La Casa en la Montaña
When I began painting La Casa en la Montaña, the work that would eventually lend its name to this exhibition, my intention was not to create a realistic landscape of the Andes. I had no idea where to begin, nor did I realize that the painting would become an echo of my memories. I started by choosing the palette—burnt sienna, sap green, ultramarine blue, and burnt umber—the colors of the Andes. As I painted, the process became a portal. Without realizing it, each brushstroke carried me back to my childhood in Ecuador.
The little house nestled among the green skirts of the mountains became a treasure chest, a keepsake I carried with me on my journeys. Over the years, like layers of paint on a canvas, I had stored away memories—glimpses of my parents’ black-and-white photographs, sunsets over the Andes, old letters, and whispers that, like the wind crossing the green páramos, still told their stories. They lay hidden, tucked away in the depths of my heart like precious treasures, but veiled because some memories are too painful to revisit.
The house in these paintings is not a physical structure. It is the homeland we carry within us—a place built from memory, longing, and love. Though we leave it behind, it continues to travel with us, shaping who we are and who we become. La Casa en la Montaña brings together paintings from two earlier bodies of work, Memories of the Andes and A Tale of the Andes, both first exhibited in London. Originally conceived as separate projects, they are reunited here through the presence of La Casa en la Montaña, a painting that became the thread connecting them. Like memories themselves, these works have traveled across time and geography. Created for different exhibitions and audiences, they now return to one another, forming a larger story about belonging, loss, ancestry, and remembrance.As the paintings came together, I began to see them not as separate series but as different rooms within the same symbolic house—each holding fragments of memory while contributing to a shared story of home and identity.
As immigrants, we move forward into new lands and new experiences, yet we remain connected to the places we leave behind. The past holds on to us. At times it sets us adrift in a sea of nostalgia—a longing for days that can never return. Often that longing is awakened by something simple—laundry drying on a clothesline, the fading rays of sunset, or the moon bright in a turbulent sky. Suddenly, fragments of memory appear, and once again we are carried away by remembrance.
That is how I found myself standing before a blank canvas. Like an old ritual, I laid down one brushstroke after another until I realized something remarkable was happening. I was back in those light-filled days in the Andes, when the air was thin and crisp and a deep hush settled across the mountains, broken only by the sudden howl of the wind. The memories returned—not with pain, but with the warmth of bread baking in the kitchen or the sweetness of a forgotten melody. Familiar voices and laughter surrounded me once more, an embrace that felt safe, like home.
I did not try to hold on to the moment. I knew it would return. The paintings had become keepers of memory. They would remember, and they would tell our stories.
La Casa en la Montaña
Echo de menos el resplandor de la nieve
y la danza de la luz en el agua.
Echo de menos el verde de sus faldas
y el caballo en la montaña.
Echo de menos aquellos días de pura alegría,
cuando el sol duraba largo
y las estrellas se estiraban como un manto negro
alrededor de sus hombros.
Ya era tarde cuando bajamos de la montaña
y no quedaba nadie para acompañarme.
Se había desvanecido el olor a café negro
que inundaba la cocina,
y escuché el eco de voces,
un murmullo que desaparece
a la luz del día.
Aunque ya no soy esa niña,
ni esa es mi casa,
aquí llevo conmigo las hortensias recogidas
en el jardín de mis esperanzas.
Luna, luna,
escucha mi canto,
que a veces extraño a aquella niña
que jugaba en la montaña.
I miss the sparkle of the snow
and the dance of light on the water.
I miss the green of her skirts
and the horse on the mountain.
I miss those days of pure joy,
when the sun lasted long
and the stars stretched like a black shawl
around her shoulders.
It was late when we came down the mountain
and there was no one left to keep me company.
The smell of black coffee that filled the kitchen had faded
and I heard the echo of voices,
a murmur that disappeared
in the daylight.
Although I am no longer that little girl,
nor is this my home,
I carry with me the hydrangeas
picked in the garden of my hopes.
Moon, moon,
listen to my song,
for I sometimes miss the little girl
that once played in the mountain.
Diana Mercado
Listen to Diana Mercado
Introduce the exhibition and share the memories
and experiences that created La Casa en la Montaña.