MARK OF TIME

Welcome

This space is where I share thoughts, textures, and quiet moments that arise while working with clay.

I love connecting with people, and through ceramics I found a direct, honest way to listen, feel, and reconnect — with myself, with others, and with the world around me.

Like ocean waves or the bark of trees, what is shaped over time leaves its own marks. And here, I’ll leave a few of mine.

The Path That Brought Me Here

I arrived in New York City at 17, wide-eyed and curious. Life, in its own way, began shaping my path through experiences that led me to photography. Guided by people who taught me to observe, to express myself, and to reflect, I learned not just how to use a camera — but how to survive in a city that challenges and teaches you every single day.

My father and grandmother had already filled my childhood with creativity. Through them, I had learned to see — not just with my eyes, but with instinct and emotion. Photography became a way of staying grounded, of making sense of movement, noise, and complexity.

Later on, I met my husband and was lucky to travel and live in different cities — including Philadelphia and Seattle, where I studied culinary arts at Le Cordon Bleu. Becoming a mother was a powerful turning point. Amidst the intensity of that transformation, I began to ask myself again: Who do I want to be when I grow up?

While exploring others’ plates and plating my own dishes at home, I realized I didn’t just want to cook — I wanted to craft the pieces that held the food. That’s how I found ceramics.

From the first time I touched clay, I fell in love with the process. Clay became a space for reconnecting — with others, and with myself. It opened the door to dreaming again.

It’s never too late to begin something new. Even the smallest steps can lead to something much bigger.

I’ll be using this space to share thoughts, textures, stories, and questions that rise from the studio, the kitchen, and everyday life. Thanks for being here.

Tribute to Ricardo León Peñavilla

Loisaida, New York City, 1997s

Ricardo León Peña villa was one of the first people I met when I arrived in New York at the age of 17. He lived in the Umbrella House, a building on the Lower East Side in Loisaida, a neighborhood known for its cultural resistance and the activism of the Nuyorican community.

Ricardo lived on the third floor with his dog, Tango. He was a poet, a dreamer, a creator of magic. From him, I learned that words have power, that thoughts, emotions, and ideas can transform into something real and beautiful.

He self-published a magazine, which we would distribute across restaurants in Queens. The owners supported his dream by donating small amounts of money in exchange for promoting their businesses. This allowed him to keep the publication going — a poetic barter system that fed his creative spirit.

Thanks to Ricardo, I met painters, sculptors, musicians, more poets — a circle of vibrant, radical, generous artists.

The Magic of Umbrella House

Each year, Ricardo gathered his friends — and their friends — to paint umbrellas. These colorful creations would then adorn the building: hanging from fire escapes, windows, and walls. The building bloomed like a garden in the middle of the city. That’s why it was called Umbrella House.

The building itself was extraordinary. It had been taken over by a collective of artists — squatters, as they were known — who turned abandoned properties into homes and cultural centers. The stairways were made of concrete inlaid with broken plates and doll parts. Each apartment reflected the soul of its resident. Ricardo’s apartment, we called the Colombian consulate, because it was a gathering place for Colombians and creatives — actors, writers, poets.

His home was simple but full of life and stories. He built it little by little, and with great love. That was where I learned how to write, how to dream aloud, how to project my ideas into the world. Ricardo was a mentor, a guardian angel. He helped shape my path.

Farewell to a Friend

Ricardo passed away a few years ago, after a long struggle with lung problems from his smoking. He always said, “We all have to die of something.” He died as he lived — with a pencil in his hand and a notebook by his side.

He introduced me to salsa and Puerto Rican music, to the layered, raw, magical nature of New York. A tough city, yes — but one full of doors for those who dare to knock.

My artistic journey began there. And today, I want to honor my dear friend Ricardo León Peñavilla, and his loyal dog Tango, who are forever in my memory.

These stories are etched in my heart. It matters to share them.

Because people like Ricardo — people who plant seeds in others — deserve to be remembered.

José Osorio, Artist

José Osorio also lived on the third floor, right across from León Peñavilla’s apartment. They were inseparable. Best friends, accomplices in parties, in projects, in shared apartments, in events. They were partners in life, in art, and in celebration.

José Osorio, as the title says, was a painter. His canvases were filled with elongated female bodies, stretched across large surfaces. I used to call them the mosquito women. His paintings carried deep blacks and intense blues, colors that seemed to emerge directly from his thoughts, from a quiet but powerful inner world.

But José was much more than a painter. He was a very particular soul, a gentle man with charming words and soft gestures. With his hands, he didn’t just create drawings. He created atmospheres. Any woman who entered his apartment seemed to fall into invisible webs, as if gently trapped, seduced by his stories, his presence, his warmth. It was always fascinating to witness. There were, somehow, always women willing to be enchanted.

He loved boleros and Edith Piaf. One of his favorite songs was Non, je ne regrette rien. And he loved to drink rum. I think it was rum. That image of him, with music playing softly in the background and a glass in hand, remains vivid in my memory.

Like many artists in New York who never reach fame, not because of lack of talent but because of life’s circumstances, José lived between art and survival. In the mornings, he worked on a truck delivering organic vegetables. He was deeply involved in the squatter movement and fought alongside others to reclaim the building where he lived: Umbrella House. Through that struggle, they earned the right to stay, to exist, to create.

José Osorio was an artist made of layers, of stories, of contradictions. Through him, I understood how difficult it is to be an artist, how beautiful it is, and how deeply art allows us to dream. Through him, I also began to understand my father’s life from another perspective.

This is a tribute to José Osorio, who was also a magnificent dancer. At those endless nights of music and celebration, I was always the youngest, the one everyone protected. But since I danced salsa, he would always choose me as his favorite dance partner. Those nights dancing in Spiky City and in small venues where Cuban son and Puerto Rican salsa filled the air are unforgettable. Music, movement, laughter, belonging.

Once again, this is my homage to José Osorio, the painter of Umbrella House.

A Tribute to Mario Bustamante – Iron Sculptor, Mentor, and Friend

Mario Bustamante was my teacher, my guide, and my mentor. He was a truly unique character — from the way he dressed to the way he spoke, with his strong Medellín accent and that “do-it-all” attitude. As he liked to say, he was a “yogui de la vida” — a yogi of life.

He was medium height, slim, with strong arms, a white beard, and long hair. I met him through the group people at Umbrella House, and in many ways, Mario adopted me. At that time, I didn’t have stable work or a place to stay. He invited me to work with him, saying something I’ll never forget:

“People who work with me are not freeloaders. They learn to work. And a woman who knows how to work can take care of herself and go far. So, I’m going to teach you how to work.”

And that’s exactly what he did.

Mario trained me to work with iron — bending it, melting it, turning it into something solid, useful, or beautiful. Every morning, we’d hop into his tiny pickup truck — which he affectionately called “la cafetera” — and head out to build metal staircases, fences, and more throughout Manhattan, especially in the Lower East Side. His presence is still felt there today — several of his sculptures remain in the community gardens of Loisaida.

He was a constant inventor and a true believer in good energy. One of his most memorable artistic ideas was something he called “brain holders” — handmade headbands with tiny iron hands that wrapped gently around the temples. He believed the brain was our most powerful tool, and we needed to channel and protect that energy.

Mario was also vegetarian. Thanks to him, I learned to cook creatively with vegetables and grains and stopped eating meat. We’d go to Central Park together to dance on roller skates with African drummers, visit friends outside the city in la cafetera, and talk endlessly about life. He was also an incredible salsa dancer.

But beyond the work, Mario taught me how to survive in New York. Iron — that strong, stubborn material — became part of my story thanks to him. With his guidance, I even made iron masks for a theater performance at one point. There are so many stories with him.

He was beloved in our Umbrella House community. He had his own tiny apartment nearby — just a kitchen, a bed, a bathroom, and a small backyard garden filled with his sculptures. His iron workshop was out front, where the car was parked.

One of his proudest achievements was exhibiting his work at Lincoln Center every year. It became a celebration of his magic with metal.

I wish I had photos of every moment I watched him create. He moved with ease in that workshop — bending, welding, shaping iron into wonder.

If you ever come across his name online, you’ll get a sense of just how special he was.

This is also a personal tribute. Sadly, Mario passed away six years ago. We had lost touch for over a decade after I got married and had children. But one week before he died, I felt this deep, inexplicable urge to reconnect. We talked at length, caught up on life, and shared stories. He never once mentioned he was sick.

One week later, José Osorio called to tell me Mario had passed away.

I believe this world loses its most wonderful people too soon. And for me, reconnecting with Mario just before his passing left an even deeper mark. He filled a huge space in my life.

This is a reminder to cherish those rare friends who show up in your life to guide you, protect you, and teach you incredible things. Mario Bustamante was one of them.

With all my love,

Laura Viviana Ruiz

Umbrella House: The Place Where I Learned to Dream Again

I arrived in New York at 17, searching for a sense of belonging after leaving my grandmother and father behind in Colombia. I was trying to find a group of people where I could feel at home again — where I didn’t feel like I’d lost everything.

One night, almost by chance, I ended up at a party at the Colombian Consulate with my dad. There, we met a group of artists who were exhibiting their work. After the event, they invited us to an after party in a building called Umbrella House. That night changed everything for me.

It wasn’t just about art or music. That night, I met Mario Bustamante, José Osorio, Juan Marchán, and Ricardo León Peñavilla — and I stepped into a space that showed me that New York could be more than a cold city. It could be home.

When I entered Umbrella House, I saw a long, narrow hallway, tiled with tiny pieces placed one by one. At the far end were stairs — but not just any stairs. Each step was made of cement and fragments: a broken cup, a doll’s head, a spoon, a toy — objects that once belonged to homes and memories. These fragments were carefully arranged by the building’s residents, creating something between art and a shrine.

We climbed to Ricardo’s apartment. It was winter, and not all the windows were sealed. The wind was sharp, but the warmth inside was unforgettable — music, laughter, instruments, and kind people. Ricardo turned to me and said: “This is going to sound cheesy… but this is your home too. Whenever you need it, the door is open.”

A few months later, after a fight with my mother and feeling lost, I remembered his words. I went back. I knocked. And the doors of Umbrella House opened for me.

What Was Umbrella House? And the Legacy of New York’s Squatter Movement

Umbrella House was one of many squatted buildings on the Lower East Side — part of a powerful movement that rose in the 70s, 80s, and 90s in response to New York City’s housing crisis. As buildings were abandoned by landlords and left to rot, working-class residents, immigrants, artists, and activists took matters into their own hands.

They occupied the empty buildings, rebuilt them from the inside out — repairing roofs, installing plumbing and electricity, making them homes again. These weren’t just acts of survival, but of resistance and creativity.

Umbrella House, located at Avenue C and 1st Street in the heart of Loisaida, was one of the most iconic squats in the neighborhood. It had a rooftop garden where vegetables and herbs grew. It became a hub for artists, families, musicians, and community builders. Everyone contributed — whether through carpentry, performance, healing, or cooking. It was a living organism.

After years of organizing, court battles, and struggle, the residents of Umbrella House finally won the right to legally own their building. It’s now a fully legalized housing cooperative — a symbol of what people can create when they come together with purpose.

For Me, It Was More Than a Shelter — It Was a School of Life

Umbrella House wasn’t just a place to stay. It was where I became someone new. I learned from powerful women like Linda, a construction worker with a generous heart and a wide kitchen. I met actors and dancers like Juan Marchán and his wife, a reiki practitioner, raising a newborn in the building. There was a woman whose apartment was built entirely out of stacks of magazines, floor to ceiling. There were Andean musicians rehearsing downstairs, their melodies echoing up through the stairwell.

Every corner of that building was magic. Every person, a story.

Umbrella House taught me how to work, how to survive, how to create again. And most importantly, how to keep dreaming — no matter what.

Today, it still stands in Loisaida. My friends, the same ones who opened their doors to a 17-year-old girl, are now the legal owners of their homes. And this post is a tribute to them, to the movement that made it possible, and to all the dreamers and doers who refused to be erased.

Samuel Ruiz: A Life in Layers 

My father, Samuel Ruiz, was born in Lobos, Buenos Aires, but his journey truly began with a profound displacement. At eleven years old, he left the familiar streets of Argentina for Colombia with my grandparents and uncles. To be a child uprooted is to carry a unique kind of pain; he deeply missed his land, his neighborhood, and the life he knew. When he started school in Colombia, the other children laughed at his Argentinian accent. To survive and to fit in, he had to learn to speak like a Colombian, eventually falling in love with his new home while always holding the memories of his childhood in his heart.

This duality—being half Argentinian and half Colombian—is the very clue to how he raised me. I grew up as part of those memories, inheriting a blend of cultures that taught me how to observe and connect with different worlds. My father was born with the true heart of an artist, but his gift was born out of a quiet necessity. As a young boy, severe asthma kept him indoors while other children played outside. In that solitude, he found his companions:Color and paper. What started as a way to pass the time became the foundation of his soul; he began to paint the world he saw from the inside out.

At just 25 years old, he faced a crossroads that would define our lives. Without experience but with immense courage, he took the lead to raise me alongside my grandmother when my mother moved to the United States. He became the "solver" for our entire family, a father figure to many, carrying a heavy weight of responsibility on his shoulders. Throughout his life, he explored many paths—he was once a dancer in competitions and worked countless jobs to provide for us—but he never, ever walked away from his art.

While my father may not be a global celebrity like Banksy, his art has quietly crossed borders and touched souls across the world. His work has traveled from Colombia to the galleries and homes of Germany, London, Puerto Rico, and Abu Dhabi. He has spent his life building a career through sheer talent and perseverance, proving that true art finds its way across oceans. It breaks my heart sometimes because life isn’t always fair; I’ve watched him create masterpieces that I believe deserve the highest world recognition. It is a quiet sadness to see such immense talent hidden from the mainstream, but my father is a strong man. He taught me to be present, to show up for your passion even when you don’t have the time or the money.

Laughter is our language; he has a unique way of laughing at himself and the world that pushes the sadness away. Today, he is in Colombia and I am here in the United States. We spend hours on the phone every single day because it’s the only way I can feel close to him. I don’t want to wait until he is gone to honor him; I want to celebrate him now. I want the world to see the colorful, imaginable worlds he builds on a single canvas. I invite you to look at his work and see the characters and stories he creates. I hope you fall in love with his art the same way I did—not just as his daughter, but as someone who recognizes a true soul on the canvas.