Lidia Paladino doesn’t rush. Her work asks for patience. Born and based in Argentina, she built her name on engraving and drawing, with a strong early focus on textile drawing. It was through the quiet, tactile process of working with fabric and thread that she developed a way of seeing—slow, layered, deliberate. Eventually, she returned to engraving, bringing with her a fresh sensitivity shaped by that earlier path.
That return wasn’t just a technical shift. It marked a recommitment. A long, steady process of rebuilding a practice, step by step. It led to recognition—including Argentina’s First Municipal Prize for Engraving in 2003—and, more importantly, a body of work that reads like a private language carved into metal. Her images aren’t flashy or loud. They carry the weight of thought. There’s time in them. There’s care. And there’s a quiet insistence on meaning that doesn’t disappear after the first glance.
Paladino’s work sits at the intersection of thought and gesture. Her etchings don’t chase perfection. Instead, they explore states of being—emotional, spiritual, sometimes existential. Her 2006 piece, “Sin volver atrás los ojos, ni mirar hacia adelante” II (translated: “Neither looking back, nor looking ahead”), captures this approach. Created through a blend of traditional etching, burin work, and the poupée technique—where colored inks are applied by hand—it measures 70 x 50 cm and feels almost like a pause in time.
The piece isn’t trying to be dramatic. But it leaves room for reflection. The phrase attached to it—“Have the time to develop good thoughts”—isn’t an explanation, more a nudge. The image suggests a state of suspension. No rush forward. No retreat. Just a moment held in balance. The mix of fine lines and subtle texture gives the work a layered quality. Like the title suggests, it resists forward momentum. It wants you to stay still for a minute.
Then there’s “Instantáneo y Fugaz” (2005), made with the same combination of etching, burin, poupée, and slurry. Again, the size is 70 x 50 cm—modest, manageable, but immersive. The title translates to “Instant and Fleeting,” and the accompanying thought—“A vision of man. Whether he emerges or sinks”—gets to the heart of the image. This isn’t a portrait of certainty. It’s a meditation on change, or maybe risk. There’s a tension in the work, not through dramatic contrast but through restraint. The figure—if there is one—is caught in a quiet flux. Surface and depth blur.
Paladino isn’t concerned with clear narrative. What she does is invite mood. Each line holds a kind of pressure. The buril—a traditional engraving tool—leaves behind traces that feel intimate. Almost like handwriting. The ink, applied by poupée, adds softness to what could otherwise feel cold or mechanical. You can tell these aren’t quick prints. Each one is worked over, revised, cared for.
“Páginas mayores – Y condenaste el alma” (2004) stands out. It’s larger than the others—63 x 78 cm—and made with etching, poupée, and offset printing. The phrase means “Major pages – And you condemned the soul.” The tone is heavier here. The description reads: “Man condemns himself throughout.” It’s stark. But again, Paladino doesn’t overstate. The work presents a kind of quiet judgment. Not moralistic. More observational. It’s like watching someone realize they’ve gone too far, but in silence.
Visually, the piece reads like a fragment. A torn page, maybe. There’s a density to it, in both technique and feeling. You get the sense that this isn’t just about one man—it’s about all of us. The lines feel worn, as if the plate itself had to carry some of that emotional weight. It’s less about despair, more about recognition.
What connects all these pieces is time. Not the kind you measure with a clock, but the kind you feel. Time spent thinking, carving, adjusting. Time spent reworking a plate until it says something you can’t put into words. Paladino’s work rewards slowness. If you skim past it, you miss it.
Her art doesn’t try to win you over. It waits. And if you give it your attention, it gives you something back: a thought that lingers, an emotion without a name, a moment of quiet clarity.
