In 1965, Roberto Pignataro staged a retrospective art exhibition in downtown Buenos Aires—but this was not the typical gallery-based event one would expect from this era. Several unconventional elements set this event apart, making it a compelling subject for closer examination.
The following article will delve into the details, explore the historical context in which it unfolded, and what made this show truly distinctive.
Photo taken by Roberto L. Pignataro between Oct 10, 1965 - Jul 15, 1967 during his retrospective art show at Galería Florida y Lavalle, Florida 520, Buenos Aires, AR.
Introduction
By the mid-1960s, Roberto Pignataro had held enough art exhibitions to feel the time was ripe for a retrospective. Yet, when it came time to choose a venue for this special event, he was confronted with a dilemma that had been weighing on him.
On one hand, he loved the atmosphere that traditional Buenos Aires galleries fostered. Venues such as Galería Van Riel, Salón J. Peuser, and Galería Lirolay offered intimate, focused environments where viewers could experience his abstract work in a quiet, reflective manner.
Oct 1-15 1964. Art Exhibition by Roberto L. Pignataro, at Galería Van Riel, Sala V, Florida 659, Buenos Aires, AR. Photo by Roberto Pignataro
On the other hand, he grappled with the limitations these galleries presented: scheduling exhibitions during the high season was difficult, show runs were typically brief, lasting no more than two weeks, and attendance could be unpredictable.
Moreover, Buenos Aires art galleries in the 1960s still carried an air of elitism, which could feel exclusive or intimidating to much of the broader public. This made it hard to reach audiences outside the usual artistic circles.
These constraints drove Pignataro to think out of the box and explore alternative venues—spaces that provided broader accessibility and allowed for longer-lasting engagement with his audience.
Conveniently, his day job at the Argentine Central Bank made this pursuit all the more feasible. His office was located just a short walk from Florida Street—the city’s bustling hub of arts and culture, commerce, and public life—offering an ideal vantage point to rethink how art could meet its audience.
1962. View of San Martín Street in the 100 block, Buenos Aires downtown—approximately a hundred yards south of where Pignataro’s office at the Central Bank stood. Photo by Luis Fiori.
It was during a midday walk on his lunch break that he discovered a vacant storefront inside a commercial galleria nearby. It was situated right beneath an office building at the intersection of Florida and Lavalle Streets—Buenos Aires’ busiest pedestrian area. Fittingly, the galleria itself bore the name "Florida y Lavalle."
Below are several photographs of the entrance (Florida St. side) captured in 1965 by Pignataro himself. These images showcase both the busy street life and the specific display window he leased, visible just up the stairs, slightly to the left, facing the street.
Serving as a sheltered passageway linking Florida and Lavalle streets, this commercial galleria housed an array of attractions—bookstores, gift shops, clothing stores, even an aquarium—which drew a steady stream of office workers, tourists, shoppers, and casual passersby.
Recognizing this would be a great conduit for spontaneous encounters between his artwork and passersby, Pignataro promptly secured a lease and began organizing his retrospective show.
•••
From Daytime Rush to Nightlife Glow
Before diving deeper, I’d like to take a brief moment to offer further visual and cultural context for Pignataro’s chosen venue. Below is a selection of vintage photographs capturing various sections of these two iconic streets, Florida and Lavalle, during the 1960s.
Both streets sat at the core of Buenos Aires’ financial district—home to major banks, the stock exchange, and a dense concentration of office buildings. But after business hours, the area transformed: bookstores and galleries stayed open, theaters lit up, restaurants filled, and crowds poured in for movies and performances—giving the district a distinctly different pulse by night.
This dual character is captured perfectly in the images below, which show the area bustling with office workers and storefronts during the day, then shifting into a luminous, fast-paced nightlife of theater marquees, cafés, and cinema crowds.
Before even addressing Pignataro’s artistic strategy, I thought it’d be worth seeing what he saw: a space alive at every hour, positioned perfectly for an artist who wanted his work to exist not behind doors, but in the path of daily life.
•••
Bringing Art into the Public Space
Having secured this unique venue, Pignataro was positioned not only to solve the problems of traditional art galleries but also to redefine how his art engaged with the public
Rather than limiting his art to the insular environment of art galleries, where attendance was often dictated by invitation and intent, Pignataro embedded his retrospective within the pulse of city life itself. The Florida y Lavalle galleria became a conduit for spontaneous interactions with a diverse urban audience—office workers on lunch breaks, tourists navigating the commercial district, and everyday passersby who might not otherwise step into an art venue.
In this context, art ceased to be a destination and became part of the daily flow—an unscripted encounter rather than a scheduled event. Pignataro’s rotating display invited ongoing engagement, encouraging repeat visitors and serendipitous discovery alike.
⏷ Below are some photos taken inside the Florida y Lavalle galleria, showing Pignataro’s art displays at various moments in time between 1965 and 1967.
As important historical context, it is worth noting that Pignataro’s initiative did not emerge in a vacuum; rather, it aligned with a broader shift in the Argentine art scene of the 1960s, where artists actively sought ways to push art beyond traditional norms.
Figures such as Marta Minujín, Alberto Greco and other experimental artists associated with Instituto Torcuato Di Tella had been similarly bringing art outside gallery walls, embracing public interventions, happenings, and performance-based formats.
Yet, where many contemporaries favored overtly conceptual or performative strategies, Pignataro’s approach was quieter, more reflective of his artistic philosophy. His intervention was no less radical for its subtlety, embedding art organically within the everyday rhythms of urban life.
•••
“The Works Are Not for Sale”
Letter from Roberto Pignataro to the Supervielle y Société Générale bank.
While researching this exhibition, I came across a fascinating document: a letter dated August 12, 1965, addressed to the Supervielle y Société Générale bank—the owner of the storefront at the time—in which Roberto Pignataro formally requested permission to use the space and outlined his objectives.
The letter offers interesting insight into his thinking around several key aspects of the show. Below is the first notable excerpt:
“Alongside each painting, brief references about the artwork would be placed, explicitly stating that the works are not for sale—a decision aligned with my artistic career and intentions. (…)”
This stand sat beside the display panels, bearing a sign that read: “The paintings are replaced every 4 days. The work is not for sale.”
Pignataro’s statement—“the works are not for sale”—immediately raises a very logical question: Why would he invest significant time and resources into publicly promoting his art without expecting any sales or financial benefit?
The short answer is simple—he didn’t need to. With a steady middle-class income from his job at the Argentine Central Bank, he created art purely for personal fulfillment.
The longer explanation, however, requires broader historical context.
Pignataro belonged to a generation of Argentine artists who came of age during the first half of the 20th century—a time when society, broadly speaking, was shaped by strict conservative norms, Catholic influence, and authoritarian political structures. When these artists began emerging onto the art scene in the late 1950s, their primary motivation wasn’t commercial success. Instead, they viewed art as a means to challenge these outdated social frameworks they had inherited.
They understood well that 1960s Argentina would be ripe for deep cultural change. Middle-class advancements, new ideas in technology, literature, and psychology—combined with the burgeoning influence of television, cinema, and contemporary music—not only made Argentine society more receptive than ever to artistic innovation; it was hungry for it. And these artists were not about to let this historic moment pass them by, money or not.
If commercial success came—and it did for some—it was a nice bonus. But make no mistake, that was never the primary force propelling this movement. Many artists were in fact openly vocal against it, rejecting the commodification of their work in favor of artistic and ideological freedom.
Pignataro exemplified this ethos. For him, art provided a means of exploring the complex psychological fabric of the world around him—probing both personal and universal themes in visual ways that might have been unacceptable just a generation earlier. Simply existing at a time when audiences were growing more open and willing to meaningfully engage with his artistic vision was, in itself, the greatest reward.
•••
One Month Becomes Two Years
c. 1965 Roberto Pignataro inside the display window at Galería Florida y Lavalle after rotating the artwork , Buenos Aires, AR.
In the very same letter to the bank, there's another passage worth examining—this time concerning the logistics of the show—which reveals quite an interesting story. Pignataro wrote:
“The purpose of using said premises for a period of one month is to utilize its display window, as I would keep the premises permanently closed and, behind the window, place on an easel a painting signed by myself, which would be replaced every two days by another work successively.”
While Pignataro formally requested use of the space for just one month, his underlying hope was to extend the arrangement if circumstances allowed. The bank, viewing it as a temporary and low-risk agreement, approved his proposal and generously allowed him to occupy the storefront rent-free, on the condition that he would cover utility and maintenance expenses and vacate the premises should a paying tenant come forward.
Based on these conditions, Pignataro expected to keep the space for two or three months at most before being outbid. What neither he nor the bank anticipated was that the visibility of his rotating exhibition would make the space feel occupied, effectively deterring other potential renters from even considering a bid. In the end, no offers ever came, and his exhibition quietly continued for nearly two years, from October 19th, 1965 to July 15th, 1967.
The exact reason why it ended is unclear. It might have been the bank finally deciding to reclaim the space, or perhaps Pignataro himself concluded that the experiment had naturally run its course.
•••
Art in Motion
As the photos show, the display window was a relatively small space—just enough to accommodate two paintings at a time. In this setup, rotating the works every four days made sense: it kept the exhibition fresh, in motion and engaging for passersby. However, when you consider the logistics, this strategy becomes quite interesting.
Pignataro lived in the southern part of Caballito, a residential neighborhood about five miles west of downtown Buenos Aires. While public transportation was his primary mode of commuting during the week, the exhibition schedule he maintained shows a deliberate effort to time rotations around weekends—when city traffic was lighter and parking more accessible—allowing him to use his car to transport the artworks.
Roberto Pignataro’s red and white BMW Isetta parked on the streets of downtown Buenos Aires, with several of his paintings visible on the car’s roof.
Still, with a four-day rotation, the math didn’t fully spare him from weekday trips—and his personal notes suggest that he often had to transport his artwork by bus or subway both ways. This would have been no light task: juggling a bulky, fragile load while navigating a hectic city, overcrowded public transportation, and the elements—all while managing the demands of a full-time job.
This is an aspect of the show I find fascinating. While it may not bear directly on its artistic substance, I thought it was worth sharing. It offers a rare glimpse into the often-overlooked labor behind the scenes—and serves as a meaningful footnote in understanding what maintaining this dynamic setup truly entailed.
Page 1 of Pignataro’s exhibition rotation log, detailing artwork display dates (1965)
•••
Advertising Ellusivnes
1965. Pamphlet for Pignataro’s rotating show.
For any art event to be noticed, promotion is essential—and Roberto Pignataro understood this well. He consistently dedicated time and resources prior to his shows to designing and printing invitations, pamphlets, and organizing mail campaigns.
Yet his approach to publicity remained deliberately restrained—purely informative, never revealing too much about himself or his work. This low-key strategy aimed to promote the event while preserving the viewer’s experience from the influence of celebrity, expectation, or external interpretation.
In a historical context, his stance presents an interesting contrast with the self-promotional tactics embraced by many of his contemporaries—especially those in the avant-garde—who actively cultivated public personas as part of their artistic strategy.
The photo below captures that spirit perfectly: Alberto Greco’s first urban intervention—a poster-plastering action in downtown Buenos Aires featuring slogans like “Greco, how great you are!” and “Greco: the greatest Informalist painter in the Americas.” Strident, theatrical, and self-mythologizing, it exemplifies the performative energy that defined much of the 1960s avant-garde.
November 1961. Alberto Greco in the streets of Buenos Aires. Photograph by Sameer Makarius.
Defying these trends, Pignataro chose to remain a quiet, elusive figure. He believed it was important for the artist to stay out of the spotlight and let the work speak entirely for itself. If publicity crossed the line from merely informing the public to overtly “selling” the event—or the artist—it risked undermining the experience he sought to create.
This restrained approach fostered the enigmatic atmosphere he believed was essential to nudge viewers into their most creative, interpretive state—but it came with trade-offs. Maintaining a low profile didn’t necessarily help attract the attention of art critics, who were increasingly drawn to the more outspoken, spectacle-driven currents of the avant-garde. And that was fine by him. For Pignataro, an untainted relationship between the artwork and the viewer was always central to his artistic philosophy. Everything else was secondary—often superfluous.
With that said, at least one notable art critic of the time, Hernández Rosellot, did take notice of the show—leaving a record of its existence in the press on two occasions: once in 1965 and again in 1966.
![13 Nov 1965. Hernández Rosselot, La Razón [Buenos Aires]](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b40e958ec4eb711edca80e4/1743349982182-1S1VH33S45O9CSY6UWZU/Roberto-Pignataro-Art+%281+of+1%29-52.jpg)
![17 Dec 1966. Hernández Rosselot, La Razón [Buenos Aires]](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5b40e958ec4eb711edca80e4/1743349982214-1XBN838TA9K4PII3SPYN/Roberto-Pignataro-Art+%281+of+1%29-53.jpg)
•••
Final Ramblings
Whenever I compose these articles, I rarely begin with a clear roadmap; instead, I let the research shape the narrative as it unfolds—even if that sometimes results in meandering reads.
Still, two steady forces keep me anchored: a genuine admiration for my father’s artwork and career, and a deep fascination with the era in which it all took place.
And by the latter, I don’t mean to romanticize the past. The contradictions of history—how a time can feel both “better” and “worse”—are especially palpable when you look at a place like 1960s Buenos Aires.
On one hand, there’s the nostalgic image of Buenos Aires—alive with elegance and European charm, tango drifting from old cafés, a booming middle class, weekends filled with movie-goers, colorful soccer matches and Italian-style family gatherings, kids playing freely in the streets—all without the constant shadow of crime or anxiety. Life felt simpler, more intimate, and full of possibility.
But zoom in and the cracks begin to show. The country had recently emerged from a 1962 military coup and was inching toward another in 1966. Democratic institutions existed in name, but were increasingly weakened by censorship, repression, and the looming presence of authoritarian control. The economy staggered under inflation and stagnation. Urban growth often meant unchecked demolition—historic neighborhoods replaced by sterile towers. Social norms were rigid and often intolerant, and for many, the promise of modernity remained out of reach. For all the nostalgia, it was not an easy time, specially for those on the margins.
Unsurprisingly, this duality is very palpable in Pignataro’s work, which often pairs psychological tension and ominous undertones with vividly optimistic color palettes—hinting at an ongoing dialogue between the era’s underlying unrest and its persistent sense of hope.
Viewed in the historical context, Pignataro’s Florida & Lavalle exhibition represents a window into this world—a quiet yet vivid record of an artist negotiating the complex duality of his time: afforded the means and freedom for independent expression, yet acutely aware of the unrest and social tensions simmering beneath the surface.
On a more personal level, this exhibition also represents a striking moment of personal and artistic exposure. By placing such introspective, abstract work in the path of everyday foot traffic—outside the protective frame of traditional galleries—Pignataro took a very bold step. Abstract expressionism, with its layered tensions and nonfigurative language, often resists immediate understanding. To present it so publicly, in such a visible and unfiltered setting, required a rare kind of conviction. It speaks to an artist confident not only in his craft, but in the power of art to reach people—even, or especially, when it asks them to pause, interpret, and feel without easy explanation.
As a final thought, allow me to say this: I always write these articles with a full understanding of just how niche this topic can be—the story of a little-known artist like Roberto Pignataro. And yet, I remain hopeful that the right eyes will one day stumble upon them and see what I see: an extraordinary life lived with intention, and a moment in history very much worth examining.