How did you begin making art and why?

In 1953 I finished high school. I thought about pursuing law, but we made a trip with my family (my parents and siblings) to Europe where I discovered that there were other forms of communicating: through paintings, sculptures...we visited all of the museums. That was [how I made] my decision.

Who were your mentors, greatest inspirations, and most important artistic references?

I think that someone like Lucio Fontana—who was a great creator…in as much in his sculptures, as his philosophy, and generous in his person. He had a unity of his person with his art. Also Louise Bourgeois, later on. She was someone who I admire for her perseverance, and that things took place through her art.

Did you have difficulties in becoming an artist and in developing your practice?

In my family, none...because in any case they supported me so I would study. I studied with—in the studio of Pettoruti and with Antonio Seguí who taught me technique. They said that either way I would do what I wanted, so they decided to support me.

Did the fact that you were a woman determine the conditions of your production and opportunities in the art world?

Yes, undoubtedly. When I arrived in Rome I was invited to do an exposition; I did it. My name is Marí with an accent, which caused people to think I was a man. One collector bought an artwork, and afterward he returned it because he learned that I was a woman. For me, it was a shock. Another gallerist also came over to see the work. He said, “molto valido, (very good, very good) but you have one thing going against you: you are a woman."

Deep down, I was grateful to them. They made me realize something that I didn’t have before. In other words, undoubtedly the gallerist is a business person: if the collector wants to buy…doesn’t want to buy, it’s out of our hands.

Has the fact that you are a woman determined the kind of work you make, the [visual] languages you use?

No, I don’t think so. That is to say, not because I am a woman have I limited my [visual] language, I try to be free with them. I use different forms and thoughts. I don’t think that gender has limited me.

Many people have told me: “What you do is conceptual.” I didn’t think that what I was doing was conceptual or some other category of thing. I tried, yes, to create throughlines: that’s why I made a manifesto called Fragmentismo where I explain a little the de marche—the path I followed to have the artworks that I have…but it doesn’t bother me to be called a feminist. If they say, “You are a feminist,” I say: If being a feminist means to fight injustice, then yes I am a feminist.

The seventies in Argentina were a disaster…there was the military.

Something happened: we were returning with my husband from Brazil and we saw people in the road. We thought that there had been an accident. But no; it was a group of people making a manifestation.

They distributed signs to us. The signs said, “La Gallareta lucha por su única fuente de trabajo” (La Gallareta fights for its only source of work.) I arrived in Buenos Aires. It was summer and I didn’t find anyone to pass the message to. In Mar del Plata (where I was born) they invited another artist (also from Mar del Plata)—Mercedes Esteves and I, to do an exposition. I explained that I didn’t have any interest in any political party, that I had passed the event that I shared earlier, and that I wanted to show the sign “el pueblo la Gallareta lucha por su única fuente de trabajo” (el pueblo La Gallareta fights for its only source of work.) They were posters hung one after the other in a line that said the same thing. It was 1969; undoubtedly it was something that hadn’t been done before, and so they said “Okay, do it.”

We did the show: Mercedes put bags of sand—bags of cement. It lasted a day. That night they said: “But why? Are you all crazy [feminine]? It’s the time of Onganía! Why would you do this exposition?”…that was on the one hand, on the other, someone came and said, "Marie, I can do something for el pueblo La Gallareta." The next day, they told us that the exposition had been closed, that they thought that because we were women, we were going to show flowers.

That event was very mobilizing for me. I said: why do I do what I do? If I make a figure flattening another, it isn’t understandable(/understood)… or of men biting each other, it isn’t clear. But if I put the thought exactly as it is, it works. Then I had to return to Buenos Aires again to do another exposition. For that one I decided to make a a series of drawings of flowers—but of poisonous flowers, with phrases that said, “they [feminine] grow in the shade.” They were in Latin and French. The day of the vernissage two characters came by, probably they were the police, but they saw the flowers, other languages, they didn’t understand anything, and they left. For me it was a relief.

What are the principle themes and concepts that your work touches on?

The principal themes are undoubtedly justice, reflection—there is a manifesto I made in ‘74 that is called Eros, it was part of an invitation by Pierre Restany and Lea Vergine to participate in a show; it was open for one day, but those were the conditions. Eros begins: Pensar es un hecho revolucionario (To think is a revolutionary act) in Italian, and ends: También el Eros tiene necesidad de condiciones sociales adaptas (Eros also has a need for suitable social conditions). Between those two phrases, there are twelve—twelve for me is important. They are the number of months…there is also: El ambiente condiciona la gente, (The environment conditions people). there is, Pensar y comunicar producen energia. (To think and communicate produces energy) It’s a series of thoughts that were undoubtedly a throughline in my work.

How did you choose the mediums and formats that you employ in your work? Your use of text—-of specific media, of installation, and photography?

Undoubtedly, I said it before with La Gallareta—the thought became body, the phrases took form, and that determined that I use distinct elements…and that I search for a way that I could express them. Whether that be sculpture, installation…I have a series of bells that say Para quién suenan las campanas? (For whom do the bells sound?) not por (because of), but rather as if to say Para quién son los aplausos (For whom are the applause?)—And on the clapper of each bell there is a distinct reply: Para los que creen (For those that believe), Para los que piensan (For those that think), but also Para los que adulan (For those that adulate). That speaks to the great confusion that exists in the world—which I am actually making a series about at the moment: about the great confusion.

Can you mention and talk a little about an emblematic work in your practice?

Yes: El pensar es un hecho revolucionario (To think is a revolutionary act), I think it was a work that continued throughout my path and which is now six meters high, cut-out [in metal] in the Parque de la Memoria, divided in two: Fragmented! Fragmentismo is that for me…which I made a very important manifesto about and which I can also say has feminine roots. Another work that is in Mar del Plata, in the Plaza of Las Madres…de Plaza de Mayo: El ambiente condiciona a la gente (The environment conditions people).

What would you wish the legacy of your work to be?

Thought, reflection, abrecaminos!

How would you like to be remembered in the future?

I never thought about it. That I be remembered how anyone wishes to remember me.

Art history is constantly looking back to understand the present: Do you do the same in your work?

We come from la Argentina; la Argentina doesn’t have histories. It’s making its history. It isn’t the same as the historical weight that the Europeans have. In general, I try—I try not to repeat myself and I try to find new ways to posit [my thoughts]. They may be the same thoughts…but I don’t search history, I try to search in the present and onward.

What do you think is the importance of realizing a show like Radical Women?

My thought is: welcome, and it was time!