The Brooklyn Rail

There’s something deeply satisfying about an exhibition that rewards prolonged viewing. Upon first glance, Caleb Hahne Quintana’s figurative paintings on view in A Boy That Don’t Bleed are captivating, their vibrant jewel tones contrasting moody dark shadows. When studying each painting, it’s clear the artist is a bibliophile and student of art history. References to Caravaggio appear in works such as Hour Without Shadow (2024), in which a topless man in blue shorts reclines on a couch. He is bathed in gold light set against a dark background, chiaroscuro, like the Italian Baroque master was known for. Hahne Quintana cites additional artists including Piero della Francesca and Pierre Bonnard as inspirations, though he avoids being didactic with his references, instead letting the viewer make their own associations. In his literary allusions, Hahne Quintana is at times more direct, as with The Poet (For Bolaño) (2025), which pays homage to Chilean novelist Roberto Bolaño and features a mysterious figure leaning against a wall while leafing through a book in his hands, his face hidden by a dark shadow.

Were the viewer to navigate A Boy That Don’t Bleed, they would immediately admire Hahne Quintana’s skill—there’s no denying he can paint. If they were to look for links to art history and literature, the exhibition certainly would not disappoint. But upon closer inspection, something deeper unfolds. Wherein lies the beauty of Hahne Quintana’s show. Each painting alone is intriguing and mysterious, but together they reveal a boy struggling with his sense of self.

The shadowy figure in The Poet (For Bolaño) first drew me in. While it’s tempting to say he’s reading, the viewer cannot see his face. The book itself is nondescript, its pages show no text but contain black smudges, a suggestion of written words. Perhaps the figure is reading aloud, narrating a story the viewer cannot hear, or perhaps he is an author, like Bolaño. The lack of context sparks curiosity. If he is narrating a story, does it unfold in the paintings on view? The answer, it seems, is yes.

We see him in various stages of life beginning with adolescence in Brave Boy (2025), featuring the closely cropped head of a young brunette viewed from above as he looks downward, as if for penance or deep in thought. He wears a cobalt blue shirt, a color we see in every painting, a clue that each one relates to the other. As he matures, the figure seems to grapple with his own body. In Sleeping Colossus (2025), he lies on rolling hills with his back to the viewer; the scale of his body in comparison to the land reveals that he is the colossus to which the title refers. The figure pulls his legs close to his chest as if trying to make himself smaller. The boy’s internal struggle becomes external in The Boy Fights Himself (2025), in which two identical figures are seen mid-conflict, the body of one being tugged through the air by the other. The two are in a radiant yellow landscape with a stunning bent tree mirroring their bodies. In Specter (Threshold) (2024–25) is another colossal figure, this time a majestic horse who seems to be a spiritual guide for the boy, accompanying him as he struggles with his strength, vulnerability, and masculinity.

The reward of the show came in A Flicker in the Ancient Rhythm (2025) where the man and horse appear together, not as giants but as tiny figures standing at the bottom of a cliff surrounded by near darkness. The only source of light comes from an ethereal moon and a stunning waterfall that glows yellow, bathing the horse in gold. A vibrant rainbow soars across the water. The man stands with his arms by his sides, palms facing up as if in awe of the sight. The shift in scale, however, is perplexing. Were they human size all along? Is this another planet or spiritual realm?

A Boy That Don’t Bleed comes together like a story told without regard for chronology—a result of the arrangement in the gallery, the boy’s growth is discerned across different walls and out of order—and the works may be better understood for it. Making connections between each piece and watching as the figure grapples with his struggles is like parsing a poem whose meaning is never fully revealed, yet contains enough breadcrumbs to leave the reader feeling moved by the journey.