Johana Sarmiento & Antonio Sorrentino

Ollantaytambo, Cusco

The journey to Alqa couldn't be more picturesque—accompanied by the melodic sound of cascading stone aquifers and vistas overlooking the Inca fortress and temple of Ollantaytambo. Cobblestone paths, trodden since the 13th century, lead to a wooden sign that reads "Alqa — Museo de Arte Popular Andino."

Alqa serves as a platform for the conservation and dissemination of traditional Andean highland art. Johana Sarmiento and Antonio Sorrentino are the duo behind this carefully curated, multi-functional space. It encompasses a museum, gallery, café, and restaurant, all set amidst a beautiful garden within an old stone and adobe dwelling. The design of Alqa is harmonious, rustic, and warm, yet strikingly simple, representing a fusion of organic form and function. The wooden stairs leading to the museum on the second floor creak softly, and the scent of Andean camelid wool permeates the air.

The museum features a selection of textiles, adornments, and other traditionally crafted objects that serve as an ode to Andean way of life. Their mission is to foster an ongoing dialogue between artisans, community members, and the public, aiming to create awareness, value, and appreciation for Andean art and crafts. We had the opportunity to engage in an enriching and exploratory dialogue with Johana and Antonio...

To begin with, how did you two meet?

Antonio: Well, it all started in 2015. I was working as a photographer in Lima, and Joanna was on a sabbatical year after a period of intense work.

Joanna: It was a pretty intense, workaholic period, which is why I decided to take a sabbatical year.

What attracted you to the Sacred Valley? How did you end up here?

Johana: I've always been extremely passionate about textiles. I began to delve into the study of pre-Columbian textile expressions because I wanted to understand how pre-Columbian cultures developed their textile processes. I was fascinated. Part of my family comes from Ayacucho, so something inside me might have been calling. During that time, I met a key person named Maria Elena del Solar. Do you know her?

Yes. She's from Barranco, right?

Johana: Well, Maria Elena is my muse, and I confessed this to her a few years ago. With Maria Elena, I collaborated to create a book related to the interpretation of traditional iconography of Andean peoples from the southern region. She was basically the person who introduced me to pre-Columbian textiles, explaining what the iconography meant. She opened doors for me, and I became obsessed with these textiles.

After a month of meeting each other, we planned to get married. Yes, it was swift. At that moment, many things happened in our daily lives, and one of them was that I needed a fresh start. So, I told Antonio about my passion for textiles. We had already taken an amazing trip to Cusco with his brother, so we decided to go back.

The trip to Cusco created a connection for me with textiles and for us as a couple. We said, "Hey, what if we moved to the Andes?" But before that, we wanted to get married. So, our first excuse to come here was to find the place where we would get married.

Antonio: As we traveled to find a place to get married, we encountered many highland communities and connected with a whole new world of expressions and people, which fascinated us. It made us realize that there was a vast array of artistic expressions that had no visibility outside of their communities. These expressions were deeply rooted in centuries of heritage, dating back to Inca culture and even earlier. Our fascination led us to start imagining a space where we could share what we had learned. There wasn't a space like that, so we decided to create one.

What is each of your backgrounds? Did you study fashion?

Johana: Yes, and textiles.

Antonio: Well, for me, it's photography. I am a photographer.

And from which part of Italy?

Antonio: I'm from Cinque Terre. I've had a variety of jobs, and I have a degree in law. Later, I devoted myself to photography, which is also related to art. However, I never thought I would end up here.

For some reason, I remember something related to Ica?

Johana: Yes, I was born in Ica. My mom's family is from Ica, and my dad's family is from Ayacucho. When I was one year old, my family moved to Lima. It's the typical story of migration from the provinces to Lima in search of better opportunities or the false idea of progress. So, I ended up in Lima, but something inside me always wanted to leave.

How was Alqa born?

Antonio: Alqa was born as a result of our travels. Initially, when we started to envision the space, it was meant for dissemination and served as a gallery.

And what was Alqa's mission?

Antonio: It started as a platform for the exhibition and sale of traditional art pieces. Then it evolved. What initially attracted us was the aesthetics of the textiles. As we delved deeper, we became curious about everything behind the aesthetics.

Johana: Antonio, with his background in photography, took the opportunity to document the spaces, landscapes, and people. As for myself, I focused on expanding my knowledge. However, the trips turned into a personal, introspective experience. We were immersed in Andean village life—sleeping on the floor on hides with the family, cooking with them, eating with them, sharing, laughing, attending celebrations, and crying with them for seven years.

Wow... Alqa is the product of seven years.

Johana: Yes, because when our son Wari arrived, traveling with a big belly and then with a baby at 4,000 meters was quite a challenge. But before Wari's arrival, it was all about traveling. At the time, we had a van equipped with a bed and shelves. It was an '85 van that left us stranded everywhere.

Antonio: Actually, it was from '83.

In what year were you born?

Johana: I was born in '87.

Antonio: '85.

Johana: I think our frequent travels to the villages and communities transcended friendship. Initially, our goal was to research textiles. Then friendships began to form, followed by family relationships as we were asked to become godparents. Things started to become much deeper. As Antonio mentioned, it evolved from an aesthetic preference to a more academic interest, and then to a social-political interest—because traditional arts are social and political by nature. Eventually, it became a cause for us. It was amazing how it started to snowball. Through these art pieces, we began to envision the reality of these artists and their villages.

Like a "quipu," you were weaving your purpose?

Johana: Yes, definitely. It was intertwining.

Antonio: That's where the name Alqa came from. We came across it during our travels in Ausangate. They used the name Alqa to define when a territory stops being what it is and starts to become something else. For example, the edge of the slope of a mountain— that transitional moment is the Alqa. It's a sacred moment of territorial change, of transition. It's also the place where offerings are left at the foot of the mountain. That transition resonated with us because we felt we were living through a similar transition. With Alqa, our mission is to foster empathy towards cultural diversity, its potential disappearance, and many aspects of rural life in the society we live in.

In the year 2024, do you think they themselves value their own traditions, their Popular Art, as you value them?

Johana: Well, I consider that Andean populations, High Andean populations, are super vulnerable. This vulnerability isn't due to processes created by these communities themselves but rather from pressures generated by other social groups that increasingly corner them.

From our experience, I would say these villages deeply value their traditions, identity, memory, and origins. However, there is immense pressure from external forces such as globalization, industrialization, accelerated tourism, and the capitalist, consumerist system. One could say, "Well, I no longer identify with this costume, color scheme, or iconographic composition that represents my traditional culture." No. New ideas start to enter due to these pressures, and they sell what I believe is a false dream: that life in the city is a life of progress, while rural life is backward. For instance, the notion that "traditional costumes are a thing of the past and now we should all look the same."

And do you think this pressure is generational? Does it come from children to their parents? Or more from external factors?

Johana: No, it's a social issue. I don't think it has to do with age groups or gender. It seems to me that it could be a mental construct of more modern social groups, which consider rural social groups to be living in backwardness. This is not something hidden; it's publicly mentioned.

I mention this because I worked for many years at the International Potato Center, traveling extensively to high-altitude communities where they were the guardians of potato biodiversity. In Huancavelica, for example, one farmer had 500 varieties of potatoes on one hectare of land. The biggest problem I observed was the clash of generations. Parents would say, "I have my seed bank with 500 varieties, but my children don't want to stay here. They want to go to the city." I saw this in many communities.

Antonio: In any case, it's a prevalent issue. Here, there are families who want their children to study and have an education that they themselves did not have. So they send their children to Cusco or Lima, where they learn to discriminate against the peasant lifestyle. In the end, the same child who was sent to study through the efforts of their parents learns to look down on their own family. This is very common.

Johana: That happens, but I also think it happens because other social groups still do not see rural or peasant social groups as equal. For example, in my own case, my father, being from Ayacucho, knew how to speak Quechua. However, he never passed on things related to the Andean world to me and my brother. Perhaps out of a desire to avoid us being discriminated against in school for speaking Quechua or dancing Huayno. So there is a separation from the cultural context or identity to avoid segregation and discrimination.

Many people come for guided tours and bring up this issue, saying, "Come on, Johana, those villages have to modernize, they have to progress, they have to develop." The question is, what does “development” really mean? Let's not try to impose one model of development on everyone and assume that if the capitalist system works for me, it will also work for them. This applies to everything—the way of dressing, nourishing, healing, and expressing oneself through art. Cultural diversity protection is about understanding that we are not the same; we are different. We deserve the same rights, yes, but we are not the same. We must respect each other's differences and care for those differences because that's what makes us unique. But we are entering a culture of homogenization, where we all have to look the same, heal ourselves in the same way, educate ourselves in the same way, and live in the same housing models. I don't think that's respectful.

But I would say it's a global issue. Lately, I have been interested in the power of words. Returning to the topic of textiles, perhaps words weave a reality. When you say "vulnerable populations," do you think you are disempowering them? Is it weaving a story of victims?

The pandemic, and the time it gave us to reflect, created a yearning to be close to nature and return to basics. We realized the importance of community, the downfalls of globalization, and the value of tradition. I think community and its empowerment are important in our narratives. I believe that the victim or vulnerability narrative takes away power. For me, the important thing is to have freedom—the freedom to choose how to live.

Antonio: Of course. When they come down to the city and to Ollantaytambo, they feel the different treatment just because they wear ponchos or traditional dresses. Some people treat them differently.

That's what I love about Ollantaytambo. I feel the pride in customs and the weight of history. It's amazing.

Johana: Allow me to make a small parenthesis on these last topics. Your question and comment have made me reflect on whether it might be tricky to use the word vulnerable. On the other hand, I feel it is essential to tell the truth about history. For example, when talking about African peoples and the triangular trade and slave trade, speaking in contemporary terms about these populations, it may be strong to use the word vulnerable, but the fact is that these populations were vulnerable. They were commercialized, stripped of their names, taken to new places, enslaved, exterminated, and exploited to death. That cannot be denied; it is part of their history.

But another part of me also thinks that I cannot deny what happened. I cannot deny the history of extermination and genocide in the colonial era. The indigenous populations, even mestizos, bore a stigma until the 1960s with the hacienda system that was reformed. My own experience shows that this history is not always clear because in school, when they teach us the history of our peoples, it is often painted in a very benevolent way.

When I started to investigate empirically about the past of Andean populations, I found a history of violence, aggression, violation of rights, and abuse in every sense. When I discovered the discourse of the indigenous movement, I felt like I found a balm. In the 1920s, there was a social group that said, "Hey, we are part of the pressure exerted on these populations. This needs to change." Various fields—arts, research, scholarship, writing, etc.—united to try to turn things around and balance the huge inequality.

What I would like to say, borrowing the word "alqa," is that perhaps we are in the alqa, or the transition of history from violence? The alqa between the present and the new future... because history is changing?

Johana: It's changing and it's not changing.

And does that represent the "alqa" perhaps? Could it be that Andean popular art is a bridge that connects you with the communities? Do you think your purpose is to share, through the space of Alqa, the value of the incredible Andean art and culture? A bridge, or the space between modern culture and the past.

Johana: Yes. Maybe more than a bridge, but under the same conceptual notion, we are just a link. A way for visitors to understand these communities through their artistic expressions. We work with different audiences: high-Andean communities, other Peruvians from various social bubbles, and tourists. When we work with the communities, our main interest is to reveal the truth—that these artistic expressions are wonderful and unique. Their creative output should be considered art and treated as such since each piece is unique and original. They should not be considered crafts, second-rate art, or small-scale serial art. Their creators should be called artists, not artisans.

Even until the 1990s, the term "cultured art" was widely used. What does it mean? That textiles, mask-making, metalworking, and rural arts are uncultured arts? Such distinctions originate from systematic racism and have been used until very recently. It’s encouraging to see new researchers and scholars in arts, anthropology, ethnology, and ethnography proposing new perspectives.

The terminology has historically created distinctions based on origin. If you are poor, a peasant, and Quechua-speaking, you will create a magnificent and unique piece but still be called a craftsman, and your piece will be called a craft. On the other hand, if you come from a university, are white or wealthy, you are an “artist.”

Or some artists use a local artisan to make their "art."

Johana: Exactly. Certain distinctions, based on the origin of the person, have persisted for decades. For us, it has been crucial to understand the past of Andean populations, the history of colonial impact, and the hacienda system. For me, it is very important to look back to understand why we are the way we are today.

When you mentioned that things are changing, I would say there is hope, but reality also shows us other perspectives. For example, that retablo in the background represents a scene of demonstrations in the district of Huanta in 1969—a very significant moment for Andean populations, reflected in the song "Flor de Retama." That retablo is from 1969 but is as current as the demonstrations a few months ago. There is hope for change, but the reality is that post-colonialist views still exist.

I returned to Lima in 2002, and I remember feeling that Lima was like apartheid. But I have seen a big change from 2002 compared to today. I see it in my children's generation. There is much more integration now.

Johana: There is a bit of everything. I'm 36 years old and have lived here in Cusco for 10 years. There has been an evolution and improvement in integration, but there are also things that make me think otherwise. The social problems and turmoil of the last few months, the deaths in Puno, the government's turning a blind eye—these issues make me question who is actually feeling an improvement. Everyone or just some social groups? Only in Lima? I don't know. My own experience and living here for 10 years with friends in these 50 villages make me less positive because I think there is a lot of work to do.

Awareness is beginning to spread. We are starting to listen to, understand, and empathize with each other. But everything that has happened in the last year, from December 2022 to 2023—the social and political turmoil—is a reflection of reality and how we behave as a nation. For example, in my own case, there is an "embracement" of identity, a return to roots, origin, and memory. But I see the news and realize we live in a world that is often the opposite. There have been 60 deaths, and no one is held responsible. People are still fighting for compensation for deceased family members or community members. Nothing is being done.

I'll highlight what you just said: "but I see the news"—do you think the news creates more division and anxiety?

Johana: Definitely.

Returning to the issue of "isms," like racism, when I conduct an interview, the conversation often continues in my head for days...

Johana: Me too.

I love the interaction of interviews because I think we usually spend time with people who think like us and validate our ideologies. But I find it enriching to clash and create tension because it's important to access other points of view.

Johana: Yes, definitely.

Did you ever feel like a foreigner coming from Lima to the highlands? And how did you manage to integrate?

Johana: In my case, this is why we fell in love with this environment, this way of seeing life, these towns, and these people. Despite all the past violence, the colonial history, the colonial wound, the generational trauma, I personally feel that Andean populations are not only super resistant but super resilient. There is such a great capacity for regeneration that when you enter these populations as an outsider, you will never be poorly received. On the contrary, you will get the best seat in the house, the biggest plate of food, and be welcomed with open arms and a smile, even though the spaces are small and the food is scarce. I have always been extremely well received. In Lima, I never felt that I belonged, but here I did, and that's why I decided to stay. They made us feel welcome and integrated us very well. That's something that personally blew my mind.

Like you arrived "home."

Johana: Yes. It's amazing how you can come from anywhere and feel that you belong and fit in here. I have never felt questioned; on the contrary, I have always felt listened to, integrated, and related. I am infinitely grateful to these towns and these people for welcoming us and making us feel part of the “ayllu,” part of the community.

Do you feel a connection to Inca astrology?

Johana: The first group of friends we made in the Andes was a group of shamans. In fact, they are all there in the wedding photo. We met them in a brewery in the valley, initially drawn to their textiles. That was what caught our attention, so we approached them to ask where the textiles came from. We had a conversation, and they invited us to a chichería in Ollantaytambo the next day. This group of friends came from a lineage of Chinchero shamans. One in particular, who is well recognized in shamanic circles, is Freddy Quispe Singona, also known as Puma or Pumita. He and his cousins form a community of young people who still practice the magical-religious traditions of the Andes. That was our first group of friends and the reason why, despite not being shamans ourselves, Antonio and I have “mesas.”

What does it mean to have your mesa?

Antonio: A mesa is like a personal magical space that reflects the practice of Andean cosmovision. It includes a ceremonial textile that wraps around certain sacred items, like stones called "guinea pigs," which connect the owner of the mesa with specific sacred places. Each "guinea pig" is fed to complete the mesa and is used for specific purposes, such as unconditional love, healing, or health. This is something a person carries with them at events, when traveling, or when visiting an apu. Shamans and papus use this tool.

Johana: The ceremonial textile is the weaving, the "guinea pig" is what's inside, and the package is called a mesa. It’s also referred to as misa, misana, or mestana.

Antonio: And it is used for healing purposes.

Johana: I don't know if it's important, but I have this book here that talks about our friends, including Freddy, Pumita. He conducted our wedding ceremony and is a very special person. This book was an amazing entry into this group of friends and the magical-religious Andean world. I think our entry into Cusco was perhaps different from that of many people because we entered through the shamanic world.

What are you optimistic about?

Johana: You better answer, because I don't know how to mention them...

Antonio: Well, I am optimistic about our project because I want it to be a space where people truly feel they can connect and understand, where they can deconstruct well-established ideas. As Johana said, we are just a link, a connection. We don't put our signature on anything. What we really want to do is connect people with the broader audience. It's a commercial space for Peruvians in search of their identity and for anyone who wants to explore this cultural diversity. It could also serve as a model for many in other geographical contexts where colonialism and imperialism have caused a loss of cultural diversity. We hope to build spaces for reconnection and response to these issues.

I am very optimistic for you! First of all, congratulations. The first time I visited Alqa, I was really impressed. You had the squash "mates" in the gallery. I'd seen "mates" all my life in the markets, but I never looked at them carefully. When I saw the detail with the magnifying glass, I was amazed. I congratulate you both on the fantastic curation and the collection of the museum. You have a lot to be optimistic about because you are doing a great job. I think everyone who visits your museum leaves enriched.

Johana: Thank you for those words. Sometimes the work can be quite hard, and being here constantly in the daily routine, it can feel like we are advancing in baby steps. But I'm glad to hear those comments and to know that...

They are not baby steps! You have created a truly magical and special space.

Thank you for sharing your time.