To begin, could you provide us with an overview of your artistic practice? Are there any significant moments or specific artworks that were instrumental in shaping or reorienting your artistic journey?

My artistic practice emerges at the intersection of memory, displacement, and transformation. I see my work less as the production of static images and more as an ongoing negotiation with absence and belonging—a way of tracing the intangible threads that connect the personal with the collective. Having been shaped by migration, I often return to questions of identity that do not resolve neatly, but instead transmute, expand, and fracture across cultural and psychological landscapes.

A pivotal moment in my journey came when I shifted from classical music—where I trained for decades as a guitarist—into photography. That transition was not so much a departure as a reorientation; the sensibility of listening that music had cultivated in me became the foundation of how I now look. The photographic image, like a musical phrase, carries silence within it—an invisible resonance that extends beyond its surface. That realization altered how I understood the medium, not as documentation, but as a vessel for silence, longing, and presence.

Certain projects have been especially formative. For instance, works rooted in Havana, where I was born, became a meditation on the city as both memory and witness—refusing nostalgia yet refusing erasure. In those photographs, I discovered how the camera could hold contradiction, embodying the simultaneity of loss and endurance. The making of the work taught me that my practice is not about reconciling opposites but about dwelling in their tension.

Ultimately, my journey as an artist is less a linear progression and more an unfolding conversation—with the past, with silence, and with the fluid identity of the self in motion. Each significant work reorients me toward a deeper listening, a deeper seeing, and a deeper responsibility to articulate the poetics of migration and transformation in a way that transcends the personal and gestures toward the universal.

In your statement, you mentioned that” photography is a medium of stillness and introspection—an act of holding rather than capturing.” Can you elaborate on this for us?

When I describe photography as a medium of stillness and introspection—an act of holding rather than capturing, I am pointing to the way the camera resists the urgency of speed and possession. To “capture” implies conquest, a kind of seizing of time or subject, as though the image were a trophy. But in my practice, photography is closer to a gesture of care, of pause. It is not about taking, but about holding space—for memory and presence.

Stillness, for me, does not mean the absence of movement, but the deep attention to what lingers. When I stand before a scene, I am not rushing to arrest it; I am listening to it. The act of photographing becomes akin to meditation: a way of recognizing what is fragile and ephemeral and allowing it to rest within the frame without forcing resolution.

This is why I speak of introspection. A photograph is never only about what is outside the lens; it is equally about the interiority of the one who gazes. To hold an image is to allow a dialogue between the visible and the invisible, between what is present and what exceeds representation. In this sense, every photograph carries the trace of both the world and the self—yet neither is possessed.

So, when I say photography is an act of holding, I mean it as an ethical and poetic stance: the willingness to dwell with a moment, to preserve its resonance without claiming to own it. It is a way of saying—this is here, this was here, and it continues to reverberate—without the violence of capture.

One of the primary aims of your practice is to spark dialogue and encourage reflection on the themes of migration and cultural assimilation. What visual methods, materials, and presentation techniques do you employ to bring this concept to life?

My practice approaches migration and cultural assimilation not as fixed narratives but as lived processes—fragmented, layered, and constantly in flux. To evoke this, I work with visual methods and materials that themselves embody transience and transformation.

Formally, I gravitate toward black-and-white photography for its ability to distill experience into tonal resonance rather than literal description. The absence of color becomes a metaphor for memory—partial, incomplete, yet deeply charged with affect. I often allow light and shadow to take precedence over detail, creating images that gesture toward what cannot be fully articulated, mirroring the silences and ruptures inherent in the migrant experience.

In terms of materials, I am committed to traditional silver gelatin prints. The slowness of analog processes—the tactile engagement with film, the alchemy of the darkroom—mirrors the contemplative labor of remembering and forgetting. At the same time, I sometimes introduce experimental printing techniques, such as layering negatives or incorporating archival fragments, to suggest the ways identities are rewritten, eroded, and reconstituted through migration.

Presentation is equally important. I think of exhibitions as spaces of encounter, where viewers are invited not to consume images but to dwell with them. Scale and sequencing are deliberate: smaller, intimate prints encourage close, almost private reflection, while larger works create an immersive, bodily engagement. I often allow generous spacing between images, emphasizing silence and absence as part of the narrative. In some projects, I incorporate sound, text, or video fragments—mediums that, like migration, move across borders of perception and resist singular interpretation.

Ultimately, my methods seek to translate the psychological and cultural dislocations of migration into visual and spatial terms. Rather than presenting definitive answers, I aim to create conditions for dialogue—a space where viewers can confront their own memories, displacements, and transformations alongside mine.

Your current body of work is described as a “visual meditation on exile, impermanence, and the quiet, complex experience of waiting.” What can you tell us about the conceptual underpinnings of this series? What inspired you to pursue these themes?

This series emerges from the condition of exile as both a lived reality and a state of mind. Exile is not only geographical displacement but also temporal suspension—an existence stretched between a past that cannot be returned to and a future that remains uncertain. In that liminal space, waiting becomes an existential posture: not passive, but profoundly charged with longing, anticipation, and resilience.

The conceptual underpinnings of the work lie in my interest in impermanence—the awareness that nothing is fixed, that belonging itself is a transient negotiation. Migration teaches us that identity is not a stable possession but a continual act of becoming, shaped by both presence and absence. To me, the act of waiting embodies this truth: it is where memory and hope coexist, where the self is reconstituted through patience, silence, and endurance.

I was inspired to pursue these themes partly through personal experience. Having left Havana, I carry with me the paradox of being tethered to a place that persists more in memory than in daily life. The city, in its silence and survival, became a metaphor for exile itself: it waits, it endures, it transforms without relinquishing its essence. This personal displacement led me to see waiting not as void or inertia, but as a space of profound intensity—a space where transformation quietly unfolds.

Visually, I translate these ideas through restrained, contemplative imagery: shadows, empty interiors, gestures that suggest presence through absence. The photographs do not seek to narrate exile, but to hold its atmosphere—the silence, the weight, the invisible labor of waiting.

Ultimately, this body of work is not only about my own experience but about a universal condition. Exile and impermanence remind us of the fragility of belonging, but also of the resilience of the human spirit to inhabit thresholds, to dwell in uncertainty, and to find meaning in the act of waiting itself.

What more can you tell us about the series “Para la Espera,” a photographic “elegy composed in tones of memory and silence”?

Para la Espera unfolds as a photographic elegy in which silence is not emptiness but a presence that gives form to memory and exile. The work treats silence as both subject and medium—an atmosphere that permeates the images through restrained compositions, empty interiors, and the interplay of light and shadow, each suggesting absence while simultaneously honoring what persists. This silence, for me, becomes the language of elegy: it acknowledges loss yet refuses erasure, offering space for reflection rather than resolution. At the same time, the series carries a continual return to the autobiographical self, not in a confessional sense but as a late motif that emerges across the body of work. My own displacement from Havana surfaces obliquely—through gestures, tonalities, and fragments that trace the fragile boundaries between memory and identity. In this way, Para la Espera is both personal and collective, using silence as an elegiac structure while allowing the search for self, fractured and reconstituted through exile, to reverberate as the undercurrent binding the series together.

Your choice of color in photography is a deliberate artistic decision. How does this choice resonate with the atmosphere you aim to portray? How does color influence the message you are trying to convey?

My decision to work in black and white is not simply aesthetic but conceptual—a visual strategy that allows me to create both abstraction and displacement. Color anchors an image in specificity, in a recognizable present, whereas the tonal spectrum of black and white opens a space of ambiguity, removing the photograph from the immediacy of time and place. In Para la Espera, this abstraction mirrors the condition of exile itself: a state of suspension, of being untethered from familiar coordinates. The absence of color also intensifies silence within the images; shadows become extensions of memory, and light carries the fragile weight of what endures. By stripping away color, I invite the viewer into an atmosphere that is less descriptive and more introspective, one that resists narrative closure and instead dwells in uncertainty. Black and white, in this sense, becomes not a limitation but a distillation—an elegiac language that speaks to displacement, impermanence, and the search for belonging without ever fixing them into certainty.

You mentioned that this series of photographs "offers images not as answers, but as questions suspended in time—fragments of what lingers after departure.” How do you hope viewers will engage with this work?

I hope viewers will approach this work not as something to be solved or consumed, but as an invitation to linger within ambiguity. The photographs are not designed to provide answers; rather, they hold open a space of suspension, much like exile itself—where time feels unsettled, and meaning is never fully secured. By offering images as fragments, I am asking the viewer to enter into a dialogue with absence and silence, to consider what remains after departure and how memory, longing, and belonging take shape in what is left behind.

My intention is that the work becomes less about my own biography and more about what it can awaken in others. I want viewers to recognize in these images a reflection of their own thresholds—moments of loss, waiting, or transformation that resist articulation but nevertheless shape identity. The photographs act as vessels for that recognition, encouraging a kind of introspective engagement where the personal and collective intersect.

Ultimately, I hope the engagement is not purely visual but experiential: that viewers feel the quiet weight of the images, their refusal of closure, and their insistence on dwelling in stillness. In this sense, the work is an invitation to slow down, to listen to silence, and to acknowledge that within the unresolved, we often find the deepest forms of connection.

As an artist exhibited both in the United States and internationally, what advice would you offer to artists working on social and political themes?

For artists working on social and political themes, my foremost advice is to approach your work with both honesty and patience. The impulse to respond to urgent issues can be overwhelming, but the most resonant work often emerges when reflection and personal engagement guide the process. Grounding your practice in your own experience and perspective allows your voice to carry authenticity, even as you address issues that extend far beyond the self.

It is equally important to cultivate a careful balance between aesthetic rigor and ethical responsibility. Images—like words—have power to shape perception, memory, and empathy, and navigating that power requires attentiveness to both form and impact. Consider how materials, composition, and presentation strategies can amplify meaning without overshadowing the human complexity of the issues you are exploring.

Finally, persistence and resilience are essential. Social and political work may encounter resistance or misinterpretation, but its value often lies in the questions it raises rather than the conclusions it reaches. By holding space for reflection, nuance, and dialogue, artists can create work that not only bears witness but also invites audiences to inhabit perspectives beyond their own, fostering empathy and understanding across difference.

From your perspective, how do art and artistic creation bridge the gap between global societal and political issues and the general public?

Art has the unique ability to translate the abstract and often overwhelming scale of global societal and political issues into experiences that are intimate, tangible, and emotionally accessible. Unlike statistics or reports, which can feel distant or impersonal, art operates through empathy, perception, and contemplation—it allows viewers to encounter these issues not as distant problems, but as lived realities that resonate on a human level. Through form, materiality, and atmosphere, artistic creation can embody the tensions, silences, and contradictions inherent in complex social conditions, offering a space where audiences can engage not only intellectually but emotionally.

In my own work, for example, themes of migration, exile, and impermanence are not presented as abstract concepts, but as lived experiences rendered through memory, absence, and the delicate interplay of light and shadow. This approach invites viewers into reflection, prompting them to inhabit perspectives beyond their own, to sense the human consequences of displacement, and to recognize the ethical and emotional stakes embedded in global issues. Art, in this sense, becomes a bridge: it mediates understanding, cultivates empathy, and creates the conditions for dialogue that can extend far beyond the gallery walls.

Finally, what message would you like to leave for our readers?

I would like to leave readers with an invitation to dwell—to pause within the spaces between presence and absence, memory and longing, certainty and uncertainty. My work emerges from the understanding that life often unfolds in thresholds: in waiting, in displacement, in moments of transformation that cannot be neatly articulated. These thresholds are both deeply personal and profoundly universal, reflecting the ways in which identity, belonging, and memory are continually negotiated across time, place, and circumstance.

The photographs I make are meant to hold questions rather than offer answers. Silence, absence, and shadow are not emptiness but presence—they are the languages through which the intangible can speak. To look is not merely to see, but to enter into dialogue with what lingers, what persists, and what transforms. I hope that in engaging with this work, readers might recognize reflections of their own experiences of loss, waiting, or reinvention, and in that recognition, sense the fragile yet enduring structures that bind us all.

Ultimately, this practice is an ethical as well as aesthetic endeavor. It asks for attention, patience, and empathy, proposing that the act of seeing itself can become a form of care. In a world increasingly dominated by speed, immediacy, and certainty, I hope my work offers a reminder of the power of introspection, of quiet attentiveness, and of presence—a space in which fragility, complexity, and resilience can coexist, and where the act of witnessing becomes a means of connection, reflection, and shared humanity.

Learn more about the artist here.

Cover image:

El Cuarto de la Abuela, Para la Espera series. Gelatin Silver Print, 16 x 16 inches by Odeth Reinoso Sanchez.

All images courtesy of Odeth Reinoso Sanchez.