José Yaque's current exhibition, "Eruzione" (Eruption) at Galleria Continua’s Arco Dei Becci space in San Gimignano showcases his new series of acrylic paintings inspired by his experience of the full eruption of La Palma’s volcano in 2021.  As I walk towards him in the exhibition space for our interview, I sense that he is not a big talker. In fact, I notice early on that he is not an artist who enjoys talking about his art. For two decades now, I've been fascinated by Cuban history and I am devoted reader of Cuban literature, in particular the dreamy yet realist literature of Reinaldo Arenas (1943-1990) whose novel Celestino antes del alba (translated into English by Andrew Hurley as Singing from the Well and the first novel of his Pentagonia series) was translated into Italian by Alessio Arena in 2022 and encourages me to read in my third language.  Therefore, it was of great interest to me to talk to an artist from Cuba about Cuba but it was not to be. José Yaque is not an artist who likes to chit-chat about politics. I feel he is quite alone in this and one could say, this attitude is liberating for him as an artist. As Arenas wrote in The Colour of Summer, "The only way to be free is to be left alone - but even that is not enough; one must be alone" p. 168. 

Soon, I discover that if there is one thing that brings a sparkle to Yaque's gaze, though, it’s nature. He produces works that reference nature in a very unnatural way, directly because of the use of certain materials in his artistic practice: acrylic paint and plastic coverings. I am not sure if there is enough attention paid to the debate on sustainable art in Italy, but perhaps there ought to be in an epoch when there is a boom of painters producing vast numbers of works in acrylic. It’s not my duty to tell artists which materials they should work with, but raising awareness is important. On another note, as of 15th October, the EU has banned the sale of products containing microplastics, including loose glitter. Will they have the courage to ban the use of acrylic paint? At least not for another decade, I think. 

I start our interview by asking José Yaque whether he was inspired by the eruption of the volcano immediately after seeing it or if it took him a while before getting his hands dirty and slathering canvases with acrylic paint. He tells me it took him a while to process it, a gestation period of sorts, and then when the inspiration finally arrived, it was pretty much what he imagines would be like giving birth. Yaque likes to look at things up-close and observe them at length. When he was watching the volcano erupt he was watching how the lava changed colour as it cooled down which recreated in this new set of paintings, which includes the triptych aptly titled, “Turquesa con Impurezas I” (Turquoise Impurities I). In his artist statement for this exhibition, Yaque expresses: “I’m seduced by the image of a body painting as if it were an erupting volcano, expressing itself with power.” 

There are so many ways in which you can lose yourself in front of a painting. It can draw away from you your thoughts, your senses, your memories, your dreams. It can leave you empty in a good way. I think the quality that underlies Yaque’s works is his ability to excavate into his own psyche, and de facto, that of humanity. He knows how to unload your conscience of its burden.

Now, as I edit our interview, I notice that we predominantly talked about his “Tumba Abierta” series (Open Grave, 2020) of which there is a small-scale installation here at the exhibition. Yaque started working on this idea in 2008 in Cuba. He would to go into the woods and search for plants he liked. Then he would take them home and bottle them with alcohol, distilled water and honey; in this particular instance, the bottles here were only filled with distilled water. You can witness the process of decomposition. Botanical memento mori meets artistic alchemy.

Through the last 15 years he has been building these cabinets of curiosity in the various places he has spent time; Spain, Italy, south of France, Miami, Madrid. At the beach, the river, the woods. I find out that he is currently working with resin instead of water and alcohol, which can allow these plant specimens to be transformed into a solidified state which prompts me to ask him: "What inspires your work the most?"

José agrees and adds: “One of the other important ideas from this is how many things there are in nature which we don’t want to know. We live with our things in a conformed way. And then when you go in with your configuration.... You think you are walking into a movie picture, but it’s nature, it’s life. It’s changing all the time. You have no consciousness of this universe. It’s a surprise to me, too. When we were installing the cabinet yesterday I was curious because I hadn’t looked at it in five years. I wanted to observe how it changed.

I ask: “Do you remember the names of the plants that you collected?”

He shakes his head and mutters, “No, no.”

I’m surprised that he is not inclined to research the plants he collects. He continues explaining: “I don’t want to know because if you know you contaminate the process. I prefer to see them and say, ‘Oh, I like this one!’”

I ask him: “Do you remember how they looked when you collected them?” José says: “Yes, why not, but not all.”

He tells me, he has made 28.000 bottles to-date and he’s still working on the series. At the moment he is collecting samples in and around Madrid. He seals the bottles with beeswax; as per the traditional process.

I comment: “They’re beautiful. What a cabinet of curiosities. You can almost see the mould growing on around the edges of the plants.”

Amanda Colina González, who works at Galleria Continua Havana and acts as artist liaison to José Yaque, tells me that a visitor asked her if you could drink the content of the bottles. Roaring laughter echoes. 

José adds: “I made a large-scale installation with Aguardiente, alcohol from Cuba (made of the sugar cane) and you can drink that. It’s alcohol and fruit. It’s really strong, 60% alcohol.”

When silence takes over, I sense José getting impatient.

He smiles and says, “I don’t want to talk about my work.” 

I respond: “You don’t have to talk about your work.” 

He responds with a smile, “I prefer not to.” 

I quietly say, “I understand, but there’ll always be journalists.” 

We burst into laughter yet again, clueless that we will both shelter this conversation as a keepsake of our shared mortality as we leave behind a gallery brimming with life and death.