by Jerome du Bois
[Long-delayed, and extended into extra acts, this is nevertheless the second part of what is now a classically-structured, but new-style five-part espio-epistolary novella/play about Cuban art, life, and politics in the very near future (take a breath). I'll probably finish it before Independence Day. (Oh, it was written, it was done, but it was such a skeleton. Like Ezekiel's bones, it woke up and started dancing. So I -- we, but my wife is shy -- have enriched it.) In this second part, we hear a disturbing prophecy; we meet the American museum curator and art collector/shark Lisa Zeitgeist; we witness the increasing disillusionment of art professor and lifelong Communist Guillermo Gorgojo; Rosa Blanca Azul gets nervous about her career; more little white cards show up; Abel Barroso and Yoan Capote, real Cuban artists, appear in cameos (so sue me); a new song is inspired; and then, finally, there's the Lisa Zeitgeist Lecture. In Part Three, sometime next week, the firecrackers really start. So let's open the book or raise the curtain or roll the projector -- whatever's your metaphor -- on Part Two. Part One is here.)
"I'll tell you a secret," Jasper Johns said. "I think artists are the elite of the servant class." -- Michael Crichton.
Sit down, you're rockin' Kcho's boat. -- Beny Manach, Phrasemaster and All-Around Genius.
. . . poetic hustlers on the graveyard shift. -- Bone, Thugs, and Harmony, "First of the Month."
From the Historical Diary of La Fuerza, recorded January 6, 2004 on microcassette and entitled "Marta's Prophecy":
On the night of the day that Marta was scalped four years ago, we assembled for our usual secret beach meeting, on the graveyard shift, the four select students of the Prodigy Program from Villa Clara: Marta O'Gorman, Beny Manach, Flash No More, and Yasmani Oliva (La Fuerza). We were stunned, looking at her new head. It was as if the island had reached out and grabbed her by the throat. But it was when Flash No More said, "They did you a favor. They revealed the eyes in the back of your head." . . . That's when the night got deep.
We had built our fire in the shadow of a dune, and it was down to crackling red bars now. Marta's face was orange, her eyes black and blind, her black hair standing out short and shocked. She chuckled at Flash No More's remark, then frowned and sagged a little. She seemed to shrink. She began to massage her head, back to front and all around, nodding, then rocking. After a minute she began to moan, but she wasn't crying. When she began to drool, Beny leaned forward, but Flash No More stopped him with his thick black forearm. "Remember where she comes from," he said.
Meaning, she's descended from a long line of santeras. Okay, fine, Marta's intense, but this hadn't happened before. We waited as her head sank further and further to her chest, nodding, hands rubbing . . . until she tapered off and was still and her hands dropped to her lap. Then she straightened and raised her head calmly. Her voice was chillingly deep.
"Today they took my hair. Tomorrow they'll take my eyes. The next day, as I make my way with my cane, they'll take the rest; bringing the coolers and the ice, they'll waylay me by the banana tree and dress me out like a crimson canoe. They'll slice out my kidneys, my spleen and my pancreas, my liver, my lungs, and my heart, and if they had the time and tools they'd strip me of my very veins!
Then they'll leave me there like an empty purse and take off in their speedboat to Jamaica. Hah! Fools! I'm far from empty. Other Cubans will come along not long after them and find more uses for me. For my skin. For my bones. For my tendons. Cubans are resourceful people. Pretty soon, someone will cook and eat my muscles, and then finally, my brain. Welcome to Cannibal Island."
Her voice never broke the whole time, but when she finished, raised her head, and leaned over the coals, her cheeks were shiny with tears.
After a few moments Beny, who is irrepressible, asked, "Did they even take the eyes in the back of your head?"
Marta didn't miss a beat. "Those are the first ones they take. But it won't help. When they put them in their own eye sockets, they've already become iron marbles."
Then she started giggling, and hiccuping, and shaking, until Flash No More reached out and swallowed her in his black shadow briefly, and she calmed down and came back to her senses.
That was the night we decided that we wouldn't let Cuba become Cannibal Island. We had no idea how yet, but we were the smart kids, and we had other resources . . . [to be continued]
From MININT, May 26, 2004, assembled results of morning surveillance of the common room of the Instituto Superior de Arte, Havana, from single wide-angle hidden video camera and six high-gain hidden microphones:
7:50: [ISA President] Prof. Guillermo Gorgojo, tall, wiry, and bald, enters the empty common room from the camera's right, wearing a patched guayabera and fairly new khakis. He carries his green plastic briefcase in one hand and a half-empty bottle of mango juice in the other. He finds a table, sits down, takes some papers and books out of his briefcase, and then sits back, crosses his arms, and sighs. He closes his eyes and remains motionless. After a few minutes he comes to, finds a pen, and begins to write:
GG Personal Journal May 26, 2004: Particularly depressed this morning. Mota hangover, probably; the hideous dropping off of the veil, as Poe lamented. Okay, not that bad. How long has it been, though? Not that I'm so into it, but it's great for breaking the monotony of the grey grind, the daily search to fill the jaba vinyl. But I remember, less than a year ago, when my alumni artists -- the recent ones, the New Inventados -- would often be at my place, or me theirs, with a fat joint, looking over their new stuff and listening to them drop names like Deitch, and Boone, and Fraser. But that's fallen off; it's probably me. To be honest, I can't stand to look at the work, or most of the artists anymore, in their ropa de marca, as if they're all trying to be Kid Rock. Cell phones stuck to their ears like electronic remorae, sucking out the last few neurons. Maybe they're picking up my feelings.
That New Mango or whatever name marijuana was powerful stuff, better than any Kennedy I ever smoked. I saw things, lined up like display windows, all at once: Rosa, too fat and sassy, the gold pipe, the green gold delivered, the G4's steel as shiny as an empty promise, the outside world steadily buying her work . . . Her shallowness. After dinner I walked my cafecito around her apartment, hung floor-to-knees and wall-to-wall with her famous Pioneer Girl prints. All those little red uniforms . . . And then Rosa fired up her new G4 to show me some big digital photocollages from the brand-new show. And it hit me: she hadn't grown a year, an inch, one bit. She was still Pioneer Girl, eleven years old, who clipped some Alice-in-Wonderland profile gravure, slapped it on a Pionera uniform, and placed the small persona in many mundane or historical situations. La Pionera in a bottle, La Pionera in a space capsule, La Pionera having sex with George Washington, La Pionera riding into Jerusalem on an ass for all I know . . . It should have been obvious. My eyes have gone as lazy as the rest of me. That faint rumbling sound you hear is Rodchenko rolling in his grave. Yes, I hear you, Aloysha, but what am I supposed to do?
La Pionera: as if she ever was a Communist, an idealist. That insipid profile, facing east, facing west, like some Jill of Diamonds . . . She knows the game, she's the player and the played. And that makes me, who trained her, a sucker. This -- this shopper is what I brought into the world? And not her alone; that whole New Inventado Movement I helped launch has become slicker than a snail's trail . . . They're all around here, and they'll be showing up soon, and more during the coming week; my embarrassing progeny. Because of the American -- that flashy Zeitgeist woman and her mandatory lecture. What if --
8:03: Flash No More enters, pauses, looks around, and then, seeing GG is preoccupied, approaches slowly. Flash No More ( "FlashNoMas" or "FlaNoMa" more often) is compact and muscular, with a shock of short dreads and skin as black as coal. He wears a pristine white tank top tucked into white jeans. On his feet he wears simple, but spotless, white canvas slip-ons. He has a black portfolio under his arm.
[Background: This young man, who is eighteen, is a student and professional tattooist. He first came to our attention as a selection of the Prodigy Program (see attached file); later we investigated how he could afford both the tattoo license and good equipment. He is an orphan who was taken in by the Oliva family out north of Santa Clara in Villa Clara six years ago. He called himself Erasmo then. They have provided documents which support his labor history with them, his earnings, etc. He is known as the artist's tattooist, though he has many musicians in his clientele as well. Of the seventeen licensed Cuban tattooists, he is the only blank -- he has no tattoos. And he only tattoos Cubans. He is a student of printmaking at ISA.]
GG (big smile): Que bola, FlaNoMa?
FlaNoMa (formal but easy): Quite well, Professor. I know I'm early, but I have that suite you wanted to see, the one I told you about, the Abakua Derivations. Would you like to take a look at them?
GG (clearing the table into his briefcase) : I certainly would. Please . . .
FlaNoMa: There are twelve.
(Guillermo Gorgojo slips the stack of 11 x 17 prints out of the portfolio and squares them on the table in front of him. He stares at the first one for a very long time, and then sets it aside. He spends at least a minute on each successive one, in complete silence. Flash No More is as still as a shadow.)
GG: (a long sigh) These are so beautiful, FlaNoMa. Very high level of abstract detail. I want to talk about these, but first I need to ask, since I oversee the printmaking budget: where did you get the copper plates for this project? I know we don't --
FlaNoMa: These are woodcuts, sir.
GG: What? (looking closer) That's impossible! This is far too fine-grained . . . Wait, I think I see it. Okay, but what kind of wood is it?
FlaNoMa: I don't exactly know. It's special. I get it from a friend in Santa Clara. He makes my cutting tools, too. My glyptics, he calls them. Beny's a show-off, but he's also a genius, and he's got some great lathes and grinders. I just bring him the steel.
GG: I've never seen an effect like this before from wood. It seems to be as fine-grained as ebony. Are you sure you don't know any more about it?
FlaNoMa: (pause; then deadpan) : Well, if you must know, the wood comes from a sacred mango grove near Ché's grave in Villa Clara.
(GG jerks his head up)
FlaNoMa (grinning): Yes! Tumba palo cocuyé! Muy bueno pa' hacer la nasa! [excellent for black magic]
GG: (laughing, then shaking his head) : That was funny -- but you should be more careful. That's dangerous talk.
FlaNoMa: Really? Black magic's illegal?
GG: (chuckles) Not that. You know I'm a Party member, don't you?
FlaNoMa: Yes, sir, I do.
GG: Well, then -- you don't have to call me sir -- why did you think it was safe to slur Saint Ché?
FlaNoMa: Because you're the only poor Communist I've ever met.
GG (pause) : How old are you?
FlaNoMa: I don't know. Pretty old.
GG: What?
FlaNoMa: Around eighteen. But I was state-selected when I was fourteen -- the Prodigy Program -- so I've met a lot of Party members. You're different.
8:28: (Three ISA students, two male, one female, enter the common room from the right. After waving casually to the other two men, they take a table in the far corner and then go to the self-service coffee bar on the west side of the room to brew up cafecitos. )
GG: And you think just because I'm poor, I'm principled?
FlaNoMa: Well, it's a beginning. But it's not just that.
GG: Then what?
FlaNoMa: . . . Why have you stopped teaching?
GG: What are you talking about? I haven't stopped --
FlaNoMa: One academic graduate seminar. Nothing hands-on, nothing in a studio. I've been here two years, sir. I asked around, because I had read, and seen, some of your earlier work. You used to be a teaching president. I wanted to take a class from you, any class. And I found out that you began to taper off your schedule starting around five years ago --
8:30: (Well-known Cuban artists and ISA graduates Abel Barroso and Yoan Capote enter the common room from the right, each one decked out in ropa de marca, from Yankee ball caps to Nikes with Hilfiger and Sean John in between. Bling-bling hangs from their necks and wrists. They approach the trio of students. Guillermo Gorgojo sits up stifffy and stares fixedly at the group.)
FlaNoMa: . . . Professor?
GG (coming around) : Yes?
FlaNoMa: I was wondering why you stopped --
GG: Yes, yes, I . . . But why would I tell you?
FlaNoMa: I don't know, but you probably will. The Abakua Derivations softened you up. (Pause while GG gives him incredulous look) Why did you stop teaching, sir?
GG: (murmuring) The Abakua Derivations . . . Ooga-booga marijuana. (shakes his head, then tilts his chin at the group across the room and raises his voice): There's your reason.
FlaNoMa (looking over) : The students?
GG: The artists.
(GG abruptly turns back to the prints, carefully stacks them again.)
GG: Tell me about the designs. Everything's in a grid, I know, but within the grid . . . ?
FlaNoMa: It's cross-cultural -- I've got derivatives of Mayan and Celtic knots but, as you can see, the predominant motifs come from Abakua and Santeria.
GG: But they're incredibly intricate.
FlaNoMa: Well, I spend a lot of time with the night . . .
GG: What does that mean?
FlaNoMa: I don't know; I just try to pay attention to permutation. Sometimes I see a giant wall of dials. I'm just turning some of them, releasing energy. Everything overlaps. It's not just Abakua or Santeria or the others. The symbols are . . . sifted, even composted. They're synthesized palimpsests.
GG: I was going to say: These are deep, deep patterns. You know, you could sell these right away, student or not.
FlaNoMa: Spoken like a true Communist. (big grin) . . . I don't know. I'd have conditions.
GG: Like what?
FlaNoMa: Well. Those people over there (tilt of chin) make and sell art to the world -- actually, to everybody except Cubans. I'm going to be the exact opposite. I'm going to sell only to Cubans.
GG: But most Cuban's don't have any money, especially for art.
FlaNoMa: . . . Forever?
GG: What?
FlaNoMa: Will Cubans always be poor?
GG: Now we're getting into dangerous territory . . . Okay, so you'll build up an inventory. . . This is why you only tattoo Cubans, isn't it?
FlaNoMa: Yes, sir. The Cuban might leave the island, but (slaps his bicep) the island won't leave the Cuban.
GG: You don't have to call me sir . . . Do you mind if I keep these for a couple of days? I'd like to study them.
FlaNoMa: I'd be honored, s-s . . . Here . . . (and as he lifts the portfolio and opens the flap, a small white slip of paper flutters down to the table between them. GG stares at it, then picks it up)
GG: THE NEW MANGO. (flip) WE ARE NEXT. (getting agitated) Where did you get this?
FlaNoMa: Yes, sir, I was going to ask you about that. It was slipped into my locker here at school yesterday sometime. It's some art project, right? Or one of the graphics students --
GG: No! (calming down) I mean, I don't know. I've been out of the classrooms for several years -- I may not know some of the newer ideas, but I know I haven't authorized any kind of . . . conceptual effort, especially something so . . . ambiguous and public. This was in your locker, right? At school? No. This was not authorized. Those projects require a lot of review, and I haven't seen anything like this.
FlaNoMa: We are next.
GG: What did you say?
FlaNoMa: . . . It's on the card. I wonder what it means. You've seen this before?
GG: I saw one just like that, at . . . an artist's house. Last night.
FlaNoMa: Well, then, that's one artist, one art student; but you say it can't be about art . . . I wonder what it means?
GG: Well, since yesterday, I've heard that it might be a new strain of mota, a new soft drink (lifts the mango juice bottle), a new song, a new political movement, even . . . new shoes, I think.
FlaNoMa: (after a moment) Pick up your New Mangos at the dollar store! One size fits all!
GG: Hah! Any color you want, so long as it's orange!
(laughing together. The group across the room turns their heads briefly as one.)
FlaNoMa (leaning forward confidentially): You know, speaking of what's next, I wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea about what's going on over there. (tilts head at other occupied table)
GG: I don't understand.
FlaNoMa: I'll give you another hint: you might want to stick your head back into the studios.
GG (studying the group) : You know, they don't exactly look impressed with those two. Is that what you mean? (FlaNoMa nods) Hmmm. Well, that is different.
(abruptly looks up at the wall clock) : I need to get to my office. An appointment with -- I have an appointment.
FlaNoMa: I'll walk you out.
(both rise to leave)
GG (pressing the black portfolio between elbow and ribs) : They almost seem to vibrate.
FlaNoMa (looking elaborately around, then leaning close to the black portfolio) : Sshhhhhh . . .
(they exit)
[Rewind] 8:30 AM: Transcript of high-gain microphone #4 in the common room of ISA:
Abel Barroso (approaching ISA students Ana, Nelson, and Jikary at the round table, addressing Ana) : Que bola, Ana? Guys . . .
(Ana remains silent. Nods all around. The artists pull up chairs and sit without invitation. Yoan Capote holds out a hotel-style carafe.)
Yoan Capote: We just snagged this from Lisa's hotel room. Oh, she knows we'll bring it back. More coffee? Fresh, hot, and black, like I like my -- (abruptly breaks off and glances across the room at Flash No More)
Jikary: (pushing his cup forward) : Lisa who?
YC: (taken aback) Lisa Zeitgeist, man! Cojones . . .
Jikary: Oh yeah; her. I've seen the posters. Mmm. Good coffee. Thanks.
Nelson: I'll have some.
YC: We just got done showing her my new video. You guys saw a copy, right?
Jikary: Yes, Yoan; in class.
YC: Well, what did you think?
(the three students exchange uncomfortable glances)
YC: What's the matter?
Ana: It was confusing, all those quick-cuts --
YC: The MTV style?
Ana: Is that what they call it? Because I'm not used to it.
Jikary: So, what's it about?
YC: Commercialism, man!
(pause; then the students lean back, relieved)
Nelson: Good; that makes me feel better.
YC: Is that what you thought it was about?
Nelson: Hell no, man. It makes me feel better that I didn't. What do I know about commercialism? (gestures to wall-mounted TV, which is broadcasting [muted] a Castro speech) We don't get a lot of commercials on this island. At least, outside the dollar zones. My friends don't have satellite dishes. Dio -- some don't even have dishes!
(laughing high five with Jikary)
Ana (to her friends) : This is what I was talking about, remember?
YC: What were you talking about? Lisa loved my piece, by the way. She wants to edition it.
Ana: Exactly. Thanks for confirming what I'm saying, Yoan. How many Cubans are either going to see your video, or understand it if they do? Or care? Your stuff is not about Cuba, and it's not for Cuba.
YC: What a provincial view! It's international! What a narrow --
Ana: But I can't help it, see? You've been off the island, to Madrid and Paris and Mexico City. None of us has.
YC: But you could.
Ana: But I don't want to. I don't want to have to satisfy the "international" art world. Who are those people, anyway? I want --
AB (breaking in) : People with dollars, chica.
Ana: Don't call me that, Benny. I want to make art about Cuba, here and now.
AB : Good luck. There's not much you can say that you can say. And who are you going to sell it to? The extrañeros? No. They like the -- what did Lisa call it? -- "the primitive-but-slick justapositions within the New Inventado."
Ana: . . . Forever?
AB: What? And why did you call me Benny? Who's that?
Ana: Short for Benjamin . . . Sorry, I forgot your name for a second. Never mind.
(laughter from the other table distracts them; a brief silence; then Barroso pulls out a cellphone)
AB: Check this out, Nelson. It's brand-new, one of those Samsung picture phones.
Nelson: Hmmm. Does it work?
AB: Cojones! Of course it works -- you think I'm gonna have a phone that doesn't work? I mean . . . (sweeping hand down body)
Nelson: Everything Ginuwine.
YC: Lisa's got that CD. It rips, man. Maybe we can all go up to her hotel room . . .
Jikary: No, thanks. Classes.
YC: Hey, listen, it's never too early to start on your network. You've never met her, right?
Ana (suddenly sitting forward again) : We'll be seeing her at the end of the week, won't we? We have to sit and listen to her horseshit.
YC: You mean the Lecture? But it's a cool --
Ana: It's mandatory, Yoan! That's one. Two: She's not even Cuban! Three: She's an American! Four: it's about New York and London mostly! Five --
AB: Mierda! There's a five?
Ana: -- And a six, and a seven --
AB: Mierda! You kids ought to be grateful! So you have to attend the Zeitgeist Lecture, which, after ten years, is almost an institution at this institution. I mean, look around, you're in pretty good shape, you're not dragging your asses around town scrounging up --
(The three students exchange glances, and, as one, reach into their back pockets and pull out their jabas vinyls, worn plastic shopping bags, with stretch marks, nicks, and tiny holes from being filled and folded and sat on, over and over.)
YC (after a moment) : What?
Ana: Nothing. Just . . . where's yours?
(both artists lean back)
AB (to Yoan Capote in English, bad New York accent): Boy, things sure have changed around here.
Nelson (cutting in before YC) : Woody Allen to Caroline Allen, "Crimes and Misdemeanors."
AB: . . . That was quick. I thought you weren't into commercialism.
Nelson (pointing to wall TV) : Cubavision snagged it a few times, and I have a good memory.
Ana: What if we just don't go?
AB: What do you mean? To the Lecture?
Ana: Yes, the Sacred Mandatory Ass-Kissing Lecture!
AB: Whoa, chi -- Ana; you won't like the answer: Six weeks of Tough Love.
Ana: Tough Love? That's what they're calling reeducation now? Doesn't sound so scary.
YC (breaking in) : Also known as The Church, and sometimes The Barracks. I wouldn't fuck with it. When they're done with you, you come out a true revolutionary hero.
(The students exchange looks)
Jikary: We could basically go to jail and get . . . regrooved . . . for refusing to listen to some American shark.
YC: Who could launch your career. You should think about that. What are you gonna do, drive a cab?
Jikary: My dad, who's a physicist, does that. Makes good money.
YC: You people . . . (to Abel Barroso) We should get back.
(standing up with Barroso) Oh -- I almost forgot -- (digging in pocket of velour running pants) -- do any of you know anything about this?
(and drops a small white business card on the table. The students lean forward as one.)
Ana: THE NEW MANGO. (flip) WE ARE NEXT. . . Wow.
(the students exchange solemn looks, shaking their heads)
AB: You guys don't know anything about this? It isn't some art project? What about -- ? (jerking head toward where GG and Flash No More are winding up)
(all heads shaking)
Nelson: Is this from Lisa Zeitgeist, too? I mean, did she give it to you?
AB: No, it was in my mailbox; not mailed, just stuck in there. As far as I know, she doesn't know anything about this. It's just, you know Habaneros; the gossip . . .
Ana (still staring fixedly at the card): THE NEW MANGO . . . There was a song a few years ago --
AB: Yeah, you're right: "El Mango." Could it be a follow-up? (to Yoan Capote) You know some of those people. We should check it out.
(He picks up the card. The students lean back in their chairs as one, as if a spell has been broken.)
AB (murmurs) : WE ARE NEXT. Who's next?
Nelson (murmurs in English) : Excellent album.
AB: Excuse me?
Nelson (in English, and following): Won't get fooled again.
Jikary: Now you've got him started.
Nelson: Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.
AB: Oh, that song.
Nelson: Have you noticed --
Jikary: Here we go.
Nelson: -- that whereas the title is "Won't Get Fooled Again," the actual lyrics state: "Pick up my guitar and play / Just like yesterday / And I'll get on my knees and pray / That we don't get fooled again." (back to Spanish) Big difference.
YC: We have to go.
Nelson: Because one is a declaration --
YC: We gotta go.
Nelson: And the other is a prayer. What if the title --
(both hustling away with the carafe and the card): Later . . .
Nelson: -- was "Don't Get Fooled Again"? Much more admonitory . . .
Ana (when they're gone) : You do good work, Nelson. (laughter) Comemierdas.
Jikary (exaggerated) : Yaaaawwwnnn Capote.
Ana: That's for sure . . . Well -- what did you think of that card? Do you guys really not know what it is? Because I don't.
(both shake heads)
Jikary: And we pretty much know what's going on around here. I'm guessing it's a new album -- maybe another compilation for the extrañeros?. It's overdue, eh? Overripe? It's a good title.
Nelson: But why now?
Jikary: I know why. We were just talking about it. The Zeitgeist Lecture. Remember? She always flies in a few collectors, and there's those semi-official house tours. A micro-Bienal. Huh? Yeah, I'll bet it's a new CD somebody will come out with this week, and the artists will be playing it when the Benjamins arrive. It's advertising. They're trying to give Cuban music a new boost, maybe. That's my theory.
Ana: . . . The New Mango. It is a cool title.
Nelson: We Are Next is even better.
May 26, 2004, 9:00 AM: VoiceMail/CUBAMEX recording on Guillermo Gorgojo's private account, from Carlos Lage, First Secretary of the Cuban Council of Ministers: "G., Get back to me as soon as you learn more about this New Mango crap. I mean today. I've received at least two dozen CDR Reports about it already. Find out what it is!"
From MININT, May 26, 2004, CUBAMEX/hotmail e-mail intercepts:
9:23 AM: from Lisa Zeitgeist, Vedado Hotel, to Rosa Blanca Azul (La Pionera) at her Prado apartment:
Red:
So glad you got hotmail, girl! Welcome to the 21st Century! We must be sure to get together while I'm in town. (I'm sorry about the visa thing. This government . . . I mean en la Yuma, of course.) In the meantime, I have a couple of concerns. (I'm meeting with Guillermo in about an hour. I'm hoping you're home and receiving. It would be nice to know what you have.)
Abel and Yoan just left. They were visiting with some ISA students, and they were surprised by the kids' attitudes; disrespectful, indifferent, snarky. You taught last semester, didn't you? Did you notice anything? (I'm sorry it's been so long since we talked.)
Second: they showed me a little white card, like a business card, that was printed with THE NEW MANGO and WE ARE NEXT. With a little mango logo. They said the students had no idea, or said they didn't anyway. Hard to tell, Yoan says. So maybe it is an art thing?
Get back to me as soon as, okay?
Lisa Z.
9:32 AM: from Rosa Blanca Azul to Lisa Zeitgeist:
Lisa:
I'm home. Welcome back to the island! Yes, I almost forgot, this week is the LECTURE; plus, I've been so busy I almost forgot about the visa thing. And I've been playing with my new G4.
As for the students' attitudes . . . Well, you have been out of touch, in one respect: I'm teaching a graduate seminar now, so what the kids in the common room are talking about, I don't know. My students are halfway into the professional world, where I am. (I do know some of them refer to Yoan as "Yawn.")
There's something else, that relates to CL: I've been assigned to check out some backward-thinking kid, a 16-year-old, who made a counter-revolutionary poster. Guillermo, in fact, can fill you in on this, because he gave me the assignment yesterday. I'm making the arrangements now.
The "New Mango" thing is interesting. Yes, I got a little white card myself, left in my mailbox yesterday. I showed it to Guillermo last night. He didn't know anything about it, but he hinted that CL was asking about it; just street gossip. If that helps.
And of course we'll get together before the end of the week. I've got goodies, and I don't just mean Godiva (although I raided the Havana Libre gift shop last week. I have plenty left).
Say hello to Guillermo for me.
Always,
La Pionera
May 26, 2004, 9:40: From New Moleskine Diary #1 of Rosa Blanca Azul, La Pionera:
It was really classy, and smart, for the Gallery to include three new, precious moleskine notebooks -- my favorites -- along with the G4 and the hotmail account. They like me. They've dealt with Cuban artists for over ten years, so they know about the need for . . . hidden words. They're better people than you are, Lisa Zeitgeist! Dumpy round bolo bitch, rolling here, rolling there, bowling everybody over. Probably rolling strikes into Yoan Capote! (Oh, La Pionera, you bad bad girl!) . . . What the fuck is The New Mango? And why do I feel so out of the loop?
May 26, 2004, 9:40, MININT/CUBAMEX cell-phone intercept between Yoan Capote and Cuban musician "Distinto":
YC: Distinto! Que bola?
Dist (music in background): Que bola, Yoan? Wait, let me turn this down. . . . Something new I'm working on . . . Okay. Hey, how's the art world?
YC: It's great. I just finished a new video, and the American curator Lisa Zeitgeist is in town this week -- you know, for that Lecture. She liked it. And there'll be some buyers in town, too, so it looks good. . . Hey, I wanted to ask you, though, if you've heard of anything called The New Mango. Abel and I --"
Dist (in English) : Haysoos Marimba! (back to Spanish) It's synchronicity! It's a sign! Chango Marango!
YC: Dude --
Dist: This is confirmation! Hallelujah! Thanks!
YC: Dude! -- what are you talking about?
Dist: The New Mango! That's what I'm working on! What you just heard, man! I came up with this killer riff . . . It's a sequel to "El Mango," see: I don't know why I didn't think about it before. I used to be part of Charanga, you know --
YC: Yeah, that's why I called you. What made you decide -- ?
Dist: I got this little card in my mailbox yesterday --
YC: Oh, mierda . . .
Dist: Huh? -- and it said -- on one side, THE NEW MANGO, and the other side --
YC: We are next.
Dist: Yeah! Did you get one, too?
YC: I sure did. And it wasn't from you?
Dist: Hell, no. What is it, anyway? Juice? Clothes? Jewelry?
YC: I don't know, Distinto. I thought it was music, that's why I thought of you, because of "El Mango." But you're telling me you didn't make these cards?
Dist: No way, but I sure am glad I got one. I think this'll be a pretty cool song.
May 26, 2004, 10:40 AM: From MININT, transcript of a meeting, by audio surveillance, between ISA President Guillermo Gorgojo and Lisa Zeitgeist, American museum curator, at GG's office in the ISA:
(sound of door knock; then door opening. Lisa Zeitgeist enters)
Guillermo Gorgojo (sound of chair scraping back) : Que bola, bolo?
(the following conversation is in English)
Lisa Zeitgeist: Hello, Guillermo . . . I'm sorry, What did you call me?
GG: What? Nothing. I just stuttered. You look great. Please, sit down. I'll get some coffee.
LZ (sound of chair scraping) : You look thin, G. Aren't you eating enough?
GG: About as much as most Cubans. Here's your coffee. It does get tiring, though, running around in the shower to get wet.
(chuckling)
GG: So, are you looking forward to this year's Lecture?
LZ: Uh-huh . . . Guillermo, what's The New Mango?
GG: I don't know! (pause) Sorry; it's just that I just found out about the thing yesterday, and now it seems I'm getting that question from everyone. Carlos Lage thinks it's a student art project. How do you know about it?
LZ: Two of the artists in my -- I mean, Abel and Yoan showed me the card. They also showed it to some ISA students this morning. Nothing.
GG: Of course, if it's unauthorized, they'd keep quiet.
LZ: Of course, if it's unauthorized, it's dangerous.
GG: A mango seems pretty harmless.
LZ: But WE ARE NEXT isn't. It sounds like replacement --
GG: Progress?
LZ: -- revolution. Or, I should say, counter-revolution. What are you going to do about it?
GG: Excuse me?
LZ: You're the authority it's unauthorized against. What are you going to do about it?
(pause)
GG: Would you like some more coffee?
LZ: Yes, thank you, but don't change the subject.
GG: Here you go . . . I wasn't changing the subject. I was being polite, and giving you the same opportunity . . . I don't answer to you. Whatever the New Mango is, and whatever I do about it, won't affect your Lecture. It is, after all, mandatory.
LZ: I could talk to Carlos Lage about it.
(slight ringing sound as phone is moved)
GG: Here you go. He's number one on the speed dial there. (pause) Don't try to push me, gringa. I'm a 45-year-old native Cuban Communist, and I've earned every year of my life. You've had a great deal going on here for ten years; persuading Ca-- . . . the Ministry to make the Lecture mandatory was smart. It makes you seem legitimate. But I know who you are.
LZ: I'm someone who brings hundreds of thousands, maybe millions, of dollars to this island every year. Not just the art, but the tourism --
GG: Yes, I know, you're a cash cow.
LZ: Excuse me?!
GG (unperturbed): Your operation here.
LZ: How cynical. I help launch and maintain artistic careers. I hope I enrich people's lives as well as their pocketbooks. What do you do?
GG: Well, as I said before, I don't answer to you. But I have paid attention to a certain pattern that's emerged. The first five years you came down here on your mini-tours, over that time about a dozen artists left the island -- permanently. I'm not saying you had anything to do with that. Carlos would know more about that anyway. My point is, in the last five years no artist has left the island, and I think I figured out why. I did some internet research, and every one of those earlier dozen is having a very hard time with their career. Some are even, Dio have mercy, teachers. This new crew, they're sticking around; and they're flourishing.
LZ: Maybe conditions are better on the island now.
GG: Maybe. For them, anyway.
LZ: And Cuban art sells worldwide.
GG: But only if the artist lives here.
LZ: Well, there is something to the inventado, you know.
GG: Somehow I don't see those guys I saw earlier this morning, Abel and Yoan -- I don't see them scrounging through any derrumbés. At least not the way they were dressed.
LZ: Of course not; they hire people to do it for them. See? Conditions are better both ways. Everybody wins.
GG: No, Lisa. No. You come down here a couple of times a year and stay in a hotel. I live here. Don't you talk to me about conditions. Don't tell me who's winning.
LZ: Okay, okay. What's the matter with you?
GG: Do you really want to know? Have you seen La Pionera lately?
LZ: No, not on this trip. What's that got to do with your mood?
GG: But you have seen her recent work?
LZ: In photos, yes, online. So?
GG: She's still making art like a fake little eleven-year-old pionera.
LZ: Come on, Guillermo, it's called a signature sytle. You know that. Plus, these new ones are big digital photocollages, right? So --
GG: Oh, big leap! Giant progress! Now she's boring on a larger scale!
LZ: Collectors disagree. A solo show in Washington DC! (pause; sounds of foosteps) Where are you going? What's that?
GG: It's from the sketchpad of a kid out in Santa Clara named Yasmani Oliva. Look at that nautilus . . .
LZ (after a moment) : Yes, very well done, if you like realism.
GG: Oh, he's realistic all right. He made a poster that said "Down With Fidel".
LZ: Oh! Is he the kid Rosa's supposed to straighten out?
GG: That's him.
LZ: Hmmm . . . all these little seaside creatures . . . it looks like something out of Haeckel.
GG: Or Durer. And he's sixteen . . . He has a very confident hand, but who cares about that these cut-and-paste days? There's some old-style talent out there in Villa Clara. You know what was on the other side of the poster?
LZ: The other side?
GG: Uh-huh, he painted on both sides. The assignment side, I guess you could call it, had a nice rendition of Beat the Whites With the Red Wedge as a background for one word, in Coca-Cola style letters, Coca-Cola red: VENCEREMOS! (chuckles) I like his style. I probably shouldn't say that aloud.
LZ: So there's life in Cuban art after all, eh, Guillermo?
GG: Maybe.
LZ: So there's no reason why this arrangement can't go on. As you said, there's plenty of talent out there.
GG: I don't know. This kid seems pretty stiff.
LZ: Rosa will persuade him.
GG: Sure. She's going to hit him over the head with her G4. I don't think it's going to impress him. And there's another one from out there, too, here at ISA. I happen to have some of his prints. Over here, come look; I've got them laid out on the worktable.
(footsteps;after a long silence)
LZ: Incredible! Jesus, you're right, this is new. But . . . I don't see anything political here; some religious symbols, but --
GG: It's not the work; it's him. (sounds of paper shuffling) I need to put these back in the portfolio before they get dusty. I've had them out long enough.
LZ: What do you mean, about him? Is he one of those independent library people? What's his name, anyway?
GG: His name is Flash No More. Not a joiner, really --
LZ: Flash No More? What a fantastic name!
GG: And he won't sell to foreigners.
LZ: Hah! This stuff really is incredible, Guillermo. I see so much crap, and crap that just sits there, or familiar crap. This work has so much energy; it spins, it throbs . . . it's hypnotic. I have some people coming in this week that this would be perfect for. Let me take this and show them --
GG: I don't think so. He loaned them to me -- hey, no! (shuffling, rustling, footsteps) Lisa, let go, don't be ridiculous, I'm not letting you take --
LZ: Damn you, Guillermo! Let me have -- !
GG: NO! (yank) And get the hell out of my office, tiburon! Now! I don't know who you think you are!
(pause; footsteps)
LZ: I'll show you, Carlos Lage or not. I'll talk to him. With a name like that, he'll be easy to track down.
GG: Finding him isn't the hard part, lady. He's black as lava and just as obdurate. These kids are different, I think. Maybe your days here are numbered, Ms. Zeitgeist. Good day. And good luck.
(door closes)
GG: Cojones! . . . Good question, though, you bolo bitch: What do I do?
From Beny Manach's Time Capsule, recorded on microcassette, Earth Date May 26, 2004, very very late:
The basement still has that hot-printer smell. The others have gone to their homes with their packages for tomorrow's distribution. According to the little feedback we've gotten, mainly from Yasmani's brothers and Flash No More, the first cards are not just being tossed away. We didn't think so: Habaneros vacuum up any novelty, no matter how small. You can bet they're thinking thinking thinking. What else is there to do? Also, Yasmani's older brother, the music producer, got a call from Distinto, who got a card, and now he wants to work on a song about our wonderful "fruit." The people we're after -- the hungry ones -- they'll snap at anything promising. This long shot might work.
Looking around the waterproofed block walls of our basement, I'm proud of what we've built with the money from the Seed Pool. It took forever because we couldn't just order what we needed over the internet with our platinum card and have DHL pull up in front of the house and start unloading. Oh, sure. Slowly, slowly, over three years, we built it, having to sneak almost every bit of it not only under the eyes of the authorities, but also our neighbors. People have gotten ugly and mean to go with their hunger and despair. Invasion of the Soul Snatchers. Some will turn you in for an extra ration of beans. So it was like that scene in The Great Escape, where they scattered the dirt they were excavating through the holes in their pockets, down the pant legs, into the dirt courtyard. Two pocketfuls at a time. That's what we were doing, only with cement and blocks and rebar; and, later, printers and paper and ink cartridges. We didn't even know why, yet, but these were basic.
Pinned to the walls are my modest reminder banners: PORTABILITY THE SEED; DENSITY OUR DESTINY; FASTER SMALLER CHEAPER BETTER; REMEMBER THE GUY BEHIND THE GUY BEHIND THE GUY; MAGIC IS DISTRACTION. And my favorite: A CUBAN ON MARS BY 2030! On the left side of the room a thick plastic curtain separates the lathes and grinders and other dirty machines from the computer, printer and supplies on the opposite side. Overhead, the fans and vents. Under the stairs, the growing supply of bottles. Over there, the generator, battery chargers, and charging batteries. In the middle, the worktables where I make what I call my "chambers." It's a fancy name for "hidden compartments," but I use it as homage to my best friend Yasmani and his beloved nautilus, and because I just like fancy names. (We call Flash No More's tattoo machine The Whisper.)(Yasmani says he learned a lot from the nautilus; I've learned a lot from the mango seed, and from fertilizer. Concentration, integration, density, portability: the keys. Also annealing, but I'll get into that later.)
I've created sealed, secure chambers in loaves of bread and big fruits; in a long wooden cane; in a wagon wheel; in a slab of wood, a suitcase, even (once -- never again!) a stuffed rooster. Nobody outside our circle knows: the Oliva, O'Gorman, and Manach families -- small, compact, isolated, our relatives dead, gone, or not discussed. Nobody bothers us much, and that's why nobody notices a secret of the nautilus that Yasmani's mother, Catalina Corona, discovered the night we all sat around looking at the two bales of marijuana that Yasmani had found on the beach. "The secret," she said, holding up a drawing of a nautilus that Yasmani had done recently, "is to grow so slowly that nobody notices the change, even after the latest chamber is sealed off." And that's how we began the Seed Pool. [to be continued]
May 27, 2004, approx. 10:30AM: Notes from the bolsiplan of Lazaro Lizardo, proprietor of Lazaro's Dollar Stall and CDR of Block Twelve of Central Havana:
More curious information about new mangos, sir. The man from Santa Clara who usually supplies me with my juices, this morning offered me a bottle of mango juice from what he said was going to be a new batch from his source out there. He said it was a free sample. I can't remember when I had a free sample I took a drink and it was delicious, very good. So I told him so, and then, I described the card I forwarded to you, and asked him if it was from his mango juice man. Well, sir, he laughed very hard and said, "Look, Lazaro" -- pointing to the crates of bottles -- "he can't even afford matching bottles! Advertising?" And he just laughed some more.
From the Daily Journal of La Fuerza, Thursday, May 27, 2004, 2 PM: The second distribution is completed, and reports from the first one are encouraging. We'll see what Saturday brings.
From the copy on the poster for the 10th Annual (mandatory) Lisa Zeitgeist Contemporary Art & Cuba Lecture mounted on walls in the ISA:
. . . a comprehensive survey of the year in international art, with a slideshow of images not available from the Cuban art press. After the lecture, several guest artists will available for questions . . .
. . . kicks off an informal week of visits and discussions between artists, students, and others interested in the future of Cuban art . . .
[and, in small print at the bottom] " . . . juniors, seniors, and graduate students are required to attend the lecture."
May 29, 2004, before noon and continuing: from the ceiling-mounted camera behind the lectern in the assembly hall at ISA, on the day of the Lisa Zeitgeist lecture, edited reports:
11:30: Six graduate students, in two groups of three, enter from the far end of the hall and start walking down toward the front. Partway down some of the students pause, point at something in different directions, and then step out among the seats after it. They stoop down, some to the floor and others to the seats of chairs, to retrieve . . . a small white piece of paper. They talk and exchange the papers among themselves. The two groups join together, seating themselves neatly toward the front, animatedly passing the white slips back and forth, talking and gesturing.
11:40 -- 12:00. The scene above is repeated several times, until around twenty (of a required 207) students are seated, scattered in clumps, around the assembly hall.
11:45 -- 12:00. Lisa Zeitgeist and entourage arrive in the hall and mill about the stage, Zeitgeist striding back and forth on the stage and gesticulating. Someone finally goes down into the audience and returns with a card, which she hands to Ms. Zeitgeist. She reads it, flips it over, reads it again, flips it over, reads it again, and then tears it up. [We confiscated several. One side reads THE NEW MANGO. The other side: WE ARE INEVITABLE.] Guillermo Gorgojo appears in the doorway at the other end of the hall. He shakes his head as if in disbelief, and walks a few rows down into the hall, looking around at all the empty seats. Ms. Zeitgeist goes to the lectern and looks out at the . . . crowd. She leans into the microphone.
LZ: "It appears there has been some misunderstanding about the time of today's lecture, so we're having the proctors going around to the dorms to . . . correct the misunderstanding. The lecture will begin in one hour. Thanks for your patience."
An hour later, the buyers from America trailed into a nearly-empty hall.
[to be continued]