A new edition of CubaCultura has concluded in the Andalusian town of Trigueros, and I’m told the feeling of having lived through moving days remains in the air. Sculptor Rafael San Juan was there for the first time, with a representative sample of his work — which now spans almost 30 years — and with an evolving sculpture, the process of which ran throughout this edition of the event.
Rafael San Juan is a benchmark in the contemporary Cuban visual arts scene, especially in the field of monumental sculpture. His work can be seen in Cuba in the piece Primavera, located at the intersection of Galeano and Malecón streets, a female effigy that accompanies the comings and goings of Havana residents. Using graphic information — silkscreen prints of Primavera, for example — from his works scattered around the world, the artist put together the exhibition presented at CubaCultura 2025, an exhibition that summarized a large part of his career.
Preparing a proposal for this event required months of prior work for San Juan, including researching the space and the conditions for his installations. He decided to create sculptures in situ, as a performative activity that would allow for direct interaction with the public.
The result was short-lived pieces, conceived to avoid becoming collectibles. In the first days of his stay in Huelva, OnCuba spoke with San Juan as he began this work on the ground.
The artist explained that what he was doing could be framed within an experience he had developed years earlier in his Contención project. “These are pieces left behind with the intention of letting time do its work. This aging, this fragmentation, is documented, and the only thing that will remain is the photographic documentation. The pieces start breaking, crumbling, a bit like what happens to us in life. It’s a way of reflecting on the value of time,” he commented.
The artist took as his starting point the films screened during CubaCultura, in a series dedicated to actress Mirtha Ibarra, winner of the 2025 National Film Award — Strawberry and Chocolate (1993), Hasta cierto punto (1983), Guantanamera (1997).
“I confess that I felt very nostalgic watching those films again and realizing how much Cuba has changed. From there, for example, two torsos emerged — one male and one female: one with sunflowers and the other with a rose. That came from the character played by Vladimir Cruz in Strawberry and Chocolate and from that of Mirtha,” he explains.
The sculptor recognizes the challenge of creating these works from scratch and in such a short timeframe. To do this, he used rebars — all the materials he sourced and purchased in Trigueros — to create steel structures that he then covered with mesh before finally molding them in ceramic. It’s a mixed technique that, he explains, he hadn’t practiced for years, as he was accustomed to working in the studio with templates and an infrastructure designed for large-scale works. San Juan also points to another source of inspiration in the space itself:
“We are in a place with its own history: this was a bread factory and here stood a mill. Some machinery still remains that once played an essential role in feeding the people. In the end, I decided to make a heart, and I’ll even take it outside the wooden format. Of course, the space influences you, transforms the project and transforms you. The environment, the people who welcome you, are very important in giving meaning to what you are doing. This place, these events, have the quality of highlighting the historical relationship between Cuba and Spain. You encounter many familiar elements, that balance of cultures that I think this festival enhances. It’s very beautiful.”
In search of beauty
Next year, Rafael San Juan will celebrate his first three decades of work. He was born in 1973, in Havana’s Cerro. He says that as a child, he didn’t have a direct connection with the arts that would justify the path he chose in his adolescence, once he finished high school. However, he was a very free child, always playing.
He delights in his childhood memories while we chat via video call, many of which he has rescued from the oblivion caused by the passage of time, thanks to reunited family and friends. One of those childhood friends traveled to meet him during CubaCultura, to spend a few days with him. That friend, the artist explains, recently reminded him of a premonitory scene: little San Juan making clay figures to play with.
“From birth, one has certain abilities that one later chooses to cultivate or not. I had the ability to invent games with whatever was at hand, so I think that’s where it all began,” reflects the sculptor, who even began studying biology, a degree he abandoned in his first year to enter the San Alejandro Academy.
Rafael San Juan speaks calmly and doesn’t hide his excitement at presenting his work in southern Spain. He remembers his grandparents, Spaniards who emigrated to Cuba in the last century and put down roots on the island. “They would pick me up from school, they took care of me,” he recalls.
Family plays a fundamental role for this artist, who reels off memories with great gratitude. In his story, he mentions a biologist uncle who took him — he was about 15 years old at the time — to the studio of Servando Cabrera Moreno (1923-1981). The painter had already passed away, San Juan recalls, but coming into contact with his canvases and large erotic paintings had a profound impact on him.
He asserts that the best collective experience he has had was during his time as a stage designer, working with Danza Contemporánea de Cuba, Teatro de la Luna and the Rita Montaner Theater Company. He also remembers himself at the Ceramics Museum in the 1990s, attending lectures by Nelson Domínguez and Sosabravo, during his first encounters with sculpture and ceramics. He recalls the time he asked his unit commander for a week off during his military service to take the entrance exams for San Alejandro, and then his teaching work alongside Jesús Ruiz, Miriam Dueñas and Carlos Repilado, “the greats of the performing arts.”
You have developed your career between ceramics, drawing and sculpture. How did these needs for expression emerge in your path as an artist?
Life led me there. When I began studying at San Alejandro, I was convinced I wanted to dedicate myself to painting. Already at the end of my first year, I began to develop an interest in sculpture; I realized I could easily solve three-dimensional problems, something my classmates found complex. So I focused on sculpture.
Later, working as a set designer helped me greatly to master the issue of scale. In theater, large curtains and sets require volume. At that time, things weren’t like they are now, where, thanks to technology, designs are projected and scaled using computer programs. In the 1990s, all curtains were painted using grids, compasses, lines, and scale rulers.
I think all that slow and tedious learning left a useful mark on me to later translate my pieces to monumental scale. And there was a latent desire to take on the challenge: since my student years, if I could make it taller, I felt freer to visualize what I wanted.
On my first trip to Mexico, I went to design the Cuban pavilion at a book fair. The project consisted of a sculpture made of books: the face of José Martí. Initially, it was to be 5 meters tall, and at the end of the fair, these books would be given to children; they were copies of La Edad de Oro. But instead of the planned 20,000 books, only 5,000 arrived, and Martí’s face went from 5 meters to around 2.5 meters.
Bringing that first piece to a stage-like scale wasn’t difficult for me. Through another work I created as part of a group exhibition, I met the architect Teodoro González de León (1926–2016). He gave me freedom when he invited me to the great challenge of creating the sculptural complex Manos in Santa Fe, Mexico City. By the time I saw the final result, I had already gone through a very enriching process.
I think it’s been essential for my career to focus on taking my work to the streets, on sculpture occupying public spaces. As a child, I remember the visual obsession I felt with the pieces I found in parks. Those moments were transcendental for me. I’ve always had a deep interest in works in public spaces.
In your work, we see hands, hearts, torsos and other vital organs reflected in different materials. Where did the creative need to capture the human body in your work come from?
I started studying art late, compared to my classmates who had come from elementary school. I entered San Alejandro after finishing senior high school. I had to make a great effort to learn academic drawing and, alongside those first strokes, I began studying anatomy. I was fascinated by the complexity of the human body.
During my military service, because I was skilled at drawing, I was frequently called upon to do identikit pictures and worked alongside forensic doctors. During that exchange, I requested a letter to obtain a human skull so I could study all the facial muscles.
After the skull, I obtained a skeleton. It still had pieces of skin, hair and clothing, and I was able to see how the specialists cleaned and disinfected it until it became a bony structure. It was then that I developed a very close relationship with anatomy professors and began to have direct contact with anatomical pieces and cadavers.
At first, the approaches were cold and distant: they are very powerful images. But over time, they became normal. These specialists later allowed me to participate in the Qualified in Human Anatomy (1993) at the Salvador Allende Higher Institute of Medical Sciences, even though I wasn’t a doctor. I ended up doing all the illustrations for the postgraduate program: the plans that showed sections and processes of anatomical pieces. It was a great experience.
Seeing a cadaver, performing a dissection, observing the flesh, the cut of the scalpel, the fibers, the smells…these are experiences that remain so etched in memory that they later prove key when modeling a shape or volume. You already know what lies behind the skin.
I find so much perfection in the human body that, when I walk down the street, I’m amazed by faces and physical peculiarities. I’m always observing anatomy, hairstyles, gestures. I believe there’s an unconscious part of us linked to fashion, and that’s why, every time I see a woman with a particular hairstyle or dress, my mind imagines a sculpture. The human being continues to be a great starting point in my work.
It’s curious that human beings can provoke the most moving experiences and, at the same time, the most devastating realities. How do you continue to find and project beauty in times of so much conflict and polarization?
I remember a project I titled La muerte de un proyecto (2012). I collected 99 human skeletons, which I searched for from medical schools to cemeteries. The most important thing in that process was the context of the material: I was manipulating something that wasn’t created by humans, but that nature gave us. It was a kind of tribute to individuals who had been born, grown up, lived and died, and who remained in the anonymity of mass graves and university classrooms.
I wanted to pay homage to them and, in some way, rescue the foundation of the human being. I had those 99 skeletons in my home in Cuba. Looking at the scars on the bones, the expressions on the skulls, the medical incisions, one could imagine their physiognomy. They were traces with which one could engage in dialogue. Visually, they were very powerful pieces.
Over the years, I have preferred a more aesthetic path, even one that has been classified as commercial. The world carries so many negative and unpleasant realities, that I chose to offer something beautiful, something that conveyed peace. For example, Primavera, the sculpture on Havana’s Malecón.
When I decided to give this gift to Havana, I wanted to pay tribute to Cuban women, to the women of Havana, and to the city. It was a very well-studied piece before its creation: the movement of the face, the lips, the expression. It’s a work I hold dear. I wanted it to be something beautiful, something anyone could touch or embrace. I was interested in showing a side of the city that we often don’t see. Even though buildings are falling apart and adversity multiplies every day, Primavera is a touch of beauty: a way of being optimistic, of dancing with sadness until it becomes sweet. In recent years, I’ve tried to show that side, even in the midst of the pandemic.
It’s been ten years since Primavera has been with the people of Havana. How do you deal with the impact of the passage of time on that work?
We’re currently working on a major project related to Primavera: we want to cast it in bronze. We already have a real budget thanks to the Caguayo Foundation, and together with maestro Alberto Lescay, we’ve evaluated the technical options. The challenge now is financial matters: we’re looking for plans and sponsors, because I want that piece to remain in the city as a legacy.
If a hundred years go by, I want Primavera to be a testament to the present. A bronze that the sea couldn’t corrode, that hurricanes couldn’t knock down and that history couldn’t subdue. The city and those who live in it deserve it.
The plan is to rescue what already exists: the piece installed at Galeano and Malecón. I would have to remodel part of the structure and add new elements. Then we would take a complete mold, make the bronze and replace one piece with another. The current sculpture would be moved to a more protected space — perhaps in Havana’s historic center, in an interior or exterior courtyard — where it remains as a vestige of the original structure, with its traces and wounds from the sea and saltpeter.
Primavera was conceived for that site on the Malecón. The location had to favor its visual appeal: so that, as one traveled along the avenue, it could be perceived from a distance and, as one approached, it could be discovered in detail. We installed it in 2015, during that year’s Biennial.
I had previously created a sculptural complex in Mexico, with five pieces for a real estate complex. I wondered how there could be five sculptures of that magnitude in Mexico and none in Cuba. With that concern, I presented the project to Eusebio Leal, who was amazed by the Mexican pieces and agreed to find a way to do it in Havana. I built it entirely on the breakwaters of the Sierra Maestra Cruise Terminal, on Avenida del Puerto.
Primavera has withstood two or three hurricanes and remains there, facing adversity. Whenever I return to Havana, I visit it and celebrate the fact that the recent Avenida Italia project remodeled the park where it’s located. It was a space in deplorable condition, and sometimes I felt embarrassed to recommend that tourists see the sculpture.
With the new design, the park has greatly improved. But it saddens me to see that the work is already missing parts or that corrosion is advancing. I think rehabilitation work will soon be necessary, one way or another, otherwise it will be lost.
Primavera keeps me up at night. I wouldn’t want the only monumental sculpture of my work that exists in my country to be lost. I’m fighting to save it.
The model for Primavera was the prima ballerina Viengsay Valdés. How do you choose the right model for the piece?
In the case of Primavera, when we decided to do it, I went to the National Ballet of Cuba and spoke with Alicia. I had met her in the 1990s, thanks to a mural proposed by Nisia Agüero, then director of the National Theater. That mural was presented alongside the ballet Tula, composed by Alonso. Since then, we cultivated a respectful relationship, so it was easy for me to approach her and have her open the doors of the company to me. She allowed me to enter the rooms and rehearsals to take notes on the dancers.
I spent about six months in that process without finding the right movement, the angel I wanted for the sculpture. I wasn’t convinced.
I remember one day, camera in hand as always, I saw Viengsay coming out of a rehearsal. She was sweaty, and I approached her on the stairs. I asked her how she stood when she greeted the audience, what she felt, what gesture she made when receiving applause. As a great dancer, her first poses were very classical. So I asked her for something more spontaneous, more Cuban. She started moving, did a turn and I took some photos. These images served as a starting point for the movement of the neck toward the face, one of the sculpture’s most beautiful features.
I then continued working on the face, taking into account the expressions of other dancers, such as Anette Delgado, which allowed me to reaffirm that spontaneous movement I found in Viengsay.
You have another work pending for Havana. How is the creative process for Horus progressing?
That piece is practically finished, but it’s missing one detail: a block of Murano glass that should be placed in the eye as a sparkle. It’s a work that makes me nostalgic, because Eusebio Leal was supposed to inaugurate it. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to travel to Italy to make that block, and the fact that Eusebio is no longer here physically makes me sad. Even so, I will finish it.
The sculpture was born from a thought I always had while walking the streets of Havana: “Who walked on these cobblestones before me?” One day I mentioned it to Leal and told him I wanted to make an eye that looked out at the port, built with cobblestones and stones from those streets. During my research, I discovered that many of those cobblestones were ballast from ships that came from Europe and returned loaded with merchandise.
One day, when they were dismantling the cobblestones from a certain street, Eusebio told me: “Those are the cobblestones we should save for your work, because Martí and Gómez walked there.” Thus, many pieces were gathered and the Horus project began. The sculpture already has an additional historical meaning: it is the eye that looks outward from Cuba and, at the same time, into the city; the eye that saw everything that entered through that port and everything that left it, and that embodies the openness we would like for the island.
Although Horus has been postponed, I must confess that I have been more concerned about Primavera. It’s like a child in poor health who requires my full attention. But as soon as I have the opportunity, I will resume the relationship with Murano to obtain that block of glass, place a plaque on the piece and hold a grand opening. We want to place it in the Avenida del Puerto corridor, in the garden of the Real Fuerza Fortress. We have even considered the possibility of using Czech glass, given the prestige of its glassworks.
What do you look for when selecting the materials you work with?
I’m deeply drawn to the authenticity of materials. Each one contributes a symbolic meaning to the work. That’s why it was so important to carry out La muerte de un proyecto: working with bones, a material that humans cannot manufacture, but that bears the imprint of nature. That’s something magical.
I remember a piece that received a mention at an international art exhibition: Pensamientos. It’s a wooden altarpiece divided into nine sections, inside which I placed a human brain fragmented into nine separate parts. The work is a social critique, born from a reflection in an anatomy class, during the cutting of a brain. Then I thought, with a certain irony: “After we’re dead, even our thoughts are cut” (he smiles). It’s a way of alluding to society’s manipulation of the individual.
It took me a year to complete it because I couldn’t find a material that conveyed the power of a real human brain. I tried using plasticine, but in the end I opted for a real brain, which allowed me to express what I was looking for.
Based on these experiences, the choice of material is vital to the conception of each of my works. I constantly experiment, and some materials appeal to me more than others. For example, Carrara marble offers an extraordinary aesthetic result. But I’m always open to new possibilities: if a chef invites me to make a chocolate sculpture, I would happily do it. The material always summons me and enriches my creativity.
What projects are you currently working on?
I’m always involved in many projects at once. Just before coming to Huelva, I delivered a large-format concrete sculpture in Monterrey for a steel corporation. It must weigh about 20 tons and when I return to Mexico I’ll go and place it. I’m also finishing a project of two enormous wings — from the Anhelos series — for an industrial park. I’m also working on another piece for a private collection: a jellyfish. It’s been a challenge in terms of composition and led me to explore the shapes and movements of snakes. I’ve had snakes at home for years, and one even bit me. I’ve been working on this piece for two years.
I was in CubaCultura and I also have work pending in Cuba. In my studio on the island, there’s a group of ten unfinished pieces, intended for a solo exhibition I’ve long wanted to do. These are works I want to develop in Cuba and then take to other places. And, of course, there’s the Primavera rescue.
It’s difficult for me to work on a piece without being on top of others. I’m constantly caught up in preparations, plans and executions. Many works remain on paper, awaiting budget approval or architects’ permission to place them. There’s a lot in the works.
In addition, I have a personal project that excites me: I want my studio space in Havana to remain as a legacy for the city when I’m gone. To turn it into a museum, a place where people can find models and projects of my works in public spaces around the world. I think it would be a valuable legacy for Havana.
I had a studio in Mexico for many years, where I made friends and built an entire infrastructure that makes it easier for me to handle the logistics of my work: cranes, assembly and transport. This has rooted me somewhat there, although I travel constantly. I try to be in Havana at least twice a year. Much of my work is created in Mexico, but I travel around the world.
For years, my team and I have developed cultural projects with Cuban artists. Now we do so more specifically, focusing on public and social initiatives. I’m passionate about organizing workshops for children in Cuba: not just in the visual arts, but also in puppetry, theater and even gastronomy. During my years in Europe, I engaged some chefs with the idea of teaching workshops, to awaken children’s dreams. I’m always looking for ways to leave a mark.
Catarsis is a book in which you critically cataloged 25 years of work (1996-2018). Next year, your creative endeavor will turn three decades old. How do you look back on that time?
Time is tremendous. I feel great gratitude toward the teachers who trained me and who later became friends. As the years go by, one feels more committed to doing things that leave a legacy, not only with one’s work, but also with one’s teaching. Every time a young person approaches me eager to learn, it gives me satisfaction, because I feel a commitment to give back what I received. Sometimes it doesn’t seem real to me that it’s almost 30 years.
When I flip through Catarsis, a book that compiles 25 years of my work up to 2018, I realize that many recent works are missing. I must document them and update the publication. We’re working on a new version and I’ve also compiled texts from friends and people who’ve known me since childhood. I want to include these testimonies of longing and hope, which can serve as inspiration to those going through similar processes as mine. Just because you’re born in a context far removed from what you love and aspire to be doesn’t mean you have to give up.
