“A raw confrontation with identity and power, Soliloquio blurs the line between art and protest, forcing the audience to grapple with the commodification of culture and the unresolved scars of colonialism.”
Is it possible to find a place for true artistic expression in a world dominated by economic interests and systemic power imbalances? Soliloquio by Tiziano Cruz does more than pose this question—it invites us to sit in the tension between personal suffering and the structures that profit from it in a provocative anti-art project. Tiziano Cruz demands we confront an uncomfortable truth: how modern society insists on consuming Indigenous identities as “regional,” “national,” or “exotic” commodities, rather than as authentic human experiences. Cruz, who comes from the Indigenous-rich region of Jujuy in Argentina, takes the stage in Soliloquio not to entertain but to disrupt. Drawing from letters he wrote to his mother during the pandemic, his monologue is a vivid rejection of the forces that demand he package his heritage for mass appeal.
Soliloquio opens with an outdoor procession, that prepares the audience to confront the very constructs they unknowingly uphold. Wearing just white pants and draped in an Inca Quipus shoulder piece—a symbol rich with Andean cultural memory—Cruz leads a procession alongside Salay Pasion, a Bolivian dance group He invites the audience to clap along, blending them into the performance as participants, unsuspectingly complicit in the system they are about to critique.
What starts as a celebration of culture, begins to shift when Cruz’s voice, amplified by a megaphone, cuts through the rhythm with statements of alienation and indignation. This is not just a performance; it’s a visceral protest against the systems that, as Cruz suggests, lure in marginalized identities only to erase or commodify them. By starting outdoors, Cruz forces the audience into the public space of protest, dissolving the boundary between performer and observer, and challenging the traditional notion of spectatorship.
Inside the theatre, Cruz’s appearance shifts from leader to something like a priest performing a ritual of exorcism. His white clothing and simple staging enhance the sense of ceremony, casting him as both supplicant and shaman. As he stands before the audience, he asks, “What place does the art of the body have in a country where my body disappears in the face of the longing for a white society?” Cruz’s anti-art approach takes centre stage, tearing apart the classical notion of art as an embodiment of beauty and harmony. Rather than offering aesthetic comfort, he confronts the audience with the raw and unaddressed scars of colonialism, exposing the ways its legacy continues to shape and oppress marginalized cultures today. Cruz draws the audience toward redemption not through the art itself, but through the most primal of human connections—his bond with his mother, the letters he wrote to her, and the home he longs to return to. This return to one’s roots, or nostos (nostoi in Greek, meaning a return or homecoming), becomes the only true redemption.
As a piece of anti-art, Soliloquio is intentionally difficult to categorize or rate. How do we assign stars to a performance that denies traditional artistic conventions? Do we measure it against the standards of art, or judge it by the potency of its anti-art stance? Soliloquio resists these frameworks altogether, which is perhaps its ultimate success. Cruz’s work is raw, unsettling, and deeply impactful, leaving viewers with questions rather than answers—a testament to the resistance and resilience of his vision.