Ana Mendieta was a Cuban-born American artist whose work spanned performance, photography, video, and sculpture, exploring themes of the body, nature, displacement, and ritual. Brought to the United States in 1961 through Operation Pedro Pan, her early exile deeply informed her artistic language. Best known for her Silueta Series, Mendieta used her body to leave temporary marks on earth, sand, and stone, creating gestures that blurred the boundary between presence and disappearance. Her practice combined personal mythology, feminist inquiry, and postcolonial critique, positioning her as a singular figure in late 20th-century conceptual art.

León Ferrari was an Argentine artist whose work relentlessly dismantled the moral and visual codes of power. Active during the height of Latin America’s military dictatorships, Ferrari used collage, sculpture, and text to expose the entanglement of religious iconography, political violence, and institutional silence. His crucifixes mounted on war machines, chaotic calligraphies, and intricate wire structures were not metaphors—they were systems under stress, rendered visible. Rather than seeking reconciliation, his art enacted confrontation. For Ferrari, to create was not to express, but to disrupt—to make injustice legible by sabotaging the language that conceals it.

Ghédalia Tazartès was a self-taught French sound artist of Judeo-Spanish descent who operated outside every known musical, national, and linguistic category. His work dissolved the boundaries between voice and body, memory and noise, performance and possession. Singing in tongues he never claimed as his own, Tazartès constructed no genre—he undid them. His recordings are not compositions but hauntings, sonic rituals that sabotage linear listening. Refusing the archive, the stage, and the academy, he built a space where sound became non-identity—an exile not just from geography, but from form itself. 

Jorge Eduardo Eielson was a Peruvian poet, visual artist, and conceptualist whose work unraveled the assumptions of Western language and linear meaning. Rejecting the alphabet as a colonial tool, he returned to pre-Columbian quipus—knotted cords of Andean recordkeeping—not as a revival, but as a rupture. His fabric installations resist interpretation, offering instead compressed silence, tension without narrative, and a visual poetics of fragmentation. For Eielson, each knot is both history and refusal: a word no longer spoken, and never quite erased.