This is especially notable considering that so many of these artists now live in South Florida, a place sharply divided on issues relating to Castro and Cuba. Such divisiveness is one of the reasons this exhibition is taking place well to the north of Miami, where Cubans of various affiliations sometimes seem to have trouble agreeing on just about anything -- the current debate over whether or not Cuban-Americans should return to Cuba for the Pope's upcoming visit, for instance, or the controversy over whether they should visit the island under any circumstance. But there's unusual accord on at least one count among the artists represented here: Whether they departed from Cuba soon after Castro came to power or stuck it out until much later, they're virtually unanimous in their refusal to dignify the dictator by recognizing him.
The iconoclastic young Spanish filmmaker Pedro Almodóvar once explained that one of his greatest artistic goals was to utterly deny Spanish dictator Francisco Franco, to make movies as if Franco had never even existed. These Cuban artists seem to share a similar attitude toward the man whom they feel, directly or indirectly, forced them into exile. But while he may have driven them from their homeland, they refuse to let him dominate their art, even though his legacy sometimes leaves lingering traces in it.
One of the show's few blatantly political works, Julio Antonio's acrylic painting The Repressor (1993), summons up a nightmarish inferno worthy of Dante. Amid sharp orange and yellow flames, a series of spiraling dead-end passageways trap human figures frozen in anguished cries that echo Munch's The Scream. These starkly isolated characters could as easily be from Stalin's gulags as from Cuban jails. Another canvas, Eleomar Puente's The Escape (1994), features an angular makeshift raft jutting out of a turbulent, red sea that could be either blood or flames, an ambiguity that makes the image even more powerful. This journey toward freedom and opportunity, the painting implies, is not without extraordinary peril, both physical and psychological.
Then there's The Morgue (Gun Murder) (1992), a huge, chillingly immediate Cibachrome-silicone-Plexiglas photo construction by Andres Serrano (yes, he of the Piss Christ furor at the National Endowment for the Arts). The photograph puts us in the uncomfortable position of standing at the head of a slain man and looking down his wounded, lifeless, barely covered torso, and it manages to suggest Christ after the Crucifixion even as it comments on humanity's barbarism against itself. And for raw emotional impact, I can't think of a more startling, poignant evocation of totalitarian repression than Demi's oil portrait Boy With Black Pacifier (1993), which also works uncomfortably well as an image of child abuse.
Most of the other works in this sprawling exhibition make their points more indirectly. Exile from Cuba may be the defining common denominator among these artists -- each ID placard on the wall next to the art indicates the year the artist fled the island -- but they respond to the complexities of life as exiles in a breathtaking variety of ways, drawing on equally diverse influences from established masters and articulating their visions in a wide range of styles and media.
The lackluster first paintings on the curved wall to the right as you enter the main downstairs gallery, however, don't make an especially good initial impression. Guido Llinas' Black Painting (1992), with its thick, blunt brushstrokes and "FOR BACON" lettering (an ill-conceived homage to the great Francis Bacon?), comes across as warmed-over abstract expressionism. So do the nebulous shapes in Luis Marin's Untitled, an adjacent oil on canvas. The next two canvases, grouped with their predecessors because of their stylistic and thematic debts to African influences on Cuban art, are something else altogether. The hypnotic, multilayered maze of undulating lines and subtle gradations of color that make up Deer in the Woods (1993), a mixed-media canvas by Leandro Soto, merge human and animal forms in near-subliminal ways. And a few feet away there's the electrifying abstraction of Santiago Rodriguez-Salazar's Camaleón Triste, an oil whose tiny, intricate patterns and shapes in bright, contrasting colors seem to pulsate from within. It's as if a Mondrian had somehow gotten its wires crossed with a beaded Haitian voodoo flag.