Felipe Colmenares Betancourt grew up moving through Latin America, Colombia, Honduras, Argentina, Panama, and what that continent gave, beyond landscape and language, was an understanding that beauty and brutality are not opposites but neighbours. Art, encountered early in this context, was never purely aesthetic. It was a response to history, a way of processing what could not be said, and eventually a tool shared with others: with children in vulnerable communities in Panama, with anyone who needed a space where something difficult could be held and, for a moment, transformed. That early understanding of what art can do has shaped everything since.

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How has your upbringing or cultural heritage shaped the themes and techniques you explore in your art today?

During my childhood I had the privilege to live across Latin America: Colombia where I was born, as well as Honduras, Argentina and Panama, where I first realized I wanted to be an artist. My journey through these countries has fundamentally shaped how I see and experience the world. In this complex, brutally beautiful and heart-wrenching continent I encountered the atrocities born from extractivist greed and violence, and at the same time, people marked by fierce resilience, dignity, and immense solidarity. Here, beauty and brutality grow from the same wounded ground, and everywhere I went I witnessed firsthand how art emerges in response to history, conflict, pain, love and culture.

In Colombia, I learned how conceptual artists like Doris Salcedo engage with over 60 years of armed conflict; in Honduras, how the Lenca artists preserve and transmit their culture through their ceramic tradition that have withstood centuries of colonization and oppression; in Argentina, how institutional support for the arts can function as a vital social pillar; and in Panama, through my own canvas, I came to understand how art can help people, allowing me to process my own trauma while also witnessing its impact on others through work with NGOs. Latin America, its heart-rending but inspiring history, its cultural wealth, its landscapes and our artists, is the ground from which my work takes root today.

Can you pinpoint a single moment in your life when you realized art was not just a passion but your purpose?

Art has always helped me through difficult moments in my life. Whenever I felt overwhelmed or went through periods of depression, drawing and painting became my first response mechanism to process and release everything I couldn’t put into words. For a long time, this relationship with art felt deeply personal and even private, I didn’t speak about it with anyone, and I didn’t fully understand that this artistic therapy could extend beyond me and work for others as well.

I was 17 years old the first time that changed. I found myself organizing open-air painting classes for children through an NGO in Panama called Team Gladiadores, working with kids from El Chorrillo, one of the most vulnerable communities in the country. Many of them were growing up surrounded by violence, instability, and loss. What began as a simple workshop quickly became something much more meaningful. I particularly remember one of my students, a young boy who had recently lost his brother, speaking about his death with a level of detail that no child should ever have to carry. When he painted, something shifted in my mind. Through his work, he created an image of himself and his brother together again, held in a space that felt safe, almost untouchable. Seeing that transformation, even if temporary, made me understand something I hadn’t before.

In those moments, art was no longer just a personal refuge, it became a shared language, a tool for processing, remembering, and healing. That experience changed my understanding of what art could do, and more importantly, what my role within it could be. It was then that I realized art was not just something I needed, it was something I needed to share.

How does your art engage with or comment on pressing contemporary issues, social, political, or environmental?

Because my practice is centered around Latin America, my work engages directly with the social, political, and environmental realities that shape the region. I’m particularly interested in extractivist and interventionist dynamics imposed by foreign powers, as well as the internalized postcolonial tensions that persist today, such as the rejection of the autochthonous and the undervaluing of what is our own.

My previous series looked toward the past as a way of understanding the present. Drawing from precolonial histories, Panamanian landscapes, and cultural memory, the work explored how these histories continue to echo in contemporary issues such as migration through the Darién, environmental degradation, and the impact of foreign industries like large-scale agriculture and mining. Rather than representing these topics directly, I approached them through symbolic and layered imagery, creating spaces where different temporalities coexist and inform one another.

My current body of work continues this exploration through the metaphor of the mangrove as a living boundary between land and water, protecting the land from the force of the sea. The mangrove becomes a way to think about resistance ecological, cultural, and political. Each piece is tied to a specific Panamanian province, using the mangrove as a symbolic structure to reflect the environmental and social tensions unique to each region.  Across both series, my intention is not only to depict these issues, but to create a visual language that allows them to be felt. I see my work as a space where history, territory, and present-day struggles intersect, where the past is not distant, but actively shaping the realities we live in today.

What do you think is the most meaningful role an artist plays in society today?

This is a difficult question to answer because of how complex it is, but it reminds me of an interview I saw as a child. A prominent boxer from a country going through a turbulent sociopolitical moment was asked how he planned to help his country. He responded simply: “Every day, I try to punch better.” That answer stayed with me. I believe every individual should approach their role in society in the same way, and for artists, the most meaningful role is to fully commit to being an artist, to constantly challenge and refine their practice, whatever it may be.

What an artist chooses to do with their work, however, varies a lot. Some of us engage directly with communities through education and social programs; others explore the therapeutic potential of art; some create with such intensity and presence that their work becomes impossible to ignore. I often think of something Eduardo Galeano once wrote that we are all like small fires, each with our own light and intensity. Some burn quietly, others wildly, but there are those whose fire is so alive that it ignites something in others.

For me, that is where the role of the artist expands beyond the individual. Whether through teaching, healing, provoking, or simply creating, what matters is the commitment to growth and to honestly reflecting what we see, feel, and believe. In doing so, art becomes a way of reaching others, of creating connection, and of keeping something essential alive. Now more than ever, that feels necessary.

Do you think art should have a political or ideological agenda?

I would love to say yes, first, because everything we do, every action we take or opinion we hold, exists within a political context; and second, because I believe part of our role as artists is to try to understand society, its problems and its contradictions, and reflect them in our work in ways that make others question and see differently. At the same time, I don’t think every artist should have a political or ideological agenda. There is a real need for art that is simply experiential, work that is made for beauty, for emotion, for play, or for escape. We need art that challenges us, but we also need art that allows us to feel, to rest, or to exist without that weight.

That said, it becomes difficult to fully separate art from politics. Even the decision to not engage directly can carry meaning, especially in a world where so much of what we consume is shaped by underlying ideologies and oftentimes filled with propaganda. In that sense, all art exists within a political framework, whether intentionally or not. So while I don’t believe every artist needs to make explicitly political work, I do believe that all art, in one way or another, participates in the world it is made in.

Do you believe the ‘mad artist’ stereotype still holds weight, or is creativity more grounded than we think?

I do think these stereotypes still hold weight in how society and even artists themselves understand creativity, but not in a positive way. The idea of the “mad artist” or the poète maudit persists as a kind of romanticized myth, one that I believe fundamentally misunderstands how art actually works. It is true that art can be therapeutic, but it is not a consequence of madness, it is often the result of trying to move out of it. Creating is not about being consumed by chaos, but about making sense of it, about attempting to process, release, and transform what we carry. In my own experience, art has saved me many times, but when I am at my lowest mental states, I cannot create. I am not thinking about color, meaning, or even picking up a brush. It is when I begin to find some clarity, however small, that I am able to make work again and my strongest work comes when I am mentally strong, stable, and fully present.

The image of the suffering artist producing their best work in the depths of despair is misleading. If you are in complete darkness, you cannot see your way out. You need at least a fragment of light to begin carving a path, to build something that allows you to climb out. Art can exist in that space, not as a symptom of madness, but as part of the process of healing, but when it really flourishes is outside of it. Because of this, I believe these stereotypes should be left behind. Rather than viewing artists as unstable or inherently broken, we should begin to see them as individuals engaged in a process of understanding, and often, of care or healing, both for themselves and for others.

Has social media democratized art or diluted its value? How do you feel platforms like Instagram influence modern creativity?

Yes to both.

On one side, artists and art have benefited immensely from the exposure that social media provides. Before these platforms, visibility was largely dependent on access to established networks: galleries, museums, fairs, and traditional media. Today, the most powerful tools we have for exposure and accessibility in art are those social media platforms. Opportunities like this interview, for example, are only possible because of that accessibility. In the past, even a highly successful exhibition might reach a few thousand people. Now, artists can engage with tens or even hundreds of millions through a single post or video. That level of reach has fundamentally changed what it means to share work and to build an audience.

Nevertheless, this shift comes with consequences. While social media has made art more accessible, it has also altered how we experience it and how artists perceive themselves. Constant comparison becomes inevitable, you are no longer measuring yourself against your local context, but against a global one. Two hundred people seeing your work posted online can feel like a failure, even though that same number in a physical space would represent a very successful exhibition. That shift in perception can be disorienting and a bit heartbreaking. When it comes to creativity, however, the impact is undeniable. Never before have artists had such immediate access to the work of others.

Creativity, in many ways, builds on what came before, and these platforms provide an endless source of reference, inspiration, and learning. Tutorials, processes, and shared knowledge have become widely available, making technical growth more accessible than ever. So while social media can dilute certain aspects of how we value and experience art, it has also undeniably democratized it, opening doors and borders, expanding audiences, and reshaping how artists learn, connect, and create.

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Felipe Colmenares Betancourt is an artist who has thought seriously about what it means to commit fully to a practice, not in a self-regarding way, but in the way of that boxer who answered simply: every day, I try to punch better. The mangroves, the precolonial histories, the layered territories of Panama and beyond, these are not just subjects but structures through which an ongoing inquiry into resistance, memory, and healing is being conducted. The work does not offer easy comfort or clear resolution. It asks instead to be felt, and in doing so, it keeps something essential alive.