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Standing at his bedroom window Dixon, a jewelry maker and psychology student, tells me that most of the boys he went to school with are now in prison for robbery, drugs, as political dissidents or an array of other crimes that communism puts men in jail for. Dixon explains that it is illegal for Cuban’s to purchase or have beef or lobster in their homes. I wonder how many men are in prison for getting caught with beef? He tells me that his “hood”, The Buena Vista neighborhood, is a little “rough”.
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I met Dixon on my first trip to Cuba, when the Buena Vista Social Club was, to me, just some Cuban band. Dixon is from the Buena Vista neighborhood in Havana from which this band takes its name. The Buena Vista Social Club was actually a pre-revolutionary gathering place for the mostly black neighborhood. It was a creative hub where artists convened; musicians made music, dancers danced and partiers partied.
The idea of a club like that captivates me and I wanted to document how the neighborhood has retained the creative DNA that made it so famous. So I asked Dixon to show me around his barrio. (Neighborhood)
Dixon, a 29-year-old intellect with a gentle demeanor and a patient spirit, has become my portal into the Buena Vista artists. His neatly formed dreadlocks, adorned with an occasional shell, reveal his tendency to go against the grain. He has spent his whole life in school. After high school his mother enrolled him in an artisan program where he learned to make jewelry. He is currently earning a degree in psychology from the University of Havana, a six-year program.
He is part of the new generation of artist in the Buena Vista neighborhood. Those who are passionate about their talents and hopeful of the change they can bring to their community. It is an interconnected and intricately woven group of creative minds. There is no longer a club that provides a meeting place. Now they are spread out, sprinkling Havana with their innovations.
I arrive at Dixon’s and wait for him to finish repairing a necklace. He sits low at an old wooden worktable in the dimly lit unfinished nook in between the two upstairs bedrooms. He dips a gauze tip into a solution, lights it on fire and keeps it burning by blowing on a tube that is attached. With the stem of a small feather he moves a small piece of gold into place and fires it onto the gold chain with his manual blowtorch. After the broken chain is fixed he cleans and polishes it with a modern buffer tool. When Dixon has completed his work I tell him I’m ready to profile the artists in the neighborhood and off we go. , when the |
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Closing the porch gate behind us my attention is drawn into the middle of the street. An argument has ensued amongst a group of kids over who won the scooter race. Apparently the invisible finish line lies in front of Dixon’s house. The streets are busy with old women carrying bags of food and men and women heading to work.
Our first stop is Lineannys, a confident young manicurist and mother who has figured out how to stay home with her daughter, practice her art, and keep an active social life while earning a living. Her home is always clean and energetic with music and laughter. She jokes that her husband, a handsome young hipster, dazzled her away from the small mountain/beach town of Pinar Del Rio, which she grew up in. Now she is a country bumpkin in the big capital city of Havana, she says, half joking and half serious.
Approaching her small porch I could hear the sound of women’s chatter. Danielle welcomes and opens the porch gate. Neighbors stop in passing to say hello and adore her sparkling eyes and dramatic gestures. By the ripe age of 2 this child has her neighbors in the palm of her hands. As she struts into the house, she passes her adoring fans, made up of a middle aged woman soaking her feet in an old tin basin, a young woman who chats while the fresh paint on her toes dry and an older woman who sits next to Lineannys busily using her supplies to remove some crusty nail polish. Meanwhile, Lineannys entertains them all, including her precocious two year old, while adding long fake fingernails to a school girl flipping through a catalog of polish choices. She paints intricate flowers, dots, sparkles, curves and vibrant colors on the acrylic nails. As the girl waves her hand in the air I feel as though I’m watching a dance performance. This is a frequent site on Lineannys’ front porch.
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Whenever I’m in the Buena Vista neighborhood, I stop by to get my nails and toes manicured for 10 pesos, roughly 75 cents. Her clientele is Cuban so she charges a realistic amount for her customers to return twice a week or so. Nail polish chips easily, you know, and a woman has a reputation to keep. Cuban’s have a keen sense of beauty.
Leaving Lineannys we are solicited by an old man selling flowers. His clothes are dusty from the morning harvest. We graciously decline and he continues down the bumpy street. Vendors selling food or a number of houses hold wares tour the streets announcing their sales. “Huevos,” “Flores,” the sellers sing making their way around the neighborhood.
Dixon and I round the corner a few blocks from Lineannys’ bustling front porch when the cracked sidewalk suddenly turns into a tiled mosaic entryway. A woman with short dark hair and small features greets me in the doorway and ushers me up a steep and narrow stairwell. As I ascend I feel the floor vibrating under my feet as the music booms a modern tempo. Clearing the doorway I feel as though I have stepped out of Havana’s 1950’s time warp and into the modern age.
The large skeleton mural on the wall makes me feel as though I’m not quite as “hard core” as some who enter this room. Agustin, a tattoo artist, is hunched over his sketchbook creating a piece of art and a new tattoo selection for his clients. Agustin is a handsome young man in his mid-twenties. He has a warm smile and an air about him that sets me at ease. His thick glasses and intense eyes reveal his serious and focused side. He expresses himself with his style; lip piercing, tattoos, trendy wears and a long dark braid.
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He breaks his concentration to say hello. He lets me know he will be with me in a minute and I take the liberty to show myself around. The bathroom is large by Cuban standards, fully tiled with a sunken bathtub (the first I have seen in Cuba). The bedroom door is open and one of Agustin’s friends plays a video game on his computer equipped with surround sound. His bedroom is tricked out with gadgets and nice furniture. I return to the entryway where Augustine is still focused on his drawing so I tour the tattoo room. The music is playing out of two silver balls that look like something I can’t afford at the Mac store and are hooked up to a laptop shuffling music through iTunes.
Agustin’s tattoo room is clean and orderly with all the essential sanitary devices that an upstanding tattoo shop should have: packaged needles, a reclining chair covered in plastic, sanitary solutions, cotton balls, gauze, rubber gloves, filtered water and the like. The white tiled room is ready for the next customer.
I’m so curious as to how this young man has funded this modern upscale living. I launch into questions when he is ready to give me his time. He explains that he has family in Italy and he has traveled back and forth over the past 15 years. There he became a tattoo artist and has worked in Italy periodically over the past decade. He charges top Cuban dollar for his work and is in no shortage of business. His father died a few years ago and it is clear he is the breadwinner of this fortunate family.
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He invited me to his exhibit the following day and I gladly accepted. The show was held in the Vedado neighborhood in what looked like a former elementary school building. A beautiful young crowd gathered in front of the building waiting for the door to open. They were dressed in edgy fashion with tight jeans, studded belts, large reflective sunglasses, and of course decorated with tattoos. The doors opened and loud music greeted the anxious crowd. Inside Agustin, one of three tattoo artists at the exhibition was preparing his live pallet who was sipping rum to numb his body. Art decorated the walls. The rooms were hot and crowded so most people wandered out to the courtyard where the DJ was set up on a stage. The rum was flowing; you could smell it in the air. I climbed a small ladder to perch on the rooftop and watch the people buzz about chatting and dancing. The crowd, so pleasing to the eye, with its sensual shapes and shades of dark smooth skin graced my vision. Long lean figures decorated with small defined features and thick locks appear as an art form all their own.
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The following day I walked down the familiar streets lined with modest size homes, past Lineannys house/porch salon, to Agustin’s tiled entryway. The Italian influence is evident. The door is open and Armando, a striking young man with chiseled features, is in the entryway tinkering with Agustin’s motorbike. He welcomes me with the Cuban one kiss on the cheek greeting and gestures for me to take a seat. I watch him work on the bike until he is ready to lead me to his house. Armando is a wood worker. He builds furniture, murals and linear patterns from small strips of wood. His work can be seen on the walls of Agustin’s tattoo parlor.
Following Armando I notice some dilapidated homes that look as though they are about to crumble to the ground at any moment. Other homes are more modern and updated. All the neighbors seem to know each other and address us with enthusiasm. A group of teenagers are sitting at a make shift table in front of his gate. They don’t even notice us, as they are all enthralled in their game of dominos. As we make our way towards the door the domino players break into loud chatter. Someone just made a good move.
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Armando’s home is a small, old wooden structure. If Cubans can afford it they usually make their homes of cement or stone as it weathers the humidity and the hurricanes better than wood. His house is the perfect size for a single person or a young couple. The house is roughly 500 square feet with a small entryway, a living room/bedroom with a high ceiling, and a small kitchen and bathroom. Armando grew up in this little house with his family of six. It is difficult to imagine this house, now a craftsman’s pallet, was once occupied by 6 people. Armando is slowly fixing up the place as his budget permits.
I look around at his canvas; a white tiled kitchen and bathroom with splashes of color and collages; custom wood murals, light fixtures, a bed frame, shelves, a fan holder, and a vanity - all pieces of art. The vanity is clever with a secret drawer that is only discovered when turning a piece of wood clockwise. Two arms reach from the wall to hold the mirror in place. A self-portrait of Armando on the kitchen door grabs my attention. It’s inspiring to watch this spirited and independent young man transform his space into a masterpiece. I tell him Americans pay a lot of money for the custom work that he does. “It must be nice,” he says and shares his desires to see another place. I get the feeling Armando doesn’t entertain the thought of making a living from his woodworking.
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I am in awe of the creative souls I meet in Havana. With little to no influences from the media, the Internet and opportunity to travel they are cut off from the outside world. The people seem to “meet themselves before they meet society,” as Dixon puts it. The creators in this land seem to find an internal motivation with fewer influences from external sources. With the repressive laws and rules of communism looming, Cuban’s have come to declare themselves through their art. Perhaps it is for this reason the colors, sounds, and endless forms of expression seem so rich here. I believe I am witnessing a new generation of artisans who are transforming the landscape of the Buena Vista neighborhood and the streets of Havana.
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*Agustin’s tattoo parlor can be found at 2114 Calle 60A, between 21 and 23 Barrio Buena Vista/Playa
*Armando can be reached through Agustin’s tattoo parlor for custom wooden portraits and or woodwork
*Linneany’s porch is around the corner form Agustin’s tattoo parlor. |
