To those who insist on thinking when the world only wants to optimize.
To those who study symbols while others demand metrics.
To those who understand that legitimacy is not printed—it is built.
To those who work in the invisible.

The first time I saw the Razorbill, I felt something strange: a mix of admiration, aesthetic envy, and a subtle how dare this bird be more chic than a person? Perfect black and white, flawless white eyeliner, an attitude that reads I just walked out of a Scandinavian editorial and I don’t need your approval. A polished, almost silent presence, with the same calculated restraint as a Nordic designer billing in peace.

On any given Sunday, the temples of wellness open their doors: organic brunches adorned with edible flowers, yoga studios scented with palo santo, playlists of mantras carefully curated on Spotify. There, between oat milk lattes and affirmations printed in minimalist typography, consciousness has become a lifestyle.

Napoleon understood early on that clothing is never just clothing. As Frédéric Godart recounts, in a calculated gesture, Bonaparte would dress in the simple uniforms of his soldiers while simultaneously wearing the insignia of an emperor. That contrast allowed him to project both proximity and authority. It wasn’t fashion—it was power.

“We are not told what to think, but how to overthink.” This phrase—a sharp synthesis of how media operates in the era of narrative capitalism—captures the way symbolic structures shape not only our desires, but also the boundaries of what we believe is possible.

Every culture produces symbols, but not every individual has agency over them. In an era where power has shifted from volume to representation, mastering the symbolic is not aesthetic frivolity—it is an ontological strategy.

From the earliest stages of human history, rituals have functioned as symbolic technologies—tools to produce cohesion, meaning, and social order. Long before algorithms existed, there was fire at the center of a circle. Bodies moving around it. Crowns, rings, flags.

This year marks a decade since I stepped into a university classroom—not as a student, but as a professor.

I was 26. Fresh out of my second degree in Graphic Design, I was invited to teach Editorial Design and Print Production at UJMD, my alma mater and the place where I had just finished a beautiful double academic journey in Communications and Design.

Ugly on purpose, sad on the feed, and spiritually glittery: welcome to the new aesthetic order.

Let’s face it. A new wave of aesthetic standards has taken over, and it’s not here to please your mom, your design professor, or even your inner minimalist.

Sometimes ideas arrive in the quietest moments—on a random Tuesday when I’m calm enough to notice them. They don’t wait until I’m sitting at my desk, though that is where I prefer to be. My office is my refuge, a place where I can lay out the words like small offerings. But more often than I’d like to admit, I end up writing on my phone, collecting sentences before they slip away.

My first job was as a correspondent for a magazine from La Prensa Gráfica. Looking back, it seems writing has always been there for me. I did it for two years, until the format evolved and I started working with one of the most famous cooks in my country. That project didn’t last long, but it showed me how much I loved cooking.