Beyond The Pursuit of El Dorado
Image courtesy of Juan Silva and Fango.
I have never set foot in the Amazon rainforest. Nevertheless, the mythical image of this region captures the wildest corners of my imagination. I can only picture its vastness and wonders through the stories that are told about this place. Often described as a land of mythical creatures and natural mysteries, the Amazon rainforest takes its name from the legendary female warriors of Greek mythology, the Amazons, who were said to have cut off one breast to master archery. When the Spanish colonisers first explored the lengths of the Amazon River in search of El Dorado, a rumoured golden city, they witnessed fierce battles between indigenous tribes and faced hostile encounters with bows and arrows. They drew a parallel between these warriors and the mythical Amazons and, consequently, the area came to be referred to as the “Amazon”. These tales of epic encounters served as propaganda to finance the colonial agenda and exploit the lands in the quest for the legendary city of gold.
Yet the Amazon is only one part of Colombia, the country of my birth. From the majestic peaks of the Andes Mountains to the breathtaking Caribbean coastline, Colombia boasts a whole tapestry of sceneries that captivate the senses. And as I delve deeper into the history of Colombia and its ecosystems, I have stumbled upon the stories of two influential figures in the field of botany: José Celestino Mutis and Alexander von Humboldt. Mutis was a visionary 18th-century botanist, who promoted the ideas of independence and the rediscovery of Colombia through an understanding and documentation of the country’s abundant resources and biodiversity. Similarly, Humboldt, a German naturalist and explorer, embarked on an extraordinary expedition to South America in the early 19th century. Humboldt’s firsthand experiences in Colombia allowed him to witness the unparalleled richness of the country’s natural environment, which greatly influenced his theories on ecology that revolved around the interconnectedness of nature and the importance of studying ecosystems as a whole.
The ideas of independence and the intrinsic value of nature championed by figures like Mutis and Humboldt have left a lasting impact on Colombian culture. These radical thinkers recognised the importance of scientific knowledge and emphasised the significance of the natural world that later supported the ideas of self-governance and emancipation from colonial ties. Their ideas and discoveries sparked a sense of appreciation for the natural biodiversity of Colombia, shaping the country’s cultural identity and artistic expression. In Colombian design, this influence is often discussed in relation to the connection between materials and the local environment, the incorporation of nature-inspired motifs, and an interest in sustainable practices and indigenous making techniques.
This, however, has not always been the case. The history of Colombian design is characterised by a clash between traditional craftsmanship and industrial development. In the 1950s, the country experienced a wave of modernisation and mass production that promised a future that never fully materialised. The emphasis on rapid industrial growth shifted the focus from rural to urban areas, from tradition to the false promises of modernity. This, combined with an inferiority complex influenced by its colonial past, made the country overlook its own heritage and traditions in pursuit of an external identity it did not possess. Local design companies such as Manufacturas Muñoz and Scanform brought Italian-influenced furniture and Scandinavian-style woodwork to Colombia, compounding a strong feeling that validation and inspiration were to be sought from abroad, rather than from ourselves.
For many years, Colombian design, design education and even manufacturing were heavily influenced by international codes and models. I distinctly recall a teacher during my university years in Medellín saying, “Quítenme estas montañas que no me dejan ver” (Take away these mountains that obstruct my view), implying the need to look beyond the valley and seek inspiration abroad. This tendency may be fed by the fact that the city of Medellín is literally nestled between mountains and, due to both its geographical location and the impact of the drug war in the 1980s and 1990s, has remained isolated from the world. This isolation resulted in a culture that turned inward, relying on itself for everything except, perhaps, sources of inspiration. In the absence of external imports, the country instead started to copy international styles and trends with local techniques and materials.
In recent years, however, Colombian designers have been stepping out of the valleys to get inspiration, not from abroad, but from the rainforest. They are climbing mountains, exploring mines, harvesting materials, and working in the field to learn from indigenous knowledge that has been restricted to remote corners of the country. The indirect influence of figures such as Mutis and Humboldt is visible within the work of a new generation of Colombian designers who now find themselves on a similar path, seeking inspiration in nature and embracing the authenticity of traditional craftsmanship, while redefining Colombia’s identity. Creatives are shifting their focus inward, recognising the potential of the country’s own wealth of natural resources and knowledge, giving rise to a unique aesthetic rooted in Colombia’s diversity of landscapes, crafts, materials and techniques.
One designer who embodies this spirit of rediscovery is Francisco Jaramillo, the founder of design studio Fango. Born and raised in Medellín, Jaramillo started studying product design engineering in Colombia and later moved to study furniture design at Elisava in Spain. After gaining experience working for studios abroad, he recognised the untapped potential of the Colombian design scene and decided to return to his homeland to establish his own studio in 2017. Since then, Jaramillo’s work has moved around the exploration of materials and cultural narratives.
Production of Francisco Jaramillo’s Ibuju furniture. (image courtesy of Yohan López and Fango).
Jaramillo’s growing international recognition is closely tied to his exploration of Colombian culture. In parallel, the international design scene is shifting its attention away from a Eurocentric perspective and embracing a broader understanding of design that recognises diverse voices and regions in the world. This shift has opened up opportunities for Jaramillo (and other designers) to showcase the unique aspects of Colombian design and contribute to the global dialogue. There has been a paradigm shift in which Colombian designers no longer seek to mirror the coloniser or follow trends from abroad, but strive to focus on the possibilities of our own local resources and tell our own stories.
One example of this is Jaramillo’s new Ibuju project, which delves deep into the intricacies of the yaré vine and its relationship with the Amazon rainforest. In the indigenous language of the Joti, “Ibuju” signifies vine or liana – an ethnobotanical category exclusively used for plants that require external support to sustain themselves. Scientifically known as Heteropsis Flexuosa, the yaré is a hemiepiphytic plant that germinates in trees before sending roots down to the ground, and is a species that thrives in the tropical zones of the Amazon rainforest.
Indigenous communities in the Amazon regions of Colombia, such as the Murui, Coreguaje, Muinane, Bora, and other settlers, have long utilised native vines for crafting purposes, including the creation of hats, brooms, baskets, and other carrying items. Outside of the Amazon region, yaré has also been employed for many years in various craft techniques such as wickerwork and woven furniture. Yaré species have a consistently good yield of raw material throughout the year, offering a domestic alternative to similar vines such as rattan or mimbre.
Jaramillo’s introduction to the yaré fibre occurred while visiting a family of weavers near Medellín. Initially intending to develop a project using rattan, he realised the potential of the yaré vine and its versatile applications, which he felt “could reduce the need for importing other fibres and subsequently lower the carbon footprint associated with transportation”. Conversations with the craftsmen revealed that local artisans had been using yaré for over 20 years, and that there has been a shift by domestic customers to prefer more locally sourced materials. Rattan, a plant fibre widely used in furniture production, comes from a group of climbing palm species found predominantly in Southeast Asia and also imported from that region. However, despite the previous popularity of imported rattan, the artisans say that domestic yaré is now in high demand.
Motivated by these findings, Jaramillo embarked on researching this Amazonian fibre. His Ibuju furniture collection embodies this exploration, featuring a series of volumes inspired by log furniture that draw a direct association between the vines and the trees that support them. Rather than focusing solely on form, Jaramillo prioritises the material. The resulting tables, benches, and chairs utilise cylindrical structures woven in yaré fibres as a “symbolic replacement of solid blocks of wood”, establishing a connection between wickerwork and ancient forms of wooden furniture. Through his work, Jaramillo not only offers a new platform for yaré, but also fosters an appreciation for the cultural and ecological significance of this traditional resource. Jaramillo aims “to draw attention to the balance between utilising natural resources and preserving the world’s ecosystems.”
While the yaré vine offers a sustainable alternative to materials linked to deforestation, its potential for exploitation raises questions about the fragile equilibrium between alternative production methods, material availability and our responsibility to protect the environment. The fragmentation of natural forests, for example, mainly caused by extensive cattle raising and deforestation, reduces the habitat of the yaré. Additionally, the supply areas for this raw material are growing more distant from urban centres where the country’s artisan workshops and commercial activities are located. As a result, artisans often rely on indigenous people and farmers in the outskirts and marginal areas of the jungle to acquire the vines, making it increasingly challenging to source reliably and sustainably.
Jaramillo emphasises that the disappearance of an ecosystem leads to the loss of numerous species, including traditionally used lianas. “Preserving the Amazon is not only about protecting the environment,” he says, “but also safeguarding the species and crafts that have existed for generations.” The Amazon has often been reduced to a mythical land, which is why it is important to move beyond the romanticised notions that have grown up around it in order to critically examine the relationship between design, exploitation, and ecosystem.
The exploration of non-wood forest products and diversification of materials in local production systems takes centre stage in Jaramillo’s work, and his shift towards rediscovering and embracing the country’s cultural identity and local resources, and exploration of the yaré vine responds to a growing awareness of the environmental impact of materials. The Ibuju project can be seen as establishing new narratives that promote the value of traditional craftsmanship and local materials in a country where mass-produced goods and foreign international styles have often overshadowed authentic cultural and craft expressions – by harnessing the potential of these materials and promoting local production systems, Jaramillo has shown that designers can create exquisite pieces that work to celebrate Colombia’s natural heritage.
Nevertheless, as a designer, I believe that mere representation is not sufficient: designers must actively engage in transformative practices. While narratives play a role in shaping perceptions, stories alone yield little impact. Designers must transcend surface-level aesthetics and delve into the complexities of cultural, social, and environmental contexts. Genuine collaboration and a commitment to shared decision-making with local communities are essential to foster meaningful change.
Susana Mejía, Color Amazonia (2013) part of an exhibition with art installations by Susana Mejía, Pamela Rosenkranz and Anicka Yi, Kunstinstituut Melly 2018 (image courtesy of Susana Mejía, photography by Kristien Daem).
Work of this kind has become common the world over, with designers increasingly interested in creating objects in partnership with local communities that make use of indigenous materials and traditional craft techniques. It is a mode of working that can provide a counterpoint to more familiar methods of industrial design production, but one that can nevertheless replicate equally familiar power structures if the designer is not alert to this danger. Frequently, for example, the designer’s name will be pushed to the forefront of the project, while the artisans who actually produce the work recede into the background. This is a common dynamic within industrial design – manufacturers, for example, rarely disclose their suppliers – but for projects that have more explicitly social ambitions, it quickly amounts to a lack of meaningful representation of the artisans: rather than collaborators, they become producers. Objects can tell powerful stories, but more powerful still are the ecosystems of production and communication that surround them.
This is the challenge facing this kind of design practice, wherever it operates. Design should neither exploit nor overshadow craftspeople, but rather amplify their voices and recognise their agency – something that is particularly important given that the work of indigenous people and artisans has often been utilised in design – whether consciously or unconsciously – as a form of exoticism. In addition to being nameless, makers have often been pushed into the position of representing ambiguous notions of indigenous communities that may be every bit as mythical as perceptions of the Amazon itself. This, in turn, perpetuates a narrative of these communities’ supposed sustainability and harmonious coexistence with nature – a narrative that raises the commercial value of the resultant design, but which the makers themselves are not necessarily the beneficiaries of. While some indigenous communities may embody these values, it is essential to recognise that such generalisations oversimplify the complex realities they face, and we should also question as to whose advantage these narratives are being employed. This form of design has the potential to bring astonishing craft capabilities and material innovation to broad publics, but in doing so it must walk a tightrope of ensuring that it does not inadvertently romanticise the craftsmanship or indigenous sourcing that it sets out to promote and platform. If this balance is unsuccessful, design can ultimately devalue these communities’ cultural contributions and overlook the challenges that they continue to confront in the face of environmental degradation and ongoing marginalisation.
Fortunately, a growing community of Colombian designers have taken up this challenge, actively exploring local materials and traditions. Susana Mejía, for example, is a Colombian artist who has worked with plants and materials from the Amazon over the course of more than two decades. Susana’s project Color Amazonia offers profound research into the untapped potential of native plants used to produce dyes. Mejía has documented, preserved and innovated with natural dyes while developing an extensive library of colours using traditional indigenous methods. Mejía highlights the collaborative nature of her work and pays tribute to the Huitoto indigenous community whom she has worked with from the beginning of the project. While talking with her, she listed the names of some of the Huitoto people with whom she has worked – Kasia, Tomasa and Kathy – and adds that she has collaborated with ethnographers, anthropologists, and chemists to create a colour palette solely based on plants from the Amazon. Mejía’s decision to name all of her collaborators demonstrates that the work is not solely the result of an individual effort, but rather a collective endeavour involving multiple perspectives, skills, and talents.
The unsustainable extraction of resources, the introduction of monoculture agriculture, and the intrusion upon indigenous lands have all contributed to the degradation and loss of the Amazon’s biodiversity. To ensure the long-term continuation of her project, Mejía has established a delimited land area and dedicated farm plots for the cultivation and preservation of native species, from which she can obtain colour pigments for herself and the communities involved. Her work is an ethnobotanical exploration of the Amazon through colour, with an emphasis on process and experimentation, rather than a focus on designing final outcomes.
Unravelling the Coffee Bag by Rosana Escobar (image courtesy of Rosana Escobar).
Another Colombian designer who closely intertwines materials, landscapes and community is Rosana Escobar. Based in Berlin, Escobar creates work that focuses on investigating natural materials and fibres in relation to their ecosystems. Initially trained as a biologist, Escobar later graduated from Design Academy Eindhoven and her work demonstrates a remarkable sensitivity to the relationship between materials and the natural world. In one of her projects, Unravelling the Coffee Bag, she delves into the materiality of coffee bags, both figuratively and literally, by exploring the origins of the fique plant. This endemic succulent plant has been used by indigenous peoples for centuries, long before the arrival of the Spanish, to make garments, ropes and hammocks. Now this plant has been relegated to the far ends of the global production chain of coffee bags, entirely losing its value as a raw fibre. In response, Escobar has established connections and built networks with local stakeholders and various individuals engaged in the production process, ranging from sourcing to large-scale industrial production and disposal. Additionally, she has set up working groups with artisans and Albeiro Camargo, her main collaborator, to explore the potential of design as a tool to give value to the raw materials. In her own words, she seeks to understand everything as part of a living tissue – a human tissue, a material tissue.
These perceptive individuals, among many others,[1] can be seen as trailblazers in the exploration of local materials and the revitalisation of traditional practices with a contemporary twist, resulting in designs that resonate on a global scale. They possess qualities akin to anthropologists, botanists, silversmiths and scientists; my peers and colleagues are reshaping the perception of Colombian design and underscoring the immeasurable value embedded within our materials and traditions. Their designs transcend mere aesthetics, imparting narratives and moving beyond the limitations of local production, all while remaining deeply rooted in our connection to nature and ecosystems.
In light of these works, this article serves as a personal attempt to explore the complexity of what Colombian design may mean today by examining the perspectives and works of my fellow designers, rather than providing a definitive definition. To speak of Colombian design should extend beyond a mere superficial appreciation for nature. It requires an understanding of the local limitations and a comprehensive grasp of the country’s complex history. Colombian design should reflect a nuanced response to social, environmental, and economic challenges, acknowledging the struggles and aspirations of the diverse communities that shape its identity. We have moved beyond the hopeless pursuit of El Dorado, and now draw inspiration from the depths of our forests and the landscapes around us. Driven by the allure of wealth and riches, our obsession with finding this mythical place blinded us to the true wonders and diversity of the lands that surround us.
In an era of globalisation, where cultural boundaries are increasingly blurred, recognising the worth of our own materials and establishing a distinctive design identity becomes an act of defiance against homogeneity. It is a process that is almost the same as the manner in which Colombia achieved its independence: instead of aspiring to be something else, we are discovering and embracing our true nature.
Simón Ballen Botero is a Colombian designer and researcher whose work focuses on materials.
[1] For those who wish to dive deeper, the work of Camila Pardo, Daniel Ramos Obregón, Natalia Criado and María Cano also deserves recognition.
Words Simón Ballen Botero
This article was originally published in Design Reviewed #2. To buy the issue, or subscribe to the journal, please visit the online shop.