El Origen -

A woman in the audience wept. She was from El Salvador. She had not spoken of her own village in forty years.

Sofía Márquez, the artist, eventually took her hidden canvas to a gallery. She titled it No me he ido del todo — “I haven’t entirely left.”

Her paintings sell for thousands. But she keeps one small canvas in her studio, hidden. On it, a single hand reaches up from a sea of blue. “That’s my abuela’s hand,” she says. “She taught me that the sea has memory. El Origen is the first time you believed you belonged somewhere.” Science has its own version of El Origen . In 2024, a team of paleogeneticists published a landmark study tracing the first human footprints in the Americas to a single migration event roughly 23,000 years ago — a small band of hunters crossing a now-vanished land bridge from Siberia into Alaska.

The question is not philosophical. It is practical. To forget El Origen — the place where your spirit first recognized itself — is to become untethered. The Earth becomes just rock and soil. The river becomes just water. The corn becomes just food. El Origen

But to remember? That is to see the world as a living text, written at the dawn of time. “El Origen” is not a single address. In Latin America, the phrase carries the weight of a thousand creation stories. For the Maya of the Yucatán, it is the Heart of Sky and the Sovereign Plumed Serpent who spoke mountains into existence from the primordial sea. For the Andean Quechua, it is Tikse Wiraqucha , the god who rose from Lake Titicaca’s depths to shape the sun, moon, and the first people of clay.

In the high, thin air of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta, Colombia, the Arhuaco people do not ask where you are from. They ask: “Do you remember your Origin?”

“That’s it,” Sofía says. “That’s El Origen. Not a place you return to. But a place that returns to you.” El Origen is never lost. It simply waits to be remembered — one breath, one story, one broken and taped-together drawing at a time. A woman in the audience wept

“I painted El Origen as a wound,” says Sofía Márquez, a 34-year-old Chilean-born visual artist now living in Barcelona. Her latest series, Rostros del Principio , depicts faceless figures emerging from cracked earth. “I left Chile when I was nine, during the dictatorship. My parents never spoke of ‘before.’ So I had to invent an origin. Not the traumatic one — the one before the trauma.”

His drawing has been torn twice — once by border patrol, once by accident. He has taped it back together each time.

But for the artists, poets, and migrants who have carried the phrase across borders, El Origen has become something else: a portable homeland. Sofía Márquez, the artist, eventually took her hidden

“They ask for your origin at the checkpoint,” he says quietly. “But they want a country. They don’t want the smell of rain on dry dirt. They don’t want the name of the dog that followed me to school.”

“Western science loves a single beginning,” she told me over coffee in La Paz. “A first cause. A spark. But my grandmother’s stories say there is no first — only cycles. The world has ended and begun again many times. El Origen is not a date. It is a ritual.”

It is under the floorboards of a demolished home in Michoacán. It is in the recipe for sopa de piedra that no one wrote down. It is in the curve of a river where a boy first learned to swim. It is in the moment before a photograph is taken — the breath held, the future not yet fixed.