Marco Castro: Reflejos Secretos

Do you remember a moment or figure that awakened your love for aesthetics, expression, or art?

Yes, I remember it like it was yesterday. From a very young age, my sensitivity was shaped by what happened inside our home. My grandmother's cooking recipes were passed down through generations, preparing herbal drinks and cleansing the house with scents, incense, and whispered prayers. There was a deep sense of care in everyday life. The way she organized space, combined colors, healed with plants, it was art, even if no one called it that.

I also remember the women in my neighborhood getting ready as if every outing were a statement of dignity. Beauty wasn't luxury — it was necessity: a form of resistance, of affirmation. They reminded me of telenovela characters and women in films.
I discovered cinema early and was so obsessed that I'd cross the city to rent auteur films. Those movies have been a constant source of inspiration in my life. They taught me another way of seeing, storytelling, and embodying desire and beauty.

And I remember myself, as a child, watching the world with fascination and sorrow. I always wanted to translate what I saw into images, into form, into something beautiful that could help me understand it. I had an urgency to transform chaos into something legible. That could be why art was never decoration: it was always a vital need.

How did you experience the move to the United States? What personal and professional transformations came from that shift?

I remember myself in New York at fifteen. It was a completely new world — immense, hostile, and fascinating. Everything moved so fast. I had to learn to navigate without relying on anyone, observe closely, and survive with what little I had. There was no safety net — only the street and instinct. And although those were difficult years, they were the ones that shaped my perspective.
I discovered I could create images. I urgently needed to translate what I saw — the chaos, the beauty, the sadness — into something visual. I started taking photos with whatever I could find, without any technical skills or equipment, just a need to capture what I felt. I became obsessed with urban culture, street fashion, and the visual language of ordinary people. Something in those codes spoke directly to me: style as armor, creativity as escape, aesthetics as resistance.
The contrast between my early years in Peru and my life in New York transformed me profoundly. It taught me to look from the margins. Not to wait for permission. To build my own identity with whatever was within reach. I may not have done it any other way. Because everything I am — and everything I create — comes from that place of crossing, displacement, and intuition.

What do you carry with you from your place of origin? And what did you learn or discover in your new environment that now forms part of who you are?

From Peru, I carry a different way of understanding the value of things. A respect for cycles, for what is handmade, for what doesn't need explanation to have meaning. I come from a culture where every day is full of symbols, where beauty doesn't scream but is everywhere: in a carefully set table, in a quiet conversation under the shade, in shared silences.
And from New York, I learned a different rhythm: the urgency to move, make space, and not wait for anyone to validate your path. I learned to sharpen my gaze, trust my intuition, and invent my voice amidst the noise.
I believe my identity lives in that intersection—between what was passed on almost in secret, and what is built with force, against the current. I am the result of both worlds: root and risk, silence and reinvention.