As partners in life and art, Caleb Hahne Quintana and Maria Vogel bring a shared love for creation to spaces where creativity and conviction take shape. Their practices, while very different, are both rooted in storytelling, and a belief in art as a human connector. For Caleb, painting becomes a way to translate memory while for Maria, art is both a critical pursuit and an ethical one. As a couple, that means doing everything they can in the name of advocacy, education, and opening doors that have too often remained closed.
Together, they look at the art world as a way of resisting isolation, whether through rituals like morning walks and exhibitions, thoughtful living with art, or expansive conversations around the dinner table. In this interview with Jo Rosenthal, Caleb and Maria reflect on partnership as a creative force, the role of art as connective tissue, and the responsibilities of making, supporting, and living with work in an increasingly fractured cultural landscape.
As partners in both life and art, what conversations or rituals sustain your creativity together? Do you ever directly influence each other’s work or is the dialogue more subliminal?
MV: Much of our intentional time together is spent rejuvenating our souls, whether we are reading side by side, cooking together, spending time in nature, experiencing an exhibition that we’re both interested in, or planning date nights at BAM. Maybe this is cliché, but we don’t need to be doing much together in order to feel moved. Some of my favorite time with Caleb is going on a walk to pick up a cup of coffee. These moments cultivate creativity both on the individual and the partner level.
CHQ: I think we benefit each other’s processes in different ways. Our morning walks often serve as a way to open the faucet—to share what’s on our minds for the day ahead or to discuss projects that we’re working on. Maria has such a wealth of knowledge, not only related to art history but also in the business side of the art world, so I feel like I’ve won the lottery in having someone to talk to about both the creative and practical sides of the industry. And as she mentioned, we’re lucky to share so many of the same creative outlets, which keeps our conversations and collaborations fluid.
Both of you seem to deeply value community and storytelling deeply. How do you see art functioning as a connective tissue rather than just a visual expression?
MV: I believe that the real magic occurs when others are invited into the experience and a connective tissue is created. Viewing art creates an opportunity to more fully understand the experiences and perspectives of others, which bonds otherwise disparate individuals and time periods. I find it fascinating that connecting to an artwork often creates an inexplicable sensation, like experiencing an emotion that you can’t clearly pinpoint or put into words. That experience, which I consider to be the connective tissue, holds a chokehold on me and drives my love of art.
CHQ: Some of my favorite conversations happen around a dinner table with our friends and creative community, speaking with artists, designers, and architects who have dedicated their lives to creating. Moments like these—and looking at art together—open up space for real conversations about what we like and dislike. These days, it can feel like we’re conditioned to believe that everyone close to us has to agree on everything, which I find really limiting. I think healthy disagreements can lead to deeper bonds, and art has a unique ability to spark that kind of dialogue.
As a creative couple, how have you chosen to live with artwork? If you could pick one work in your home that stands out to you, what would it be?
MV: Intentionally. We’ve built a strong foundation for our collection—roughly 50 pieces—but I don’t think you’d realize that many works are installed when you walk through our home. Everything integrates rather seamlessly. Caleb and I share a distaste for an overhung exhibition, which carries into our personal space.
I (naturally) feel a particular connection to a portrait that Caleb made of me a few years ago. It’s quite small, as some of my favorite works of his are, but manages to capture my essence perfectly, to no surprise.
CHQ: Man, it’s hard for me to say! We’ve collected so many beautiful little things over the years—from our travels, friends, and, of course, eBay (one of my many hobbies)… Lately, the painting that I think about most often in our collection is this tiny Yu Nishimura work that I bought at NADA back in 2022. It hangs in a small corner of our living room and feels like a scene pulled straight from a Murakami novel. I often catch myself wanting to crawl into that painting and walk alongside the man taking a quiet stroll.
Caleb, your recent exhibition at Anat Ebgi, A Boy That Don’t Bleed, felt like a meditation on masculinity, vulnerability and the soft edges of myth. How did you arrive at the emotional language of this body of work?
This exhibition was born out of self-reflection and functioned as a critique of our collective misunderstanding of contemporary masculinity. Too often, we overlook the symptoms of the myth of male invulnerability. I wanted to create an exhibition that was self-aware—one that illuminated the trials of adolescence as a shared, coalescent experience. We’ve become so divided; I think we sometimes forget the fact that no one is impervious to suffering or growing pains.
You’ve described painting as a way of translating memory into the atmosphere. Can you walk us through what memory looks like in your studio? Are you chasing images, moods or something else entirely?
My purpose on this planet is to observe and record. A major part of that responsibility is to elevate the mundane—to give weight to the moments in between. I’m drawn to scenes that hover between awkwardness and intimacy: boys wrestling, drying off after a swim, or a giant figure nestled in a field that feels just a bit too small.
A recent shift in my practice has been working from a black background. Allowing the image to emerge from darkness creates a new kind of memory—a scene that unfolds from the shadows, inviting the viewer to piece together its mystery. I’m searching for the mood of a memory, something that breathes poetry into the everyday and allows emotion to surface quietly, without exuberance.
Collaboration seems to be a quiet but important undercurrent in your career. What draws you to collaborative processes and how do they challenge or expand your solo practice?
CHQ: I’m always trying new things—whether in the studio or through my ever-changing list of hobbies. (If you know me, you know that I tend to obsess over a new hobby at least once a year.) I think the only way to stay curious is to nurture the parts of ourselves that want to learn, and for me, that curiosity is born through collaboration. I recently designed a set for a project my friends were working on, and it was rejuvenating to apply my skill set in a new way. I like to think of myself as a vessel for information, and the best way for me to absorb something new is through conversations or collaborations with my peers.
Maria, as an art advisor, curator, and writer, your work often sits at the intersection of care and criticality. How do you balance advocating for artists while maintaining an analytical distance?
I think the two can co-exist quite synchronously if you approach the work through a serious lens with pure intentions. Most of my artist relationships begin from a sincere and objective interest in the work itself; from there, I develop a means of advocating for it. If a genuine connection is established and a working relationship follows, that’s the unexpected cherry on top. That being said, there are many ways to advocate for artists and I’m careful to let the work speak for itself when I’m putting my support behind it.
You’ve spoken about “seeking light” in your practice, how does that philosophy manifest in the way that you build relationships with artists and collectors?
I constantly come back to leading with humanism rather than with business prerogatives – those aspects I let follow the former. Art is a profoundly human output and a tool for building connection. This ethos drives every relationship I make, whether it be with an artist or a client. In both scenarios or relationships, I’m interested in getting to know each party deeply and in creating an exchange that feels less like business and more like productive enjoyment.
In your new role as Director of Community and Content at ALMA, you’re developing a programming and community division that’s redefining what the art world can look and feel like. What’s your vision for how ALMA can nurture dialogue and inclusion within contemporary art?
I’ve never believed that the art world should exist in a siloed off vacuum; this is a sentiment that I became even more resolved in after my early work experience trended in that direction. There are so many roles possibilities in the art world ecosystem, from fan and enthusiast to dedicated participant and patron. Having the means to purchase art isn’t and shouldn’t be the only lane to become involved.
Producing educationally-driven programs to give those interested the opportunity to feel a part of this world, lifting the veils so to speak, is something that came naturally to me after spending years working in various parts of the industry–from Pace Gallery, Dia Art Foundation, the founding team of a Pace-backed start-up, publications, and directly supporting individual art advisors and independent curators. The lens with which I’m able to approach my community directly comes from this non-linear, multifaceted career path that took on many shapes and sizes.
I actively dove into community building three years ago through my own advisory, Rococo, hosting monthly events that tap into many different aspects of the art world, frequently collaborating with brands to bring our combined audiences together to create impactful and engaging moments. In my role as Director of Community and Content at ALMA, an arts-focused full-service agency, I’m growing this work in a considerable way, leveraging our shared network and the skillsets of my colleagues to amplify our ability to show up as cultural producers.
Nothing makes me happier than opening the door to a room that someone might otherwise have never had the chance to walk into, thus creating a connection point that influences their experience of art moving forward.
Having such a close proximity to both the market and the making, what do you think artists need most right now from institutions, advisors or each other?
Where to start? As someone who has consistently made artists the focal point of their work, I’ve been able to straddle the line as a friend to all, artists and art business alike. As such, I’ve been awarded valuable insight into an artist’s POV. What I think artists need most right now is some semblance of stability.
I see artists selling out shows and still wondering when their next opportunity will come, because rent in New York City is so high. I also see artists making noteworthy work that isn’t getting placed because everyone is terrified to spend in our current market reality. I don’t have immediate solutions for either scenario, but I do know that artists are craving opportunities to feel more taken care of. I’m hopeful that as we continue forward, the art world will answer this call. Without artists, the industry ceases to exist.
