Bread & Art
An artist interview turned into a short play, written by Maja Milanovic and the artists Frank Lahera O'Callaghan and Ernesto Sanchez Nuñez
A European Airport
Two slim male bodies exit the gate with a sign ‘Havana.’
The plane back to Cuba leaves in two hours. The one with unruly hair wearing a yellow safety jacket, which he took from beneath his seat situated next to the emergency exit, Frank Lahera Ocallaghan (36) points to the BAGGAGE sign.
In their trembling hands, they hold their cheaply made, newly published blue passports, with their first issued visas within their covers. After all, this was their first flight away from their small island.
The other one, with his curly hair, looking as if his ancestors a long time ago left the European continent, and his romantic red scarf reminding of the artists of another era, Ernesto Sanchez Nuñez (29), looks at Frank with a sudden realization that after their passports are stamped, they will finally leave Cuba behind.
Ernesto:
What is the first word that comes to mind when you hear the word "Cuba"?
Frank:
Contradiction. What is the first image that comes to mind when you hear the word "Cuba"?
Ernesto:
The sea. What about sound?
Frank:
Nostalgia. What does it smell like?
Ernesto:
It smells like arroz moros y cristianos (rice and beans) with cilantro.
The click of receiving a stamp is heard.
Park
The plane back to Havana flies through the clear blue skies. Frank and Ernesto walk into the lush park with their suitcases intact, and find a bench to sit down. Their bodies finally relax.
Frank takes off the life jacket, revealing another yellow vest underneath it. He keeps the second one on. He then opens one of his two bags, and a very skinny and exhausted dog jumps out.
Frank is happy to be reunited with his furry partner after a long journey. Ernesto pulls out a sketchbook and draws the park sculpture of a European king.
The king and Ernesto look alike.
Ernesto:
Do you remember the first piece of art that impressed you?
Frank:
It’s a bit hard to remember; it must have been a long time ago. But the first thing that truly impressed and frightened me—because I felt I couldn’t reach its level—were some works by Modesto Montero, an artist from my hometown. I now confuse the names of specific works, but his paintings are magical; they look to the future, contain hidden codes—or at least that’s how they feel to me—and their pictorial strength is majestic: the colors, compositions, forms, and the magic he creates on the canvas. This is why it took me so long to start painting; it’s a technique I deeply respect. I believe that to create a truly visceral, living work, one must go beyond the ground they walk on. Do you remember the first work of art you made?
Ernesto:
Yes, it’s something I always hold dear. It was a painting with tempera on a poster board about 80 x 60 cm. I painted a countryside landscape with large rocks, a lake, and a small house. I was about 4 or 5 years old at the time. I remember my mother kept the painting under the bed mattress to protect it since there wasn’t enough money to frame it. What did art mean to you in Cuba?
Frank takes out a piece of Cuban hard bread that was part of his monthly food ration given to him by the government. He tries to break it into pieces, but it’s hard.
Frank:
In Cuba art is dead. It has become a political and propagandistic extension, striving to sell a reality that completely differs from what is really going on. It is a stain, a mask worn—out of fear or convenience—to cover up what’s happening on the island. I avoid that. I can’t conceive of art being divorced from truth, from observing its surroundings. That is what Cuban art has become: a dismissive look at the pain and stagnation within the country. Who were your artistic influences?
Ernesto fiddles with a little flute.
Ernesto:
My mother instilled in me a strong interest in music from a young age. She worked, from the time I was born at a store promoting traditional Cuban music under the EGREM label. My mom took me to her job because she had no one else to care for me. Being at her store immersed me in the music of my land. It was wonderful for my ears and vision to absorb this art. In the same shop, there was a gallery section promoting works by local visual artists. The works of Cuban painter Ernesto González Litvinov left a big impression on me, and to this day, I identify strongly with his pictorial style. Years later, when I joined the art academy, I immediately connected with the works of three artists: Paul Cézanne, Claude Monet, and Jean-Michel Basquiat. Has your art always been political, or was there a key moment when you decided to make it so? And how was it received in Cuba?
Frank is still trying to break the hard bread that he brought from Cuba.
Frank:
My art, without intentionally programming it, has always been political. Art is inherently political, even if the artist isn’t conscious of it. My first "real" piece, in the broadest sense of the term, was a critical work around 2013. I performed a piece titled Café o qué?, which questioned the worsening state of national coffee production. Cuban coffee, once a proud tradition, is now mixed with peas to stretch supply, affecting both taste and cultural significance.
In the performance, I ingested peas pretending they were coffee and ate rice mixed with coffee while reading a newspaper announcing the situation. It symbolized the degradation of even this small, intimate pleasure because of the state's mismanagement. From that moment on, I felt compelled to use my art as an expression of dissatisfaction and a reflection of broader issues.
By 2021, during the height of COVID-19, the mask of the government’s incompetence fell off. My work became increasingly focused on Cuban realities, as fewer voices dared to speak out. As a result, censorship and backlash increased. Those who speak up in Cuba today are labeled “pariahs” or “enemies.” Ultimately, my work gained more recognition outside Cuba, and while doors within the island closed, international doors opened. In Cuba, I was no longer an artist—I was a "misfit" or a “madman” who dared to challenge authority. In contrast to mine, your art is full of symbolism: animals, triangles, and a created language. Could you please tell us about your inspiration?
Ernesto:
I've noticed that there is a palpable reality on which another reality, created by the imagination, is grafted, and which is shrouded in so many details that it becomes as "real" as the other. All my work develops between these two realities. Finding the path that unifies each element we perceive through sight and at the same time seeking their differences. This action is what makes me see and recognize the reasons for my experiences and my questions in the personal and artistic realms. It is a chain I have created for myself to receive and analyze the information of what exists and my experiences.
Frustrated, Frank grabs a stone and starts hitting the bread.
Frank, when did you discover performance art, and can you tell us about your piece Animal?
Frank finally succeeds in breaking the bread into gazillion crumbs. He takes a smaller piece and gives it to his dog. The dog licks the bread, and just walks away leaving the bread behind. Frank looks at the dog in disbelief.
Frank:
While studying for my first university degree, I began researching contemporary art outside the traditional curriculum, particularly movements not deeply explored in Cuba. I discovered Marina Abramović, Fluxus, Dadaism, and others that challenged two-dimensional media. Film and video art also influenced me, especially Nam June Paik and Wolf Vostell, showing me how images could break free from static representation.
Animal was a performance piece exhibited during one of my last collective shows in Santiago de Cuba. It critiqued the fragility of human existence, particularly in Cuba’s context during the pandemic and escalating global conflicts. In this multimedia piece, a man eats scraps left by a dog, reversing evolutionary and societal roles. The work critiques both the loss of Cuban dignity under the state and humanity's broader fragility. The piece is now part of the permanent collection at Cerritos College Art Gallery in California, USA. You often depict women in your art. Why don’t you paint faces on your characters?
Ernesto:
Many of my paintings show women with faceless features. This abstraction represents moments or emotions tied to my experiences with them, expressed visually rather than through their individual likenesses. The internet arrived in Cuba in 2018. How did that affect your worldview and your art?
Ernesto lights a cigarette. He passes it to Frank, then he lights another one for himself.
Frank:
The limited arrival of the internet in Cuba in 2018 expanded my art’s reach. It allowed me to connect with galleries, curators, and artists worldwide and compare global realities with Cuba’s. However, access remains restricted and heavily monitored, so it hasn’t been as transformative as it could have been. When did you discover mural painting, and what does it mean to you?
Ernesto:
I discovered mural painting early on, growing up in Santiago de Cuba, where the INTERNOS mural biennial has existed for 30 years. As a child, I was amazed by how a single person—or a small group—could paint on such a large scale! At 16, I joined an art academy and began participating in the biennial. My first mural project, Las Metáforas de la Luna (The Metaphors of the Moon), transformed my childhood neighborhood with over 15 murals. For me, mural painting is the purest form of artistic freedom, communicating directly with the masses.
The Passport Control Officer walks into the park with a sandwich in his hand. Frank and Ernesto straighten up. Frank stands in front of the dog, hoping that the man doesn’t see it, but the man hands Frank a soft piece of his bread for the dog. He then throws a piece of salami at the dog as well. The dog happily wags his tail. Ernesto takes the pack of cigarettes and offers the man a cigarette in return. He smells it.
Passport Control Officer
Cuban?
Both Enrensto and Frank smile. They light the man’s cigarette, and he inhales.
Passport Control Officer
Who buys art in Cuba?
Frank:
Honestly, almost no one. Art sales are rare, as the market is state-controlled, with institutions like the Ministry of Culture dictating what sells. Most "collectors" are aligned with these institutions, profiting from the artists' desperation. True art commerce is almost non-existent, leaving many artists’ works to gather dust in obscurity.
Passport Control Officer
What is the artistic scene in Cuba like?
Ernesto:
Cuba’s artistic scene is rich and diverse, deeply rooted in its African and colonial heritage. Despite the challenges, Cuban art has achieved global recognition, especially in music. However, scarcity forces artists to innovate with limited resources, fostering creativity and resilience.
Passport Control Officer
If you could create only one last piece of art, what would it be?
Frank:
It would be a piece where I symbolically embody my country and die—alone, abandoned. I’ve already sketched its concept, awaiting the right moment for execution.
Passport Control Officer
What conversations do you hope your art inspires?
Ernesto:
I love silent conversations with myself while performing an action in my daily life. These introspective dialogues, full of questions aimed at achieving something objective in art, are what I enjoy bringing to life in my work.
Passport Control Officer
Can artistic passion survive when there’s no food on the table?
Frank:
Biologically, no. Politically, maybe—because reality forces you to scream your truths through your craft. It’s what I’ve been doing all along: refusing to let social impositions silence me.
Passport Control Officer
And what about you, what does passion mean to you as an artist?
Ernesto:
Passion means to me having a dream in life and pursuing it with full enjoyment.
The three men finish smoking. The Passport Control Officer throws the last piece of his sandwich to the dog. He then takes a piece of paper out of his pocket and hands it to the Frank and Ernesto. He nods “Goodbye”and leaves.
While Ernesto reads the paper, Frank’s dog follows the Passport Control Officer, leaving Frank in shock. Frank gestures towards the dog, ‘Go, who needs you anyway.’
Ernesto:
It’s an invitation to the supermarket.
Frank:
Supermarket Art fair in Stockholm?
Ernesto:
You wish, chico! A job at the local supermarket.
Frank looks at the paper.
Frank:
Working from midnight to 4 AM at the local supermarket.
Ernesto:
But I am an artist.
Frank:
We can tape a piece of bread on a wall and call it art.
Ernesto:
Women buy food at the supermarket; I can paint their faces.
Frank:
At 4 AM?
Ernesto shrugs his shoulders. He folds the paper with the ad and puts it in his pocket.
They pack their bags and leave the park.
The hard broken bread from Cuba remains behind them on the ground. Not even the birds of Portugal want to eat it.
The end
To find out more about Frank’s art and journey click on the link, and for Ernesto click here.