CROWDFUNDING: Support a Book Project in Yagruma.com

28 02 2012

This is a crowd funding project.  To donate you must go to this website.

The Cuban graphic artist Jesús Hernández-Güero (+58-4124218907). As of February 28 there are 29 days left to fund this project.

jesushdez-güero.blogspot.com

The following text is from the crowd-funding website for this project:

During the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries in Cuba publications, both newspapers and magazines, offered their columns and spaces to important Cuban writers and intellectuals of the time in exile. In the post-revolutionary Cuba this policy ended.

Based on this fact I plan to make an artist’s book with very specific characteristics. I will include 18 contemporary Cuban intellectuals in exile, who have collaborated on texts written specifically for the book and other unpublished texts. Each brings new readings of diverse phenomena of today’s Cuba.

In the same way they vary their views, so do the discourses that underpin them: sociological, artistic, historiography, journalism, among others.

The texts gathered will be inserted in a selection of images scanned from Cuban publications emblematic of the late nineteenth and first half of the twentieth century.
The publications selected for each of the texts have been determined using criteria to establish consistency between the discourse used by the author and publisher profile of the profile chosen, i.e. a ratio between: author/text – speech/theme – magazine/newspaper.

The images of the publications with inserted texts will make up the pages of the book, where the texts give the feeling of being published in the literature of the corresponding eras.

www.yagruma.org/p/153001/la-tercera-pata

February 14 2012

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EL SEXTO RAPPING FOR HIS FREEDOM

28 02 2012

 

February 24 2012





VOICES Magazine No. 13

28 02 2012

CLICK ON THE PIC TO GO TO THE MAGAZINE

February 20 2012





Asking for the Solidarity of All the Rastafarians in the World

28 02 2012

El Sexto, Public Declaration in Defense of Artists Hector RiscarIEl Nano).

February 7 2012





Ministry of Culturuti

28 02 2012

Promotional photo for ’Chupi Chupi’. (CENTROCUBA.COM)

When a minister of culture has to concern himself with the trivialities of commercial art or its substitutes, that minister obscenely carries a gun under his incivil pants: phallic cannon to the left of his national fly.

Such is the case for quite unpresentable Abel Prieto in Cuba, minister of culture whose resignation (according to horrifying rumors from our intellectual flock) never granted by the senior management of the country, and who is now forced to censure a ridiculous reggaeton, who knows if under pressure from the political police, given the obvious impact of this kind among the population of the island and, especially, given the vertiginous explosion of a capital free of ideological-paternalistic control of the state, just in times of pica-cake from the national treasury facing a future of the Castro regime without Castros.

The victim is not Osmani Garcia (The Voice) or its incredible hit Chupi-Chupi, the most professional of all his video clips. The victim is the humiliated minister who humiliates an almost free-lance contest on Cuban television: the Grammy-loving Lucas Awards, which in turn have had to humiliate thousands of votes received in the Popularity Contest by text message. The victim is a fledgling cellular democracy and also, of course, a captive audience forced to swallow now not the lactic lyric of this and other reggaeton, but the Marxist-Goebbels-like rhetoric of a PhD in Art called to the race by the newspaper Granma and the so many timid ones of an expert who knows that his salary is played by a cross-dressing censor: in the red ink corner, the evil academic witch; in the blue ink corner, the critic of good films.

In this chain of repression of repressors, we are all complicit in crimes against culturalism. Cuba silent. The local churches and those of the exile will be giving thanks at their prudish altars for the government of Havana’s war of against what they call with impotent piety “relativism of values” and “sexual permissiveness”: The Voice is the voice of Satan, as evidenced by the small eyes of demonic desires burning in his previous video clip, The Little Tongue.

The opposition (in the worst cases, inspired by Calvinst-Christian) handled this episode despotic episode badly, but not daring to defend the hedonistic poly-orgasmia that has already shifted from any outbreak of historical responsibility, just in time for the Transition (like the bearded peasants half a century ago, our dissidence can not dance). And, the guild of reggaeton artists and the new rich associated with this still underground industry, have learned a good lesson in local currency: nothing about collecting signatures in solidarity, nothing about boycotting the Lucas Award or other state spaces, no questions about which of them will be ousted next (if anything, they will rush to tattoo in dollars a Comandante who breaks balls: Baby Lords as a visionary). Curtain.

And in the midst of such mixed silence, the bottle thrown at the Evil One with the letter that Osmani Garcia could hardly write, his basic allegation against the ministerial monopoly of culture in Cuba. This text only crystallizes our drama as a nation so mummified by institutions, not by decrepitude much less decapitations. A mixture of clucking chauvinism with the naiveté of the outraged, Osmani Garcia lies from the truth of his kidnapped success, and does so as the little pioneer reclaiming a blot on his record of standing against the blackboard, eluding any trace of politicization that he commits to in perpetuity (certainly including this column).

However, The Voice functions 1959 times better than our whole cultural camp, doing himself proud like a Don Quixote of the Hips against a killing machine that he tragically ignored (but a member of the Apparatus he is not). Although, to be honest, I prefer his lyrics in Havana-Cabrera-Infante-esque slang, these little rhymes that boldly provoke us, perhaps from the post-pop prick-sellers of a Stanley Kubrick of mechanical dictatorships of the mind.

When the regaettonesque tom-tom of the bombs start to fall on this totaliridiculous Havana that doesn’t even leave space for a citizen to think or to prostitute themselves, we will remember then that it is possible to rule a country like an encampment but not like a concentration camp, that illustrated injustice is the worst extra-judicial crime, and that with Chupi-Chupi we are throwing away our penultimate opportunity to see the milk run, and not the blood.

Cubansummatum est!

November 28 2011





TWO DECADES OF DIEGO AND DAVID

28 02 2012

After a thousand years, I’ve run Strawberry and Chocolate on my laptop.

It was a magical moment, that era. Cuba was laughing its head off. But the truth emerged as never before, on the remains of an infamous ideology, childish. We made free in the face of the Hegemon of our history. The death and repression have also raged over the ruins of a nation. It was the time of savages. Leave or shut up, in exile or in a Cuban jail. And amid the chaos and metastasis, the worst movies in America filming a mediocre movie based on a naive little story, but in both cases crystallized of the miracle in hopes of repopulating a country, an illusion.

It was just that, by the way. An instant. Our reality resists thanks to such flashes of insight. The rest is totalitarian boredom, gray rudeness, mute mummers go a little while to wait another month, another millennium, another lie.

Do not ask Senel Paz, or Tomas Gutierrez Alea, or Jose Maria Vitier, or any of its actors. They always responded with platitudes. It’s logical. They did not have enough courage to start a future slang. They were not convinced of wanting to star in an era, far beyond their biographies. All are in the best sense of the word, shadows. One chromatic effect of the excessive illumination so characteristic of film to create atmospheres, meanwhile more realistic than fiction.

Maybe Fidel Castro had the answer in august solitude, but as a good strategist of the masses know to it to their graves (or their incinerators).  Maybe I should now pronounce something absurd or painful about it. But it would betray the intimate beauty of the Revolution. The clean thing that all process pissed off and suicidal, like one of the characters, always kept in the place most secret and safe from the soul. Of dreams. It would add new layers of verbal violence and inherent incomprehension over the crusts and scabs of oblivion that Strawberry and Chocolate accumulated at around twenty years. It is preferable to let the misunderstanding run. To let it play alone in the digital mercenary night of the world. Beyond them. Who are the foreigners of the left of the imperialist First World who exercise their exegesis and narrate their shitty academics about the meaning of the film.

Havana was so beautiful in its monumental ruins. The clothes so ragged. The looks do as feudally provincial. The madness whipping genes and hormones. The final ugliness so worth succumbing to. The epidemics of God to choose who is less hungry. Cuba of ulna we suffer. Eliseo Alberto was right, a poet of titles: No one wants Cuba more than I do. When you have to bounce the paper pedestrian we never were, emerge intact, from the bottom of the trunks of our secret barbarity, the Golden Nugget promised by Diego to David.

One can only capture love between contemporaries so. Compañeros of the scaffold, people at random who coincided in their identical paths of defeat. An imaginary people speaking without a voice. Who defenseless breathe the wonder of coincidence and true love between each other. Beyond that, there is nothing. Official passport, super-professional curricula and the dollars of the enemy, such as those abducted to the creators of this film of danger (all old people die and will not even be remembered, like Fidel Castro now). Beyond that, there is too much. To be others. Floating in a universe without islands. Become a cosmopolitan and don’t waste words in an act of pure past (like me today). Beyond that, I don’t know. I too, like you perhaps, have lost the thread of our history.

I want to add something. I intuit that I am the one who said it. But I still don’t know.

Do not make me despair more on this key point, I guess a little neurotic. Let me not think in peace, please. Thank you.

November 7 2011





Gia

28 02 2012

Gia’s eyes were Earths, Planet Earths in miniature. Silvia recently asked me: are Gia’s eyes inhabited?

Gia, a blessing that we did not deserve. At least not in this country.

Gia came and went in 2011, more ephemeral than the angels who never dare to visit our island.

But Gia was generous.  In her time she became a mom. And was my mom. And mine. Meow. That is why they killed her.

She waited nearly five hours. Dying. Among the land of the ants and blood from another planet. Under the autumn winter rain. Alone. With the memory of violence they performed on her without complaining. She never would have left without saying goodbye. Gia was not. My love is not. And never will be.

She had a gash on her lower abdomen. What was I thinking. The doctor was lax and unenthusiastic. No anesthesia. I’m going to resolve it, but without hope. He opened her up. “This is a disaster,” he said, “You do not know how many organs are pierced. I don’t even know how she’s alive. She is going to suffer.”

I knew how. I knew why. It’s so simple. Because if not, it would not have been Gia. Because if not, it would have been my love. Our love.

Once she made love. Almost physically love. Gia was upset and still a virgin. The Siamese and the ginger fought their feline pheromones. I played to compete with males (my eyes are more catlike than those of either). And I hid Gia from them in a room, to make them a little crazy. To make them sing the song of desire. For Gia first surrendered to me. And I delivered.

I stopped chewing her armpits and stuffed tail and Gia took every invitation to be owned by Landy. And I hugged her hard, inside and pulled her mustache as feminine as her eyebrows and sniffed her saliva so neat and kissed her little moonstone nose and ate her goth emo lips (so black, so black) and I promised that one of her kittens would be mine, all mine and hers, a genetic alliance to save us from the treachery and oblivion. And only then did I free Gia for the Siamese and the ginger and the remaining eggs were shared.

Until the doctor put her to sleep. He had a syringe with potassium chloride. Actually, two. He swore they were just involuntary reflexes, unconscious, she did not suffer. All for fun. I know. She had even more life with me, just now she’d finished feeding her three kittens and it could again be just her and me. Silvia, her and me.

She was buried in Lawton, very deep, 24 hours later. It was hard, but also beautiful. She had not changed at all. Just the same, but rock. She was again waiting to not leave us with a final atrocious image. Silvia did not want to see her, I don’t know why. I knew Gia would still be Gia as long as we didn’t put her away to rot out of sight.

Gia’s eyes were Earths, planets Earth in miniature. What is Sylvia going to ask me now? If Gia’s eyes are inhabited underground?

You know they are.

Always.

October 17 2011