I stepped into the gallery and was immediately swallowed by the noise—the voices, the low thrum of conversation, the soundtrack bleeding from the moving images on the walls. It overwhelmed me. At first I thought the soundscape clashed with the work. But the longer I stood inside it, the more I realized: it was working with it. That disorientation, the layered frequencies of voices that aren’t yours, spaces you don’t quite belong to—that was the art. That’s the immigrant condition. That’s my condition.
The exhibition was The Only Way Out Is Love and Forgiveness, by Juan Luis Matos, at David Castillo Gallery in Miami’s Design District. I hadn’t planned on being so moved. But I stood in the corner of the room, beside a makeshift bar and a pile of stapled press releases, headphones in, my own song “Born Ready” playing in my ears—music I had just finished that same afternoon. It was suddenly just me and the work. The crowd fell away. My track synchronized with the fragmented, dreamlike conversations unfolding in the archival and original films on the gallery walls. And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I was watching. I felt seen.
“These videos were not for us,” Matos says in the exhibition text. “My parents were sharing our progress, our survival.”
That line shattered me. Because I, too, have spent years documenting my own progress—through art, through photography, through storytelling—trying to show the world that I am still here. Still surviving. Still trying to belong.
Matos’s show presents five moving image works: four archival films and one recent piece, The World is Not Our Home. The works examine how cameras have been used both as “nefarious tools” of voyeurism and colonial documentation, and as instruments “to bear witness, to remember.” In The World is Not Our Home, filmed in Paris during his Cité Internationale des Arts residency, Matos blends myth, migration, and memory, weaving together the lives of exiled artists and his own poetic narration.
Watching it, I felt my own exile. I’ve been in the middle of my U.S. immigration battle for what feels like forever. There are days I forget what safety feels like—what rootedness, or home, could even mean. But standing there in the gallery, in front of the flickering rituals and moments of quiet power in the film, I remembered something deeper than safety. I remembered recognition.
“Perhaps the same could be said of Hurston’s film, of Gómez’s, even of Weed’s… but The World is Not Our Home is certainly a kind of love letter.”
—Gallery text
Yes. That’s what I felt in the room: a love letter. Not romantic love, but the kind of love that comes from being witnessed in your mess, your resilience, your unfinished transformation. It reminded me that storytelling—especially the kind that mixes truth with magic—is a way of surviving and self-making. A way of saying I am still here, even when the system or the world around you forgets to look.
Later, I met Juan and his father, who stood proudly by his side. I was able to tell them what the work meant to me. I saw myself in his story. In their story. And I felt the sacredness of sharing that.
“Is a film still anthropological if the subject is not otherized by its maker, and is instead part of their own beloved world?”
—Gallery text
That question struck me. It echoes the deeper question I’ve asked myself over and over: Can I exist fully without being objectified? Can I be a witness to my own becoming without asking others for permission? Can I stop othering myself?
The answer isn’t clear. But the art helped me ask it from a softer place.
What moved me even more than the films was the way the day unfolded into connection. I felt surrounded by friends—new and old—who didn’t need me to perform anything. Joana, thank you for looking out for me, for giving me the gift of presence. Paul, thank you for sharing the way you see the world—through your stories and your gaze. That afternoon, watching the show with you made me feel connected instead of untethered. That’s rare. That’s everything.
It was a good day. A day when art met me where I was. A day I felt seen not just by the work, but by the people around me. A day I was brave enough to show up as myself—and that was enough.
📍 Exhibition Info
Juan Luis Matos: The Only Way Out Is Love and Forgiveness
📍 David Castillo Gallery, Miami Design District
🗓 July 10 – August 30, 2025🌐 www.davidcastillogallery.com
🔗 Artist: juanluismatos.info
Author’s Note
As a Russian-born immigrant living in Miami, my own experience of migration and displacement is shaped by a different cultural and historical context than the one explored in Juan Luis Matos’s work, which honors the Black diasporic experience and interrogates the colonial gaze.
I write this reflection not to interpret his intention, but to honor the personal resonance I felt while standing in front of his films. Our paths differ, yet the ache of exile, the search for safety, and the need to be witnessed felt uncannily familiar.
In a brief exchange after the show, Juan mentioned how America felt like a place of stability. I understood what he meant—but it also stirred a question inside me that hasn’t left:
How do you ever truly feel safe after migration? Even in a new place you choose, even among people who love you—how much of your past do you carry into your new life? And how much are you allowed to leave behind?
I don’t know if this is what his work intended to ask. But it gave me permission to ask it—and to listen for the answer from within myself.
Art like Matos’s doesn’t just reflect—it invites. It doesn’t flatten experience—it deepens your capacity to feel your own. I hold this reflection in that spirit: personal, reverent, and open.
Born Ready meets The Only Way Out is Love and Forgiveness.
A 30-second immersion in movement, memory, and migration.
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