The building was collapsing gracefully, its facade a pastel blue that had faded to the color of a bruise, its balcony supported by a wooden prop that looked older than the revolution. A woman in a yellow dress stood on the balcony, hanging laundry and smoking a cigarette, and the contrast between the blue wall, the yellow dress, and the red of her nails was so perfect that I raised my camera before I had composed the shot. This is Havana: a city of accidents, where decay and beauty coexist in every frame, and where the street photographer's job is to be ready when the accidents align. I spent ten days walking the streets of Centro Habana and Old Havana, and I took two thousand photographs. About forty were good. Five were excellent. That ratio is typical of street photography, and it is why the genre is both addictive and humbling.
The Colors of Havana
Havana is the most colorful city I have photographed. The buildings are painted in shades of pink, blue, green, and orange that would look garish anywhere else but here feel natural, earned by decades of sun and salt. The vintage American cars from the 1950s add more color: cherry red Chevrolets, turquoise Pontiacs, mustard yellow Fords. I developed a technique of waiting at intersections where the light was good and photographing the cars as they passed, trying to capture the driver and the vehicle in a single frame. The best shot was of a man in a white guayabera driving a pink 1957 Buick, his arm resting on the open window, his expression bored and dignified. The photograph looked staged. It was not.
Photographing People
Street photography in Cuba requires sensitivity. The people are proud, aware of their image, and often tired of being photographed by tourists. I never used a telephoto lens. I worked with a 35mm prime, which meant I had to be close to my subjects, usually within two meters. I smiled, I asked permission when possible, and I accepted rejection without argument. When someone said no, I lowered my camera and talked to them instead. Several of those conversations led to invitations into homes, where I photographed families in their living rooms, surrounded by the objects of their lives: photographs of relatives in Miami, trophies from local baseball leagues, and ration books that still govern access to food. These interior portraits became the heart of my project.
The Technical Approach
I photographed Havana in color, using a mirrorless camera with a 35mm f/1.4 lens. I shot in RAW and processed the images with a light touch, preserving the natural saturation of the city rather than exaggerating it. My settings were simple: aperture priority, ISO 400, and an aperture of f/5.6 to f/8 for street scenes where I wanted depth of field, and f/1.4 for portraits where I wanted the background to dissolve into color. I photographed early in the morning and late in the afternoon, when the light was warm and directional. Midday in Havana is harsh and flat, and I used those hours to edit, rest, and explore the city's museums.
The Story of Resilience
Havana is a city under pressure. The buildings are crumbling, the infrastructure is failing, and the economy is in perpetual crisis. Yet the people I met were resourceful, creative, and determined to live well despite the constraints. A mechanic showed me how he kept a 1956 Chevrolet running with parts fabricated from Soviet tractors. A musician played jazz on a trumpet with valves that leaked. A woman ran a private restaurant in her kitchen, serving lobster and plantain to tourists for twenty dollars a plate. These stories of resilience are what I tried to capture in my photographs: not the decay, but the life that persists within it. Havana is not a museum. It is a city of survivors, and their dignity is the true subject of every photograph.
