By: Jhon Niño, Coordinator of the aeioTU – LB (Liceo Boston) Early Childhood Center

In the early years of life, when words are not yet enough to name the world, quality interactions among children, adults, and their surroundings are woven through a silent yet eloquent language: that of sensitive metaphors. Art, with its capacity to transform the ordinary into the extraordinary, emerges as fertile ground where children and adults co-create meaning through non-verbal dialogues. Art installations, ephemeral architectures, and performances are not merely activities; they are windows into a symbolic universe that honors children's thinking and strengthens human and ecological bonds.

Imagine a space where curtains of translucent veils sway to the rhythm of the wind, inviting children to chase dancing shadows or build shelters with fabrics that morph from ship sails into butterfly wings. These settings, designed with poetic intentionality, do not merely decorate; they spark encounters. A tower of cardboard boxes, pierced with holes, transforms into a labyrinth of light where children take turns discovering secrets, while a floor covered in dry leaves becomes a map for stepping on—and hearing—scented sounds. In these environments, every object is a metaphor waiting to unfold, a playful gesture that awakens curiosity and fosters creative negotiation among peers. Here, the adult observes how children engage in dialogue with the "other"—the wind caressing the fabric, the rough texture of the boxes—and with other people, whispering questions that expand exploration without making it rigid: "What if we used mirrors to catch those shadows?" —turning curiosity into a collective dance of reflections and laughter.

Art installations act as dialogic mediators. A clothesline strung with colorful threads between trees is not merely a giant loom; it is a space where children negotiate patterns, weaving together mathematics and cooperation as they decide together: “What if we weave in a zigzag?” A wall transformed with transparent paper and washable pigments allows for painting with water, revealing how fleeting strokes leave traces that vanish like clouds. In these acts akin to performance art, the adult practices the art of serving and returning: if a child joins sticks together and shouts “It’s a dragon!”, the educator does not correct, deny, or simply affirm, but rather mirrors the metaphor with a sense of shared understanding: “What does your dragon eat? Would it fly higher with feathers?” Thus, creation becomes a ritual of co-authorship, where the process—not the result—lies at the heart of learning.

In this ecosystem, metaphors take form in materials that speak honestly. The tactile coolness of clay, the elastic resistance of a rubber band, or the fluidity of water slipping between curious fingers allow for the projection of emotions and questions. A child molding a clay monster is not merely exercising their hands; they are giving shape to a fear or a fantasy, inviting their friends to name the unnameable. A child running through tunnels made of white sheets is not just playing; they are redefining the boundaries of their body in space. The adult, acting as a poetic translator, documents how emotions are projected onto the materials and, at key moments, intervenes with questions that
expand the exploration: “What would happen if the monster had a cotton friend?” Their role is not to explain, but to activate layers of meaning that children can inhabit together.
This ethical form of guidance is reflected in subtle gestures. As one walks barefoot along a path of varying textures—sand, foam, smooth stones—this simple act transforms into a conversation about the rough and the smooth, the safe and the unknown. When a group builds a dome out of branches and fabric scraps, the adult offers no solutions, but instead poses poetic challenges: “How could you make this structure embrace the wind without collapsing?” Thus, the technical challenge becomes a metaphor for living together—an exercise in active listening where small hands learn to balance forces and desires.

Documentation of these processes mirrors collective potential. Photographs of paint-smeared hands, videos of impromptu choirs using sticks and drums, or records of how a dark corner was transformed into a “cave of stars”—these are not merely memories; they are testaments to meaningful interactions. When revisiting these traces, children do not see finished products, but stories of dialogue: “Look how Juan and I mixed blue with earth to paint the storm,” “Here we decided together that the leaves would be forest coins.” This act of making their work visible—woven with inclusive language—affirms their right to be seen as architects of culture.