In the borderlands, where resources are often scarce but imagination runs deep, theatre becomes less about spectacle and more about survival of stories, voices, and community. My conversation with Cesariván Gaitanos, a Nuevo Laredo theatre director shaped by this land, revealed not only the evolution of an independent theatre practice, but also a philosophy rooted in resilience, collaboration, and reinvention.
Theatre Without Permission
Gaitanos is part of a generation that did not wait for institutional validation to begin creating. His first theatre collective, Laberintus, started as a self-funded workshop, an experiment sustained entirely by the commitment of its members. Without access to large budgets or formal infrastructure, they learned to build from the ground up.
“We had to be resourceful,” he explained. “Cardboard, fabric, anything we could reuse became part of our visual language.”
This constraint became a kind of aesthetic. Minimalism was not a stylistic choice, but a necessity, and from it emerged a distinct creative voice. Yet the financial limitations were — and continue to be — real. In cities like Nuevo Laredo, theatre audiences are accustomed to free or low-cost performances, making it difficult to establish sustainable ticket pricing. Even publicly funded structures, while essential, often require free performances as part of their conditions.
The result is a paradox: theatre is supported, but not always sustained.
Unlike major cultural centers, Tamaulipas lacks a dedicated institution for formal theatre education. Gaitanos’ generation, therefore, learned in motion — through rehearsals, productions, and collective experimentation.
Early on, Laberintus worked with original texts, many written collaboratively or by playwright Luis Edoardo Torres. This allowed them to test ideas freely in rehearsal spaces, integrating lighting, sound, and costume design from the very beginning of the process.
“There’s no single way to make theatre,” Gaitanos said. “You learn by doing, and by watching.”
This openness extended to roles within the group. Members often rotated responsibilities: actors became directors, directors experimented with scenography. While this approach offered insight into different aspects of production, it also revealed its limits. At times, these “deconstructed” processes felt more like critique than growth, highlighting the tension between experimentation and structure.
A turning point came when the group applied for national funding through a cultural grant. To qualify, they had to formalize as an association and present a documented history of work. It was a crash course in institutional language and expectations.
With funding came opportunity, but also pressure.
At one point, the group attempted to stage 100 performances in a year, an ambitious goal that quickly proved unsustainable. Payment per performance was minimal, and the logistical demands were overwhelming. Still, the experience was formative. It forced the group to confront the realities of production at scale and to reconsider what sustainability actually means.
“We were naïve,” Gaitanos admitted, “But we learned.” Like many independent collectives, Laberintus was built on friendship as much as artistic vision. Over time, key members moved on. Others aged out of the intense rehearsal schedules that had once defined their lives. What remained was a difficult question: how do you preserve a collective identity when the people who shaped it are no longer there?
Gaitanos chose not to continue under the same name. Instead, he let Laberintus end as it was: intact in its legacy, rather than diluted by change.
“There’s a responsibility in carrying a name,” he said.
Today, his work continues under a new structure: HIJK Teatro. The shift reflects a more sustainable approach to creation. Rehearsal processes are shorter, no more than three months, and projects are more clearly defined from the outset.
His artistic language is deeply influenced by cinema. As a child, he was drawn to films through his father’s home videos and a fascination with special effects. Later, directors like David Lynch, Pedro Almodóvar, and Wes Anderson shaped his sensibility.
These influences are evident in his theatrical work, particularly in its narrative structure and visual transitions. Scenes unfold with a cinematic rhythm, blurring the line between stage and screen.
“Theatre, like film, requires you to see a lot,” he said. “You have to feed your imagination.”
One of the most compelling aspects of theatre, Gaitanos noted, is its inherently collaborative nature. Unlike solitary art forms, theatre demands the convergence of multiple disciplines — acting, directing, design, and production.
In Tamaulipas, festivals like the Festival Rafael Solana have played a crucial role in fostering this ecosystem. They provide not only a platform for performance, but also a space for learning, exchange, and professionalization.
“Theatre teaches you to work with others,” Gaitanos reflected. “It’s about building something together.”
As our conversation came to a close, what resonated with me was not just his experience, but his perspective. In a context where resources are limited and recognition is not guaranteed, making theatre becomes an act of persistence.
It is about showing up — again and again — with whatever you have.
And building something anyway.
