"Wow! Just a moment. This is important. Beauty has returned." That is how Laura Freeman begins her recent review in *The Times* of the James McNeill Whistler retrospective. Alastair Sooke, a critic for *The Telegraph*, is no less enthusiastic: "It is rare these days to find an exhibition not driven by identity politics, yet Tate Britain’s compelling Whistler show is a pure celebration of artistry. How could it be otherwise? Whistler believed in art for art’s sake, and the Tate focuses on his fearless pursuit of beauty—precisely at a time when, in many artistic circles, 'beauty' has become a dirty word."

Some collections of documents seem to have been assembled by chance, while others reveal a secret logic. The collection discussed here undoubtedly belongs to the latter category. Letters, poems, photographs, postcards, and inscribed books come together over the course of nearly four decades to trace the history of a friendship that Cortázar maintained with a loyalty measurable in pages.

Carlo Ginzburg was born in Turin on April 15, 1939, son of two Italian intellectuals, Leone Ginzburg and Natalia Levi; the first, professor of Russian literature and Slavic literatures at the University of Turin, founder of the Einaudi publishing house together with Giulio Einaudi, member of the Italian section of the international anti-fascist movement Giustizia e Libertà, organized by Carlo Rosselli in Paris in 1929. Leone refused to take the oath of fidelity to the regime in 1934 and was expelled from the university. In 1940, he and his family were deported to Pizzoli, Abruzzo. They remained there until 1943. Leone returned to Rome after 8 September and remained there during the German occupation until he was arrested, tortured and murdered by the Nazis in February 1944.

A postage stamp, a rose, a butterfly, a photograph, an antique coin, a homemade telescope. Objects that were seemingly disparate yet formed part of a world defined by networks of enthusiasts—their associations, specialized magazines, and the markets that expanded alongside rising literacy, the growth of the press, and the emergence of leisure time. We are speaking of Third Republic France, a society of amateurs.

In July 2026, the province of Chaco hosted two significant cultural events. One is a historic event native to the region—the Chaco Biennial 2026—which enjoys an ever-expanding national and international profile and has been held continuously since 1988. The other was the 2026 Symposium of the International Scientific Committee on Legal, Administrative and Financial Issues (ICLAFI–ICOMOS), attended by representatives from various countries across four continents, both in person and virtually.

I met Abel Alexander in 2014 during my first trip to Buenos Aires. I was working on an exhibition of Latin American photography for the J. Paul Getty Museum, scheduled to open in 2017. Although the show would eventually focus exclusively on Argentine photography, at that stage—when research was just beginning—we did not yet know what direction it would take.

We are living through a unique moment in the history of the image. Technology is advancing at a speed few previous generations could have imagined, and artificial intelligence now makes it possible to modify a photograph, alter its components, and even create extraordinarily realistic images of events, places, and people that never existed.

With the recent centenary of the birth of the Argentine philologist Germán Orduna, the moment is opportune to reflect on his career regarding the study of medieval texts—encompassing both philological analysis and critical editing, as well as the special attention he devoted to the disciplines of codicology [1] and material bibliography in reconstructing the history of these texts.

Franz Fanon—a philosopher and activist from Martinique who was a staunch champion of *Négritude*—stated in 1952: "A society is either racist or it is not." And I ask: Is Argentina racist?

Now that the hype surrounding the last World Cup has subsided—fueled by the well-intentioned ignorance of African-American actor Samuel L. Jackson, who labeled us "one of the most racist countries in the world"—I will use this article to present a concise discovery: the 10,000-peso banknote currently in circulation, issued in 2024, was not the first to feature a person of African descent. It depicts María Remedios del Valle (...).