17 02 2010

BORING HOME @ MANGUITO REVIEW, originally uploaded by orlandoluispardolazo.

solene solstice

13 02 2010

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Ladies in White

13 02 2010

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9 02 2010


Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo

In blogs fools mock them as the “Ladies in Greed” to humiliate them because they still have not starved to death, despite the fact they they are all missing a loved one in their family.  And a survival wage.

Ladies in Green: it is perfect this insolent showing off of Lagarde.

Green is the color of hope.

An infirm hope, perhaps, like all true faith.  A hope that is perhaps our ultimate blank check, like their canvas: a piece of paper that no one in Cuba will risk signing (or filming).

Dressed in white, which according to geography is a sigh of peace or of mourning, but they are trying to turn green again, inside.  A madness of laurels.

They march but do not let themselves wither.  They shout so as not to be vulgar.  They walk so as not to be tired, nor daunted by Cuba.

They do not beg, not even a shred of forgiveness: they are millionaires of innocence, skeptical of decrees, they fight the law like lionesses.  And review the virtuous vapors of the gospels.  They are revolutionaries.

They are beyond good and evil.  They exist by their own labor.  They reflect all the agonized light of our excessive noonday sun (a sun detached without rhyme or reason, bland in its repression).

They are so supportive because they are so alone.  They lost the horror of a beating by prosecutorial mandate.

These honorable women are inopportune of the island, an error in the matrix of the horror: what no career political scientist could have anticipated.

Nor do they explain much.  They hardly show any indication.  They move through the open veins of the Avenue of the Americas.

And Olé!

They fight stretches of its operating amateur.

Exposed.  Running.  In truth, they are executioners in which uniforms: robes not as holy as nurses.  Decapitated gladioli like a sacrificial ritual.

The cars honk at them.  The people stone them with words (for now).  They only take another small step.  Hugging the sidewalk between the closed gates and barred doors and a bedrock curb.

They turn under the traffic light at Playa and rest in the Plaza.  They go in pairs.  Singing verses.  Seeming like a Pioneer detachment.

In fact, they have been rejuvenated in their grief.  When an energetic and feminine people cry, the injustice also tends to tremble.

Some are very young (they would have been teenagers in 2003).  They are all colors and creeds.  I hope never to see them form an NGO. Nothing and no one should confiscate the limitless lust for liberty.

All around, the proletarian knights have finished each other.  They, women with feet firmly planted on the ground, as in the sky, still remain historically on the country’s stage of the new century and millennium.

The years zero.

The Ladies in Green (unfaithful tiles of our domestic dominoes).

Those of the improbably verdicts, of will as a virtue, of the white changes in Cuba.

A lesson in whitewash.

Cubansummatum est!

Cuba, it is finished.


5 02 2010


1 02 2010


Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo

…it’s not about you, my infinite friend RP…

For lack of bread, paint.

Jorge Perugorria Paints.  Patricio de la Guardia Paints.  Robertico Robaina Paints. Luis Posada Carriles Paints.  I Paint.

We all paint. To kill time.  As chromatic therapy.  To ease the country.

Oil versus horror.  Acrylic against the smooth texture of reality.

With brushes or with feet.  With olive oil or watery turpentine.  With the fluids from our posthumous bodies.  Painters for the Cubanism.

We paint, of course, landscapes.  Stylish women. Abstract forms once in a while.  Concepts learned from a materialist manual from jail or the university.

We paint in abundance.  Everything is paintable.  Everything is exquisitely expressed inside the cheap inches of a frame.

Art history has democratized itself at a personal level.

We have what could be called an artistic design.  Or plastic propulsion.  Or at least a certain pathetic sensibility.

We make movies or politics.  We act or attack.  In mysteries or ministries.  But what unites us is a hasty watercolor from our creator.  Cuba is plasticity. We are art among the arts, inclusive of the artsy.

To give a slap.  To glide a naive brush or a kitsch carbon.  To reflect that question of schools that resemble reality.

We paint by instinct or inspiration.  By rubbish or revenge.  By marketing or misery. To cover a curriculum a little less cunning than professional.  We paint, I fear the worst, for pure love of the viewer.

We paint so that the world can penetrate our casual Cuban soul.

Thus in the Louvre as in MoMA as in the gallery of Cacocún cocks. We paint our tempuras to drums.

Perugorría, de la Guardia, Robaina, Posada Carriles, y now to top it off, me too.

Until we confuse our hands with an excess of imagination.  Until something happens, perhaps the miracle of patron who brands us messiahs rather than mercenaries.  Until the country consumes the last drops of its biblical disappointment or chronic revolutionary scarcity of color.

It doesn’t matter.  We paint enthusiastically in peace.

Please, permit me the pleasure and privilege of promoting here today a scanned copy of my prominent premiere.

Thank you.  And in all the excitement of paint-paint.  I have the impression that this constitutes a very promising audience.