Entering the Travesti Sanctuary

The pink coral-colored wall of Hotel Gondolín looms like a psychedelic sentinel in the streets of Buenos Aires. This isn't some quaint tourist trap—it's a 20-year fortress for the hunted, the marginalized, the discarded souls of Argentina's Trans, Travesti, and Non-Binary communities. Yesterday, I stood before its threshold, camera in hand, heart pounding like a cheap drum.

The mosaic plaque on the façade told the raw truth: "Asociacion Gondolin... space of resistance and organization for the travesti/trans community." In a savage world that devours gender-diverse individuals for sport, this building stands as both shelter and battleground.

But the journey to this sacred space was fraught with the dark undercurrents that plague this community. I went alone, trembling with a specific kind of fear reserved for walking into territories where your allies have fallen. My contact Zoe, the lifeline who was supposed to bridge my entry into this world, had become another statistic—victim of a hate crime in 2024. This wasn't just another assignment; this was walking through blood-soaked terrain.

The Mother of the Outcasts

The coordinator wasn't available on my first attempt, but a resident shared her phone number. "She is very sweet," I later discovered, "she goes out of her way for the guests, in her own words, she is like their mother." In a land where family often means rejection, these improvised kin networks become the only shelter from the storm.

With sweating palms and racing thoughts, I scheduled a return visit for Friday. "I had to explain the thing with Zoe," I confessed, "it was really hard for me." The ghosts of the fallen hover over every interaction in this community—each conversation exists in the shadow of those who've been silenced permanently.

I left a physical copy of the second edition of Presente (2022) at the hotel—tangible evidence of a promise kept. The relationship between art and survival here isn't academic; it's visceral. These pages aren't meant for coffee tables but for sustenance, for the nourishment of spirits crushed under the weight of societal indifference.

The Digital Collection as Lifeline

While my physical presence at Hotel Gondolín represents one front in this war, another battle rages in the digital realm. "BESIDE, THE COLLECTION IS UP AND RUNNING, IT WILL KEEP GROWING," came the frantic update, a beacon of hope amid the darkness. The collection materializes on Objkt.com—no longer theoretical but a growing sanctuary online.

This isn't just art for art's sake; it's financial ammunition for a community under siege. The structure is clear and relentless: 50% to Hotel Gondolín, 50% to Bachillerato Mocha Celis (the only high school for gender diversity in Buenos Aires). This isn't charity; it's tactical resource allocation in a prolonged conflict.

As I prepare for my Friday return to the hotel, I can't help but recognize the twisted beauty of this mission—art transformed into shelter, digital creations converted to real-world sanctuary. In a society that seeks to erase these individuals, every submission to the collection becomes an act of resistance, every transaction a small victory in a war most people pretend isn't happening.

The deadline looms—March 15th. The battle continues. And somewhere in Buenos Aires, a mother figure awaits my return, keeping watch over her flock in a world that would prefer they didn't exist at all.