The Tears of Things

The Prisons Behind Lisa Sette Gallery: Cuban Art Series #6

[Update]: December 24: Welcome in advance, post-Christmas visitors from the Best of Me Symphony. I am pleased to report that Mr. Bruzon Avila, referred to in this piece, was released from his Cuban prison and is now recuperating in France.

[Update]: Today, May 18, this piece was given more legs by Phil Dennison. Thank you, sir, and thank you, readers, for your kind comments. And go read Dennison's piece on Michael Moore and communism. Also, I finally figured out that James Lileks had me linked in his "Of Note" sidebar on today's Bleat. Thank you, sir. Waow: Lileks.

by Jerome du Bois

After sentencing Julio Valdés to twenty years in prison, the presiding judges in his trial ordered the burning of the books in his library on the grounds that they were "lacking in usefulness."

We are paid in pesos, but life is lived in dollars. -- Cuban saying.

We are being threatened; they tell us we can't speak out and we better not say anything. But as long as I am alive, while a minute of life remains, I am going to keep on speaking out, nobody is going to stop me. And if they cut out my tongue I'll keep writing, and if they cut off my hands I'll keep writing with my feet; I don't know what I'm going to do, but they aren't going to get away with it. This is the situation we are in, and this is the testimony of: Haydeé Rodríguez. -- Veteran septuagenarian independent Cuban journalist, Santiago de Cuba, January 29, 2004.

In a murderous time
the heart breaks and breaks
and lives by breaking.

--Stanley Kunitz
"The Testing-Tree"
(epigraph to Angels in America)

There are no cockroaches skittering across the polished hardwood floors of the Lisa Sette Gallery in Scottsdale Arizona. No rats patrol the baseboards. No scorpions pose macho in the corners. No biting flies attack your eyes to prevent you from seeing what's right in front of you:

Lisa Sette Gallery supports Fidel Castro.

And most everybody's cool with it, because everybody loves Lisa Sette, the hippest art gallery in Scottsdale for twenty years: Valley art patrons, museum curators, art dealers, local artists, local art critics. But by their silences, by their lack of outrage, none of these people seem to care how many political prisoners go diabetically blind, go into a coma, or go into the final darkness, as a necessary structural precursor for the local Cuban Art boosters' burgeoning business agenda: to make Cuban Art as safe as baseball. Who gives a fuck about the librarians and the loudmouths? Let 'em suffer! Up with Kché! Long live Cashtro! Cuban art will be the new green diamond!

It's quiet in here, the air is expensively odorless, the squared-away walls shimmer cool as cream with passing windshield reflections. Outside the floor-to-ceiling front window the golden sun falls on trees green as money, on oleanders white as heaven, on the righteous and the unrighteous alike. Inca doves coo, Lexi honk discreetly, and the sidewalks click with the well-high-heeled. At the door chime, an Assistant stepped out from the back gallery -- tall, thin, all in black except for white socks, she looked like an exclamation point; she smiled when she saw no prospect of sale, and stepped back out of sight.

I came here alone, but I brought a headful of Cuban scapegoats with me, because once you know, you know, and there's no getting away from it for anyone with a broken heart. And those who don't have a broken heart nowadays, need one, or they're lost; it's as simple as that. I say again, when you know, you know.

I mentally broke these politicals out of various prisons for the day -- Canaleta, Guanajay, Red Ceramic, Black Mantle, even Kilo 8, where they lost the keys -- for two reasons: First, I wanted their reactions to Cuban artist Abel Barroso's charmingly subversive toylike constructions, as some art blivvey has undoubtedly already described them. Second, I wanted to dramatize their horrifying plight. So I will use some of them, and they will use me, to make our various points.

Whoever's reading this piece, please have no illusions about it. It will not be an art review. Abel Barroso is a bought man, one of Castro's many public puppets, who, in the face of a half-century of brutal dictatorship, makes twinkie-doodle wooden toys and twee-ass paper t-shirts. And the bovine buyers thrill to his counterfeit cachet of subversion, the faux inventando that Cuban artists have been refining for over a decade. Did you know he had to dismantle a wooden dresser to make these constructions? Oh, please. These clowns are among the most coddled whores on the island. What, do you think they smuggle this crap out to the mainland? If that's your image of Cuban Art, as edgy samizdat, you're a sucker and a fool.

What the hell do Abel Barroso's comic-book carvings have to do with life on an island where saying "The Revolution is a failure" in public will land you in a festering hell for the rest of your adult life? The answer is they have nothing to do with such reality, of course, since his work isn't for Cubans, anyway. But its acceptance in the larger world is crucial to the buffing of Castro's image into a benevolent shine. And Lisa Sette, selling Toirac and Barroso and sending Castro his cut, does her dutiful part. Ignorance does not apply here.

Forget about changing anybody's mind. This post is frustrated witness, ripped red anger, and several hallucinations -- but I make no pretense at persuasion. My mamma didn't raise no fool. No matter what I write, no matter how eloquently I describe the open sores, the hypertension, the dysentery, or the diabetic crises of the political prisoners she helps to keep in hell, Lisa Sette and her crew will continue to recruit, promote and sell Cuban art. And so will Ted Decker, and so will Marilyn Zeitlin, and probably the Vanesians now, too. They have no shame. Arizona State University is, I am convinced, tooling up for a big exhibition of Cuban Art in a year or so, consolidating the new acquisitions from the Eighth Havana Bienal into the museum's already-substantial collection, and commissioning many new pieces. The last show was a country-touring success, so now I figure visions of endless mojitos must be dancing in their heads. Well, nothing I write will stop the legitimization, and it's too late to appeal to the consciences of the people named above -- conscience? how quaint! -- but in the meantime I'll see what I can do for the stand-up Cubans with this little, wild monkey wrench.

I look around the front gallery. You could put eight to ten cells in here, depending on the punishment. Barroso's work is in the second gallery. Out here I see bland, medium-sized, b/w photographs by Spanish artist Chema Madoz that could have been editorial magazine illustrations. Thin, one-thought-shots. And placed at intervals on the floor against two walls, three dark green granite pillows by Mark Mennin. I approach one of them.

A pillow made of granite. (I knew a little about grinding granite, about the patient relentless circular abrading of stubborn crystals into dust.) Some of my guests live in a 4 x 6 cell, which includes their toilet -- a hole in the ground -- with no mattress, no sheet, no blanket of any kind at all, much less a pillow. The mere word, puffy and soft, is a dream beyond them. As I think about this, a reclining man coalesces on the floor before me, his head cradled on the pillow, his eyes closed, his hands crossed on his chest. This is Leonardo Miguel Bruzón Avila, imprisoned for planning to honor the late Brothers to the Rescue fliers shot down by Cuban MiGs in 1996. In Cuba, he's on a hunger strike, he weighs 80 pounds, and he's in a coma. [In fact, as I post this, he may be dead.]

But he looks pretty good today, dressed in a white shirt and white linen pants, ruddy-cheeked and breathing quietly. Shivering, I lean down for a better look.

But I'm interrupted by a man's voice at my elbow: "Leonardo, stop playing around, we don't have much time here."

I quick-jump double-take -- to my right there's a skinny old bald black man, also all in white, big grin -- then back to Bruzón Avila, who opens his eyes -- hooded, ironic eyes -- and flashes a white smile. He stretches luxuriously. "Oh, but Omar, that was so comfy," he laughs. Then he bounds upright, supple as a gymnast.

"Hercules!" he says. Then he looks down at the pillow, suddenly sober. He nods at me. "You're right about the grinding."

"Aren't you in a coma, sir?" I ask.

"Correct. That's probably why this is so easy for me. If one end of the silver thread . . ." He sees the look on my face. "Never mind. It's great to have energy again." He leans toward the older man. "But where are my manners? May I present Omar Pernet Hernandez, independent librarian, scholar, and wit."

The skinny black man, who makes Gandhi look like The Rock, performs a slow half-bow, and as he does his pristine clothing disappears for just a moment, just a flickering, and I see his ravaged, naked form, shivering and running with sores, wearing nothing but sagging, shredded, soiled jockey shorts. Then, in a blink, he's back in impeccable white and a sardonic smile. "As you could see by my outfit, I am not a common criminal," he says. Ah. A political thrown in with the hardcore criminals. He wouldn't, and doesn't, wear the common criminal's uniform. It is not a crime to oppose Castro, he insanely claimed as defense. It happened a lot.

Both he and Leonardo move to the wall to examine this photograph. Almost unconsciously, both men raise their hands and caress their jaws, as a man gauges his need for a shave, but not quite, because then they clench their fists under their chins. The Beard . . .

"Boooom," whispers Leonardo.
"Boooom," answers Omar.

They knew what that felt like. They turn to me. "Is this the gusano?" asks Omar. Gusano means worm.

"No," I answer. Wait. Something's wrong. "This is some Spaniard." They both nod as if to say, Same thing. But wait. "Barroso's in the back gallery." I start to turn to point but, wait . . . wait.

"Wait, look, this is stupid. I bring you here for art? Fuck art! To get your opinions? What the hell good is that going to do you? I should take you to a doctor or, or, or a restaurant at least! The mall! I mean . . . art? Who give's a rat's --"

By now they're both cracking up at my babbling, and Omar, compressing his lips and sucking in his cheeks to get control, leans forward and lays a wrinkled black palm against my fevered brow.

"Jeronimo," he says, "settle down, man. This is just a dream, yours and ours. Look." He holds out his hand. The iron knuckles from the photograph lay there on his palm, ugly and lethal. He makes a fist, and and when he opens it I see a chocolate heart as dark as the skin on the back of his hand. As I look, the heart breaks jaggedly in half. He pops both halves in his mouth, chews, and makes a face:

"Bitter. There's nothing you can do for us. We Cubans have to do it ourselves, and most of us haven't -- don't -- won't. I know it's hard to believe, but we politicals, we intellectuals, we book people you've read about -- like something out of Fahrenheit 451 and 1984 and Solzhenitsyn too -- we, the skinny, the sick, the stinking, the dying -- We're the strong ones. What does that tell you about the rest of the people? What other society do you know that has a social class they call comemierdas (shiteaters)? Maybe North Korea." He pauses to catch his breath. "You cannot imagine the dimensions of The Exhaustion on this haunted island."

"He's grinding us down," adds Leonardo, making The Beard gesture. "It's the pulverization of resolver. We could make a boat that could sail to Africa out of a flattened tin can; I could write a thousand-page novel with a pencil stub. But you can't find a tin can or a pencil stub, and even if you could, you're too tired from being too hungry for too long, and too stupified to follow through."

Omar stands erect. "But that's still no excuse, Leonardo."

"I know, I know: the whole island should be in prison until we're all free."

We all think about that necessary absurdity for a moment, then Omar tilts his head, as if listening. "Others are coming, and . . . and I smell Ché." Wrinkling his nose at the mention of the murderous Argentinian.

"Yeah, she's got three Ché studies by Toirac in the back room."

They shrug. "Well, let's go see Abel Barroso's Cuba," says Leonardo with broad irony, and we drift toward the second gallery. As we enter, I notice three more guests have arrived: on my left, economist Martha Beatriz Roque is talking with The Assistant, and on my right, Leonardo and Omar join the journalist/poet Raúl Rivero Castañeda and the independent librarian Julio Antonio Valdés as they discuss some of Barroso's work. Dream logic allows me to record both dialogues simultaneously and transcribe them serially, as follows:

Abel Barroso, Doctor Galactico, 2004, woodcut

Martha Beatriz Roque (to The Assistant, pointing at the above construction): This is such a lie. There are no syringes, no condoms, no pills, unless you have dollars. The clinics, which can only accept pesos, are open -- and empty. He's laughing at us, and selling you our pain.

The Assistant (still dazed; where did this woman come from?): What do you mean?

Ms. Roque (considering her): Got any tampons?

The Assistant (taken aback): Excuse me?

Ms. Roque: Or pads. Anything?

The Assistant: No, I, not on me . . . but . . . why? Are you . . . ? (gesturing)

Ms. Roque (laughing): No, for later, and for others, back in Utopia. Tampons, pads, handkerchiefs . . .

The Assistant: Utopia?

(pause)

Ms. Roque: You're not very . . . Never mind. Look, on the island you have to register to receive menstrual supplies. The current waiting list is seven months long. Imagine what you have to do in the meantime. (Grasps her shoulders.) I mean it. Really try to imagine it: what do you use? You want to walk around, try to live your life, but it's your time of the month and there's nothing for it.

(The Assistant, fascinated and repulsed, stares mutely, wide-eyed. Ms. Roque tilts her head, reaches behind the Assistant to lift up her long black ponytail.)

Ms. Roque: Here's another true story, Wide Eyes. Your hair reminded me. Twelve-year-old Cuban girl, hair long like yours, she's been growing it half her life, riding home from school on the bus. Comes in the house, I'm home, Mamma. Mamma says what happened to your hair? Girl reaches back and discovers her long beautiful ponytail was cut off by someone on the bus who knew how to get money for it. (Makes scissors out of her fingers and reaches over The Assistant's shoulder.) Snip snip! Welcome to Cannibal Island! (Looks at her raised left arm) You know, in prison, I can't even feel my left side. This is nice. . .

(Steps back, looks around at the art, shakes her head) Such lies . . .

The Assistant: Is this a dream? Where did you come from?

Ms. Roque: I told you -- Cannibal Island, North Korea II -- and that reminds me of one more thing I want you to remember before I fade, because you're right, this is kind of a dream. Castro is behind a new effort to make Cuba a major player in stem-cell research. Where do you think he gets the cells? Well, abortion is free in Cuba; Cuba has a huge sex tourism trade; and since women, whether jineteras or not, can't even get tampons, what are the chances of getting contraceptives? Put them together and what have you got? Scrape, scrape, scrape, turning flesh back into money.

(The Assistant steps back, face twisted): What a horrible thing to say!

Ms. Roque (fizzing at the edges and gradually fading into nothing more than a sad smile): You can't stay ignorant forever, chica.

Abel Barroso, Robot Turista, 2004, woodcut

Raúl Rivero Castañeda (gesturing at the above construction): He's laughing at us. You're looking at the sad, true core of the Cuban economy -- dolllars for fun -- the one reason we're not literally eating each other -- and this fucker's goofing on it, as you Americans say.

Me: In the local paper, The Arizona Republic, they showed this picture, and a blurb describing it as "Public Enemy No. 1 -- Greed." They don't say whose greed.

Julio Valdés (reaching out to turn the crank; after a few turns): I find it "lacking in usefulness," if you must know. [see first epigraph above]

Me: They burned your books . . .

Valdés: They burned hundreds of books, and videotapes and cassettes and magazines and documents . . . I knew they would come, and I would sit some nights, late at night, unable to sleep, just scanning my bookshelves, my pitiful stacks, and finally I took a leaf -- sorry, couldn't help the pun -- from Mr. Bradbury's burning book. I started with articles -- memorizing, memorizing -- and, since our time here is limited, I want to infect you with just one image that always haunts me.

This is from a visit by Arthur Miller to Cuba in 2000, published in The Nation magazine. Listen (Begins to recite from memory):

Now, with a wicked look in his eye, he [Castro] turned to Wendy Luers. In midafternoon she had gotten us all out of the minibus the government had provided and into taxis that had taken us to the home of a dissident, Elizardo Sánchez. There we learned what was rather obvious -- that despite the man's having been jailed a number of times for writing and distributing antigovernment publications, he was presently free but without any detectable influence. Knowing that his house was bugged he felt free to say whatever he liked, since his positions were already well-known. And if any of us had imagined that the visit was secret, we were disabused by the friendly TV cameraman who photographed us out in the street as we left. So much for our taking taxis instead of the government bus.

Now, addressing Wendy Luers primarily, Castro leaned forward and said, "We hear you were all missing for a couple of hours this afternoon! Were you shopping?" A flash of fierce irony crossed his face before he joined in our laughter. And so to dinner.

Two things to note here, Jeronimo. One is Sánchez's complete impotence. Castro's initial move is always to emasculate; who care what Elizardo says? The second, the cruelest, is the reference to shopping. There's nothing to buy! And "He" loves it, because "He" never misses dinner!

(Taking a breath, sighing) Well . . . we do what we can. I wonder what you can do?

Me (shaking my head as a long-dead phrase from my long-dead past breaks gradually through): " . . . remember them that are in bonds . . . as bound with them . . . "

Castañeda: " . . . and them that suffer adversity, as being yourselves also in the body." Book of Hebrews, 13:3. Are you a religious man?

Me: No, I'm the ultimate sucker: I believe in people. Speaking of which: Congratulations on winning the UNESCO/Guillermo Cano prize, sir.

Castañeda (chuckles): Good one, and thanks. But let's not forget the first two verses of Chapter 13:

Let brotherly love continue.

Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.

Me (leaning forward): . . . Are you an angel?

Castañeda: No, but I expect I'll see them before you do.

Valdés (looking at his hands, which are flickering with light): I think we're supposed to move to the front gallery.

Me: Oh? Why?

Valdés: Isn't this your dream?

Me: Well . . . Omar said it was ours. (Looking around) Omar . . . ?

I saw that my remaining guests -- Martha was already gone -- had assembled in a small group at the center of the front gallery, their white auras glowing softly. As I moved into the separating doorway, I noticed The Assistant sitting stunned at her computer.

Something prevented me from entering the front gallery, so I hovered in the archway. The floor trembled, I heard a long, sad, creaking, and then, smoothly and quietly, the edges of the hardwood floor peeled themselves away from all four walls, the long ends rising and closing like an envelope, and then shifting to a canoe, and then a final morph into a giant longboat of polished golden wood. Printed on one side of the prow: LAW 88; and on the other: ARTICLE 91. My guests sat stiffly on benches across the middle of the hull, with their backs to me, already turned toward their fates.

The boat floated up off the floor and drifted silently toward the front window. As it passed undisturbed through the glass and joined the daytime traffic of Marshall Way, I saw it turn south, and then the boat and my nearly-forlorn guests dispersed like smoke blown into a fan.

I was alone again, feeling hollowed-out. The floor was the floor again, and the Assistant was looking at me curiously. It was time to go. As I reached the door it chimed, and Abel Barroso himself brushed by me. I turned and watched him skitter across the floor toward the office.

Okay, my mistake: one cockroach.

[It's obvious from the links that this piece could not have been written without the indefatigable research of Val Prieto of Babalu Blog. For some excellent links on the dissidents, check out this post on the one-year anniversary of their incarceration. And for those readers who think I'm too harsh on ordinary Cubans, I urge them to read, and reread, and reread, this recent post. Update: Though I don't agree with it, you should also read this reply to the last citation, from Yoan Hermida's blog.]

[Also, I have put words in the mouths of living, suffering, human beings. I hope they know I honor them. If I offended anyone else: deal with it.]

[Update, May 19]: Val Prieto has just posted a powerful, related piece on non-Cuban artists and musicians who help perpetuate the regime. Go read Amid the Decay, Let the Music Play.

Posted by Jerome at May 12, 2004 07:05 PM | TrackBack