Interview with Claudia Casarino: The Artist Using Textiles to Challenge Discrimination and Stereotyp
Marzieh Eslami had the opportunity to speak with Claudia Casarino, a Paraguayan artist whose powerful textile-based works confront stereotypes and societal pressures—particularly those imposed on women. Through photography, video, installation, and layered symbolism, Casarino channels empathy and conviction into her art, aiming to reshape the world with each creation.
"I’m truly grateful for this conversation. I first discovered your work six years ago, while studying fashion design. I was searching online for inspiration and came across your installation ‘Uniform’ on Pinterest. Intrigued, I traced it back to you. What drew me in even more was learning that you weren’t European. Your perspective felt much closer to mine—less distant than a Western viewpoint."
Casarino responded warmly:
"You're going to make me cry. I've always focused on the voices of women outside the white European framework. That’s who I speak to through my art. I come from a small, landlocked country in the heart of South America—Paraguay. It's rare for artists like me to be shown in places like Algeria, Bahrain, or Jordan. The art world often flows through Europe or New York, making it difficult to connect with other regions."
Asked to share her artistic journey, Casarino reflected:
"I started late—at 22. Before that, I was a professional squash player for Paraguay. Art school only became a formal university career in Paraguay in 1996, and I was part of the first cohort. Initially, I wanted to be an art historian, not an artist. But then a local newspaper held a contest for young artists, and the prize was a trip to Ecuador for a biennial. I unexpectedly won, despite being only in my first semester. That trip changed everything."
"Later, my mother moved to New York, and I began traveling there. I studied at the School of Visual Arts and worked as a teaching assistant in a Brooklyn primary school with Mexican immigrant children. My work gradually focused on both visible and normalized violence—things like slavery, borders, and extractivism on one hand, and on the other, gender roles and beauty standards that often go unnoticed as violence."
"I recognize my privileges—being able to study and travel, having a supportive family, being considered white in South America, and living as a cisgender, heterosexual woman with a husband and children. These aren’t choices I made, but they shaped my path. While my career hasn’t been easy, I know it’s been less difficult than for many others."
"Thanks to my mother, I could visit New York and witness firsthand the art history collected (or taken) from across the globe," she added with a laugh.
Eslami: One of the things I find most intriguing is your choice of materials—mainly fabrics and clothing—for your installations. Why do you gravitate toward these specific forms?
Casarino: It's important for me not to be labeled a textile artist. I identify as a political and conceptual artist. The materials I use—especially fabrics—are deeply tied to the politics of appearance, not fashion per se. I often work with tulle, a material heavily loaded with symbolism in South America. White tulle is used in rites of passage—quinceañeras, weddings, Catholic ceremonies—and signifies purity. Conversely, black tulle appears in mourning rituals, covering widows' faces. Tulle represents women's roles throughout history.
I also use cotton to address colonialism and extractivism. Cotton is a cornerstone of capitalism—its cultivation is rooted in slavery, human trafficking, and gendered violence. Historically, when women were enslaved, they were also violated to reproduce more slaves. In Paraguay, much of our history is founded on rape—dating back to the 16th century, when Spanish colonizers took indigenous women, often through force or under patriarchal political arrangements. Many of us are descendants of that violence.
Eslami: So you don’t see yourself as a conceptual fashion designer?
Casarino: No, definitely not. Though I’ve worked with fashion designers and even started out as a fashion stylist and editor for magazines, I studied fashion to speak more critically about it. Fashion plays a key role in how ideologies shape our bodies. It’s like wearable propaganda. But I don’t claim universality—there’s nothing universal, except violence.
Eslami: Your cultural and geographical roots clearly influence your work. Would you say your artistic concerns are local, global, or a mix?
Casarino: I don’t believe in a true “global.” There’s too much diversity to flatten into that idea. I only speak from what I know and live—my experience, my family’s experience. I would never claim to speak for others, especially indigenous women. There are barely any books in Paraguay about indigenous history written by indigenous people. My work may resonate beyond my context, but I don’t pretend to represent all women.
Eslami: You've spoken about materials—what about form? Why do you often use shirts and gowns?
Casarino: Shirts are seen as neutral garments in the West—worn by both genders and associated with labor or uniformity. I’ve used them since my first solo show in 1999 to explore gender binarism. For that show, I engaged in a silent performance—shaving my head, fasting, minimizing my body—to question where gender resides. Influenced by artists like Cindy Sherman, I asked: is gender really in the body, or elsewhere?
Gowns, on the other hand, are highly specific. In one installation addressing human trafficking, I used nightgowns to symbolize dreams of a better life—dreams that often end in captivity for girls from Paraguay. The gowns transitioned in color from white to red, visually narrating that tragic journey. Every element has intentional meaning—nothing is arbitrary.
I aim to speak through minimalism and familiarity. Art can be elitist, and I want to shorten the distance between the artwork and the viewer. I use common objects to invite people in. Some curators ask how I can create something beautiful about such dark subjects. But beauty draws attention—it softens the gaze just enough to make people look, and then think. Why make something ugly if the truth is already horrible?
Eslami: Many of your installations feel suspended, almost weightless. What does this suspended quality convey?
Casarino: That feeling of suspension reflects how women are constantly scrutinized—held in place, judged, objectified. We’re always in the center of the gaze, rarely given the agency to move freely. In my installation Uniform, I explored the invisibility of domestic workers. Their uniforms hang in place—visible, yet transparent, just like the people who wear them. The work was inspired by my aunt's experience working for a woman in Spain. I try to make art that resonates even if you don’t know the backstory. Simple forms can carry universal emotional weight—they speak, even when words aren’t present.
Eslami: After Uniform, another installation of yours that gained significant attention online is Tanta Intemperie. Could you tell us more about it? What inspired the concept?
Casarino: Tanta Intemperie translates to “So Much Exposure” or “Out in the Open”—essentially, being without shelter or protection. The phrase evokes vulnerability. I was inspired by a key figure in Paraguayan literature, Rafael Barrett, who wrote a powerful book titled The Paraguayan Pain. In it, he describes the harsh conditions in the maté fields, where workers were treated like slaves.
While researching, I came across a photojournalist from Argentina whose image deeply struck me: a man wearing his shirt backwards, leaving his back exposed to carry bundles of maté leaves. This was a common practice in the 20th century, as laborers couldn’t afford new clothes. They would rather sacrifice their skin than ruin their only shirt. These people slept under the stars, with no roof, no protection, exposed to every danger. And all of this was done to extract their labor and discard them by morning.
In the installation, I created tiny, backless shirts as a visual metaphor. The minimum burden they had to carry was 50 kilos, or they wouldn’t get paid. The shirts, stripped of their protective backs, represent both their physical suffering and social invisibility.
Eslami: That’s incredibly powerful. I’d love to know more about a few of your other works—The Island (La Isla), We the Others (Nosotros Los Otros), and Double Unfold. Could you walk us through their meanings?
Casarino:
The Island explores the isolation of power. I constructed a chair of power using shirts that once belonged to powerful men. The installation includes a mirror, and its reflection shows that power sees only itself. It’s a commentary on how political or patriarchal structures exist in a closed echo chamber, disconnected from those they affect.
We the Others (Nosotros Los Otros) speaks to the idea that we are always the “other” in someone else’s eyes. Even though I am white in Paraguay, I become the "other" in Germany, England, or even Brazil. I am also the “other” in front of a queer person. We all exist in relation to difference—and that difference often causes fear. I used many colors in this piece to reflect the diversity of the “other.” I don’t create art from scratch—I work with pre-existing materials and control their meanings intentionally.
Double Unfold reflects the experience of being a woman and the constant pressure to fit into assigned gender roles. The pleated fabrics represent the hidden, internalized layers of identity. As you unfold, more is revealed—more expectations, more roles you’re expected to play. It’s about how women must continually adapt and transform, shaping themselves into what society wants to see.
Guadalupe Dorey
Leading the editorial, social media, and video strategy and operations for Brazil's top women's lifestyle magazine. Editor at DFashionMagazine.com, ParisModaMagazine.com and LatinoFashionMagazine.com