Several days ago, the cavernous Anderson Auditorium at the School of the Museum of Fine Arts changed, for an hour, from drab off-white cube into dynamic, vibrant Cuba.

An audience of nearly 50 people, well-dressed professionals and paint-spattered art students alike, sat rapt in the light of an enormous slide projector as Havana native Sandra Ramos, who’s spent the last several weeks in Provincetown as the first Cuban artist-in-residence at the Fine Arts Work Center, showcased slides of her own works and those of her compatriots. Speaking alternately through a translator and in halting but proficient English, Ramos answered questions from the moderator, fellow artist (and fellow Cuban) Maria Magdalena Campos-Pons, and the audience. It was, said Campos-Pons, a valuable opportunity " to share ideas and have a discussion about ... the art scene in Cuba at this moment. "

Indeed, much has changed in the Communist stronghold since Ramos began as a professional artist in the late ’80s. Censorship has decreased palpably. Increased tourism has served the dual purpose of both bringing outside influences to the island and getting artists noticed by galleries abroad. (This year alone, Ramos’s works have also been exhibited in Japan, Mexico, Switzerland, and France.) Fidel Castro has grudgingly privatized select industries, and the American dollar is now legal tender.

And, of course, Cuban cultural exports have found a large and receptive audience in the States. But despite the gargantuan success of the Cuban-music album Buena Vista Social Club, the island’s artistic expression extends far beyond wizened old men strumming beaten guitars. It’s much deeper, much wider, and much more provocative than many in this country would suspect.

That was obvious from the audience’s engaged reaction as Ramos, dressed artily in a loose, red-satin embroidered shirt and black-rimmed glasses, displayed 20 of her compatriots’ pieces, diverse works that probed Cuba’s curious counterpoise between its past and future — and its pervasive longing for escape. One artist crafted a Warholian repetition of Che Guevara’s visage, silk-screened on handkerchiefs suggesting the Shroud of Turin. " Icons of the revolution, " said Ramos, " have often been treated in Cuba as if they were religious icons. " Another built a trio of robots from wood — an obvious poke at the nation’s clunky lurches toward modernity. Yet another plastered a wall with snipped leftovers from passport-photo headshots: a disembodied memento for those left behind.

But it was Ramos’s own pieces, azure and dreamy, that captivated. Her voluminous output traces similar themes, and her sheer prolificacy doesn’t diminish the variety and visceral beauty of her work. With a malleable and creative approach to different media — prints, paint, mixed-media sculpture — she renders her conflicted feelings about Cuba today with works that are political and personal (and sometimes both at once). Take " The Unfortunate Circumstances of Water Surrounding Us Everywhere, " in which her own body floats in the Caribbean, geomorphized as Cuba itself. " The topic, " Ramos said, " is how your geographical and national circumstance determine your life. "

Later works gauge ways American influence resonates on the island, especially since the introduction of the dollar, a move that’s exacerbated the chasm between the island’s rich and poor. In " The Problems of History, " a blindfolded statue of justice (an image of Ramos herself, altered to look like a 19th-century engraving of Alice in Wonderland — a recurring character) holds a scale; on one side is George Washington, peeled straight off the front of American greenback. On the other, heavier side sits a dejected Cuban peasant — an allegory of the Cuban peso. The pun: in Spanish, " peso " also means " weight. " The dollar only adds to the laborer’s crushing poverty.

In the ’90s, when throngs (including many of Ramos’s friends) were leaving the island in perilous makeshift rafts, her work took on a more solemn, elegiac tone. Most wrenching of these multimedia pieces is a series of steamer trunks, each filled with bric-a-brac meant to represent the life of someone lost at sea. Another suitcase alludes to the life, from childhood to old age, that it’s meant to hold. It’s far too large to carry.

But one gets the feeling that Ramos has hope for a future in Cuba where escape is obsolete. " Now, it’s more open to all kinds of works in Cuba, " she said. " There’s a lot of interest now in the art community, in what happens there. A lot of people are going to see what the artists do. " Of course, she added, " in this kind of country you never know what will happen the next day. But things look to be better now. "