sure that kids can go to school. I think that’s a way out.”

It’s a tricky line to tow – that of an artist making politically charged art for the “white cube” gallery world, long argued to be oppressively purist. Perhaps initially following the cues of the fine art world, Martinez began with traditional oil on canvas during his studies, where he attempted to illustrate the tensions between the wealthy and working class in the context of agribusiness. “I was literally painting men with suits and luxurious houses.” But it wasn’t working, he tells LATINA over Zoom, “I was trying too hard, I guess.”

These early works would garner harsh critiques from his peers, mostly on technique. “They would be like, ‘oh, I think those colors are wrong,’ or, ‘your proportions are off.’ It was all about technicality, and it was frustrating.” Martinez realized that he needed to create something new within the painting, something that would make people see beyond the brushstrokes.

One day, during one of his summers working in the fields, Martinez’s sister came home from Costco with a trunk full of groceries packed in colorful produce boxes. It was then that Martinez realized how he could illustrate the oppressor in his story — by not painting them at all.

“By drawing farm workers on the [produce] boxes, I didn’t have to worry about representing the wealthy because they were [already] represented by the labels and the logos. I could overlap [the labels] with my drawings. That created a conversation that I think was key, or that I understood.”

Martinez now exclusively uses produce boxes as his canvases, drawing on them directly with charcoal, guache, and more frequently — as in the case of his largest work, the Rivera-esque mural “Legal Tender” — gold leaf.

“[My work] is always informed by my experiences with capitalism. I started using gold leaf as a connection with the economy. When I started putting gold leaf in the background of the subject, it really made it look like a religious artwork. In churches, the saints always have some sort of gold leaf around their heads like a halo, so the idea is to elevate the farm workers. To me, farm workers are so important to this country’s economy, to its sustenance. They literally pick the food that sustains us. The gold leaf in the background elevates them and highlights their importance.”

By leaving the representation of the wealthy to their corporate logos printed on cheery, disposable cartons, Martinez’s work, tender portraits of farm workers cloaked in varying degrees of sun and pesticide protection, reaches out from the political into the humane.

“I did a series of portraits of the farm workers without any kind of protection on their faces, no hoods, no bandanas. The idea was to show their features, to show their humanity and what they actually look like. And maybe just to create some kind of empathy so people can see them. People literally dress like that [to protect themselves from the] chemicals and the sun and the branches.”

Martinez described an encounter he had at his show at the Long Beach Museum of Art. His portraits lined the walls, images of masked workers who, with their hoodies and bandanas covering all but their eyes, bore resemblance to guerrilleros. “This lady entered and immediately said something like, ‘oh my god, why are you painting terrorists?’ I didn’t say anything, but I was hoping that she’d figure it out. As she walked around, she started seeing more context about the portraits, and I explained to her who they were and why I was doing the work like that. So I know that the context [of the cardboard boxes] is really important. [People] say that they’re grateful [to me] for [making] this kind of artwork, and that representation matters.”

The word Martinez repeatedly uses to describe the lives of farm workers was “unfair.” It is unfair that farm workers have to eat on the ground, in the middle of the orchards, instead of at a proper table with chairs. It is unfair to have to work while sick, and to share one portable restroom for a whole field of workers. Martinez lived this struggle for years, on and off. Although, unlike most of the other workers who were working to feed their families, he was working to afford his education.

Throughout our conversation, Martinez continually returns to the importance of education as a pathway for migrant workers to achieve mobility in this country. He said that the more people know about farm workers’ working conditions and their value, the better chance we (the people) have of making a difference.

“I went into the arts because I love to draw. I’m not an activist. It takes guts to be in the front lines marching and protesting, but I’m really shy. When I was [working] in the fields… it was sad that I couldn’t speak up for the farm workers, not even for myself,” he says. But there was a point at which he decided it had to be done. “I had to decide; I can do paintings and drawings for my own pleasure or I can talk about these issues in the fields. I opted for the second option because as someone who’s traveled to get a college degree and to have a voice, I can now bring some of those voices from the fields to different audiences. And in that way, maybe something can change. Or at the very least, people can be aware of these people that are in the fields. That they are humans, that they have needs, and that what they do is important.”

Martinez currently has three shows on view: Rethinking Essential, on view at the Institute of Contemporary Art in San Diego through June 4th, Los Huecos Del Agua, on view at the National Museum of Mexican Art in Chicago through August 27th, and Supreme Fresh, at Greg Kucera Gallery in Seattle through July 1st.

Future exhibitions include the Armory show, September 8-10 in New York.

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Gabriella Aguirre is a writer, filmmaker, ceramicist, and the Editor of LATINA.

The skincare brand Topicals is at the intersection of care and cause. The brand makes skincare products targeting chronic skin conditions like eczema and hyperpigmentation, while recognizing the interplay of diverse skin tones with chronic skin conditions and mental health.

According to Topicals CEO Olamide Olowe’s research, 50% of dermatologists and residents said that their education didn’t prepare them to treat skin of color, and that people with chronic skin conditions are much more prone to anxiety and depression. “If you’re someone who experiences these skin conditions, and you go to a doctor who may not understand your skin tone, [that] adds another layer of mental health issues.” Olowe said. Olowe has been open about her own experiences with chronic skin conditions, sharing that especially as a black woman, seeking help from a dermatologist can often be a fraught experience.

The 27-year old founder is the youngest black woman to ever raise over $10 million in funding, and is investing that money where it counts. Through their Experts Program, Topicals has pledged to educate 10,000 skincare professionals about psychodermatology, and how to treat skin of color by 2026.

I know first-hand the emotional strife chronic skin conditions can cause. I grew up in drier midwestern climates, where my Colombian mother treated my chronic eczema with banana peels — standing my little body up on the toilet and rubbing their gooey side all over my skin right before bed. The embarrassment and agony of my ever-present eczema flare-ups persisted throughout my childhood and into adulthood, evolving into varying degrees of anxiety and body dysmorphia that have taken years to unravel. Today, my regimen looks more like white tubs and tubes, and my nightstand is stocked with salves for slugging against the familiar dermatitis flare. Looking back all these years later, the peels may have been effective, but I still can’t bring myself to eat a banana.

Perhaps in rebellion to the endless white-tube rotation had grown accustomed to, Topicals’ product line is tropical; leaning into a calming range of pinks, reds, oranges, and blues. Olowe said Topical’s color palette was initially a hard sell to investors. Before the line launched, she said, “Many people didn’t believe that products that look like ours could be effective or serious. I know that skin conditions [can be] painful, but instead of skincare being cold and clinical or preachy and activist, what if it was fun instead?”

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Speaking of fun and inclusivity, last month Topicals invited a group of Latinas to enjoy Quebradita Time, an annual music and dance party at the LA’s Pico Rivera Sports Arena.

Inspired by Jaripeo culture and her own Mexican heritage, Topicals’ Product Marketing Lead Roxana Ontiveros pitched throwing a rodeo themed party. Olowe, an El Paso native who grew up speaking Spanish, was sold. “Quebradita Time unlocked childhood memories of being around that kind of music and going to quinces. With Topicals, we want to be at the center of culture, and we want the people who are leading culture to be able to tell their stories.”

Topicals is smart to focus on the Latino market early in their brand’s come-up. Latinos make up over 18% of spending power in the beauty sector in the United States. According to a report by The Journal of Drugs in Dermatology, Latinos make up the largest share of beauty buyers, however the majority of them feel underrepresented in advertising; 38% percent don’t think skincare brands create products for their age, and 17% don’t believe brands consider their skin tone when launching products. Olowe said, “For me, it’s so interesting to see the lack of Latino representation [in skincare] because that’s who I grew up with. I want to take beauty outside of the bathroom. I’m excited to continue storytelling, making products that people like and that work for them, and to just have fun.”

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Gabriella Aguirre is a writer, filmmaker, ceramic artist, and the Editor of LATINA.

Few people in the world are as tapped into Latin music’s discography as Gia Fu, a Chinese DJ and producer from Hong Kong. To date, Gia’s career has been impressive, from throwing salsa parties in Hong Kong and headlining some in New York, to producing a big band album with Angel Meléndez, playing a party during the 2022 Latin Grammys, and signing with Marc Anthony’s talent agency.

How does she make this all happen while living on the other side of the world? Gia’s online presence is everything. She has played numerous guest sets on My Analog Journal, runs her own YouTube channel Mild Mambo Club, and shares her research on Instagram, all while maintaining a strategic hot-girl persona. Part of Gia’s success is in knowing how to make the digital world work for her.

“If I only posted record covers, nobody would give a f*ck about what I write. I know how to post a good photo and catch peoples’ attention, but the reality is that I’m mostly just in my studio studying and reading books.”

Gia’s love for Latin music dates back to her childhood. She grew up dancing mambo and cha-cha-cha under the direction of her mother, a dance teacher who taught ballroom-style in Shanghai, Beijing, and Hong Kong. But it wasn’t until high school, when Gia found herself at a breakdancing party, that she heard her first salsa record. “My friends would go to these breakdancing battles in Hong Kong. It was all local kids and nobody spoke Spanish, but the DJ suddenly played ‘Que Se Sepa’ by Roberto Roena. The whole crowd started singing along ‘si si, si do re do si do do,’ and when the beat dropped everyone went crazy. I was like, ‘What is this? I need to know more about this music.’”

(Breakdancing and Latin culture are closely linked. Roberto Roena, dancer, frontman of Roberto Roena y Su Apollo Sound, and percussionist for El Gran Combo de Puerto Rico, can be seen breakdancing in this 1973 performance with Fania All Stars.)

For over ten years, Gia has been obsessively collecting and cataloging Latin music, taking multiple tours to the United States in search of rare records, many of which don’t exist online. But she’s after more than just a DJ career. “I didn’t start DJing because I wanted to be a DJ. I do it so that I can learn everything I can about the music. I don’t want to just be pressing play. I want to know all the salsa in the world.”

Gia’s commitment to salsa music extends far and wide. She’s interested in understanding Latin music’s historical influences on Asia and vice versa, from the stories behind Tito Puente’s series of Asian-inspired albums, to the introduction of the clarinet to Latin music.

From her studio in Hong Kong, surrounded by her collection of almost 3,000 records, Gia spoke with LATINA about entering the scene as an outsider, producing her first album in Puerto Rico, composing new Chinese-influenced salsa music, and recently signing to Magnus Media.

This conversation has been edited for length and clarity.

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How did you get introduced to salsa, and when did you decide to pursue it as a career?

When I heard [salsa] for the first time, I knew I was hearing Spanish but I didn’t know anything outside of white, European Spanish culture. Hong Kong was a British Colony, so we were brought up kind of white washed. I began listening to all kinds of music in Spanish; reggaeton, salsa… but I didn’t know which genre was which.

One summer in high school, I went to a hostel in Greece where I met this Puerto Rican guy. On one super hot day this guy [asks], “Why is everybody inside? Let me teach you guys how to dance salsa.” That was the first time I learned that you can dance to salsa. Because of my dance background I could keep up, and he was like “How are you able to follow me?” We became really good friends, and when I was about to return to Hong Kong, he said to me, “You better not stop, you better keep practicing!” So I went back to Hong Kong and started looking for salsa lessons, but everywhere I went, they were teaching ballroom style salsa. I couldn’t find anything similar to what my friend had shown me. I started looking for and going to salsa parties. That’s how I met my mentor, Ralph, who is from Curaçao. I just wanted to know more.

So by that point you hadn’t yet thought of DJing, you were just listening to salsa and looking for parties?

Exactly. I was 19. Eventually, my mentor asked me if I wanted to [DJ] parties because not many people do that in Asia. I think 80% of the style in which I play now was influenced by him. So he started sharing his entire CD collection with me, and that’s when I began collecting music myself. Every day on my way to school I’d be listening to my mentor’s CDs, I’d probably listen to 20 CDs per day. When I began DJing parties, I started collecting records. I would hunt for albums in record stores when I couldn’t find them online. The first vinyl record I ever owned was by Groupo Baruc, a small group from New York. The arranger of this band is actually Marc Anthony’s producer.

After graduating high school, I didn’t know what I wanted to do. I eventually decided to study Hispanic Studies at University and wrote my thesis on Cuban cinema, but it was really so that I could write about the music. I traveled to Cuba a few times by myself because I couldn’t get in touch with this music and dance in Hong Kong. When I began DJing part time, I didn’t [get booked very much] because I felt that people were like, “she’s too young.”

I’m sure that feeling like an outsider would make you want to work ten times harder. How do you overcome that?

I think in general, especially in the party scene, you already know that the culture is going to be very machista. I feel more respected in the music scene than the dance scene because people now know my work. I think all “female DJs” — I hate this term by the way — experience this same thing. You still don’t see many female musicians or even singers in the salsa industry. I also know that I have an advantage on social media. If I only posted record covers, nobody would give a fuck about what I write. I know how to post a good photo and catch peoples’ attention, but the reality is that I’m mostly just in my studio studying and reading books. I make all these mixes on YouTube so that people know that it comes from my time spent researching. That’s why I want to do a degree, and now I’m producing and composing. People still write all kinds of comments online though.

What kind of comments do you get on Instagram?

When I do [Instagram live], the two most frequent comments I receive are “Asian girl playing salsa, sooo interesting”, and “I thought she was going to mix, what kind of DJing is this?” So sometimes I’ll do a poll on Instagram [asking]: “Why do you think the majority of salsa DJs don’t mix?”

And why don’t you mix?

Modern recordings are made with an electronic metronome that keeps the beat perfectly, but they didn’t use that in the 70s or 60s. Back then it was just jamming, they didn’t care about being exactly on the beat and the dancers would dance to anything. That’s how they would come up with the crazy percussion and piano solos, etc. Each song is telling a story, you can’t just cut the story, for example in “Pedro Navaja” by Ruben Blades or “Anacaona” by Cheo Feliciano. In salsa, there’s a part in the middle of the song where the singer improvises called soneo. I learned by playing for dancers, that if you mix at any dance party — it doesn’t matter if it’s Asian dancers or Latino dancers — they will kill you! So when I’m DJing, I wouldn’t want to mix that song because that’s where it gets hot. I’m a purist. In salsa, it just doesn’t make sense. It only really works in a club setting.

You’ve spent time with all kinds of salsa legends like Joe Bataan and Gilberto Colón Jr. Last year, you released an album that you produced with Angel Meléndez and Big Band Máquina. Tell me about how this collaboration came about, and how you were able to make an album with musicians in Puerto Rico while living halfway around the world.

I want to contribute more to the scene by finding a way to get more of the younger generation engaged with this music. I had been finding all these old records that were recorded in really poor quality, and I thought that if they could be arranged with better equipment and in a big band style – 15-20 musicians- like the palladium mambos of the 60s, they would be so good. One day I was looking for this song that Angel made about 20 years ago, and my mentor offered to connect us. So we did a Zoom call, and initially I just wanted to buy the song from him, but we ended up talking about what we’re both working on. Eighteen years ago, Angel was nominated for a Grammy for a big band salsa album he made. I told him about the low-quality records I had discovered, and he said to me “if you want, I can rearrange these songs.” I was like, “ok, let’s do it!” We sort of decided to do it as big as we could, the best way we could, so we decided to bring on 20 musicians.

“Whatever I’m doing in the salsa music world, I’m aware that it’s not my culture. That’s why I want to work one hundred times harder than others.”

Angel is also a music teacher on top of being a musician, so I learned so much by working with him. We’d go back and forth on FaceTime, me in Hong Kong and him in Chicago. I’d sing something and he’d play it back to me. That’s how we arranged the first two songs, but I was able to make it down to Puerto Rico for the second recording session in February 2021. I was meeting all of the musicians for the first time, some of them are big names in the salsa scene. When I first arrived at the studio, one of the musicians asked the music director, ‘So who is producing this album?’ and they pointed to me, the Chinese girl, and they were all in shock! But throughout the week, 14 hours a day in the studio, we all got to know each other and they eventually showed that they respected me.

When we released the album in September 2021, we did it digitally first. All the musicians on the record were also promoting it. Then in Colombia, Mexico, and New York, people started asking if there was a physical copy. Then one of the oldest record stores in NYC, Casa Latina, contacted me about the album. Tito Allen, who sang with Ray Baretto, lives around that area and he went to the store and told the guy that they needed to get the CD because [he was] on it. We were finally able to press a small run of 300 records and we sold out in three days.

Last year was a big year for you, with the album release and then getting signed to Marc Anthony’s Talent Agency Magnus Media. How did that relationship come about?

I got booked to play a private party during Latin Billboard week, and afterwards they booked me for one of Marc’s parties during the Latin Grammys. I was in a room with Romeo Santos, Karol G, Becky G, Luis Fonsi, so many people, but I’m so shy that I didn’t even look at them. I really wanted to focus and play a good set. After that gig, Magnus said they wanted to sign me. They said they had never met someone who knows salsa so well. I guess they also saw my potential.

What do you hope to come out of working with Magnus?

I don’t have a set plan for myself, I just do. I really do [all of this] for the love of salsa, I know that sounds so cheesy. I’ve just been doing what I like, and although it’s just the beginning, it’s gotten me to where I am now.

I would love to play more international gigs, a lot of international music festivals nowadays are heavily electronic focused. I’m hoping to one day curate a salsa-focused stage.

You recently threw a “Canton Mambo” party in Hong Kong. It seems like that party was a manifestation of your “CANTON CHÁ” playlist on SoundCloud. Do you plan to continue throwing parties in HK?

I decided to throw the party that I always wanted to go to in Hong Kong so that when people ask me how the salsa scene is here, I could [tell them].

The name “Canton” comes from the Canton Region where Hong Kong is. I’m working on a song called “Canton Mambo,” so this [party] was the beginning of a series that I want to do. I’m planning to do one in New York right now with my DJ friend who’s an oral history preservationist in Chinatown. She mainly plays Chinese records and collects records that people in Chinatown don’t want anymore. She brings the Chinese records and I bring the Latin side. And there’s a Cuban DJ in New York that I know as well, so we’re seeing what we can come up with for a party in NYC.

Cha-cha-cha, mambo, and salsa were the pop music of their era. How come [they are] stuck in the past and something that just our parents listen to? I want to change the perception of how people think about all this music. And back home, I want people to see that ballroom dance isn’t the only way to dance salsa, it’s supposed to be inclusive and social.

Would you say you’re trying to reinvent the social dance in Hong Kong?

I would say I’m trying to introduce a different concept of salsa music to people. You don’t have to know how to dance to come to my parties, you can just come and enjoy the music. At the Canto Mambo party, I started off with records from the 50s, but then moved into playing a lot of salsa, bachata, boogaloo and Latin funk which is completely new for this community. I want people to know that there is so much more [to learn about] Latin culture.

New York is the hub for salsa dancing and where salsa was popularized. That’s where I can [throw parties] right because you get different crowds. You get people who love the music, the general Latino crowd, and you get dancers. That’s what we’re missing in Hong Kong.

After years of studying Latin music and its cultural and historical contexts, what would you say is one of its more lasting impacts on you?

Salsa music is what makes me think that I know what love is. With salsa music, you can feel all kinds of emotions, the romance, lust, struggles and sadness. My friends ask why I’m still doing this after over 10 years. The more I know about the history of the music and the social contexts, the more connected I feel and the more I appreciate it. Of course I got into salsa because I thought the music and language was so romantic. But the more you get into the music, you realize they were expressing their life stories, their struggles, their passion for life in the only way they knew how at that time, and you can feel that all in the music. That’s how the music is so good.

Whatever I’m doing in the salsa music world, I’m aware that it’s not my culture. That’s why I want to work one hundred times harder than others. For the past ten years, 99% of what I listen to has been salsa. I don’t want to forget my roots and dive into Latin culture as if it’s my own; I know that it doesn’t belong to me. That’s why I’m doing these Canton Cha sets and parties, to bring these two cultures together.

Right now, I’m writing this descarga (an instrumental jam session) inspired by a Chinese tune that I used to dance to when I was six. I’m going to experiment with playing a Chinese instrument in [the song]. I study, I read a lot, and I want people to know that I really want to do this in the right way, respecting salsa and appreciating it as an art.

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Gabriella Aguirre is a writer, filmmaker, ceramicist, and Editor of LATINA.

Sofia Ordaz, the designer of the Mexican jewelry brand Serpentine, focuses her brand on life’s mysticism. Drawing inspiration from the natural and organic elements of life, Ordaz has created a jewelry line that asks more questions than it answers. She told LATINA, “My inspiration has always been magic and the occult. I have a lot of tangible references of art that I like and movements in history that inspire me, but that wasn’t the starting point [for Serpentine]. The starting point was the mystery of life.” Ordaz produces her pieces in Mexico, where she’s from, working closely with artisans to craft micro-batches of her designs.

After a personal health event forced her to pivot from producing ready-made collections to taking exclusively custom orders, Ordaz’s connection to her practice has become even closer. She explained, “The rhythm in my life went from speed to stop. The only things I’m working on right now are customs because they allow me to work at a different pace. Customs allow me to stay creative and work at a more sustainable pace.”

Ordaz has never been keen on large-scale production anyway, as she isn’t interested in promoting over-consumption. To her, jewelry is a precious accessory to life, not a necessity. Her perspective is that you don’t need jewelry, “you get jewelry once everything else in your life is covered.” Serpentine is more concerned with the timelessness of the accessory, and how each piece impacts the person wearing it.

One of Serpentine’s signature pieces is a large beaded necklace made in several variations of rare stones. The construction is striking — large, planetary spheres of afghan lapis lazuli, nephrite, and orange calcite, bound by silver tubing, sitting stoically on the wearer’s collarbone. These pieces carry a subtle weight and cool temperature to them, encouraging calm and body awareness. “People often mention that when they wear a necklace of mine, they become more aware of their posture. I believe that anything that makes you be more aware, at least for a few minutes in your day, will definitely have a positive impact on your life.”

Images courtesy of Serpentine.

On the topic of awareness, Ordaz recently collaborated with visual artist and director Ximena Prieto to create a concept film centered on the practice of braiding hair. The film, described as an ode to “the potency and resilience in subtlety,” features custom Serpentine pieces being delicately placed on hair and woven into braids.

Recalling her inspiration for the film, Prieto shared, “Sofía has guided me to see the intimate and often playful relationship between what we seek and what we have yet to find language for. Our conversations brought me to moments when my mother would caress and begin to braid my hair. It was as if she expanded the hour as she braided, unbraided, and braided anew, describing the most specific details of her dream, her grandmother’s childhood memories, or myths from the island where her mother was born.”

Ordaz described the joy of creating this project with Prieto, saying “I think at some point when you are a creator, you sort of get absorbed by the production itself. For me, that’s where I get lost. I have to be grounding myself all the time, walking with my bare feet on the ground, because I need to know where I am. So [making this film together] was another way to ground myself and to remember why I’m doing everything. The intention was to join forces [with Prieto], stop for a minute, and make something beautiful and fun.”

You can watch the full film below.

Trenzando 88, A piece for Serpentine. Written and Directed by Ximena Prieto. Featuring Sofía Ordaz, Lucrezia de Fazio, and Lorenza Clapp wearing Serpentine pieces Lupa, Mundo, Flor No. 1, & Custom Culebras

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For inquiries or to order custom pieces, visit Serpentine’s website.

The 65th Annual Grammy Awards brought a burst of Latinidad, a celebration of hip hop’s 50th anniversary, provocative new pop performances, and more to music’s top stage. The show began with Bad Bunny’s performance, singing hits “El Apagón” and “Después la Playa” from his album Un Verano Sin Ti. Nominated for three Grammys this year (Album of the Year: Un Verano Sin Ti, Best Pop Solo Performance: “Moscow Mule”), Benito took home the award for Best Música Urbana, winning over Daddy Yankee, Rauw Alejandro, La167, and Maluma. In his humble acceptance speech, he said “When you do things with love and passion, everything is easier. Gracias a los Latinos en el mundo entero,” and went on to dedicate the award to Puerto Rico, the “capital del reggaeton.”

Red carpet standouts included Cardi B in a stunning blue Gaurav Gupta gown. She later presented the award for Best Rap Album in a metallic ensemble by the late Paco Rabanne. Anitta, the first Brazilian woman to be nominated for a Grammy in over 50 years, stepped onto the carpet in a decadent vintage Versace gown, hoping for the Best New Artist award alongside Omar Apollo. The “Evergreen” singer and his mom shared a sweet moment on the red carpet, when Apollo credited her for his guitar skills, beautiful eyes, and “good skin.”

Another Grammy hopeful included Camila Cabello (Best Pop Duo/Group Performance), who shone on the red carpet in a hand-beaded pearl bra top. Jennifer Lopez presented the award for Best Pop Vocal Album in glimmering navy Gucci, not quite the internet-breaker as her iconic Jungle Dress twenty three years ago, but a serve nonetheless.

See below for a few images of our favorite moments of the night.

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The phenomenon of sonideros, or cumbia dances led by sonidos (DJs), is a product of Mexico City’s late 1950s music scene. What started as humble street dances in working class neighborhoods, led by DJs spinning cumbia records on homemade sound systems (many resembling the towers of Jamaican sound system culture) has expanded well across the southern border by way of mass immigration in the 1990s and early 2000s. Far from glamorous but brimming with energy, a sonidero is marked by explosive speakers, cascading rainbow lasers, and a thick crowd of dancers in step with the cumbias of their generation. In fact, it’s now a thriving nightlife scene in Queens, New York, where sonideros have become a long-standing tradition for Mexican immigrants and their descendants.

At sonideros, a place where roaring speakers and ceaseless dancing are the only rules, celebrating the culture is top priority. More so than a “regular” DJ, the sonido is expected to be constantly engaging with the audience by way of saludos, or shoutouts, often requested via hand-written notes from the crowd. Each sonido has their own style, equipment, and personal brand; some purists sticking to well-tried cumbia classics and others weave new-wave pop and reggaeton into their setlists.

In the new short film Barrio Sonidero, by Mexican-American director Leo Aguirre, one sonido featured shares the importance of these clubs to the community. “It’s really beautiful to hear [someone say], ‘I just arrived from Mexico, from the barrio, from the main roots of the sonidos,’ [but] they think that their culture is going to be lost because they are coming [to the United States]. They think [the US] is limited musically, but it’s not. The culture is also here. We are preserving it. And we want this sonidero culture to be preserved for all of us.”

Aguirre’s 2020 breakout film, No Somos De Aqui Ni Somos De Alla, is an electrifying short documentary portraying the layers of the American immigrant identity. Created along the southern border in Texas, the film layers vignettes of young Mexican-Americans who share the experience of not feeling from neither here, nor there.

Barrio Sonidero is a continuation of Aguirre’s lyrical documentary style. The short film, which recently premiered on Nowness, takes the viewer into the sonideros of Queens to explore the cultural importance of sonideros among the Mexican-American community.

LATINA spoke with Aguirre to discuss sonidero culture, portraying the immigrant identity in film, and the surprising migratory evolution of the cumbia genre, from Latin America to the southern United States and back.

This conversation has been edited for length and clarity.

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Your last short film, No Somos De Aqui Ni Somos De Alla, weaved the nuances of Mexican-American identity together with such unique style. Tell us about your background as a Mexican-American growing up in Texas, and the influence your upbringing has had on your work.

I was born and raised in El Paso, Texas, and Ciudad de Juárez, where my mom’s family lived. I was going back and forth, so I say I spent my childhood along the border. We moved around Texas a bit, and I discovered that there were multitudes to this experience of being Latinx or Hispanic. I remember being really curious about people who had very Latin names like Juan Sanchez, but didn’t speak a lick of Spanish.

[Not appearing stereotypically Mexican] really changed my understanding of the Latin American experience. I think there is such a gradient to how [people] experience that, and how your family has navigated and assimilated [to the US].

As I got older, I realized these people’s parents maybe chose not to teach them Spanish when they were growing up. Sometimes it’s out of necessity, you know? I hadn’t been to other parts of the border, but we went to Brownsville, Texas to shoot No Somos De Aqui Ni Somos De Alla. It was really beautiful to see all these different experiences that people had along the border. We shot a large portion of that film in Austin as well and we saw so many people who didn’t “look” stereotypically Mexican. That experience really changed my understanding of the Latin American experience. I think there is such a gradient to how [people] experience that, and how your family has navigated and assimilated [to the US].

The childhood experience for immigrants can be so different in that you had so much proximity to your culture in Texas, where others may have the opposite depending on where they grew up. How would you say that influenced your childhood?

I think that’s a big thing for a lot of people. We lived in the panhandle for a while, in North Texas, close to Oklahoma. The year before I moved there, we learned there had been this mass deportation at a meatpacking factory. ICE came through and deported like two hundred people while their kids were in school. So there was this sense that people were afraid of [identifying as Mexican].

I had friends who were living with an uncle or an aunt, and they didn’t openly talk about it, but it was understood that their parents had been taken away. You could feel it in the air. It was sad to get older and understand [what had happened], and then I began to reckon with people labeling me as Mexican here, but as a gringo when I go back to Mexico. For a long time I had a hard time wrapping my head around having these two identities. [No Somos De Aqui Ni Somos De Alla] was meant to embrace that. I am these two things and I can hold these things simultaneously.

Identity is already such a struggle to form, and when you’re a child of immigrants, there’s even more to reconcile. I noticed that there are a few of these through lines from No Somos De Aqui Ni Somos De Alla in your new film Barrio Sonidero. How did this project come about?

Nowness partnered with the dance center, Jacob’s Pillow, to create the film series called Body Language, featuring various kinds of dance around the world. They reached out to me looking for a director for this project about sonideros in New York City. I had heard of sonideros but had never been to one. So I [said I’d love to direct the project], and we just started going to them. In a way, the through line in this piece is an understanding that there are certain parts of people’s identity that they want to hold on to [after leaving] their home countries. It was really beautiful to see this physical manifestation of that idea, of preserving a part of your identity.

There were kids wearing their Nike AirMaxes and dancing cumbias. They might be going home and listening to Frank Ocean, but they’re spending their weekend at sonideros dancing cumbias. That was really cool to see.

When I first heard about the sonideros I thought they were going to be these really large gatherings for a lot of undocumented people who are new to the country. That is the case, but half of the people there were Mexican-Americans, many first or second generation, so it was this hybrid of people who were wanting to connect to their culture and to the music. There were kids wearing their Nike AirMaxes and dancing cumbias. They might be going home and listening to Frank Ocean, but they’re spending their weekend at sonideros dancing cumbias. That was really cool to see.

The way the media portrays immigrants and indigenous folks often falls under victim culture; the tragedy narrative, as if they don’t have agency. Now, we see a dialogue with people wanting to see indigenous joy, black joy, etc. It’s important to see [immigrants] as people who are capable of celebrating their lives. So it was really important in this documentary to show people having a great time at these sonideros.

Love the image of millennials listening to softboy pop on their way home from the sonidero. How many clubs did you go to during the shoot?

We went to three clubs and we probably saw seven DJs. The headliner comes on at [around] midnight, and they have to provide all the lights and the rigging in the space. It’s really interesting because they don’t just show up and play, they roll up in a truck with all the equipment.

And the sound systems themselves are a whole culture as well. There’s an amazing book on that called Ojos Suaves by Mirjam Wirz, do you know it?

Yeah, I know that book. I actually used some of her photos as references. [The sonidos] bring all of that stuff themselves, it’s as if you were closing out Coachella and they tell you that you have to bring all of the equipment.

We featured a sonido in the piece who goes by Sonido Super Chango. By night, he congregates over two or three hundred people and curates a spectacular event, but by day, he stocks stores with pastries. We went to his house, met his family, and saw his garage where he keeps all the equipment — all the lights, trusts, everything. There’s this campiness to [sonideros] that’s kind of endearing.

We also met all these dancers, this one guy is doing this crazy move in the piece where he’s bending backwards. He is actually a very controversial person in the community because he practices pasos prohibidos, or forbidden steps. He’s dancing cumbia but in a way that’s very unconventional, so people get pissed off at him. He’s this character who’s really interested in being an innovator and taking cumbia to another place. He’s actually gone viral, there are memes about him in the sonidero community. He’ll start doing pushups in the middle of a dance. He was my favorite person that we met. Going into the documentary I had a very specific idea of what it was going to be, but as we were meeting these people, I realized everyone’s story is so nuanced and special.

There’s this thing called “Barrio Sonidero TV” on Youtube, where this guy posts videos of people dancing at these parties. A big part of these events is that there are cameramen who are shooting people dancing. They walk around the dance floor with a DSLR and a light, and there’s a camera set up on the DJ booth at all times.

It’s like a boiler room set! Did that inspire how you chose to shoot it?

Yeah, my friend Jasmine Romero shot some footage on a camcorder to pay homage to that part of it. And actually, when I called Humberto, who runs the Youtube channel, he was delivering groceries. His day job is as a delivery driver but he moonlights as this Youtuber with fifteen thousand subscribers. That added so much dimensionality to this person. You know, we see the NYC delivery guys on their bikes all the time and we never think about how much depth there may be to these people and what they’re up to after work. We actually shot some footage of him on his bike but we had to cut it out of the final edit. There’s so much more footage that we couldn’t use because of time constraints.

In the film, you used voice-over interviews to describe sonidero culture as means of cultural preservation. Places like churches and sonideros serve as safe spaces in a country that actively terrorizes immigrants. What was the energy like in these clubs?

So, we went to this popular club in Queens. I’m sure most of them are like this, but this one had a lot of security, although from the outside you wouldn’t expect that there’s a huge party inside. I think it’s meant to be a very protected space. It was a mix of young people and older people, and everyone’s dressed very casually. But later on, it got pretty lit, pretty rowdy.

It felt super familial and celebratory of the culture. In this environment, it’s just about dancing. At an electronic club, you know, if you’re dancing with someone it may not be interpreted as platonic. But at this sonidero, there was a general understanding that you’re here to have a good time and you can dance with anyone you want. People are sweaty, people are having a great time. It didn’t feel like we were overstepping [by filming], although we were cautious to not show the name of the clubs we went to. I think it should be shared, but I’m highly aware of not wanting to blow up spaces where it’s not my place. But everyone there was so welcoming.

Did you get to dance at all?

We got to sneak in a bit of dancing, yeah. It felt like I was connecting with something that I hadn’t connected with in the culture. Also, cumbias are Colombian.

They come from Colombia but they’re so international, they’re all over Mexico and Cuba.

There’s a film called Ya No Estoy Aqui about a kid who gets displaced from Monterrey to the US, and in it they dance cumbias rebajadas. I was reading about how that music came to be and about Colombia being an exporter of cumbia to Mexico City, and from there [cumbias] made their way to Houston, Texas. Houston pioneered lean rap, which is rap that is slowed down. So as a result of [the lean rap] movement, musicians there began making cumbias that were slowed down. That made its way back to Monterrey, which is where that phenomenon of cumbias rebajadas has materialized. It’s funny to see how music migrates and changes and is affected by different genres.

What’s next for you? Do you have plans to continue making films around the themes of multiculturalism, immigration and identity?

I want to make [films] where the cultural aspects are in the background and it’s not so much about identity. [For this film], Nowness and I went back and forth about addressing the fact that there’s an assault on immigration happening in this country right now. I was like, I get it, but that’s not what [this film] has to be about. This is about this community being joyous and enjoying this congregation and this music, so we ended up deciding to focus on the dance part.

Making this documentary has reinforced the way I want to explore subject matter that deals with identity; never looking at a character’s journey or at their story as something monolithic or representative of everyone’s experience. I love stories and characters that might exist in the periphery, but also in the gray between the black and white, never conforming to the one dimensional character that society at large expects them to be.

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You can watch Leo’s film Barrio Sonidero on Nowness.

In an industry where Latinos make up just over five percent of lead actors and two percent of film directors, representation on top stages is a high priority. That rings especially true at Sundance Film Festival, a world-renowned incubator of independent cinema, where small budget indie films are often launched into box office successes. Every year since Sundance’s inception in 1978, filmmakers and film enthusiasts alike have come together in Park City, Utah, to celebrate cinema, network, attend panels, and compete for coveted prizes in the documentary and dramatic competitions.

Years before the public outcry against the lack of diversity in Hollywood, Sundance had invested in its Diversity Initiative to combat underrepresentation. More recently, it has collaborated with organizations like Women in Film Los Angeles, The Black House, and The Latinx House. The Latinx House, an official partner of Sundance since 2020, is focused on bolstering diverse and exceptional Latin American talent in cinema. Founded by activist Mònica Ramírez and actor/producer Olga Segura, The Latinx House kicked off Sundance’s opening weekend with a series of expert panels, receptions, parties, and flash talks with creators – including a conversation with Black Panther: Wakanda Forever’s Tenoch Huerta, the official premiere parties for both Going Varsity in Mariachi and Divinity, and more. The group also hosted a private screening of the landmark film starring America Ferrera, Real Women Have Curves, which had its world premiere at the festival 21 years ago. “Creating a space to build community and celebrate our achievements has always been one of our main goals. Our continued collaboration with Sundance is helping us build a bridge to create more opportunities for Latinx creators in the industry for many years to come,” said The Latinx House co-founder Olga Segura.

One of the most impactful elements of The Latinx House is the directorial fellowship Adelante, launched in 2022 to support the development of up-and-coming directors. According to the website, “In partnership with the Sundance Institute’s Women at Sundance program, Netflix, Shondaland, and GloNation, three Latina directors participated in the inaugural Adelante Directors Fellowship, creating a pipeline to uplift independent filmmakers…” This year’s participants included award winning producer from the Puerto Rican diaspora Cecilia Aldarondo, Yulene Olaizola of Mexican descent, and Nicole Mejia from Honduras.

The Latin presence is steadily growing at Sundance. This year, 12 of Sundance’s 100 plus films that are screening are Latino, including the Gael García Bernal led drama Cassandro, a story about the self-proclaimed “Liberace of Lucha Libre.” Mutt, the directorial debut by Chilean-Serbian director Vuk Lungulov-Klotz, focuses on a character navigating both trans-masculine and Latin identities. In the documentary competition, Going Varsity in Mariachi captures the world of competitive scholastic mariachi in South Texas. Other Latino films include black and white sci-fi entry Divinity, emotional climate drama La Pecera, dramatic comedy MAMACRUZ about an abuela’s late stage sexual renaissance, and more.

“I’ve been so overwhelmed by peoples’ responses to seeing a film like Mutt, which is about intersectionality and being a blend of several identities, at Sundance. In Chile, stories like this are still not talked about, so to be able to bring Mutt to this festival makes me so, so proud.” — Vuk Lungulov-Klotz, director of Mutt.

With all eyes on Utah this week, many films will hope to continue on the spring festival circuit, including the famed South By Southwest Film & TV Festival in March. We hope to see diverse Latino stories in cinema continue to thrive.

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Sundance Film Festival runs from January 19 – January 29, 2023. To follow along with Sundance’s screening, events, and announcements, find them on Instagram, Twitter, and at festival.sundance.org.