In this age of e-books and mobile media, of pages on screens and images in malleable pixels, this book is the antithesis of all that. A gorgeous, weighty volume with gleaming reproductions and bilingual columns of text, it is a reminder of the sensory pleasures books can inspire. But this book appeals beyond the aesthetic. As a history, archive, and catalogue of Cuba's forgotten Grupo Antillano, it is also a necessary intervention in the political and cultural histories of race in the Americas. The Grupo Antillano was an art collective comprised of Cuban artists who exhibited their work between the years of 1978 and 1982. Led by the sculptor and printmaker Rafael Queneditt Morales, this loosely organized group of visual artists understood themselves to be revaluing the disparaged legacies of afrocubanismo and negritude. Their art posited an ongoing African presence in Cuban culture, drawing from surrealist, abstract expressionist, and modernist idioms in provocative rebukes to racism in socialist Cuba. More than that, they aimed to incorporate music, dance, history, and literature in their resuscitation of cultural forms. Working across disciplines, they collaborated on performances, organized forums, and staged concerts within exhibits in efforts to create a broad public. This short-lived assemblage of creative energy faded and left only the faintest traces, until now, in Cuban history and art history.The book itself compiles different kinds of texts and images. A testimonial section includes short essays by the artists with their reflections on the intentions and motivations of the Grupo Antillano's project. Replicas of press clippings, posters, and reviews reconstruct the exhibits from multiple perspectives. Perceptive short essays by the art historian and critic Guillermina Ramos Cruz on each of the artists, excerpts from reviews and critiques, and reproductions of the art highlight the participants' specific qualities. Finally, a sampling of works from a recent exhibit that paid tribute to the Grupo Antillano completes the volume and reminds readers of ongoing artistic dialogues about blackness in contemporary Cuba. The array of media provides a visual and discursive immersion in this creative milieu.As the editor, Alejandro de la Fuente uses his essay to situate the Grupo within the Cuban state's long and twisted relationship with Afro-Cuban cultural production. Opening with a brief account of “drapetomania,” the nineteenth-century pathologizing diagnosis of slaves' desire to flee their bondage, he traces shifting meanings and comes to rest on a notion, developed by Caribbean intellectuals such as Edouard Glissant and René Depestre, of cultural cimarronage, understood as an effort to use aesthetic creation to reshape dire histories. De la Fuente frames the work of the Grupo Antillano with this idea: they were, according to him, the then-contentious and now forgotten inheritors of efforts to sustain and reinvent connections to African cultural forms in Caribbean contexts and to voice critiques of the marginalization of those legacies.From a historian's, rather than an art critic's, perspective, the volume's emphatic beauty does not mute the controversial, political nature of the art. The changing status of Afro-Cuban spiritual and artistic practices in the revolution, ranging from initial condemnation as decadent to Castro's eventual declaration of Cuba as an Afro-Latin country, existed in parallel to but did not extinguish the everyday disregard for people of African descent. Grupo Antillano's artists intended to intervene and reconfigure this with their invocations of Yoruba gods and captive pasts. They did so by drawing from the kinds of bold abstractions that Wifredo Lam, an acknowledged influence and eventual participant, used to conjure coexistent beauty and pain. At the height of the Grupo's public presence, Volumen Uno, a rival artistic movement that would eventually become emblematic of Cuban contemporary art, declared such modern formalism passé. The political and aesthetic roots of the evaluation and subsequent demise of Grupo Antillano remain entangled, and de la Fuente's deft presentation invites further inquiry. The volume does not resolve the debates surrounding the representation of slavery, race, spirituality, and belonging, but it recovers the visual and textual contexts, both in the late 1970s and the early twenty-first century, in which those debates took place and persist.