I got to know him in 2017 when he stopped by Residency Unlimited in New York City. There, he was part of a conversation about contemporary Cuban art with Reynier Leyva Novo (1983–), another artist of his generation, along with writers Joaquín Badajoz and Mailyn Machado. But my interest in his work began earlier, through the criticism of Rachel Price, who had placed him in the context of a planetary artistic consciousness in her book Planet/Cuba (Verso Books, 2015). And when, together with Reina María Rodríguez, winner of the Pablo Neruda Award for poetry, and several other writers, he intervened at the Fayad Jamis bookstore in Havana as part of the XII Havana Biennial, there was no turning back. I had to pay attention.
Yornel works in the realm of the unexpected, at the interstice of word and image. Art historian and critic Suset Sanchez explains it as “linguistic post-conceptualism that uses the image as a textualized construction.” We could also think of Yornel as an archivist of culture in spaces and times that eradicate it without a second thought. His artistic actions force us to reconstruct our responses to the place where we find ourselves: be it in front of a marquee in Havana where he supplants a film’s title with verses by writers, such as the once discarded Virgilio Piñera (1912–1979) and even Rimbaud (Exergo 2012–2014); or in bookstores, where we usually search by genres and themes, yet end up out of place because of Yornel’s arranging the volumes in a new way, carrying out what he calls “a careful analysis of the titles, taking into account the new shelf where they will be placed” (Lecturas arbitrarias [Arbitrary readings], part of Intervencion en la librería [Intervention in a bookstore] 2015).
He also plays in a sober way with details of history and nature. Inspired by Dulce María Loynaz’s novel Jardín (Aguilar, 1951), Yornel Martínez Elías endeavors to salvage a garden situated in the residence of the Loynaz del Castillo family through a communal gardening effort (Jardín imaginario, 2019–2023). On the other hand, his Historia política de las flores (2021) is a brutal re-encounter with the flower and imprisonment, taking Rosa Luxemburg as a point of departure.
—Jacqueline Loss
To begin with, let’s keep it simple. How would you organize your personal library?
Borges in a poem in Elogio de la sombra (1968) (In Praise of Darkness 1974, translated by Norman Thomas di Giovanni), said: “To arrange a library is to practice, in a quiet and modest way, the art of criticism.” This sentence (to which I adhere) implies thinking about the criteria of personal order that's behind every library and how this reflects our reading nature: our criteria, our preferences, and even our dislikes.
And what’s your criteria?
I organize the books on my shelves based on their impact on me. A method that involves degrees of preference. For example: the very best, the order in disorder, the time I’ll never have, the books I'll never read, and the ones I'll forget. This criterion, of course, is entirely subjective and varies.
It is interesting that you mention the act of forgetting, because so many of your artistic interventions take place in spaces where culture is supposedly meant to be preserved. So how do you go about intervening in specific spaces like bookstores, archives, and museums?
I place great emphasis on exploring new avenues and models to showcase my work. Sometimes, these projects take the form of public interventions, such as Exergo (2012–2014), where I intervened in several Havana movie theater marquees. Other times, they manifest as publications, like P-350 (2009–2016), an alternative magazine, or as interventions within specific museum collections, such as Desoriente (2018), which involved the Asian art collection at the Museo de Artes Decorativas and archives, as in Lógicas para intervenir un archivo (Logics for Intervening in an Archive, 2016) at the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes in Havana. Ultimately, your question reflects on a constant tension that exists in my work with regard to more traditional formats for displaying artwork. I’ve always been interested in thinking about exhibition devices that go beyond the spaces reserved for displaying contemporary art and trying to push the boundaries of what is traditionally referred to as “artistic.”
Yes, this concept leads me to the curious relationship you establish between the word and the image. Is it the same in all your work? At what point in your career does it appear?
Initially, I used text in my work only by inserting titles into drawings and paintings, but very soon after, other formal solutions appeared and textual works began to emerge, forcing me to think in different formats: texts on cinema marquees, artists’ books, editorial projects.
I look for ways to connect words and images. I believe this captures the essence of the majority of my work. When I think of binomials, I recall the West’s almost categorical division of writing and image, which differs from Eastern cultures. Just think of Arabic or Japanese calligraphy. This concern is more apparent in Caligramas, an artist book that I created in 2013. They’re works that attempt to investigate the space of writing as image, to break the impassable wall we’ve built between the sign and the symbol, and to break typography free from that static block. In this way, the word-image gains a new expressive dimension. I could provide a list of my works where this can be seen from various perspectives: Cielo concreto, Caligramas, Exergo, etc.
I try to turn to that inexhaustible zone of symbolic production of language; to that field of expanded literature that has been able to incorporate the explorations seen in Mallarmé with Un golpe de dados, and then followed by Apollinaire with his Calligrammes, or concrete poetry, the object poem, and other visual writings of the twentieth century.
Do you think it can be translated into different languages and contexts? You have told me that you are monolingual for now, but I have also discovered postcards of yours with English words. How come?
I must admit that I find this question fascinating. In our cultural tradition, the myth of Babel represents the extinction of a unique language that defined the universality of human communication. This loss has resulted in language confusion and linguistic diversity. This has been a central theme throughout my work. To place ourselves after Babel entails overcoming the nostalgia for a primordial and utopian linguistic unity, abandoning the desire for cultural homogeneity, and accepting plurality and diversity as characteristic signs of humanity.
I believe that the concept of the global village is so deeply ingrained that we frequently forget that, fortunately, we are still individuals with our own environment and circumstances, which may or may not be similar to other environments and contexts. I am aware that translation, as a specific cultural practice, is not limited to positive mediation. In some cases, non-translation in my work serves as a strategy rather than the result of chance.
Perhaps you propose a challenge to domestication. So, how do you situate yourself or question your position as a Cuban?
As an artist, I’ve never felt at ease using terms like “Cuban.” The concept of a fixed identity emerges, a problematic place that ties you to many stereotypes, whereas in reality, our identity is constantly negotiated and changing. I do not want my work to be viewed solely through the lens of politics or identity. I want to be free of that burden; I want to reduce the noise of what it means to be “Cuban.” I want to see myself as a person and an artist. In order to exist, we constantly imagine our identities and reinvent ourselves. Perhaps this is evident in many of my works: the desire to give body and place to a diffuse, problematic, and mobile geography.
In my work, I strive to create a place of enunciation that serves as a supplementary continent, a discursive territory devoid of geography and unrelated to practically any location. I resist the temptation to label myself as Cuban; this ambiguity pervades a region depleted of identity constructions. I’m interested in the indefinite time where chronology fails and doesn’t directly address the concepts of nation, language, or place. I believe that my work is not a testimonial account of the Cuban context. Many works of art, particularly contemporary ones, are cryptic, because we do not make enough effort to learn their code. Do you think art can be thought of as a foreign language?
This gesture of attempting to escape this filter is a highly complex problem. It’s interesting that “post-conceptual” art allows us to imagine a response to it. Now, let me return to your question about art as a foreign language. So yes, momentarily. Then, perhaps, artificial intelligence eliminates all communication strategies, which is why being “clear” can sometimes diminish our humanity and individuality.
On the other hand, while preparing for this interview, I sat down with your postcards titled Esto no es un museo. They relax me with their subtle sense of humor, apparent departure from the market, and commentary on the institution of art—a welcome break from the predictable. I would still like you to comment on this point. They’re truly beautiful. My question is: Should I frame them? If I did, I would sacrifice some of their beauty by concealing the text on the back. Why, or why not?
Thank you for saying so! Do not frame them. This series of postcards introduces a critical and humorous commentary, reflecting upon the traditional concept of a museum, the urban landscape, and the institution of the museum within the city. My intention was to consider museum narratives. If titles like El museo como navaja suiza (The Museum as a Swiss Army Knife), El museo como reliquia de museo (The Museum as a Museum Relic), El museo descongelado (The Thawed Museum), El museo fantasma (The Phantom Museum), and El museo satélite (The Satellite Museum) were hidden on the back when you mounted the cards, some of their humor would be lost.
Historically, graphic material has spread through subaltern channels into the art system, revolutionizing and challenging the traditional parameters of the dominant canon due to its ease of production, reproducibility, and distribution. Some works require manipulation in order to be fully used or understood.
You founded Ediciones* in 2015. Of course, you collaborated with poet Omar Pérez to create P-350 in 2009. What were the two projects in response to? I’m very interested in the asterisk. Many years have passed; have they altered the meaning of these projects and the asterisk, taking into account their placement in various cultural fields?
P-350 was an independent publishing project that arose from conversations between the poet Omar Pérez and me in 2009. The goal was to promote a publishing project that would dialogue with our context: flexible, mutant, and independent of the publishing industry. A project that, through horizontality, would gather a wealth of information that could amplify other voices while avoiding discourse hierarchization, as well as open a space for creativity in order to achieve cultural autonomy.
This is how P-350 came to be, a self-managed publication supported by the recycling of paper from cement sacks, serving as a platform for the proposals of graffiti artists, tattoo artists, designers, visual artists, spontaneous creators, unpublished poets, and so on. The name “P-350” basically comes from the material that we use to create the publications. It's named after the bags in which the cement comes, which are labeled “Portland P350.” This is an important part of the project's conceptualization. Normally in Cuba, when cement is used, the bag is discarded. We started recycling the bags and repurposing them as the foundation to make these booklets.
From the start, we avoided framing ourselves in any editorial profile, other than free expression and the articulation of creative processes capable of enabling new forms of symbolic experimentation. We wanted all themes to be approached from infinite perspectives; the only requirement, if there was one, was that there be no exclusions.
Ediciones*, on the other hand, is a more traditional publishing platform that aims to discover new types of independent publishing practices. As an imprint, we are interested in developing a publishing and distribution infrastructure for books and publications that do not typically fit into the Cuban publishing system. These publications do not have an ISBN. We experimented with previously unheard-of management techniques such as editing, reprinting, recontextualizing, and distribution. Similarly, I decided in advance to maintain a clandestine tendency in their free distribution.
Ediciones* emerges with the goal of generating new ways of relating to the reader, thereby creating new circulation networks and meeting spaces. We create books that we want to read, and we are interested in texts of all types and formats, including artists’ writing, fanzines, limited edition works, flyers, bookmarks, postcards, and artists’ books, among others.
Such publications do not represent a monetary business, but rather an artistic communication strategy, a different way of working and putting non-commercial subjectivities into play through editorial projects. I believe that discussing the logic of both projects answers the second part of your question.
I’ve noticed that you work a lot with gardens and manifesto-like texts. Is there any relationship between them?
This question addresses the various dimensions provided by this point of view when rethinking the relationship between art, nature, and politics. The concept of romantic nature as a backdrop or neutral framework for human activity must be replaced by a broader and more complex reflection, because our perception of nature is ultimately a cultural construct of modernity. A few years ago, I read Maurice Maeterlinck’s L’intelligence des fleurs (The Intelligence of the Flowers), which I enjoyed very much. It’s an anarchist treatise disguised as botany. I've also been doing a lot of research on Rosa Luxemburg’s Herbarium, from the controversial Marxist thinker who spent her free time and long prison sentence collecting plants and flowers to distract herself. In her botanical notebooks, she documented the course of plant life with the same zeal as she did in her political theory. Her Herbarium exemplifies her commitment to the diversity of plant species: leaves, petals, stems, and plants, with detailed information about their properties, characteristics, and qualities (from family to Latin and German names, flowering time, and fragrance). A true reservoir that organizes and celebrates biodiversity, allowing it to be integrated in her intellectual and political “work.”
In my series Historia Política de las Flores, botany and politics intermingle in this series, creating a space in which it appears that the aestheticizing image can reclaim a critical sense through opposition.
Do you believe the significance of terms like “independent” and “free expression” has changed between 2009 and 2024 in the global Cuban context? Back in 2009, one could still think about spaces for literary, cultural, and publishing exchanges like Torre de Letras (Reina Maria Rodriguez). Spaces on the island that sought cultural autonomy and distance from the politics of the global market and the Cuban state, while having to deal with them, frequently ended in repression and exile. Can you provide more insight into this context?
In the last five or six years, the Cuban artistic community has faced significant pressure, as evidenced by Decree 349, which was enacted in 2018 to further limit independent production, and the unjust imprisonment of visual artist Luis Manuel Otero Alcántara. The landscape has undergone a radical transformation, largely due to the void created by the cancellation and suspension of numerous initiatives, including Paideia, the rooftop gatherings of Reina María Rodríguez or Diáspora, the Establo, Porno para Ricardo, OMNI, and El Movimiento San Isidro. The state has consistently exerted pressure to eradicate, declassify, and silence any of these expressions of dissent, which has rendered the construction of a cartography exceedingly challenging.
I can tell you about my distrust in what’s going on recently in the official cultural milieu, in a society plagued by shortages and surrounded by censorship and mediocrity. It's not surprising that there has been a dark period in which Cuban artists, journalists, and intellectuals have responded with concrete demands to the Cuban regime’s harsh restrictions against artistic freedom. Unfortunately, most opportunities for dialogue have been postponed, and many artists from my generation have left the country. With all of the political pressures undermining freedom of expression, Cuba's artistic community is in a fragile state.
That is precisely why it is necessary to establish autonomous sociabilities outside of the state as spaces that enhance a polyphony of voices that are frequently silenced by the exclusionary project that the Cuban government attempts to maintain. In any context, homogeneity is detrimental to culture.
Collaboration is not new in your work. I just saw that the Dutch academic/translator/writer Nanne Timmer and Omar Perez had a conversation in your studio. Throughout your career, you've worked closely with writers, critics, and curators, including Elvia Rosa Castro. How important are collaboration, community, and affiliations in your work?
Personally, I enjoy gathering and bringing together friends. Elvia is a great friend who has always supported me; we’ve known each other since I was very young. You’re referring to the Derivas (contextual activations) that began in my studio in 2021, shortly after the COVID-19 pandemic ended. They have evolved into a platform for exchanging ideas and addressing pressing issues. The format is simple—conversations, performances, documentary projections, readings, and occasional interventions led by artists, poets, architects, pedagogues, and activists. The conversations serve as a provocation or a wandering discussion to explore and debate in a horizontal and nonjudgmental manner. All participants are welcome to shape, mold, disrupt, and sustain this conversation and the program itself. Derivas also investigates forms of collective self-organization and self-management through artistic practice. I’m interested in collective learning processes as a way to investigate the emancipatory potential of the artistic imagination.
Establishing networks of affinity, complicity, and affection with professionals from other disciplines, rather than just writers, has been crucial to my work process. My involvement in research projects and more processual work has led me to develop multidisciplinary work processes, which have undoubtedly helped to broaden certain areas of knowledge and enrich the poetic intersections that may exist between my work and other disciplines.
For several years, however, I collaborated with the experimental theater group El Ciervo Encantado, directed by Nelda Castillo. I had the opportunity to participate in their research and processes of creation in groups, which unintentionally contaminated my artistic practice.
I have worked with writers and poets, including Reina María Rodríguez, Omar Pérez, Rito Ramón Aroche, Jamila Medina, Carlos A. Aguilera, Amaury Pacheco of Omni Zona Franca, Margarita Mateo, Ernesto Santana, Daniel Díaz Mantilla, and Ahmel Echevarría, among others.
Archipelagic Affects, a book you cocreated with researcher/curator Emily Shin-Jie Lee and Taiwanese novelist Huang Chong-Kai and published with Framer Framed, was recently released. Can you tell us more about this experience in general, and specifically why the “archipelago” and “affects”?
I was chosen to participate in the Jan van Eyck Academie residency in Maastricht, Netherlands, where I spent a year between 2022 and 2023. During my residency, I collaborated with curator Shin-Jie Lee on a project titled “Archipelagic Affects.” It explores how different cultures intersect in the space of the artist residency to foster affective encounters and repair the tangible and intangible connections between these two island countries' history, culture, and geopolitics. The project is also situated in the intersection of literary text and visual arts. It's a curatorial exercise in the form of a print publication.
This project introduced me to the novel The Formosa Exchange by Taiwanese writer Huang Chong Kai. Kai’s story depicts a fictional future in which, one day in May 2024, the entire Taiwanese population awoke to discover that they had exchanged geographical locations with Cubans. Two multiethnic islands with colonial histories confront large countries posing their own challenges. By interweaving historical incidents with speculative scenarios, I realized that the novel would serve as a starting point for discussions about the distinction between fiction and reality, methods of translation, and the sensation of being temporarily displaced.
The Cuba–Taiwan archipelago concept and this common mindset served as the methodological foundation for this publication, which asks how to realize the interconnectedness between this island and other islands through various dialogue and communication channels. If an artist residency resembles spending a brief time with a group of strangers on an unfamiliar island, how can we improve the meaning of this interim existence and perhaps even create an archipelago community?
Well, thank you very much, Yornel. Where everyday life has these characteristics, that's where I’m headed.
