Branches, clay, flowers, linen, lead, paper, stones, threads, tree roots, wood—and Perla. Though her name evokes the pearl—a iridescent natural gemstone formed inside mollusks—Mexican sculptor and painter Perla Krauze (b. 1953) finds beauty not only in the rare wonders of the world, but in the small, everyday objects she encounters.
Once aspiring to become an archaeologist—and even studying archeology for a year in her youth—Krauze finds interesting materials wherever she goes: whether along the city streets of Mexico City, across the dramatic volcanic landscapes of El Pedregal in Cabo San Lucas, or among the ancient archaeological sites of Cuicuilco and Copilco, early settlements later covered over by lava from the eruption of the Xitle volcano nearly 3000 years ago. Or rather, as she suggests, they find her. Imbuing each material with lyrical qualities—she describes stones, for instance, as “eternal,” holding temporality and geological memory—she attributes to them a kind of equal agency. “The stone feels I can work with it,” she says. “It allows me… to play with it, move it around, inscribe it, draw on it, or place it near another stone.”
Though she does not shy away from precious materials—echoing the valuable nacre her name invokes—her practice resists the logic of alchemy. Where alchemists once sought to transform lead into gold in pursuit of perfecting it, Krauze’s transformations are less about refinement than about relation: giving prominence to the small through recontextualising, reframing, or repositioning them within “a larger installation or ‘constellation’ of elements.” This notion of constellations carries a cosmological resonance. She describes her found materials as “fragments of this vast universe, this infinite cosmos,” offering a way to understand the small as monumental. A pebble is a fragment of a stone, which is a fragment of a mountain or volcano, which is a fragment of earth, which is a fragment of The Earth—just as this floating rock itself, as inconceivably large as it seems, is but a speck within an “infinite cosmos.” And so it goes on indefinitely…
Within this vastness, Krauze’s work remains deeply rooted in Mexico. In particular, she refers to the volcanoes Popocatépetl and Iztaccíhuatl, whose presence shapes both the physical topology and imaginative landscape of Mexico City. She uses volcanic materials such as recinto volcanico and tezontle—lightweight, porous stones common throughout the region—within her work. Their significance lies not in their rarity, but in their commonality: they belong to the “daily imagery,” becoming a means to speak about place and identity. These materials also define Mexico City’s built environment, from Mesoamerican structures to colonial architecture and the postwar modernism of Luis Barragán—including the incomparable Casa Estudio Luis Barragán (1948), Casa Pedregal/Prieto-López (1947–1950), Jardines del Pedregal de San Angel (1945–1952), and Museo Anahuacalli (1955). Krauze is not alone in her use and reverence of these materials.
Drawing on architectural forms—as well as ladders, staircases, and other ascending structures—Krauze’s practice unfolds within a “sanctuary” of her own. Photographed by David William Baum, it is here, in El Taller—a two-storey building on a narrow street in the Roma neighbourhood, with labyrinthine rooms, wooden stairs, stave floors, and a large, light-filled studio—that the materials she gathers “live and relate.” Continuously sorting, stacking, suspending, moving, touching, walking into, and inhabiting them, it is a space of constant transformation. “There,” she says, “the utmost relationships take place.”
Well, do I find them or do they find me? Like with rocks, they are always on my path, and suddenly I reach out and there they are. I see the overlooked all the time, and I try to find ways to make them “visible.” The cracks on a sidewalk—everybody passes them by, but I trace them and make imprints with them with a chunk of graphite and fabric, making them visible and transforming them into a new landscape.
Stones have a temporality that interests me. They have a geological memory that speaks of the place and time they were formed, and this fascinates me.
Every stone speaks about the time it was formed. Whether it has fossils or whether it was once volcanic rock or sandstone, every stone speaks the language of time.
I tend to use fragments as they are generally overlooked and seen as not important, but these fragments and discarded materials always have a story to tell—and when installed together, they become even more meaningful than when they are on their own.
On the other hand, they can be infinitely small, which fascinates me. Again, I am interested in how to make the small and the minute become almost monumental. Afterall, [when you really think about it] they are all fragments of this vast universe, this infinite cosmos.
As I said before, when I choose a stone—or when a stone chooses me—I feel it has become a little more “mine.” The stone feels I can work with it: it allows me, or perhaps I allow myself, to play with it, move it around, inscribe it, draw on it, or place it near another stone; to instal it as part of a larger installation or “constellation” of elements, inhabiting them, or as a larger piece in its own right.
Materials have souls, yes. Each material speaks of the place from which it has come, and expresses the qualities intrinsic to its nature: stone is almost eternal, it has geological memory; black ceramic is fragile; lead is toxic and soft, it holds the memory of the time within itself. There is a kind of honesty in their expression, through materiality and memory.
The Pedregal is a site, a landscape—a very important site and landscape—in Mexico City. Not only is it a geographical site, but it is also an important ecological one that has extraordinary specimens of local flora and fauna that help the filtration of the waters. This is generally overlooked and I want to make it visible again.
Mexican mythology, I believe, is inscribed on all of us Mexicans. All archeological sites, whether small or large, are important. They have monumentality, creating a relationship between heavens and earth, the sublime and the undercurrent.
Archaeology is important. In fact, I wanted to be an archaeologist, but I only studied for one year. Still, it is always significant to think about how time, memory, and specific sites carry strong cosmological significance.
Copilco and Cuiculco were built before Teotihuacan, in the area where Pedregal exists. When the Xitle volcano erupted, the inhabitants had to leave. It is the first circular, monumental archeological site and presence in the valley of Mexico, which is filled with volcanoes. We love the Popocatépetl and Iztaccíhuatl, and their legends. They are always a reference for those of us from Mexico City. The volcanoes have erupted and made these landscapes part of our daily imagery.
I do think working with volcanic recinto—or basalt stones—is talking about Mexico. These stones were used not only for the monumental sculptures of the old Aztecs, but also for metates (ground stone tools used to grind maize into paste or flour for tortillas), so they have a powerful Mexican history. Because they are Mexican, of course, I have a strong bonding with them. It has become important to use them as a material in my work. They are also used in architecture, from Mesoamerican to colonial times. In Mexico City, one can find tezontle—the red version of recinto volcanico—on walls and floors. And then, of course, Barragán used it so extraordinarily in his architecture.
Architecture has been part of my practice, even if I did not know it, for a long time. Architecture appeared in my life as a way to inhabit a place, space, materials, our world. Staircases are everywhere too. They are a constant in the Mexican anthropological sites. Ascending and descending, they become our ancestry.
Ladders and staircases symbolise not only ascending into the heavens or descending into the underworld, but also they express transformation: up, down, sideways.
For all of humankind, it is about the movement of ascending to the cosmos—such an important path. The ascent of the ladder and staircase becomes a symbol of the sublime. For me, it symbolises ways for change to happen. I am continuously moving elements in my studio, and installations in space also unfold as they do in daily life. Change lets us exchange their parameters. [These forms] can sometimes be large—ladders that become huge and elongated—but they can also be small and made in all kinds of materials. Lately, I have been making golden bronze ones that do not have a patina. Gold leaf and gold metals are materials I use to talk about ephemerality and permanence.
Long ago, the alchemists sought to transform lead into gold. Gold is a material that does not rust and becomes almost timeless. This speaks of the ephemeral and the permanent, the organic and the geometric, etc.
The work always speaks of dualities—an important concept. The work I do is made in a silent way. It is quiet—mostly silent, yet strong. It needs to be strong, speaking to the essence of human beings in a complex world in a simpler, more essential way.
True, I do employ these [strategies]. Maybe, in the beginning, that came from looking at craftsmen stacking their materials or suspending them, generally [in search of] more space.
The way things are installed in space relates to basic order and simple structures. Geometrically, the grid helps. In a way, it kind of liberates me—and maybe us all—so [I] can keep all the chaos inside.
The sensory experience is so important; touching, getting close to, walking into, and inhabiting the work is of the utmost importance. How to inhabit a material, a piece, a place—for me, this becomes absolutely essential.
Again, each material speaks of its [innate] qualities; each one evokes the place it comes from—the fragility, the strength, the lightness of its being…
El Taller is very important to me. It is where all the elements live and relate, and where boundaries are crossed: the large with the small, the heavy with the light… The materials get together and talk in a complex way. In this very attuned space, the small becomes almost monumental. We inhabit space in so many ways… so yes, it could be said it is my sanctuary. There, the utmost relationships take place.
