Alberto Stangarone is a Venezuelan musician, producer and creative director. Through Todosantos, he was part of an independent Venezuelan music scene that emerged at the intersection of electronic production, the internet, global musical references and a country with very little infrastructure for the kind of music they wanted to make. His trajectory later took him from Venezuela to New York and eventually Mexico, where he has lived for more than a decade.
I spoke with Alberto for more than two hours.
I had prepared an interview, but the conversation did not behave much like one. We moved between Todosantos, Simón Díaz, Rawayana, New York, Mexico, migration, class, technology and Venezuelan identity. Because I knew many of the references, I was not simply collecting his memories. I was remembering alongside him.
That matters to my research.
My own relationship with Venezuelan music and migration influenced what I noticed, which stories I followed and what felt significant. The conversation became less about extracting Alberto’s experience and more about what could emerge when two differently positioned Venezuelans tried to make sense of a cultural history they had both inhabited.
One apparent contradiction stayed with me.
Alberto describes his identity as something generated in Venezuela but matured elsewhere. Yet when he was young in Venezuela, he was not particularly interested in becoming more Venezuelan. Quite the opposite.
He remembers looking outside the country for cultural references. Foreign music felt more exciting, sophisticated and contemporary. With the exception of figures such as Simón Díaz, traditional Venezuelan music was something he explored much more seriously as an adult.
New York complicated this.
Alberto had imagined himself as belonging to an international cultural world. He even jokes that, from the privileged position he occupied in Venezuela, he could imagine himself as “Julian Casablancas.” Leaving changed the coordinates.
In New York he was also positioned as Latin American, as an immigrant and, at times, as marginal. He describes discovering that he was “more Latin and more Venezuelan” than he had previously thought, partly because other people and institutions now encountered him through those categories.
This distinction feels important.
Migration did not reveal an authentic Venezuelan identity that had been hiding underneath.
It changed the position from which Venezuelanness could be understood.
Thinking through Stuart Hall, this moves me away from identity as a possession—something we have, lose or preserve—and towards identity as a process of positioning. The interesting question is not simply Who is Alberto? but: under what circumstances does being Venezuelan become meaningful to him?
The conversation about Tuki made this even clearer.
Alberto remembers tuki being used within his own relatively privileged social environment as a derogatory category: something vulgar, marginal, something a sifrino might use to describe what was socially beneath them.
Then Alberto experienced marginality himself.
After returning from New York, Todosantos began engaging with Tuki sounds. Not by attempting to reproduce them faithfully—they mixed them with IDM, 8-bit electronics and their own references. Alberto explicitly calls it their interpretation.
What interests me here is not simply musical hybridity.
It is a change in cultural value.
A form previously encountered from a position of social distance became meaningful after Alberto’s own position had changed. His encounter with marginality elsewhere altered how he could relate to marginality at home.
So the movement is more complicated than:
Venezuela → migration → nostalgia.
It might look more like:
privilege → distance from local culture → migration → marginalisation → recognition → reinterpretation.
Culture does not remain in the same place during this process. Neither does the person interpreting it.
The interview also made me think differently about the historical moment in which Todosantos appeared. Alberto describes the project as emerging during a technological transition: from expensive studios and physical recording formats towards laptops, FruityLoops, Pro Tools, Ableton, MySpace and YouTube. At the same time, Venezuela offered very little music-industry infrastructure, while New York represented what he calls a space of maximum cultural possibility.
His biography therefore cannot be separated easily from the conditions around it.
A particular generation of Venezuelan musicians was looking outward at the same moment that digital technologies made looking outward radically easier—and while political, economic and cultural conditions increasingly encouraged many of them to leave.
The interview begins to look less like the story of one musician and more like a small window into a historical conjuncture.
This also changes how I understand Alberto’s comments about Rawayana.
He describes them as having consciously become a band of the Venezuelan diaspora. Seeing them perform in Mexico, he experienced the concert almost as “the Venezuela possible”: a version of the country capable of producing an optimism that his generation had struggled to experience in the territory itself.
That phrase fascinates me.
Because perhaps diaspora does not simply remember a nation.
It can also represent a nation that does not yet—or no longer—exist in quite that form.
And representation is never neutral. The Venezuela produced through Rawayana is one possible Venezuela among many. The Tuki reconstructed by Todosantos is one articulation of Tuki. Alberto’s memories of Venezuela are produced from the position he occupies now, after New York, after eleven years in Mexico, after everything that happened in between.
This may be the most important shift produced by the conversation.
I started my research concerned with what survives migration.
After speaking with Alberto, I am becoming more interested in what migration rearranges.
Perhaps the question is not whether Venezuelan identity survives intact, but how its meanings are repeatedly reorganised through class, displacement, cultural encounters, technology, marginalisation and time.
Towards the end of this reflection, another question remains open. Alberto’s daughter is growing up from a different cultural position from his own. What she understands as Venezuela cannot simply reproduce what Venezuela meant to him.
That feels less like an answer than a direction for the next stage of my research:
How do these changing, contradictory versions of Venezuelanness travel between people who occupy different places, generations and historical positions?
For now, Alberto’s interview has made one thing much harder for me to believe: that there is a single Venezuelan identity waiting somewhere to be preserved.
Perhaps the more interesting work is to understand when, where and under what conditions we keep becoming Venezuelan.
Not another promise of salvation, nor an attempt to resolve through art what politics has failed to resolve.
After the double earthquake in Venezuela, many Venezuelans abroad described the disorienting experience of continuing with ordinary life: travelling to work, answering emails, meeting deadlines, while knowing that something devastating had happened in a country already living through profound instability.
Politically, there is no clear horizon. Both sides offer promises that repeatedly dissolve into time gained, closed-door negotiations and suspended expectations.
Is it possible to release music from some of that weight?
I admire Venezuelan comedians because they understand this intuitively. Humour does not deny the seriousness of what is happening. It creates enough distance from pain for people to recognise themselves, reconnect with others and continue. It loosens the wrist—soltar la muñeca—when the body and imagination have become rigid from carrying too much.
This first intervention took the form of a Venezuelan listening session/party in a bar in London. My intention was to test whether Venezuelan musical heritage could be activated socially through sound, rather than only explained through words, archives, or formal discussion. I wanted to understand whether a curated musical environment could open conversations around migration, memory, identity, belonging and cultural transmission.
The intervention was also connected to my positionality. I have been outside Venezuela for 16 years, and before doing this project I felt uncertain about my authority to speak about Venezuelan musical heritage, especially its more contemporary forms. I felt distant from that identity. However, the process of researching, collecting, listening to and curating the music became part of the intervention before the event even happened. Spending hours listening to Venezuelan music, reading lyrics, selecting tracks and discovering material that did not make it into the final set made me feel Venezuelan again. That was unexpected and deeply moving.
For the party, I placed a letter on each table in the bar. One side included a short description of the project and a QR code linking to a form. The other side included the words “Listening Session” and “Venezuela”, alongside a short curatorial text explaining how Venezuela lives its music through contradiction, and how migration has made this sonic heritage live through mutation, sampling and remixing. The text proposed that, for many of us, Venezuela exists as sound.
During the first two hours, I focused mainly on the musical curation because people were already seated and more attendees were arriving. I began mixing the music documented in my attached HISTORY.html tracklist, which moves across older and newer Venezuelan references: Simón Díaz, Edward Simon, Alberto Naranjo & El Trabuco, Los Amigos Invisibles, La Lupe, Oscar D’León, Canserbero, Rawayana, Arca, DJ Babatr, Safety Trance and others. The tracklist itself became evidence of how I was trying to sonically connect heritage, popular memory, diaspora, remix, electronic mutation and contemporary Venezuelan cultural production.
The session did not present Venezuelan music as something fixed, pure or nostalgic. Instead, the set moved between tonada, joropo, salsa, Latin jazz, folklore, rap, hip hop, Afro House, Tukky Bass, electronic music and club sounds. This reflected one of the central ideas of the intervention: Venezuelan musical heritage is not only preserved by repeating the past, but also by allowing it to mutate.
After two or three hours of mixing, I gathered the courage to walk around the tables and speak with attendees. This was an important shift. Until that point, I had been communicating mainly through sound and atmosphere. Speaking with people made the intervention more relational. My way of initiating these interactions was by asking to take a photograph:
I asked people how they felt, whether they felt comfortable, whether they were Latin American or not, whether they had heard Venezuelan music before, and whether they knew about the Venezuelan migration situation. One thing that surprised me was that everyone I spoke to was a migrant in some way. This made me think about London as a city where it is difficult to find someone who feels “local local”. The context of migration was not external to the event; it was already present in the room.
When I asked people to complete the form through the QR code, the quantitative results were limited:
Views: 15 Starts: 6 Submissions: 2
This became one of the clearest learnings from the intervention. The form existed, but it did not capture the richness of what was happening in the room. People were more willing to speak informally than to complete a structured form. I also noticed that I do not feel comfortable offering something in exchange for a form response. I do not want participation to become transactional. If someone does not want to answer with intention or willingness, I do not feel interested in forcing that data.
This raises an important methodological question for the next iteration: perhaps the most meaningful data in this project will not come from forms, but from recorded conversations, voice notes, oral reflections, informal testimonies, or collective listening sessions where people can respond in a more embodied and spontaneous way.
One of the most memorable moments was a conversation with a Colombian attendee. During the conversation, we spoke about the historical and emotional closeness between Colombia and Venezuela, including the fact that both countries were once part of the same larger national project. At one point, he hugged me.
This surprised me because I have become used to a more polite and physically distanced London social code. The hug interrupted that distance. It felt like something had softened. I wonder whether the music, the conversation, or the shared regional memory made him feel closer to home in some way.
This makes me think that the outputs of an intervention like this may not only be verbal responses, form submissions or measurable data. A hug can also be evidence. A change in body language can be evidence. A person staying longer, asking questions, smiling, dancing, recognising a rhythm or feeling comfortable enough to cross a social boundary can also be part of the research. These are not easy to quantify, but they may be central to understanding how music preserves identity through affect, atmosphere and embodied memory.
This intervention also carried a very personal emotional weight. Shortly before the event, I found out that my grandmother was entering hip surgery after waiting two weeks for her turn in a hospital in Lima, Peru. She is 86 years old. Minutes before starting the party, I was able to wish her a good operation.
Three hours later, I received the message that she had come out successfully. I sent a video to my mother with “Alma Llanera” playing in the background. Only then did I feel able to relax a little and release some of the anxiety I had been carrying.
This moment made the project feel even more personal. The question of preserving Venezuelan musical heritage was not abstract. The music became a way to connect my body in London, my mother, my grandmother in Peru, and Venezuela as an emotional and sonic place. In that moment, Alma Llanera was not only a song; it was a way of sending relief, love and identity across distance. The HISTORY tracklist also records Alma Llanera as part of the session, which now feels important as emotional evidence, not only musical documentation.
I am still not sure whether this first action fully counts as a “proper” intervention. It did not produce a large amount of formal data, and I still need to investigate the research question more deeply. However, I now understand that its value may be different from what I expected.
This first intervention helped me break the first shell. It allowed me to publicly show my intention. It allowed me to test the courage of bringing Venezuelan musical heritage into a public social space in London. It also helped me understand that my research is not only about preserving music for others; it is also about repairing my own relationship with Venezuelan identity after migration.
In this sense, the intervention did generate knowledge. It revealed that:
Music can create conditions for conversation without needing to explain everything first. Informal conversations may be more generative than forms. Migrant audiences may respond to Venezuelan music through their own experiences of displacement. Embodied reactions, such as hugs, comfort, curiosity or emotional openness, may be valid research evidence. My own positionality is not a limitation to hide, but a central part of the project. Preservation may not mean keeping heritage unchanged; it may mean allowing it to survive through remix, mutation, memory and social use.
After speaking with Edo and Carolene, colleagues from the MA course, I reflected more critically on the questions I wanted to ask that night and whether they were answered in any way. They helped me consider the balance between what I wanted to say and what I wanted to receive.
The idea of putting 20% of my effort into what I want to say and 80% into what I want to receive feels like a strong challenge for the next intervention. In this first version, I was still carrying a lot of authorial intention: the curatorial text, the music selection, the QR code, the atmosphere, the desire to communicate a position. For the next iteration, I want to design a structure that listens more actively.
This connects to the MA Applied Imagination emphasis on iterative testing, reflection and the development of research tools. The course asks students to undertake interventions, gather evidence, reflect on outcomes and refine the research question and methodology through practice.
The main methodological learning is that the form may not be the right tool for this kind of research, or at least not the central one. The low response rate suggests that the QR code did not match the social rhythm of the event. People were present in the atmosphere, in conversation, in music, in drinking, in listening. Completing a form may have felt too administrative for the emotional and social space that had been created.
For future interventions, I want to explore more organic ways of collecting data, such as:
A small recording booth or “voice-note station” where people can leave a short response after hearing a song. Consent-based recorded conversations during or after the event. A prompt card asking people to answer one question verbally rather than through a form. A collective listening circle with fewer people and deeper dialogue. Asking participants to bring one song that connects them to home, migration or family. Documenting gestures, movements, reactions and atmosphere through field notes immediately after the event.
The important ethical question is how to record without breaking trust. The next intervention should make consent visible and simple: people should know when they are being recorded, why, how the recording will be used, and that they can say no. I want to explore recording not as extraction, but as a way of preserving oral memory and emotional response.
This first intervention was cathartic. It was emotionally strong and personally transformative. It did not fully answer my research question, but it helped me understand what I need to ask next.
The intervention helped me move from research as an idea to research as a lived public action. It was not perfect, but it was necessary. It gave me evidence, discomfort, emotion, feedback and direction. Most importantly, it made me feel that Venezuela can exist as sound — and that sound can still gather people, even far from home.
Here is the track list
Track List: HISTORY
Num.
Title
Artist
Time
BPM
Track
Label
Genre
Key
Remixer
Producer
Release Date
Bitrate
1
Tonada De Luna Llena
Simón Díaz
03:08
87.898
7
Palacio
Tonada; Joropo
2m
arranger
1974/01/01
320000
2
Caracas
Edward Simon
06:28
74.712
2
Latin Jazz
11d
2014/01/01
320000
3
Canto de Lavanderas
Trabajo y Persona & Ensamble B11
02:43
58.455
4d
2021/01/01
320000
4
San Juan, Tambor Y Fuera
Un Dos Tres y Fuera
05:13
80.173
11
Rock; Latin; Prog Rock; Experimental; Psychedelic Rock
10m
845000
5
Caracas
Edward Simon
06:28
74.712
2
Latin Jazz
11d
2014/01/01
320000
6
Calipso Del Callao
Alberto Naranjo & El Trabuco
04:16
55.393
4
Other
9d
256000
7
Caracas
Edward Simon
06:28
74.712
2
Latin Jazz
11d
2014/01/01
320000
8
Calipso Del Callao
Alberto Naranjo & El Trabuco
04:16
55.393
4
Other
9d
256000
9
Insolito UniVerso – 2023 Ese Puerto Existe (Venezuela) – 04. El Chivo (ft. Laetitia Sadier)
08:40
80.250
4m
269000
10
Intro
Los Amigos Invisibles
00:36
93.964
1
3m
2000/01/01
320000
11
Arepa 3000
Los Amigos Invisibles
02:36
110.002
2
2d
2000/01/01
320000
12
Toma Cinco
Grupo Baquedanu’s
03:16
119.150
6
El Palmas Music
Latin Jazz / Latin Folk / Pop
12m
2022/01/01
988000
13
Masturbation Session
Los Amigos Invisibles
04:54
118.000
7
11d
2000/01/01
320000
14
Aldemaro en su Camaro
Los Amigos Invisibles
03:32
105.069
18
Electronic Funk Jazz Jazz-Funk Latin Jazz
1m
1998/03/24
854000
15
Mercedes
Simon Diaz Simón Díaz
02:53
91.328
2
Latin
2m
(C) 2015 El Palacio de la Musica, S.A. (P) 2015 El Palacio de la Música, S.A.
2015/09/04
827958
16
Si Yo Fuera
Los Vasallos del Sol
03:44
67.688
3
Network Medien
Afro-Cuban, Afro-Latin
6m
2000/01/01
939095
17
Contrapunteo
La Lupe
02:49
80.425
5
Latin
3d
1966/01/01
320000
18
Si Yo Fuera
Los Vasallos del Sol
03:44
67.688
3
Network Medien
Afro-Cuban, Afro-Latin
6m
2000/01/01
939095
19
Negra Linda
Porfi Jimenez y Su Orquesta Chico Salas Orlando Castillo “Watussi”
03:30
65.383
3
Tropical
1m
1975/01/01
192000
20
Llorarás
Dimension Latina
03:49
92.931
1
6m
℗ 1974 Musart-Balboa, a division of Concord Music Group, Inc.
This Thursday, at Behind This Wall, I will be doing something that I’m still trying to understand while I build it.
For four hours, I will curate and play Venezuelan music. Not in a linear way. Not as a historical timeline. Not as a “best of Venezuela” playlist. More as an experiment to see what happens when different sounds, moments, voices, and memories from Venezuela are placed next to each other in the same room.
The idea is to show diversity.
Venezuelan music is not one thing. It can be folkloric, electronic, romantic, political, nostalgic, popular, experimental, funny, painful, soft, loud, local, global. It can come from inside Venezuela or from outside. It can be made by people who are deeply connected to tradition, or by people who are simply carrying fragments of that identity somewhere else.
I’m interested in that complexity.
During the set, I will also play small audio fragments between some songs. These will come from interviews, references, or mentions of Venezuelan culture and identity. Some will be in Spanish, others in English. Some might speak from a more “pure” idea of what being Venezuelan means. Others might come from the outside, from a foreign or tourist perspective.
I want to use these fragments almost like samples. Not to explain everything, but to guide the listening a little bit. To make the audience aware that the next song is not just a song, but part of a wider conversation about identity, memory, and culture.
There will also be printed cards placed on the tables of the bar.
On one side, each card will have a lyrical extract from a Venezuelan song. I’m interested in lyrics because they can work almost like small photographs of a culture. A line from a song can reveal a way of speaking, a way of loving, a way of missing home, a political feeling, a landscape, a joke, a sadness, or a shared memory.
These lyrics will come from different times and different kinds of Venezuelan music. Each one will be referenced, so people can know where it comes from.
On the other side of the card, there will be a short text explaining why I’m doing this, who I’m doing it for, and what kind of listening I’m inviting people into.
I will also support the night with projected visuals. I don’t want the visuals to explain Venezuela literally. I want them to help create an atmosphere, and to make the room feel more connected to the music.
Another interesting part of this experiment is the bar itself.
Behind This Wall does not have a traditional cocktail menu. People order based on what they feel, what they want, or what they are craving. The bartender then interprets that and makes something for them.
I want to observe that too.
How do people order drinks in a room filled with Venezuelan music? Does the sound affect what they ask for? Does the atmosphere change the way people describe what they want? This becomes another form of data for me.
Photography and video will also be part of the documentation. I want to capture the night not only as an event, but as a research process. I want to see who dances, who listens, who reads the cards, who recognises a song, who asks questions, and who experiences the music for the first time.
Ashworth and Larkham’s idea of “building a new heritage” helps me question whether Venezuelan musical heritage can be preserved only by protecting inherited forms, or whether migration requires the construction of a new heritage shaped by memory, remix, reinterpretation and diaspora.
Virgil Abloh’s distinction between the tourist and the purist helps me reflect on my own position. As someone Venezuelan by upbringing and Peruvian by lineage, I am both inside and outside Venezuelan culture. This dual position allows me to approach Venezuelan musical heritage with affection, but also with critical distance. I am not interested in defending purity; I am interested in understanding how heritage moves, mutates and becomes meaningful for future generations.
Lowenthal’s idea that “the past is a foreign country” resonates with my experience of having spent 16 years away from Venezuela. The Venezuela I remember and the Venezuela that exists today may no longer be the same place. This makes musical preservation complex: the archive must not only preserve my memory of Venezuela, but open space for multiple memories and present-day transformations.
Laurajane Smith’s Uses of Heritage helps me understand heritage as something communities use to create meaning, identity and belonging, rather than something that simply exists in objects or official categories. In my project, each song in the archive can be understood through its use: as memory, nostalgia, pride, resistance, migration testimony, remix material or future inheritance.
My research network begins with Venezuelan artists, producers, DJs, cultural organisers and listeners who are connected to musical memory, migration, remix culture and contemporary reinterpretation. Because my project asks how Venezuelan musical heritage can be preserved, transformed and transmitted through a living archive, I need a network that includes both people who create music and people who carry music as collective memory.
My first network is personal and community-based. I have friends and contacts within the Venezuelan artistic and musical circuit, including artists who began shaping Caracas’ contemporary music scene in the 2000s. This generation is important because it witnessed a shift in how Venezuelan music could sound: electronic production, indie scenes, nostalgia, remix practices and urban reinterpretations started to create new ways of expressing Venezuelan identity beyond traditional forms. These contacts are not only potential participants; they are cultural witnesses whose practices can help me understand how Venezuelan music has already been transformed across time, migration and reinterpretation.
As evidence that this network is already active, I have spoken with Alberto Stangarone, a Venezuelan artist, musician, producer and creative director whose practice is relevant to my research. Stangarone was part of Todosantos, a Caracas-based project whose album Aeropuerto became significant for a generation of listeners. The album used nostalgic reinterpretations and contemporary production to build a new musical landscape for Caracas, opening possibilities for later artists. His project, Sunsplash, is also important because it works with remix culture: original tracks were often expanded through remixes by other artists, a practice common in electronic music that allows one musical idea to grow into multiple interpretations.
Speaking with Stangarone helps me test one of the central tensions of my project: whether Venezuelan musical heritage can be preserved not by freezing it, but by allowing it to be remixed, reinterpreted and transformed into future cultural memory.
My first intervention, Archive 001, will activate this network through a chain invitation method. I will invite Venezuelan artists and migrants to contribute one song to a Padlet-based archive, explain the memory or meaning behind it, and then invite another Venezuelan to participate. This allows the archive to grow through trust, relationships and collective memory rather than through an anonymous open call.
My second network will include Venezuelan artists working with remix, reinterpretation and diasporic sound. My third network will include podcast guests, music journalists, playlist curators, cultural researchers and Venezuelan listeners who can help me understand how music circulates, disappears and reappears across migration.
I bring to this network my own position as a Venezuelan abroad, my practice as a music producer, and my interest in collective intelligence and cultural imagination. What I offer participants is a space where their musical memories and references can become part of a living archive. The driving forces will be pride, visibility, reconnection and artistic curiosity. The restraining forces may be distrust, lack of time, copyright concerns, political fear or digital fatigue. My role is to make participation simple, safe and meaningful enough for people to continue the chain.
How can Venezuelan musical heritage be preserved despite migration for future generations’ cultural identity?
WHY
As a Venezuelan abroad, I understand Venezuelan identity as something carried through songs, memories, news, images, jokes and cultural symbols. These fragments connect us to where we come from, but they can also keep us attached to the past.
Venezuela is experiencing a historical paradox: the past has become emotionally dominant, while the future feels uncertain or threatening. This affects Venezuelans inside and outside the country. Migration has not only displaced people; it has also displaced memories, relationships, expectations and cultural practices (Granado, 2026).
This matters because Venezuelan migration is one of the largest displacement movements in the world, with nearly 7.9 million Venezuelan refugees and migrants living outside the country (UNHCR, 2026).
Contemporary Venezuelan music is already being deeply shaped by migration. Many Venezuelan artists now create from outside the country, and some of the most internationally visible Venezuelan musicians have emerged from the diaspora (Remezcla, 2026). Migration is therefore not only a context around Venezuelan music; it has become one of the forces transforming how Venezuelan music is made, heard and recognised.
In this context, preserving Venezuelan musical heritage cannot mean only looking back at traditional forms. Joropo, for example, has been recognised by UNESCO as part of Venezuela’s intangible cultural heritage, combining music, poetry, singing, dancing and collective celebration (UNESCO, 2025). However, preservation also requires paying attention to the present: to the songs, remixes, samples, reinterpretations and experimental practices through which Venezuelans are already processing displacement, nostalgia, adaptation and belonging.
This research proposes a living musical archive as a point of encounter and recognition for Venezuelans. It asks how the music marked by this migratory moment can be collected, understood and transmitted to those who come after us.
HOW
This research proposes a community-based musical archive where Venezuelans can contribute memories, references and reinterpretations.
I will create a three-stage archive methodology.
Archive 001: Heritage, Nostalgia and Symbol will be a Padlet-based community collection of musical memories from Venezuelan migrants and artists abroad. It will use a chain invitation method: each participant will contribute one song connected to Venezuela, share the memory or meaning behind it, and invite another Venezuelan to do the same. This will allow the archive to grow through trust, personal networks and collective memory.
Archive 002: Remix and Reinterpretation will collect remixes and contemporary reinterpretations of Venezuelan music, exploring how heritage is already being transformed.
Archive 003: Future Production will invite new musical sketches or productions inspired by the archive, testing whether it can become a creative resource for future Venezuelan sound.
The project will be developed ethically through consent, participant choice, copyright awareness, stakeholder feedback and reflective documentation.
WHAT IF
If successful, this project will create a living musical archive that helps Venezuelans abroad understand their heritage not as something frozen in the past, but as something that can be remixed, transformed and projected into the future. It could support pride, visibility, cultural transmission and new creative production.
Professionally, this project connects to my practice as a music producer, artist and cultural organiser. I am interested in music as a tool for collective intelligence, collaboration and cultural imagination.
