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ASUNCIÓN, Paraguay . At 64, Liz Paola Cortaza is one of the oldest trans women in Paraguay. Freshly straightened hair and party dresses, Saint George's Day cards, and grocery bags. She cooks with an iron pot and arranges a feather boa around her neck before going on stage. She walks through her neighborhood in San Lorenzo like someone who knows that her mere existence is already living history. She was persecuted by the Stroessner police in the 1980s and rejected by Paraguay, the country where she grew up. Her life is a testament to resilience, pride, and tenderness.

For four years, photographer Jess Insfrán Pérez accompanied her. At her Umbanda rituals, at the market to buy hair dye, at birthdays, and at funerals. From all those moments emerged a question and a book. How many memories does memory hold? , an intimate and political photographic essay, won first prize in the 4th National Photobook Competition, organized by El Ojo Salvaje . The publication was presented at the International Fair of Authorial Photographic Books (FILFA) in Asunción in November 2024.

How the book came about

The project was born from a search: to portray LGBTI people over 60. But in Paraguay, the lines between age and diversity barely intersect. “They told me there were no trans women that age. Life expectancy is 35 years because they were killed or left to die,” says Jess, who works with Presentes documenting marches and taking many of the photographs that accompany the agency's stories in Paraguay. Thus, the idea of ​​portraying a person who defies statistics arose.

At the first meeting with Liz Paola at her home in San Lorenzo , Jess arrived, and she was lighting candles to Saint George. She placed corn on his head and lit a cigarette. They talked for hours. She showed him a book by Panambí and the publications she had on trans women. Then the pandemic hit, and her silences followed. Jess explains that it was difficult for her to get closer again, and there were unsuccessful attempts to revive the project.

But in 2023, the connection became daily and mutual . “I was no longer a photographer capturing a story. We were two women sharing what hurt us,” she adds. Liz Paola, then, stopped being the person who photographed each march with her fellow Casa Diversa members. She shared love advice via text, fried tortillas with stew, and albums that were trips back in time.

Liz Paola, the president of the trans

In an interview we conducted with Jess in 2020 for this outlet, Liz Paola told us that she started dancing mambo and rumba at the El Hormiguero bar at age 13. In 1975, she was a sex worker, a time when raids were her daily routine. At that time, she recalled some shows that left their mark on her, such as Miss Trans Universe, and her fellow contestants Usha , Sandra Torres, Rossana, and Kupple. She considers them the "best drag queens in Paraguay .

“We were always there, right there. Liz Paola and Usha never had to be absent,” she said on that occasion, referring to the shows. With Sandra Torres, they founded an organization called Lazos Hermanos. “I was the president of the trans group, and she was the president of the transformistas, because at the time things were divided. Later, that association ended because Sandra had to travel,” she explained.

Inspired by the Argentine Trans Memory Archive , Jess added archival photos of Liz Paola to the current images. The black and white of the present and the color of the past converse with time, as if setting the tone of memory. But this isn't a nostalgic book. It's a celebration and an affirmation of the present. "Being a transvestite is a party," says Angie in Camila Sosa Villada's book Las Malas , but it's something Liz Paola could easily say. She is seen as she wants to be seen: radiant, defiant, fun, real.

Leo de Blas, director of FILFA, believes that this photobook is not limited to simply documenting, but rather builds a space of care and dignity. “The author recovers fragments of an existence marked by the violence of the system, but also by the strength, beauty, and joy of an identity lived with courage. The photographs, far from a voyeuristic or victimizing gaze, propose a narrative where sensitivity is intertwined with denunciation ,” de Blas says.

When books and people save us

In Liz Paola's albums, you can see her years ago, full and eager, dancing with crystals on her hips, smoking by a friend's pool, or on the couch with an old flame. "For me, it wasn't just taking pictures of her. It was staying to chat, drinking coffee, telling her my troubles," says Jess. During the process, she went through a breakup and returned to her parents' house. Liz Paola was there. "She took care of me, she opened the door for me whenever I needed company. She saved me." 

In the middle of the project, Jess was notified that her brother, Juan José, who lived in Puerto Iguazú, was hospitalized with pneumonia. She and her family traveled there, but a few days later, he died. The book was already in design, ready to be printed. She asked designer Karina Palleros to add a dedication: To Juanjo Insfrán Pérez. To Carla, Patricia, Doris, Pocha, Gisela, Costurera, Vanesa, and all those who live and will live in the memory of Liz Paola Cortaza. “When I first opened the printed book and saw that, I felt something close and something else open. I felt like that book had saved me too,” she says.

How many trans bodies carry the wounds of oblivion?

According to Leo de Blas, the photo essay raises uncomfortable questions. “What story is being told when we talk about Paraguay’s recent past? Who was forgotten in this official construction of memory? How many dissident bodies continue to bear the wounds of that oblivion?”

How Many Memories Does Memory Hold? was exhibited at the Barcelona LGBTI Center in 2023 and at the El Sortidor Civic Center in Barcelona in 2024. During that time, Liz Paola also received an award. She received the Dignity Lifetime Achievement Award for Historical Memory in 2023 and continues to fight today for the Paraguayan government to recognize her identity and that of her colleagues.

“For me, winning the contest was a professional achievement. For Liz Paola, it was social recognition,” she says. In a country that still denies basic rights to trans people, such as changing their name or accessing decent healthcare, depicting the nuances of Liz Paola's memory with images is not only transgressive but also a political stance.