Category: studio

  • WOPHA Artists in Residence visits Bakehouse Art Complex

    On September 8, 2025, the WOPHA Artists in Residence, Kat Thompson, Nathyfa Michel, and Celia Irina González, visited Adler Guerrier’s studio at the Bakehouse Art Complex, engaging in dialogue around his practice and creative process. Photos by Gaby Ojeda. Courtesy of WOPHA.

  • Untitled (Madame 0310)

    untitled(madame) 0310
    solvent transfer, graphite, watercolor, and collage on paper. 11″x15″ 2010

  • AG2025_1177608a or even if they get the facts right


    The Good Pervert by David Velasco (Harpers)

    “The newspapers, even if they get the facts right, will get the story wrong.”

  • AG2025_1177610b or theatrum orbis terrarum


    Edwidge Danticat joins Deborah Treisman to read and discuss “Two Men Arrive in a Village,” by Zadie Smith. (New Yorker) (PRX)


    Sarah Bejerano. Cargo. Rialta.

    Casi al final del prefacio de su Atlas de islas remotas, Judith Schalansky escribe: Los cartógrafos deberían reivindicar su oficio como un verdadero arte poético y los atlas como un género literario de belleza máxima; en definitiva, su arte es digno merecedor de la primera denominación que recibieron los mapas: Theatrum orbis terrarum [Teatro del mundo]. Si hubiera un atlas del mundo en la fotografía cubana, sería la obra de Sarah Bejerano. Si hubiera un atlas de la poesía en la fotografía cubana, sería la obra de Sarah Bejerano:

    —¿Hay música en tus fotos?

    —Hay música en mi cabeza, todo el tiempo. No puedo vivir sin música. Normalmente organizo mi vida por canciones, y mis fotos son lo mismo. Todas las series que hago tienen bandas sonoras, que muchas veces se conforman a la hora de realizarlas y otras viene cuando las visualizo posteriormente. No podría enmarcarlas en un género musical u otro, porque mis listas de reproducciones van desde Irakere hasta Rammstein, desde Vivaldi hasta Elvis Manuel.

    —¿Crees en Dios?

    —No, ¡por Dios!

    Legna Rodríguez Iglesias with Sara Bejerano, 2021.

  • AG2025_1177596a or Aquí confluimos hacia la única estrella


    “Of course, I am not K, but I find myself uncannily identified with his predicament. For in the letter you have sent you and your offices have informed me only that you have sent “a file or report related to alleged antisemitic incidents” that includes my name. Two aspects of this communication stand out to anyone who has read Kafka’s work. The first is that you imply, without stating it, that I have been accused of antisemitism or that my name is associated with an incident of that kind. But you are also actually more careful since you say that the incident of antisemitic harassment or discrimination is “alleged,” which means simply that the allegation was neither reviewed nor adjudicated but left to stand on its own.”

    Judith Butler to David Robinson, in response to the University of California, Berkeley informing 160 students, faculty, and staff that files containing their names were forwarded to the Department of Education’s Office for Civil Rights in connection to its investigation of antisemitism on college and university campuses. via The Nation.


    Aquí confluimos hacia la única estrella.

    Volquémonos amado mío,

    dejemos caer los remos

    hasta donde la noche no existe.

    Here we converge toward the only star.

    Let’s fall in, love of mine,

    let’s drop our oars

    down to where night doesn’t exist.

    Lacao, Rosabetty Muñoz, translated By Claudia Nuñez de Ibieta

  • AG2025_1177596b


    ECHO DELAY REVERB. Art américain et pensées francophones, Naomi Beckwith et Elvan Zabunyan (dir.), coéd. Palais de Tokyo (17 octobre 2025) Editions B42.


    [Arundhati Roy] writes … on a paper napkin for her friend to hold on to, formulating with that rare and exultant combination of passion and rigor what success really means:

    To love. To be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never to forget.

    via The Marginalian

    Also. It was a sudden revelation (Woolf)


  • AG2024_1134128a or I’ve only ever seen effluents, seen wattage.


    Whatever I care for, someone else loves it
    more, deserves it more: the doe with her
    whole mouth crushing the phlox or the seer
    who adores my future, whereas I could
    take it or leave it. I know I’ll disappear.
    It won’t be glamorous. It won’t be like when
    the Mona Lisa was stolen and the tourists all
    lined up to pay their respects at the empty
    spot on the wall of the Louvre.
    I’ve never actually even seen the sky.
    I’ve only ever seen effluents, seen wattage.
    The only night I remember is the dinner
    of neighbors at which a man I never
    had met before said I don’t fear dying—
    look at the past, people have been dying forever, and—
    then he stopped and shook his head—
    I drank too much. I was almost saying
    that people have died forever and all
    of them survived, but of course
    —he made
    a hard laugh—God, of course they didn’t survive.

    The Sky, Natalie Shapero

  • AG2023_1033830a or calm down; this is very rare


    Some people say the devil is beating
    his wife. Some people say the devil
    is pawing his wife. Some people say
    the devil is doubling down on an overall
    attitude of entitlement toward
    the body of his wife. Some people
    say the devil won’t need to be sorry,
    as the devil believes that nothing
    comes after this life. Some people say
    that in spite of the devil’s public,
    long-standing, and meticulously
    logged disdain for the health
    and wholeness of his wife, the devil
    spends all day, every day, insisting
    grandly and gleefully on his general
    pro-woman ethos, that the devil truly
    considers himself to be an unswayed
    crusader: effortlessly magnetic,
    scrupulous, gracious, and, in spite of
    the devil’s several advanced degrees,
    a luminous autodidact. Some people
    say calm down; this is commonplace.
    Some people say calm down;
    this is very rare. Some people say
    the sun is washing her face. Some
    people say in Hell, they’re having a fair.

    Sunshower, Natalie Shapero

    I am ashamed to keep thinking of death
    as a chute that connects to the garbage. I know
    I should picture it more like the pneumatic tubes

    at banks of the past: you put in your name
    and your paper and up you go. I know a bank

    should be the operative metaphor
    for every facet of existence, every time. I’m sorry

    I haven’t more regularly made reference
    to a bank. When I fail to liken something to a bank,
    that’s how I can tell I’m tired. That’s not me,

    I assure everybody. That’s the long week talking. Time
    for bed. Time for the window, the hectoring sky,

    the streetlight bright as the bright saved people
    see before they die, but I don’t die.

    Long Week Talking, Natalie Shapero