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This is not the first time the Institute of Museum and Library Services (IMLS) has found itself at the heart of a political storm. But the recent executive order signed by President Donald Trump — under the title “Continuing the Reduction of the Federal Bureaucracy” — goes beyond symbolic gesture or anti-centralist rhetoric: it is a decision that could effectively dismantle one of the few federal agencies solely devoted to supporting cultural institutions across the United States. To grasp the magnitude of this move, we must step back from the immediacy of headlines and take a structural view of the American cultural ecosystem — a complex system where market forces, private philanthropy, and public funding coexist in a delicate and often tense balance. Unlike other countries that maintain large Ministries of Culture, the U.S. model has historically delegated cultural policy to specialized agencies like the IMLS, the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA), and the National Endowment for the Humanities (NEH). These agencies derive their legitimacy from their decentralized and technical roles as funders and connectors. Within this framework, the IMLS operates as the backbone of a national network of public libraries and community museums. Though its annual budget comprises just 0.0046% of federal spending, its grants have a profound impact in rural areas, public schools, and local cultural centers — spaces often overlooked by the media, yet essential to early cultural development, collective memory, and access to creative industries. The executive order has provoked strong reactions from major institutions in the sector. The American Library Association (ALA) warned that the measure “jeopardizes one of the most trusted institutions in the United States,” while the American Alliance of Museums (AAM) stated that eliminating the IMLS “undermines the educational, economic, and community role of museums.” These are not defensive outbursts but thoughtful warnings from institutions that understand the real-world consequences of a policy that, in the name of downsizing government, risks dismantling an entire ecosystem. Yet perhaps the more pressing question is not what role the State should play in cultural policy —an important but often repeated debate— but rather: what will cultural institutions and civil society do in the face of this dismantling? What is their real strength in society? Will they passively observe as the infrastructure that sustained cultural access for decades is quietly erased? Or will they emerge as political actors in their own right? Do libraries, museums, and cultural centers have the ability to organize, to defend their public legitimacy beyond lobbying? Can they transform concern into strategy, and strategy into collective action? Because to speak of the IMLS is not merely to speak of a federal agency. It is to speak of a society’s capacity to defend what it deems essential. What is at stake is not just a budget line — it is the level of awareness, or indifference, with which a nation upholds or lets vanish its symbolic spaces, its cultural rights, and its shared narrative.

Christmas, beyond the shimmer of ornaments and the echoes of carols, holds a narrative that transcends time’s fractures: resistance, love, and hope in the face of darkness. A displaced couple, refugees within their own land, searching for a place where life could emerge amidst the rubble of uncertainty. The image of Joseph and Mary crossing Bethlehem, their child about to be born in an improvised manger, is not merely a biblical anecdote; it is the universal embodiment of those who, confronted with relentless forces, choose to protect the fragility of existence against all odds. This story, as ancient as humanity itself, resonates today in every corner of the world where the light appears to have dimmed. According to the United Nations, we are living through an era marked by the highest number of active armed conflicts since the end of World War II. In Ukraine, Sudan, Yemen, or Palestine, wars devour what is essential: the home, childhood, the very possibility of the future. Yet beyond the deafening roar of cannons and the grotesque spectacle of power, small acts of defiance persist: a child learning to write in a shelter, a mother piecing together a makeshift manger from fragments of hope, a doctor refusing to abandon their post despite the chaos. Forced migration, the inevitable consequence of these tragedies, has become one of the defining epics of our time. According to UNHCR, more than 108 million people have been forcibly displaced, driven by wars, climate disasters, and economic systems that perpetuate precarity. The silent, wrenching march of these millions echoes the determination of Bethlehem’s travelers: every step into the unknown is an act of faith in the possibility of rebuilding what seems irretrievably lost. Migration is not, as many might assume, merely a physical phenomenon; it is a transformative journey, one that redefines identities, redraws borders, and ultimately reimagines the very concept of humanity. Christmas, in its purest essence, is neither a sentimental escape nor a brief truce amid chaos. It is, paradoxically, a profound challenge to the logics of the world. To celebrate life in a context inclined toward death is an act of radical subversion. It is a rejection of fear, a defiance of hatred’s inertia, a refusal to normalize violence. Choosing light is not an act of naïveté; it is a rebellion against darkness, an affirmation that humanity can aspire to more than its basest instincts. In this sense, Bethlehem ceases to be a geographical location and becomes a symbolic state, a space of resistance amidst adversity. In the trenches of Ukraine, where soldiers and civilians share bread under a starry sky, or in the refugee camps of Lesbos, where a volunteer offers a blanket to someone newly arrived, Bethlehem’s light endures. It is a modest light, unassuming yet resolute, piercing even the deepest fissures of despair. The resistance of Joseph and Mary was not heroic in the conventional sense; they did not wield weapons or confront empires. Their heroism lay in their determination to safeguard life, to invest in what is fragile, to build a sanctuary in a world teetering on collapse. This same spirit of resistance pulses today in every act that defies hopelessness: in those rebuilding homes after hurricanes, in those tending to the wounded in war zones, in those giving birth in the most improbable of places. To claim that hope is not naïve may seem, in these times, an intellectual provocation. Yet no assertion is more truthful: hope is the force that, against all logic, illuminates even the longest nights. It is not a facile optimism nor an uncritical faith, but a stubborn, deeply human force that refuses to accept defeat as the sole outcome. Christmas, then, is not a reprieve from suffering nor a momentary pause in the world’s tragedies. It is the embodiment of resistance itself: an invitation to acknowledge that, even in the darkest hours, the possibility of imagining and constructing a path toward the light remains. Because to bet on life, ultimately, is the most revolutionary act of all. Alejandra Blanco

For decades, artificial intelligence (AI) has often been viewed as a technical tool aimed at automating repetitive processes. However, we are now at a turning point where AI is beginning to play a more active role in artistic creation. This brings us to a crucial question: Is AI a threat to human creativity, or is it a catalyst that enhances it? The cultural and creative sectors have experienced several waves of technological innovation that have generated skepticism. The arrival of photography was initially seen as a threat to painting but later expanded creative possibilities. Today, with AI, we are witnessing a similar shift. Margaret Boden, a pioneer in the study of artificial creativity, argues that "the real challenge is not whether machines can be creative in a human sense, but whether they can stimulate new forms of creativity that humans alone would not have explored" 1 . This reflection invites us to reconsider AI not just as a technical tool but as a partner in co-creation. Projects like The Next Rembrandt  (2016), which used AI to create a new painting in the style of the Dutch master, marked an important milestone. However, AI has rapidly evolved since then. More recent projects like AICAN  and DALL·E 2  have demonstrated that machines can generate art without following predefined rules. AICAN  produces works that are appreciated in international galleries, while DALL·E 2  has the potential to transform disciplines such as graphic design and illustration. Lev Manovich, a new media theorist, explains in his work AI Aesthetics  that "AI doesn’t merely simulate human creativity; it introduces entirely new aesthetic paradigms, transforming how we define and engage with art in the digital age" 2 . This perspective suggests that AI is not just an imitator but a technology that opens unprecedented possibilities, expanding creative horizons. One of the most innovative examples in recent years has been the opera Frankenstein AI , presented in Los Angeles in 2021. This production uses AI to interact with the audience in real time, adjusting the narrative according to audience responses. This type of collaboration between machine and human challenges traditional storytelling limits and raises new questions about the future of interactive narratives. Arthur I. Miller, in his book The Artist in the Machine , highlights that "the synergy between humans and AI is not just a collaboration; it’s the birth of a new kind of creative intelligence" 3 . In this context, AI does not replace the artist but acts as a partner that amplifies human creative potential, taking artistic creation to previously unexplored territories. For cultural managers, the question is not just about adopting these technologies but understanding how to integrate AI ethically and creatively into their processes. AI raises fundamental questions about authorship and intellectual property. Who is the author of a work created by a machine? What role does the human creator play in this new creative ecosystem? These are issues that can no longer be ignored in the cultural and creative sectors. In a world where technology and culture are increasingly interconnected, the key for sector leaders is to see AI not as a threat but as an opportunity to expand the imagination and explore new forms of collaboration. As Murray Shanahan notes, "AI is not a substitute for human creativity; rather, it’s an extension of our cognitive capacities, allowing us to explore creative avenues that were previously unimaginable" 4 . Just as the digital revolution transformed animation and cinema, those who lead the integration of AI into art and culture will be at the forefront of a new wave of innovation. AI is the next frontier, and those who see it as an ally in creation will be the ones to define the future of art. Margaret Boden, Professor Emerita of Cognitive Science at the University of Sussex, is a pioneer in the research of creativity and technology. Her book Creativity and Artificial Intelligence  (1998) was one of the first to explore how AI could generate creative ideas. Lev Manovich, new media theorist and professor at City University of New York, is the author of AI Aesthetics  (2018), a work that explores the impact of AI on artistic creation and contemporary aesthetics. Arthur I. Miller, historian of science and author of The Artist in the Machine: The World of AI-Powered Creativity  (2019), investigates how AI is transforming artistic creation and how artists are collaborating with technology. Murray Shanahan, Professor of Cognitive Robotics at Imperial College London, is the author of The Technological Singularity  (2015), where he explores the impact of AI on human cognition and creativity.