Kina Matahari is the pseudonym under which the artist signs her works, her texts, and her mark within the visual culture of her time. Far from being a gratuitous alias, it forms part of a larger concept she defines as a work-attitude, where the piece and the act of producing it, exhibiting it, and ultimately shedding one’s skin in departure are inseparable. To separate them would be to strip the practice of its very meaning. For Kina, meaning proliferates in many directions at once, weaving together gesture, presence, and aftermath. Her trajectory is closely linked to the years immediately following the pandemic, a moment when multiple crises in Cuba overlapped and compounded one another. It was in that fractured context that her practice crystallized as both testimony and resistance. The name Kina Matahari signals an artistic identity that is as much an action as it is an image, a statement that refuses detachment. By situating herself within this continuum of work and life, she asserts an authorship inseparable from lived experience, one that insists on remaining visible in the cultural fabric she inhabits and reshapes.
One of the people I love most in the world—among other reasons, for something like this—cried for several minutes upon realizing that the book which had occupied her for a brief stretch of time had come to an end. To close it and return it to the shelf meant abandoning a world she already considered her own: one where good and evil were distinguished in every conceivable way. Beyond its beauty, that universe offered purpose, a sanctioned form of contemplation, and a steadfast commitment to the benevolence of the spirit.
More than a dozen portraits of the current President of the United States
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