Serie 03 – Luis Gallardo

Documentation Museo Tamayo

“The sun never knew how great it was until it hit the side of a building.”
 — Louis Kahn

Bastions of art. Archives of the zeitgeist. Sanctuaries for the troubled. Pedestals for the creative.
 Monoliths that shape us and give form to our cities. These are museums—institutions that, over time, continue to weave together culture, creativity, preservation, and inspiration, bridging all spheres of life.

But what is an art museum without people? Without students, collectors, lovers, loners, educators, and enthusiasts? What is it without Picasso, Noguchi, Frankenthaler, or Warhol?
What is a museum without art?

Presented with the rare opportunity to document Museo Tamayo in a state of emptiness, during its restoration, Luis Gallardo of LGM Studio accomplished what most architectural photographers only dream of: the chance to escape the commission. Often tasked with capturing carefully staged interiors governed by convention, here Gallardo becomes an artist within a space devoid of art. Like Caravaggio, he uses light and shadow—chiaroscuro—not merely to reveal form, but to express emotion.

His images evoke stillness. They invite introspection. They compel us to confront our own contrasts and depths—to face the quiet power of emptiness, and the discomfort that sometimes comes with awe. Brutalism is rarely associated with emotional architecture, and yet Museo Tamayo is no ordinary building. Without the hum of gallery visitors or the flutter of casual glances, we are, at last, able to see. And in the absence of art, we are finally able to listen.
The light—how had we never truly noticed this light before?
 It’s as if Teodoro González de León and Abraham Zabludovsky had intended it to be seen this way all along.

The museum’s organic, pinwheel-like configuration allows for a fluid experience—visitors flow effortlessly to and from the central lobby, the building’s heart, in a circulation that resists rigidity. Gallardo builds upon this architecture of freedom, capturing the building from the outside in: its hand-finished textures, its 45-degree geometries, the dance of light from skylights to walls to floors, and its framed views of cypress and ash trees. With quiet grace, he draws out something else—something raw, something vulnerable.

Museums are not meant to compete with art, yet here, something extraordinary occurs:
architecture becomes art, and Gallardo becomes the artist.

There is a certain unease in this pristine emptiness. This brutalist bunker of concrete and stone—with its pre-Hispanic echoes and watchful stillness—offers a sense of weight and safety. But then, through Gallardo’s eyes, we re-encounter it. We are drawn into the silence of shadow, the serenity of space, the intimacy of a single day’s form. And through this language—through the depth of contrast and the precision of his gaze—we are left with something more:
hope.
 And a single, quiet beam of light.

Amy Dvorak