Photographer Pie Aerts on His New Book Coirón and the Solitary Gauchos of Chilean Patagonia

For six years, Haarlem-based photographer Pie Aerts returned to the Chilean region of Magallanes to spend time with the puesteros, aging gauchos who live and work alone for months at a time on vast ranches they do not own. The result is Coirón, his first monograph published by GOST Books, which follows these men through their daily labour and long stretches of stillness as the region around them undergoes rapid change. We spoke to Aerts about how he earned their trust, what it meant to confront his own lifelong fear of solitude, and why he came to see the book as a tribute to companionship as much as a document of a disappearing way of life.

Luis, who often goes for months without speaking to anyone other than his dogs, struggles with the mental toll of living a life in isolation. His traumatic family history and the consequences of his adoption drove him, at the age of 20, as far away from home as possible. After living alone for more than 40 years, he recently survived a severe fall from his horse, which nearly left him disabled. © Pie Aerts.

Coirón is the name of the hardy bunchgrass that covers the Patagonian steppe and feeds the sheep the puesteros tend. Why did you choose it as the title, and what does it say about the men in these photographs?

‘Coirón’ indeed is the tough, wind-beaten grass that dominates the Patagonian pampa. It’s dense, resistant, and quickly springs back. Any footprint in it is fragile and temporary, easy to lose, easy to erase. It’s survival grass. It survives everything, wind, frost, drought, poor soil, it can slice skin and tear clothes. The book is accompanied by a poem by Ivan Rojel Figueroa, a poet from the region. He published a book that is called 'Rastro en el Coirón', which I found in a small townhall library in the region in 2024. Rastro means 'traces'. He refers to those traces as the rural people, isolated men moving through the vast land. Their stories risk disappearing as vanishing traces in the grass. If you mention 'coiron', people from the region immediately picture wind, cold, distance, and silence. In the making of the work, many puesteros kept referring to the ‘god damn coirón’. In essence, you could see coirón as the small human stories etched briefly into an immense, indifferent landscape, and it took me 6 years of walking through that grass to realise it was such a strong metaphor for the resilient spirit of these gentlemen.

You spent six years in Magallanes with men who often live alone for months and say very little. How did you first gain access to their lives, and how did your relationship with them change over that time? Was there a moment when you felt you were no longer just a visitor?

Sure, this happened in the winter of 2023, a transformational moment in the making of the work, when after two years of building trust and showing them we were sincere, we were invited for the first time to stay in their small outposts. It was in that winter that we got really accepted into their homes and hearts. Slowly the stoic curtain dropped, and fortitude made room for vulnerability. It was during that winter, that for the first time in two and a half years that I felt I was no longer a visitor anymore. Without this access, some of the best photographs in this project may have never been taken, simply because at that time there was no trust, no consent, and no acceptance. Perhaps because from the very first day on the ground, till the very last day six years later, we had always been prioritising the encounter over the photograph, I believe we were ultimately able to build a form of mutual sincerity and respect that went on to became the foundation of the work. 

A lot of this work is about stillness, repetition and the slow passing of time. Those are hard things to put in a single frame. How did you approach photographing silence and endurance? And how did the six year timeframe affect the way you shot and sequenced the work?

To be very honest, it was only halfway through the making of the work, that I became more interested in defining the various subject layers. Of course, I was recognising threads, but I kept the overall direction fairly open until a few years in. In the last couple of years however, I started to define the messaging a little more, by asking myself more specific questions. How can I photograph the inevitable passing of time in a human form? Or, how can I document repetitive physical labour in the form of a landscape or still life? Through those mini assignments, I succeeded in clarifying the overall messaging of the work more. 

Worn down by wind, snow, and rain, and often in decay, these puestos have become symbols of strength and resilience. Originally built as simple shelters for nomadic farmers, these puestos hold deep emotional and cultural significance in the wider region. © Pie Aerts.

You have said you have always feared being alone, physically and existentially. What was it like to spend long stretches with people for whom solitude is simply how life is? Do you remember a specific encounter or moment when your view of silence began to change?

That’s right. Throughout my life I had an interesting relationship with the concept of loneliness, a certain fear of being alone in the universe, a feeling that no one or nothing anchors my existence. Being in the presence of these puesteros, for the first time in two decades of self-discovery, stirred something inside me. Seeing them sit through a lifetime of silence, hardship, discomfort and endurance, I started to open up to a different perspective of the silence I’ve always feared. I am also starting to embrace the idea that some of those fears of loneliness have perhaps shaped who I am, far more than I ever realised. These people are going through a lot, and their daily routines are defined by survival. But they carry the weight of their existence with a form of dignity, self-worth, and pride that I have not experienced in a lot of places before. 

Your book notes that meaning occurs “through repetition, gesture, and the slow accumulation of time.” Were there particular gestures or daily rituals you came back to again and again? What did they come to mean to you?

Ever since the start, I’ve been mesmerised by the ability of some of these gentlemen to exist in silence. A decision by fate, not by choice, but a quality that feels almost entirely lost in the world I come from. As a result, it’s been taking me some time to embrace that silence myself. In the early years, I remember how I always felt a tendency to fill the void, to ignite conversation, and to break the silence. But towards the end of the project, we would sit together in their little cabins, sometimes for hours while staring out of the window, listening to the sound of the wind and the crackling fire, in peace with not having to speak. It is within that silence, where this work has been shaped. 

The puesteros work land they don’t own and have little security once their bodies start to fail. How did you handle the harder realities of their lives in the photographs, without turning them into romantic figures or presenting them as victims?

The making of this entire story has been done based on their terms, guided by listening and observing. Through long stays and many shared mates (local herbal teas) we allowed the work to grow from trust and time, rather than from our own pre-conceived external views. The story does not attempt to define what it means to be a gaucho, or a puestero, but instead it creates space for these men to exist on their own terms. 

How does loneliness play a role in the changing relationship we humans have with our natural environment? © Pie Aerts.

Fewer young people in the region want a life on the land, and you describe the puesteros as moving between embracing change and resisting it. How did the men themselves talk about the future, if at all? Did you feel you were documenting an ending, or something more complicated?

As much as these men see themselves as perpetual victims of their circumstances, none of them are asking for any help, pity or pats on their backs. Throughout the years, we had many long conversations about their possible position as part of the last generation of puesteros in the way they currently exist. Some of them are aware of this possibility, but others aren’t. In reality, this entire region is already in full transition, and we experienced that first-hand. Some of the men in this story, have already left the traditional lifestyle, and moved away from farming, opting to work in tourism, fishing, or other jobs. On top of that, as my relationship with some of these men deepened over time, the work for me also became more of a tribute to that companionship I gained, rather than anything else.   

You touched on the fact the book includes a poem by Iván Rojel Figueroa already, but it also features an essay by Alberto Harambour. Harambour says he felt “a breeze” moving through your photographs, something realistic yet “ungraspable.” How do their words work alongside your images? And what do you hope readers carry with them after they close the book, in what your book has noted is “a world moving too quickly to keep up”?

Those words play a crucial role in making people understand the context of the work. The photography on itself leaves a lot of room for personal interpretation, which I believe is the beauty of photography, the absence of information, and the fact that everybody can see something differently and personally in the book. However, the story deserves some context, as it touches on complex topics. I could therefore not be prouder to have words by Ivan and Alberto elevate the images. Both come from Patagonia and studied its essence for decades. Alberto as a historian providing important context to the history of Magallanes, as well as the origin of puestero culture, and Ivan as having lived the puestero lifestyle himself and now years later as a poet, using his beautiful gift of poetry to give more meaning to this book.

Coirón by Pie Aerts was published in September 2026 by GOST Books, and can be purchased on the GOST Books website.