My dearest incurable humanist, As you probably have been too, I’ve been closely following the Lindsay Clancy trial these past few weeks. I know it’s not healthy to keep watching, and I want to stop, but I haven’t been able to. Our brains will deny it to protect us… “No, there’s no way I could ever…
My dearest incurable humanist, Summer is flying by, and can’t believe there’s already hints of pumpkin madness out there. This week I’ll keep it brief and dive right into The Incurable Humanist’s August/September reading list: Carl Spitzweg. The Bookworm , 1851 1. The Renoir Girls: A Hidden History…
My dearest incurable humanist, One of the many things I love about living in New York is the food. But beyond the obvious, food has always interested me as a story of migration. The tomato for instance feels inseparable from Italian cuisine; Caprese salads, pizza, and pasta sauce… Yet it came from…
My dearest incurable humanist, A couple of nights ago, I was lying in bed doomscrolling on TikTok (don’t judge, you know you do this too), when I stopped to listen to a podcast clip, where they asked “who is most likely to burn out by the time they turn thirty?” The guest replied: “daughters of…
My dearest incurable humanist, I went to the Met for Giacometti in the Temple of Dendur , and if you’re feeling overwhelmed with life in general, you should too. The exhibition brings Alberto Giacometti’s sculptures to the Met for the first time, placing them in conversation with the Temple of…
My dearest incurable humanist, Christopher Nolan’s adaptation of The Odyssey has already achieved blockbuster status, breaking box office records this year. Yet long before it reached movie theaters, it was already the quintessential story for understanding the instability, hardship, and…
My dearest incurable humanist, Over the past two weeks, I have been writing about the aftermath of the earthquakes in Venezuela and, about La Guaira, one of the hardest-hit areas. I find it important to continue to raise awareness of what is still happening in Venezuela, but for this week, I want…
My dearest incurable humanist, Last Wednesday, a week after the double earthquake, I was sitting in my office in Midtown. I opened Instagram and saw a video of Elena, a woman from La Guaira, pleading for help to recover the bodies of her husband and sons. She knew where they were yet help never…
My dearest incurable humanist, It is with great sadness that I write to you today. Although I usually write to you on Tuesdays, I am publishing this week’s newsletter on Sunday because of what has happened. Last Wednesday, June 24, two earthquakes measuring 7.2 and 7.5 in magnitude struck…
This past weekend, Donohue’s Steak House closed its doors after 76 years on Lexington Avenue. An old-school Upper East Side institution, known for its steaks, impeccable burgers, strong martinis, and for being run for decades by the one and only Maureen Donohue. It was quintessential Manhattan -…
My dearest incurable humanist, Some days, while drafting long petitions at the office, I put on my headphones and let Spotify run on shuffle. Last week, by serendipity, I found Bedouine and then, even more luckily, saw her live at Rough Trade , the small record shop tucked into Rockefeller Center.…
My dearest incurable humanist, Last week, I went to MoMA to see Frida and Diego: The Last Dream , which opened in conjunction with the Met’s new production of El Último Sueño de Frida y Diego . I’ll admit it upfront, I walked in already skeptical, and unfortunately even with my low expectations, I…
My dearest incurable humanist, Summer is in the air! Despite the moody weather New York has been throwing at us lately, there’s no mistaking it - the season has arrived. And with summer, of course, comes the best part: summer reads! Jose Ferraz de Almeida Junior, Reading , 1892 So without further…
In 1936, Dorothea Lange turned her car around after she had already finished her assignment for the Farm Security Administration documenting the lives of displaced agricultural workers across California. Something pulled her back toward a pea-pickers camp in Nipomo, and toward a woman sitting…
My dearest incurable humanist, Doesn’t it happen to you that sometimes you miss a place or a stage in your life, but then when you really think about it, you realize that even if you could go back it wouldn’t be the same—because you are also someone else? This might come off a little confusing… but…
My dearest Incurable Humanist, We have a new logo! Why is this relevant, you might be thinking? Well, you see… I’ve always loved my grandma’s calligraphy. She’s always had the most perfect handwriting. When I was little, my grandparents used to host many cocktail parties and sit-down dinners at…
My dearest incurable humanist, With Mother’s Day approaching, I thought why not write about motherhood in art, and what better way to do so than with Mary Cassatt. Born in Pennsylvania in 1844, Cassatt came from a family with the means to support her ambitions, and that privilege gave her a kind of…
My dearest incurable humanist, This week, I want to share my reading list for May. Jean Honoré Fragonard, Young Girl Reading , c. 1769 Lately, I’ve been craving a slower routine in the evenings with less scrolling, more reading, and preferably from an actual book. After spending 9 to 11 hours a day…
My dearest incurable humanist, “It’s hard to be at a party when I feel like an open wound,” Taylor Swift once wrote in her song this is me trying from Folklore (2020). And what does Taylor Swift have to do with what I’m writing about today? Not much—except such poignant lyrics have accompanied me…
My dearest incurable humanist, I can’t believe it’s been officially one year since I started writing here on Substack! First and foremost, thank you for being here with me every week for a year. On the Incurable Humanist’s one year anniversary, I thought I’d remind you why we’re here — and if…
My dearest incurable humanist, It is my birthday today, April 7, and I find myself thinking about time, stages, and thresholds. That is what led me back to Dorothea Tanning, especially her painting Birthday (1942), her memoir Birthday (1986), and its expanded version, Between Lives: An Artist and…
My dearest incurable humanist, Even if you are not Venezuelan or Latin American, you have probably heard of Simón Bolívar, the “ Liberator ” who led the independence of Venezuela, Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, and Panama. But I’m not here to talk about Bolívar. Today I want to introduce you to…
My dearest incurable humanist, There’s a corner in East Harlem where the present feels paused. On the surface, Patsy’s looks like any other old-school New York pizzeria, a window dusted with flour and time, and pictures with celebrities hung on the walls. But this is no ordinary pizza joint.…
My dearest incurable humanist, Robert Rauschenberg’s Thirty-Four Illustrations for Dante’s Inferno (1958–60) reimagines Dante’s medieval vision of Hell in mid‑20th‑century America. Each drawing corresponds to one canto of Dante’s Inferno , but instead of devils and medieval tyrants, we get cold-war…
My dearest incurable humanist, Lately I’ve had this quote, often misattributed to Dante in my mind. It’s a modern paraphrase of Inferno III “the hottest places in hell are reserved for those who, in times of great moral crisis, maintain their neutrality.” We live in a time when everyone relativizes…
My dearest incurable humanist, In Latin America, or at least in Venezuela, it is hard to say “no.” I lived in Mexico for a while and, in my experience, it was the same. I think it is considered bad manners or rude or something. Even here in New York, I feel that sometimes people still expect women…
My dearest incurable humanist, In my first week of law school back in 2013, sitting in an Introduction to Law class, the professor asked, “What is justice?” I remember sitting in silence, suspicious that any definition I could think of would not be quite right, and so before opening my mouth and…
My dearest incurable humanist, Tomorrow I’m starting a new stage in my life! Beginning something I’ve worked towards for years. I am so excited about this new stepping stone in my career. I can’t share what it is with you yet, but tomorrow is my ‘first day’. Or well, actually today, since you’re…
My dearest incurable humanist, It’s that time of the year again. The annual mania of hearts, chocolate-induced drama, red-and-pink everything, tacky roses, and restaurant reservations that cost more than your rent. But instead of writing about the intoxicating magic of new love or the soul-crushing…
My dearest incurable humanist, It was February 17, 2022 at 2:12 AM “Can you talk?” My phone’s screen brightened with the text notification from my mom. I was in bed, alone, freezing, on the 39th floor of a Santa Fe high-rise, the Hudson Yards of Mexico City. The wind howled outside. The windows…
My dearest incurable humanist, With the snowstorm approaching this weekend, I headed to Trader Joe’s Friday afternoon. Yes, probably not the brightest or most original idea I’ve ever had, I’ll admit. But as I walked through the doors and saw the infinite line twisting and turning through the…
My dearest incurable humanist, When I first read Teresa de la Parra ’s Ifigenia: Diario de una señorita que escribió porque se fastidiaba , as a teenager, I was certain I understood María Eugenia Alonso completely. Her suffocation in Caracas society’s expectations mirrored my own frustrations, even…
My dearest incurable humanist, I see new faces here, so first and foremost: welcome. This space was born from grief, migration, and art; and from a stubborn conviction that, in a world turning us into data points, we choose to remain human. I’m not sure if you feel the same way, but to me, lately,…
My dearest incurable humanist, At 1:19 AM on Saturday, January 3rd, 2026 my mom’s text woke me from half-sleep - “ Están bombardeando en Caracas ” (They’re bombing Caracas). I immediately woke my husband, and we called my mother-in-law, who was listening to the bombs in disbelief. On January 3rd,…
My dearest incurable humanist, Back in 2017, in deontology class, I was taught by a professor in his nineties, in a three-piece suit, with a small microphone and a portable speaker. One day, he gave us a speech I still think about. The most important thing, he said, was to always act in alignment…
My dearest incurable humanist, In 1934, Salvador Dalí traveled to New York City with his wife Gala, while Europe was already shadowed by the rise of fascism. Manhattan’s commercial speed, spectacle, and boundless optimism captivated him. That year, he painted Allegory of an American Christmas , a…
My dearest incurable humanist, As you might have noticed Venezuela is now on every front page and breaking news as María Corina Machado (MCM) was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize last Wednesday December 10, 2025 for her tireless work promoting democratic rights and for her struggle to achieve a just…
My dearest incurable humanist, The holidays are traditionally a joyful season filled with gatherings, food, presents, and music. Yet grief can easily cloud it all. This season becomes yet another reminder that things will never be the same again because the person you loved is no longer with you.…
My dearest incurable humanist, Somehow we’ve arrived at the edge of the calendar again, the season of lights, gatherings, food, and “what on earth do I get people?” panic. I know the feeling. But over the years, I’ve transformed gift-giving from a source of anxiety into something of an art form.…
My dearest incurable humanist, Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. A bit strange for a Venezuelan, I know, but my affection for it began long before I ever moved to New York. As a child, I adored the scenes I saw on American TV: the meal, the gathering, the cozy fall aesthetic that didn’t exist in…
My dearest incurable humanist, Last week, I went to MoMA’s Wifredo Lam retrospective When I Don’t Sleep, I Dream and it resonated with me how much migration shaped his work and his world’s understanding. Born in Cuba in 1902, Lam was already an immigrant before birth. His father came from Canton in…
My dearest incurable humanist, Alice in Wonderland has always been the Disney movie I love the most. I know some kids found it terrifying, but I was fascinated by Wonderland’s magic. My favorite scene was the Mad Hatter’s tea party and the chaos in A Very Merry Unbirthday. As I once told you in a…
My dearest incurable humanist, Elizabeth Gilbert published her new memoir, All the Way to the River: Love, Loss, and Liberation, in September. I have been a Gilbert follower for years. I was not necessarily her number 1 fan, or her most avid reader, but I enjoyed Eat Pray Love and especially Big…
My dearest incurable humanist, It finally feels like autumn in New York! I love the crisp fall air, the pumpkin obsession, the coziness, and the introspection it brings when going on a long walk through the foliage. Autumn in New York feels like the homonymous song, autumn in New York feels like…
My dearest incurable humanist, Currently at MoMa until February 7, 2026 there is an exhibit you must not miss, Ruth Asawa: A Retrospective . I am fascinated with how migration is an undeniable and recurrent theme in Ruth Asawa’s (1926-2013) life and work. This first posthumous exhibit compiles more…
My dearest incurable humanist, Art has always been a big part of who I am. When I say ‘art’ I mean it in the broad sense, including painting, sculpture, dance, cooking, writing, theatre, film, photography, music, poetry... You get the picture. All my happiest moments have been somehow related to…
My dearest incurable humanist, Last week, I wrote about grief, so I thought to continue exploring the three pillars of The Incurable Humanist (grief, migration, and art). This week, migration, and next week, art. I was exposed to the idea of migration early on, though not through history lessons…
My dearest incurable humanist, When we think about grief, we automatically think about losing someone to death. However, grief is far more complex than we realize. One time during the COVID-19 lockdown, I was in a Zoom therapy session, and my doctor told me that migration is a form of grief. At the…
My dearest incurable humanist, I tend to stress, overthink, and feel anxious. I need my space and often get lost in my own head. After years of therapy, I can finally share this story with you, one that explains so much about who I became. When there’s a sick child in a family, attention naturally…
My dearest incurable humanist, Yesterday, it was September 15th, the beginning of Hispanic Heritage Month in the US. It begins on this date because in 1821, five Central American nations: Costa Rica, El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras, and Nicaragua, declared independence from Spain. The timeframe…
My dearest incurable humanist, One of the reasons I started this Substack, as you may already know, was to process my grief. I have cried, read, sang, walked, stayed still, screamed, and sat in silence. Yet, I have truly found comfort and a great outlet in writing. Journaling, and this space that I…
My dearest incurable humanist, We live in a world where everything is fleeting. And yes, in a way, this has always been the case. But I mean it in the sense of the immediacy in which everything happens today. The constant scrolling on social media, the lack of attention, you know what I mean. Even…
My dearest incurable humanist, Ever since I was a child, I’ve felt like I walked into a party without an invitation. Awkward, clumsy, too aware of how not-enough I was. The kind of social anxiety where you stand in the corner, with a drink, replaying every gesture in your head while nobody notices…
I've been a Swiftie since Taylor Swift released her debut eponymous album , and I can trace my life through her eras. From Our Song on repeat until my little brother begged me to stop, through Fearless as the soundtrack of my teenage bedroom, to shouting Mean with my mom in the car during school…
My dearest incurable humanist, This week I achieved a milestone! We are now 70 incurable humanists here in this little community. I am so grateful to each one of you who has subscribed and is now reading my weekly newsletter about grief, migration, and art. Without further ado, here's a brief story…
My dearest incurable humanist, For over a decade, I’ve been obsessed with memoirs. I love learning how people make sense of their lives, how they survive grief, failure, and reinvention, through their perspectives. Not because they’re literary, but because they’re human. Long before that, as a…
My dearest incurable humanist, "The connoisseur is concerned with distinguishing the better from the good and the best from the better." – Giorgio Vasari Every night for seven years, from age seventeen until I left Venezuela at twenty-four, I ate plantain chips for dinner. With ketchup. (I know,…
My dearest incurable humanist, There are photographs on my phone from ten, five, and three years ago that I can barely stand to look at anymore. Not because they’re painful, but because of the strange combination of recognition and complete alienation. The woman in those images has my face, my…
My dearest incurable humanist, Cars were honking, but I stood frozen on the Manhattan sidewalk. Regina Spektor ’s voice in my ears, singing about how it doesn’t get better with time, and suddenly, she was singing my grief aloud. "I went walking home alone Past all the bars and corner delis When I…
My dearest incurable humanist, “Why don’t we just move to New York?”. I was seven years old when I solved my problems with confidence. It was 2002, and the oil strike paralyzed Caracas. Schools closed. Offices shuttered. The city was paused while adults argued about politics I didn’t understand.…
My dearest incurable humanist, John Singer Sargent was the original global nomad. Born to American parents living in Italy, raised between Florence and Nice, educated in Paris, he belonged everywhere and nowhere, moving effortlessly through cultures. Last week, HBO 's The Gilded Age brought Sargent…
My dearest incurable humanist, I was growing very tired of the questions about brushwork and prices, about what it all meant. Another long Saturday at the gallery had blurred by, with my body present but my mind miles away. Like Alice on the riverbank, drowsy with disinterest, I felt suspended…
My dearest incurable humanist, I'm writing to you from seat 27-A on a flight from Miami to New York. As I settled into my window seat behind the wing, a song began playing in my mind: Liz Phair 's Stratford-on-Guy from her debut album Exile in Guyville (1993). The coincidence struck me immediately.…
My dearest incurable humanist, My Favorite Things , from The Sound of Music , sung by Julie Andrews in her sweet melodic voice, is the kind of song you forget until you need it. Then suddenly, there it is. “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens…” The Sound of Music (1965) When I was 12, I…
My dearest incurable humanist, People often don’t realize the importance of legal advice. Not just any legal advice, but the right legal advice. When you find yourself in a messy situation, already knee-deep in chaos with no exit in sight, it often turns out the disaster could’ve been avoided…
My dearest incurable humanists, Yesterday was Memorial Day, which, at least semi-officially, marks the beginning of summer. This makes me think about milestones. When we’re in school, the end of the year is a significant milestone. There's a sense of finality to it. A report card arrives to…
My dearest incurable humanists, I’ve always been an over-thinker. Ever since I can remember, I’ve been obsessed with two albums: Jagged Little Pill (1995) by Alanis Morissette and ¿Dónde Están los Ladrones? (1998) by Shakira . Some critics in the ’90s addressed some similarities, but never with any…
When I was in my mother’s womb, my dad read aloud the Venezuelan Civil Code and Constitution. He said I was already preparing to be a lawyer. When I was born, he stayed up through the night until I fell asleep. I’d hold on tight to his finger with my tiny hand. If he tried to leave, I’d cry. He’d…
My dearest Incurable Humanist, A few weeks ago, I was having dinner with my friend Ale, and I was telling her how I just started my Substack. Ale has been my friend for as long as I can remember so she will always be a good judge of character and, she knows me well. Really well. There is nothing I…
My grandmother turns 83 today. I call her Tita. When I was born, she would say, “ Call me Mama Marthita .” Of course, being a baby, I couldn’t manage such a long name, so I shortened it to Tita. She lives in Mexico City, but she is a New Yorker. She grew up on the Upper East Side when martinis…
“We were in New York at the Frick Museum …” That’s how Aimee Mann begins her song At the Frick Museum . The moment I first heard those words, I paused. I knew exactly which painting she was singing about— Johannes Vermeer’s Girl Interrupted at Her Music , c. 1658–1661—and exactly the feeling she…
My dearest incurable humanist, most times when people talk about light in modern art, they usually go straight to France —Monet’s shimmering ponds or Matisse’s sun-lit interiors. Yet just forty minutes from Caracas, on the beach of Macuto, Armando Reverón forged an equally radical vision of…
“Oh, an incurable humanist you are” — I’ve always loved that lyric from Regina Spektor’s Loveology . It’s lingered for years, almost like she accidentally described me better than I ever could. If you’re here looking for algorithms or spreadsheets… you might be in the wrong place. This is a soft,…