Carboneros de Cuba
John Rosenmiller
Susan Meiselas once observed, “Photography gives you an excuse to be someplace you otherwise don’t belong.” Her words aptly described my eight-year project shooting carboneros (people who make carbon, or charcoal) in the rural provinces of Cuba. What led me deep into the woods to hang out with and photograph campesinos (country folks), where carbon has been made the same way since the Colonial era, was a combination of curiosity and opportunity.
This project evolved mostly by following my instinct and figuring out what interests me and how to gain access to worlds vastly different than mine. When younger, motivated by Kerouac’s On the Road, I hitchhiked around the country to experience off-the-beaten-path places and meet people I would never encounter in “normal” life. Later on, working as a location scout on feature films in New York, I learned how to find and gain access to different communities and groups of people. These experiences, and connections formed over time with Cubanos, helped me get beyond the typical world of “old cars and fat cigars” imagery that many non-Cubanos photograph, and to experience parts of Cuba that only a few “Yumas” see. (“Yuma” is a particular Cuban slang term for any foreigner.)
Much of my photographic work tends to revolve around small groups, “outliers” if you will, linked by a common thread, whether a shared interest or situation. I spend time in their worlds: observing, experiencing, and learning. These moments illuminate my own view, namely that the way most of us see the world has so much to do with our own natural but limited perspective and the particular influences (family, national, economic, cultural, religious, gender, etc.) that shape each person’s life. The more time spent absorbing daily life in Cuba outside tourist areas, the more such experiences influence how to see and photograph a place or culture foreign to your own world. Simply look at the work of Cubano photographers, what and how they shoot, their subjects and style, and the difference between their work and most “Yuma” photographers becomes very apparent.
I began seriously photographing in 2015 after a chance trip to Havana. Upon landing, I felt an immediate connection and sense of déjà vu. Spending time in the city brought me back to the days of New York City in the late 1970s and 1980s when downtown was an ignored urban frontier and street life flourished. Havana is also crowded and chaotic. It pulses with a non-stop energy, lit by flickering streetlights and roamed by unique, expressive characters. It’s a city where life is lived more in the raw, away from the impact of luxury influencers and lifestyles.
Finding and photographing the “unseen” Cuba became a pattern on my 25-plus trips during the past decade. It’s there if you seek it out: in areas outside Old Havana and typical tourist stops like Viñales and Trinidad. It’s in barrios and small villages, crowded casas and albergues (shelters), homes for the elderly and Santería ceremonies, neighborhood boxing clubs and the provincial rodeo circuit. It’s where life happens and tends to be less staged for the foreign lens.
Ultimately, this led to a series of projects, among which was photographing carboneros while they made charcoal in the same tradition passed down over centuries and from generation to generation. Deep in the woods, they clear ground, dig pits, build earthen kilns and burn hard marabú wood for several days until it turns into charcoal that is sold in white rice sacks and used for cooking fuel or exported. Many campesinos burn small piles for personal use. Others work for state enterprises or are licensed as small businesses by the government. But when you travel the dirt roads and farmland in rural Cuba, inevitably you find piles being built or burning, cooling embers, or burnt pieces of leftover charcoal.
In photographing Carboneros de Cuba, days and nights were spent outside small villages near Trinidad, Baracoa, Viñales and San Juan with campesinos while they built and tended to carbon piles. Technically, most of the lighting was basic and, by necessity, portable. Kerosene lamps, oil cans, flashlights and small battery-powered lights were often used to illuminate an otherwise pitch-black setting. And, when lucky, the moon helped out. I tried to capture different aspects of the carbonero world in ways that hopefully were dramatic, compelling and well composed. Each shoot concluded with a series of portraits taken in front of a single piece of hanging black cloth that often yielded simple and direct expressions from people with little camera familiarity.
Last year, I was honored to be offered the chance to show my work at Fototeca de Cuba, the national photo gallery, by Claudia Arcos, the curator. Leaving that meeting, she offhandedly remarked, “The show is yours next January…if the building doesn’t fall down” (not an uncommon occurrence in Cuba). A month later, she was informed that the building would soon be closed for renovation indefinitely. However, Claudia kindly connected me with Adelina, the curator, at Fábrica de Arte Havana, where the exhibit, Carboneros de Cuba, has been taking place during March and April 2026, despite a national oil shortage, perpetual blackouts, and the great uncertainty about Cuba’s future.
About John Rosenmiller
John Rosenmiller is a New York based photographer photographing in Cuba since 2016. “Carboneros de Cuba” is the result of eight years of documenting carboneros (people who make carbon, or charcoal) in rural communities throughout the island.
John’s work illuminates a Cuba typically unseen by foreigners. His photographs focus on groups and communities in Havana and other provinces, such as boxing clubs and homes for the elderly, inside people’s casas and group shelters, street communities in struggling Havana neighborhoods, the Cuban national rodeo circuit, teenage rappers and campesinos in remote rural regions.
“Carboneros de Cuba” is John’s first solo gallery exhibition. This show is quite possibly the only photographic compilation which documents the world of rural carboneros at night in Cuba or elsewhere.
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