Rooted in observation and reverence for the everyday, the work of Leticia Sanchez Toledo distills fleeting atmospheres, quiet gestures, and unspoken histories into images charged with presence. Influenced by early experiences in a small Cuban town, ongoing reflection on memory, and a cinematic way of seeing, each painting becomes a space for silence, emotion, and suspended time. Scenes are not constructed to tell stories, but to evoke what escapes explanation — the trace, the pause, the echo that remains.

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How has your upbringing or cultural heritage influenced the themes and techniques you explore in your art today?

It wasn't a conscious choice. From a young age, I knew I wanted to paint. I don't recall deciding; I just knew it. I grew up in Cabaiguán, a quiet town in central Cuba. In my home, art was part of everyday life. My mother painted landscapes. My older brother also dedicated himself to painting and studied at ENA. Watching them work gave me a natural reference. Art wasn't a distant aspiration; it was a way of being in the world.
I spent a lot of time observing. I watched how my mother approached the canvas with patience, how she chose colors, and how she concentrated on each stroke. I learned to observe in silence. Her way of compromising marked me. It taught me that painting wasn't just a technical act, but a way to transform what one feels into something visible.

We lived next to the Rogelio Rojas movie theatre. It was a place I went to frequently. I watched the same movies many afternoons. Over time, I stopped paying attention to the dialogues and started to focus on the lights, framing and colors. The stories dissolved into visual fragments. It was as if my mind took the elements and reorganized them into splotches and atmospheres. Without knowing it, cinema was teaching me to see the world in a different way. To translate what happened before my eyes into light, tone and composition. That kind of observation became a part of me. I wasn't looking to narrate with images, but to capture a sensation. An emotion that doesn't need words. The isolated frame interested me more than the complete story. It taught me to trust what one feels when looking, even if not fully understood. That visual intuition is the basis of my painting. I grew up without many distractions. There was no internet, and television was limited. Cinema functioned as an open door to other worlds. It showed me different aesthetics and gestures from other eras. It fed my imagination without imposing anything. I began to value atmosphere, the way a space can speak without the need for characters. In my paintings, the background is not just a prop. It is also an active part of the dialogue. The interaction between light and shadow, or between colors that tense against each other, was something I learned from that constant observation. Silent scenes taught me to read in what was unsaid. To let the image breathe on its own. My Cuban roots are in everything I do, although it's not always explicitly shown. There's a search for stillness, for reflection. I paint without forcing meanings. I seek to capture something essential, something that escapes if one tries to explain it with too many words. In my case, contemplation is not a posture: it's a way of living. What I paint is born from there.

Have you ever felt drawn toward a conventional career path? What made you take the "creative leap" despite the risks?

The idea of pursuing a conventional career was always present. When I moved to Havana in 2005, I began Graphic Design studies at ISDI. It was my mother's suggestion. She had noticed my interest in fashion design and thought that this training could give me useful tools, open new doors and offer me a solid foundation. I felt that painting was something I had already carried with me from childhood. It was a language I had learned naturally. Back then, I wasn't attracted to the idea of formally studying art. Design, on the other hand, offered structure, order. I thought it would help me give shape to the images already swirling in my head. I needed a way to organize all that I intuited but couldn't name. I studied diligently and graduated. My final project was the identity manual for the Morro-Cabaña Military Park. But as soon as that chapter closed, all my effort focused on painting. I prepared my first solo exhibition at the Luz y Oficios gallery. It wasn't an abrupt shift, but a decision that had been brewing for a long time. That was, for me, a true leap. Not because I left something behind, but because I recognized that painting wasn't a fleeting impulse. It is a constant need. Art was not a hobby. It was my center. That step brought its risks. The artist's life has no clear path or guarantees. Giving up a stable job or a fixed income was difficult. But I never doubted my path. I trusted that if I worked consistently, opportunities would come. And they did. My work was accepted at the Pan-American Art Gallery. I was the only woman in a male exhibition. Later, I had my own solo show in 2023. Each step was a confirmation that I had done the right thing. The reward has been more profound than any financial certainty. Creating is not just something I do. It is what defines me. Therefore, the risks have always seemed minor compared to what art gives back to me.

Do you feel it's essential to have a personal connection with your theme? How has that shaped your work?

I don't choose the themes of my work as one chooses a path. They emerge from my way of seeing, from what I've lived, from what I remember and also from what I've forgotten. The connection with what I paint is personal because it is born from me. It is my way of understanding the world and of organizing what I feel. As a child, there weren't many photos. Memory became something I had to create on my own. Memories were blurry, incomplete. Movies filled that space. The images on screen became my borrowed memories. A light, a gesture, an atmosphere could feel like my own. I recognized myself in them. And over time, cinema became an emotional archive, a deep source of nostalgia. This relationship between memory and image shaped my way of painting. Like cinema, painting has the power to stop time and fill an instant with meaning. I work from there: from what moves me, from what shakes me. I use visual references, photos, scenes, and film fragments. I don't seek to copy. I take something and transform it. It's like putting together an album with images I didn't experience, but which feel like my own. I also learned to observe at home. My mother painted. My brother drew. I watched in silence. I focused on how the light touched an object, on the gesture of a hand. Those quiet, almost invisible scenes molded my attention. That's why, in my paintings, interiors and female figures have a frequent appearance. They are present, serene, and contained, as if waiting for something. That is also my way of being in the world.

I'm interested in what is not being said. I spend a lot of time imagining what a person thinks, what they feel, and what they keep inside. I don't need to portray them with precision. It's enough to just intuit them. And I also understand that space speaks. A piece of furniture, a window, a disarray –  it all tells a story. The environment isn't just background; it's part of what's happening. The place and the figure influence each other.
I don't feel the urge to tell great stories. I prefer to dwell on the simple. A gesture, a posture, a reflection of light. There can be more truth there than in any discourse. I paint what often goes unnoticed. The minimal. The silent. The human. It is at that edge where everyday life transforms, where something simple gains weight, where my painting finds meaning. I don't represent. I seek to understand. Each image is a way of thinking with the body, of looking inward and letting something nameless appear.

Describe a work that has held special emotional weight for you. What makes it significant?

If I had to choose a work that has a special emotional weight for me, it would be "Hand Made," a large-format oil on linen. It depicts six women concentrating on their daily work. Each one is immersed in what they are doing. They don't speak, they don't look at the viewer. They are present in their gestures, in their moment. The scene takes place in an interior bathed in a cold, wintry light, entering through the windows and tinting everything with blue and white tones. That light not only defines the space, it also stops it. As if the afternoon couldn't continue. As if time had stopped there, suspended in their work. In this work, time is not something that passes. It is something they keep. Through their doing, they embody it. They are not decorative figures. They sustain the meaning of the scene with their silence and dedication. That image comes from very personal memories. From my childhood. From the moments when I saw the women in my family—my aunt, for example—dedicated to embroidery or other manual tasks. They worked with patience and dedication. I observed them in silence, with respect. Painting this scene was a way to return to that. It is a homage to what is handmade. The beauty that can exist in the simple, in the repeated, in what is not boasted about. Each brushstroke evokes that quiet effort. That dignity. It is a painting that seeks to elevate the everyday without embellishing it. To show it as it is. Valuable for its simplicity. From a technical perspective, I made a precise decision. The woman on the right has a distinct light. On her face, I used a softer, barely visible brushstroke, which gives her a special air of serenity. It's not a detail that's immediately noticeable, but it's there. That technical gesture acts as a small center of gravity. It invites the viewer to pause, to enter into that same concentration. I wanted the painting to provoke something similar to what they experience: deep attention. That whoever looks also remains suspended for a moment, in silence. That the image opens a space for thought. "Hand Made" made me think of what art can achieve when it connects with something real. There's no formula for that. Sometimes an image strikes a chord. Not because it's complex, but because it's honest. This work is that: memory, respect, and an invitation to contemplate. What makes it significant is not just its theme or its technique. It's that it speaks of the essential. Of what we do with our hands, of the time we spend on what matters, of the humanity in the smallest things. In that sense, I believe it elevates the everyday to something more. And there, in that quiet elevation, lies its strength.

How important is it for you that the audience understands the message of your work? Does ambiguity add value, or do you seek clarity in your expression?

I'm not interested in the audience understanding a single or literal message in my work. What I seek is for something in it to resonate. An emotion, a question, a memory. Ambiguity not only has value: it is an essential part of my way of expressing myself. I don't want to explain or teach. I want to provoke a pause. An inner space where the viewer looks at themselves. My paintings don't offer answers. They suggest. They open questions: Who was here? What just happened? Why does this image move me? I'm interested in that intermediate space between the narrative and the emotional, between the visible surface and the deeper experience activated by looking. My painting stems from the personal. It is intimate. Self-referential. I paint from within me, but not to talk about myself. What I do is traverse my experience and, from there, construct images that can touch something in others. I explore how spaces—physical or symbolic—condition the way we inhabit and are inhabited. Sometimes a character is present, and other times it is not. But there is always a presence, something that persists, something that observes or waits. It is at those crossroads of places, internal and external, where my work unfolds. I paint to accompany. To give space to those quiet presences that occupy common spaces and seem not to matter, but that also deserve to be seen. Light, color, composition are at the service of that intention: to reveal what often goes unnoticed. To make the minimal visible. And perhaps, in that gesture, to offer a kind of comfort. My process is more emotional than rational. It functions like a diary. Each painting is part of a search. I lean on cinema, on photography, on what moves me. I paint to understand, to organize, to let go. Lights and shadows, the rhythm of color, are the threads that allow me to build an atmosphere. But I don't want to close off meaning. The questions remain there, floating. Like clues. Like echoes. Not everyone will connect with my work. And that's okay. I never wanted to speak to everyone. I paint for those who pause. For those who look in silence. I often depict empty spaces, recently abandoned. Places where the trace of someone can still be perceived. These spaces and these bodies—when they appear—act as mirrors. They reflect something of the other. They invite them to project their own experiences.

Sometimes we think that what we feel is too small or too personal to be shared. But art reminds us that the intimate can also be universal. That by showing our own, we touch the common. That's why I keep painting. Because in that pause provoked by the image, something true can emerge. Something that unites us. Even if it has no name.

Can art be truly therapeutic? Have you experienced its healing power or seen it in others?

Art can heal. In my case, painting is my form of therapy. It's where I find calm and meaning. Painting allows me to organize what I feel, to put outside what I sometimes can't express with words. I have experienced this process very concretely. Through art, I can give form to difficult emotions, to heavy thoughts. By painting them, they lose their power. They no longer dominate me. They enter into another plane. They become image, color, and matter. And that brings relief. When I'm painting, I enter into a state of concentration that isolates me from the noise. It's a very clear and clean space. Nothing external matters. Only what's in front of me. That state—they call it "flow"—allows me to breathe better. Time stops weighing. So does uncertainty. It's as if, for a moment, everything has its place.

But I haven't experienced it alone. I've also seen it in others. I remember my mother and my aunt. In their dedication, there was something that wasn't just technical. It was a surrender. Silence. Peace. I've also seen how the public pauses in front of a piece. Something shifts. Perhaps they don't fully understand it, but they feel it. And that's enough. Art has that capacity: to take what is deeply intimate and turn it into something we all share. A gesture, an image, or a scene can touch something universal. And in that wordless connection, there is comfort. There is companionship. It reminds us that we are not alone. That's what we feel is not strange or useless. It is human.

Is art created for the artist, for the audience, or somewhere in between?

It's a difficult but necessary question. For whom is art created? There are many possible answers. Some are based on history, others on personal experience. In my case, the answer is clear: I paint for myself. I don't start a work thinking about the audience or its interpretation. I paint to understand something that worries me. To put into image what I cannot explain otherwise. It is an intimate need. Almost a selfish act. I paint because I need to, because something in me seeks form, seeks an outlet. And in that process, satisfaction comes from encountering an image that tells me something true.

It's not a theoretical stance. It's something that happens. I paint from within, without the intention of pleasing or communicating a closed message. I work with memories, with atmospheres, with questions that live in me. I am interested in what remains, what repeats, what hurts in silence. Memory, fragility, the dignity of the small. The remarkable thing is that this personal search, when honest, often touches others. What seemed deeply mine suddenly resonates with someone else. And not because I planned it that way, but because the human factor filters through. Because there is something shared in the intimate. And in that silent coincidence, connection happens. I don't seek that connection, but I value it when it occurs. It's a side effect that moves me. So, although the impulse is internal, the result can cross that line. It can become a mirror. And that’s where art,  unintentionally, becomes a common space.

Can you imagine a moment when you would decide to stop creating art? What could lead you to that decision?

I can't picture myself not creating. I don't see it as a possibility. Painting is not an activity I perform; it is part of who I am. It is the way I think, the way I understand what surrounds me. It's also how I listen to myself. To stop painting would be, in a way, to stop existing as I know myself. I don't experience it as a choice that can be made or abandoned. It's a necessity. A way of being in the world. When I paint, I ask questions, I seek meaning, I build something that sustains me.  No other tool allows me to do what this one does. The only reason I would stop would be physical. A real, concrete limitation that would prevent me from moving my hands or holding a brush. Even then, I believe I would continue to compose images in my mind. Because the need to create doesn't disappear. It changes form, but it persists. As long as I can look, imagine, and feel, I will continue creating. Even if the environment changes, the impulse remains. Art is not something I do when I can. It is something I cannot stop doing.

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In Sanchez Toledo’s practice, painting becomes a way to think without words, to dwell in ambiguity, and to elevate what often goes unseen. Art is not made to instruct, but to accompany. Between light and shadow, interior and figure, absence and presence, each work opens a quiet space — where stillness becomes meaning, and what is deeply personal touches the shared.