I believe that utopias are both wonderful and pressing, yet it might be beneficial to consider utopias in the plural form. This way, the dominance of a single utopia won’t overshadow others. I always struggle to know who might be talking, or to know how we might properly consider different perspectives when framing a question. In the present “Capitalocene,” we are always falling into the trap of speaking from only one position: what might be utopia for some could be a nightmare for others.

For instance, the act of flying is in many ways a utopian notion. But depending on who you ask, you get very different answers. In the indigenous concept of Pachamama, “Mother Earth,” “pacha” entangles space and time in an inseparable manner that goes beyond a quantum physical entanglement. To me, this seems close to the idea of Mother Earth “flying” and journeying around the sun. In the Global North, the utopian vision of flight as air travel is in crisis, as it has become a nightmare for many human populations, animals, plants and ecosystems disrupted by petro-capitalist airplanes.

I agree but also disagree with Adorno’s argument, as the Capitalocene’s political agenda of delusion and governmental inaction, stemming from the apparent impossibility of finding solutions due to others’ profit motives, can unfortunately serve to maintain a state of doomerism. Catastrophism is a tool employed by many to make substantial profits by sustaining the flow of misinformation. Such a concept might be liberating to some people but serves as a pitfall for others. As noted by Rebecca Solnit in The Guardian article “We Can’t Afford to be Climate Doomers”: “If you announce that the outcome has already been decided and we’ve already lost, you strip away the motivation to participate – and of course if we do nothing we settle for the worst outcome. It often seems that people are searching harder for evidence we’re defeated than that we can win.”

More and more, the pivotal question I ask myself when thinking about the recent exhibition you mentioned is: who is the audience? Who benefits in both the short and long term, and how can expectations be calibrated? In relation to “Web(s) of Life,” one of my greatest delights was the discovery that two spiders – who had been inhabiting the space for quite a while before the exhibition – decided to nest within one of the webs. Furthermore, there is now a cocoon, which means that spiderlings might be coming out soon!

It is very beautiful to see how the exhibition transformed into an environment where visitors show considerable respect for non-human entities, valuing both the spiders’ autonomy and their potential cognitions. Spiders have existed on this planet for approximately 300 to 400 million years, while humans have inhabited it for only 210,000 years. Now, biologists tell us that a species is considered well-adapted if it has thrived in an environment for at least four million years. To adopt a more humble stance, let’s say, well, spiders have coexisted with me throughout my time on this planet, implying they should be constantly involved in any discourse. Many living humans seem capable of guiding the way on how to harmoniously inhabit Earth, individuals who haven’t segregated humans from alternative forms of knowledge and who use narratives other than the one of 210,000 years of independent human evolution separated from all other forms of life. One remarkable example is the community of the Somié people in Cameroon, who instead of suffering from arachnophobia, practice spider divination and embrace the spiders inhabiting their area and consider them a direct source of wisdom.

Indigenous peoples represent five percent of the global population, and yet, they are able to maintain and preserve 80 percent of the planet’s biodiversity. When I’m pondering how to approach issues of climate and environmental justice and human rights, I think about the numerous cultures that already coexist in harmony with the rhythms of planet Earth and its diverse biospheres.

Once again, if utopia is related to a singular dream, it might devolve into nightmares for others. How can we dream together and embrace the diversity of dreams? Aren’t we, all of us, flying together aboard Pachamama?

That reminds me of Radha D’Souza’s What’s Wrong with Rights, when she points out that the term “right” doesn’t exist in many indigenous African or Asian languages and is essentially a European concept. She explains that in ancient Europe, “right” was “used as an ethical concept in philosophy and ethics – about the right way to be as opposed to the wrong way of being in the world. With the rise of capitalism and modernity, rights became a conceptual tool for reorganizing society from a feudal order and creating a new social order based on commodity production.” Often, the very notion of rights or justice that we discuss must be reframed to fully incorporate other perspectives. Radha D’Souza’s example illustrates both what we can learn and what challenges we face when crossing cultural and disciplinary boundaries.

At times, I believe we get too comfortable within the zones of our respective fields, as defined by society. We compartmentalize certain knowledge as art, science or human rights. This often compels us to segregate what an artist, an actor or even a spider does. However, through our discussions, I’ve come to appreciate the significance of forging alliances. We are confronted with urgent issues like climate extinction, environmental injustice, social inequality, and violence. I’m always trying to define myself within the context of any given situation and seek alliances and support. This is why I am a strong advocate for collaboration and collective action, as none of us can effectively address these challenges alone.

I was born in 1973 in Tucumán. During that time, which was marked by intense violence, particularly in northern Argentina, my father was actively involved in discussions related to agrarian cooperatives. The repressive political system in that era classified this as communist or socialist activity, and he was imprisoned for about a year. Eventually, they found out that he had an Italian passport, and as a result, my entire family was “deported” and forced to live in exile in Italy, where my father was born but had left at a young age. After a democratic government took power in 1983, my family was no longer forced to remain in exile, and finally decided in 1986 to return to Argentina when I was around 12 or 13 years old. During my time in exile in Italy, I often felt alienated by fellow schoolchildren, as if I didn’t belong to any specific nation. This sense of isolation was quite prevalent. Whenever people asked me about my origins, I found myself giving different answers, offering different countries. Maybe the pluriverse of utopias we require includes belonging to a single world, a unified planet Earth.

Indeed. I believe the numbers might even be higher – it was a terrible period that still echoes today in different forms, such as the lengthy process of recognition of other inhabitants of the country, which did not happen much before the 200th anniversary of independence from Spain. In Jujuy, we are engaging in a meaningful dialogue with indigenous communities who clearly state: “We and our ancestors have existed here for centuries. If our ancestors survived without lithium, we believe we can do the same. We are forced to live within the political system imposed on us by the government, and we are forced to deal with the environmental degradation resulting from their policies, despite our knowledge of how to sustainably inhabit the land, just as our ancestors always did.”

Without a doubt. I find it intriguing to think about the Madres de Plaza de Mayo’s form of protest through the lens of art. Their marches could be interpreted as an endless performance: they go to the same place every Thursday, dressed in a characteristic white headscarf, and this simple and courageous act changes everything. These are the types of performances that have the potential to radically change certain lifestyles.

There is another fascinating example related to the Argentinian human rights movement: the Hijos e Hijas por la Identidad y la Justicia contra el Olvido y el Silencio (“Sons and Daughters for Identity and Justice Against Forgetfulness and Silence”) organized so-called “Escraches.” During the 1990s, many military officers who had been involved in the dictatorship were still alive and mingling in restaurants, living seemingly normal lives. When they were recognized, people in the restaurant would start clapping rhythmically and not allow them to stay. Also, theater groups went to certain neighborhoods with leaflets, informing the community about the presence of military junta criminals living among them. They tried to bring them to justice, a goal that was eventually achieved in formal criminal proceedings. It was also a mixture of political action, demonstration, performance and art. This is a model for a genuine combination of different methods and tools: definitely something we can learn from today.

Currently, violence persists in northern Argentina, especially in Jujuy, where local communities are resisting the lithium extraction that jeopardizes their habitats. We witness bloodshed in the streets, and the police, along with corrupt governments, apply levels of violence reminiscent of the dictatorship era. In this context, I find myself pondering how we can organize participatory forms of protest. What can be contemporary equivalents of “Escraches,” this form of public shaming? I try to understand which alliances we need to confront this level of repression faced by community leaders. They are forced to change phones because their communications might be traced. They receive threats via email and are prosecuted by the judiciary. We see police cars without license plates, so it is not possible to identify them, much like the circumstances during the dictatorship.

And still, as it is often said, to maintain the consumption levels required to sustain the capitalist system, it is necessary to expand capital in the Global North at the expense of the Global South. What does this mean practically? Driving on the German Autobahn without speed limits at the cost of exploiting resources and people in the Global South – to maintain car manufacturers like Tesla and BMW? Unfortunately, again the same rituals and performances that may have positive effects on some people are truly detrimental to others.

About 30 indigenous communities residing close to Salinas Grandes in the Laguna de Guajataca Basin are very active and resolute in their opposition to the so-called “green energy transition,” imposed on them by the Global North. Moira Ivana Millán, a Mapuche leader from southern Argentina, explained it this way: “We don’t want to be owners of the land, we propose another art of living on the land.” Their concept of property and relating to the world is very different from the dominant approach in societies of the Global North. The consumption habits of a minority of the world’s population have a tremendous impact on the whole planet – not solely on other human beings, but also on entire multi-species ecosystems. Lithium exploitation exemplifies this problematic lifestyle, and the same principle applies to all resources on our planet that are used to sustain this hyper-consumption pattern.

On the one hand, there are people who relate to their world through exploitation – take Elon Musk, for example, who even endeavors to colonize other planets for mining minerals. It seems that his space agency has never heard about postcolonial studies. On the other hand, there are indigenous communities keeping a sustainable planetary balance through distinct relationships with plants, animals and a different level of consumption.

What the affected communities are saying is: “We have lived on this land without your government, without your politics, without your lawyers, and we have always organized ourselves. Now you want to dictate how we should live, while we exactly know how to live our lives.” They are resisting lithium exploitation with everything they have, asserting that water and life are worth much more than lithium. While they also possess mobile phones and cars, their approach to consumption is different.

Before I learned about their resistance in 2017, I was quite naive. I thought maybe lithium could be a good way to transform our fossil-fuel-driven economy.

Absolutely. When we discuss habits, we are addressing more than personal choices like voting or dietary preferences. It encompasses a broader perspective, including understanding causes and advocating certain values. Systemic causes undoubtedly exist. Concerning lithium, we must consider the enormous amount of water used for mining. The extraction of one ton of lithium requires two million liters of water, and the adoption of this destructive method, rather than more environmentally friendly alternatives, stems from its profitability for multinational corporations. Vital resources such as water are now traded on stock exchange markets as commodities. In the future, this could also happen to the air we breathe – air is already becoming a currency, as the quality of the air is not the same everywhere. We used to think we all breathe the same air, but this is not true.

There are only a few people worldwide that possess an enormous concentration of wealth and power. They have control over the economy and don’t pay their fair share of taxes. If these individuals were to change their habits and distribute their wealth, it would profoundly affect the global population. This is something that can be done immediately. No other technology is required to create a more equitable society.

Since 2017, we have been undertaking actions to support the threatened indigenous communities of the Salinas Grandes and Laguna de Guayatayoc. What you are referring to is “Aerocene Pacha,” a hot air balloon we raised in Jujuy in January 2020.

The concept “Aerocene” means an amalgamation of the atmosphere and the Earth’s surface, an ever-expanding practice for impractical and practical purposes. It represents an environmental and ethical collaboration, an interdisciplinary and unconventional community, an eco-social movement that brings together artists, activists, philosophers, balloonists, dreamers, birds and spiders. The Aerocene community operates across the airspace of 126 cities, 43 countries and six continents.

“Aerocene Pacha” used only air and sunlight to rise, completely free of fossil fuels, batteries, lithium, helium or hydrogen. This marked the most sustainable flight in human history, setting 32 world records, recognized by the Fédération Aéronautique Internationale (FAI), flown by Aerocene pilot Leticia Noemi Marques. But more important than the world records was the accompanying message “water and life are worth more than lithium,” written by the affected communities, rising above the Salinas Grandes. It criticizes the lithium extraction in the region known as the “lithium triangle,” situated between Bolivia, Chile and Argentina, where 58 percent of the world’s lithium is found.

Actually, balloon flight is one of the more unsustainable modes of mobility. When we discuss mobility – because we have envisioned planetary mobility, how the Earth rotates, how planes fly, and how cars move – we must acknowledge the distinct levels of energy dependency. Balloons typically remain airborne through burning gas that heats the air within the envelope. Other modes also use hydrogen or helium, often by-products of fossil fuel extraction. Hydrogen production is very complex and dangerous. In the 1970s, a few thinkers started considering whether suspension in the atmosphere could be achieved solely through harnessing solar energy. There have been a couple of attempts, such as those by Dominique Micheli and other predecessors who have shown the way to the Aerocene community.

This is where our conversation started: the dream of flying turned into a nightmare for so many. Through our aerosolar flight, we also tried to demonstrate a sense of hope – hope that we can find new ways of flying on planet Earth together, without fossil fuels, propellers, runways or hydrocarbons, and without colonialist dreams of leaving the planet.

This year, in January 2023, we gathered once again, together with a group of allies, collectives and supporting groups,* as national and international geopolitical and commercial interests continued to put pressure on the basin. Facing the escalating climate crisis and the urgency of the energy transition, the message from the communities is clear: we refuse to be a sacrifice zone. The energy transition cannot reproduce the same extractivist, neocolonial policies imposed on the Global South, amplifying social, ethnic and environmental inequalities. We must listen to the voices from the territories, in defense of water, salt flats and the commons, for an eco-social energy transition for all of us.

This rights of nature movement strives for legal recognition of rivers, lakes and mountains, akin to human beings. During the gathering and the following workshops, the communities decided to declare the Salinas Grandes and Laguna de Guayatayoc as subjects of rights.

It is evident that the way laws are written is intrinsically linked to the accumulation of power in the hands of a few and to the detriment of others. These exploitative laws are imposed by a small group of people that benefit from them. In Jujuy, I came to understand from their “cosmovisions” that the local communities see all inhabitants of the planet as part of a larger family that considers mountains as brothers and sisters. This perspective doesn’t segregate animate from inanimate objects; it attributes agency even to what we might call “inanimate.” This is in stark contrast to the very limited, human-centric ideas of lawmakers – individuals claiming the prerogative to interpret the world and history and impose their way of life. Yet, the planet is a living entity, as are rocks and mountains and water. If lawyers aiming to be part of the solution were to rewrite the code of capital, as you mentioned, they would need to incorporate the participation of all these entities.

The interesting aspect of partial common ownership – perhaps better referred to as partial common stewardship – is that it allows us to see ourselves as temporary caretakers of something that extends beyond our individual interaction with it. This aligns with the cosmovisions we talked about earlier, reflecting a different relationship with the land and the air. This relationship isn’t defined by ownership but by the ability to use something when needed and then pass it on to someone else. You use only what you really need, and only as long as you need it. When you think about the massive amounts of land owned by just a few individuals, or the enormous amount of food waste that becomes trash and then ends up in landfills, the dysfunctional nature of property organization becomes evident. There is a complete dissociation between the use of resources and the amount a person requires to survive and thrive. In the domain of art, this dynamic translates into major collectors accessing expensive art pieces that often end up in storage – completely inaccessible and becoming yet another form of amassed wealth – while failing to contribute to the communities they represent.

Right now, as part of “Web(s) of Life,” we are weaving the collective artwork “Cloud Imagination” together with children from Jujuy and London. We asked them to create their own cloud drawings and contribute them to this artwork that allows us to experiment with partial common ownership.

Ensuring intergenerational justice means future generations must have economic and political leverage. Artist Dan Graham, for instance, suggests that all politicians should be under 18 years old, as by the time the laws made today come into effect, it will be them who must live with the consequences of these laws.

One aspect of realizing this vision involves a corresponding legal framework for redistributing economic and political power. This inclusive vision is already a reality in some contexts. Another opportunity came up during a trip to Cameroon, when I met Bollo Pierre Tadios, a spider diviner from the above-mentioned Somié community that appreciates the knowledge of spiders. When doubts or questions arise, they consult a spider diviner who communicates with the spiders and interprets their language and wisdom. In this community, the spider is an integral part of society, in contrast to many other arachnophobic societies. I was fascinated by this spider diviner and thrilled to find a community that cherishes spiderwebs as much as I do. I initially considered making a film about him; however, that would have meant appropriating his lifelong work and knowledge for my own gain, while the tradition and culture of spider diviners might dwindle in the meantime.

So, I resisted this urge to create a film and instead spent time with the spider diviner to find out what he considered valuable. After a week, Bollo asked me: “Tomás, you know what I really want? Can you build a website for me?” I didn’t expect anything like this. But he persisted: “I want a website. I want to offer my service to the rest of the world.” So, he asked, and we built a website for him. Now, the first piece displayed at the Serpentine Gallery exhibition is a website with his IP, his domain and his presentation of spider divination. You can contact him through his website, and he’ll consult the spider and receive one hundred percent of the fee for this service.

This was a very important moment for me. In this case, the diviners themselves defined the pricing system through a community protocol established in January 2023, which gives them control over their earnings for their services. The most effective way to support the spider diviner was to create this simple website, fostering greater appreciation for spiders, while providing sustainable support for their art.