There are dark days and bright days. For them and for me. Nothing prepares me for my arrival at Campamento Quisicuaba or the way my days will unfold over the next two weeks.
The site once housed the Comuna de Paris Agricultural School, which was abandoned for a long time before being repurposed as an assisted living center to shelter and rehabilitate homeless people from Havana.
The architecture is imposing, built in the brutalist style of the Soviet era—massive concrete walls painted orange, a symbol of the fight against gender-based violence. My first impression is that I’ve stepped onto the set of a Fellini film, with Nino Rota’s music floating in the air. Bright light pours into every corner of the complex, and a strong wind makes the wrought iron rocking chairs creak as they sway on the flagstones. The ground floor houses the residents, while the other three floors remain empty.
I am fortunate to arrive in Quisicuaba on a day of celebration. Over 50 guests are present, and there’s a cultural program that includes magic, traditional dance, and live music. This allows me to blend in and quietly observe my new surroundings. How will my presence here be interpreted? Will the residents be receptive to my project? And what will my own emotions be like as the days go by?
I am here as an Invited Artist for the 2024 Bienal de la Habana. My proposal is to create a collective book of portraits and texts. I plan to work with each resident to explore the way they’d like to be represented photographically, while complementing the portraits we make with texts they will author. That way, the book will bring together not just their faces but also a plurality of voices.
On November 13, I bid farewell to my wife and children in South Korea. Thirty-five hours later, I land at José Martí Airport. The hectic pace of life I’m accustomed to recedes; the hours follow one another in slow progression. Initially, seven resident artists were meant to work simultaneously at Quisicuaba, Punto Naranja. However, due to Hurricane Rafael—which made landfall right here, in the province of Artemisa—I am the only one present.
I confess to being a coffee addict, yet at Quisicuaba, every day begins with a glass of hot milk. Over the past three years in Korea, I’ve hardly heard a single word of Spanish, but here, it envelops me with the sweetness of my mother tongue.
Most of the residents are elderly. Some suffer from psychiatric disorders, while others have struggled to overcome addictions. Life on the streets has left its mark, deeply shaping them all.
I settle into a room equipped with a dozen beds. I choose one to sleep in and use another to lay out my belongings. Every morning, one of the residents, nicknamed “Camagüey”, knocks on my door and leaves me a bucket of hot water to bathe with.
We have conversations over breakfast. Sometimes I read a book or work on the portraits and texts. There are several couples who have met here. One of them, Olga and Liban, are passionate about drawing and writing. After a few days, they hand me illustrations on cardboard intended for the book’s cover and back cover, along with a portrait of myself where I appear with a large Olmec-style face, Slavic eyes, and the hat I wear every day.
I could spend hours sharing my experiences at Quisicuaba: the initial abyss of loneliness that was gradually filled by the friendships I formed along the way, the artistic progress and deepening of the project, and the aspects of my own life and identity that I began to question—the lessons I drew from it all.
My gratitude to the staff at Casa Naranja, who cared for me from the moment I first arrived in San Antonio. I deeply admire their commitment and dedication to the well-being of the residents. I remain indebted to Cuba and the Havana Biennial for inviting me to represent my homeland, Guatemala. My sincere friendship and affection go out to the residents of Quisicuaba, who every day gather their courage to return to life with faith and hope in their hearts.