POLITICS, ART AND

DISSENT IN POST-FIDEL CUBA

______

A Thesis Presented to

The Honors Tutorial College

Ohio University

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In Partial Fulfillment

of the Requirements for Graduation

from the Honors Tutorial College

with the degree of

Bachelor of Arts in Anthropology

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By Madeleine Hordinski

April 2020

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank my anthropology thesis advisors, Dr. Smoki Musaraj and Dr.

Matthew Rosen for their incredible mentorship, patience and unwavering support. This project took over two years of work, and without them it would never have been completed. I would like to thank Josh Birnbaum and Stan Alost for their invaluable feedback on the visual portion of my thesis. I want to also thank the Student

Enhancement Award, the Provost Undergraduate Research Fund, and the Honors Tutorial

College Dean’s Grant for believing in and funding my project in Havana. And finally, I would like to thank Yulier Rodriguez, Diana Diaz-Perez, Yolo, Sergio Mercenit and Dr.

Delgado-Costa. I owe this project to the people and community in Havana who listened to me, trusted me and let me into their lives. Thank you.

1 ABSTRACT

In 2017, the Cuban street artist Yulier P. Rodriguez was thrown in jail and forced to sign a document saying he would never paint on the street walls again. Soon after, the government began covering up his anti-Castro murals at night. Yulier once had over 200 paintings on the walls of Havana, and now, less than 20 exist. My ethnographic research conducted in Havana in May 2018 and 2019 details political art and government censorship in Post-Fidel Cuba. It looks at how street artists use public visual art to protest the communist regime; Yulier is one of the artists I interviewed and followed in this research. My project encapsulates the lives of these artists and looks at how they use art as a form of resistance. Through ethnographic research methods — participant observation, oral interviews and photography — I examine how these artists persevere despite being under constant government surveillance. My research focuses on dissenting artists in Havana and examines how this trend fits into the broader experience of communist regimes, past and present. My project presents a new facet of these regimes in hopes of gaining a broader understanding of the comparative experience and impact communism can have on people worldwide.

2 TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgements ………...... 1

Abstract ...... 2

Table of Contents ...... 3

Introduction ...... 5

Aim and Scope ...... 7

Censorship and Dissent in Communist Cuba ...... 9

Anthropological Theory and Communist Political Art ...... 12

Methodology ...... 14

Thesis Outline …...... 17

Chapter One: Post-Fidel Havana ...... 19

Communism and Post-Communism ...... 20

Approaching Aesthetic Forms in Anthropology ...... 22

Art in Cuban History ...... 27

Conclusion ...... 31

Chapter Two: Respeto el Arte Urbano (On Yulier, Yolo, Salsita and Fabian) ………...... 32

Yulier ……...... 33

Fabian ………...... 36

Yolo ……...... 39

Salsita ...... 43

Conclusion ...... 44

Thesis Visuals ...... 45

3 Chapter Three: Public and Private Spaces ...... 61

Walking with Gaby ...... 62

What is public? ...... 65

What is private? ...... 67

What is censored? ...... 69

Conclusion ...... 73

Chapter Four: The Global Market ...... 75

The Globalization of Cuban Art ...... 77

The Contemporary Cuban Art Market ...... 79

A Multiple Currency System ...... 83

Conclusion ...... 87

Epilogue ...... 88

References ...... 94

Appendix ...... 100

4 INTRODUCTION

I traveled to Cuba for the first time in the summer of 2018 to conduct ethnographic research for my thesis. I flew there with my boyfriend Krishna, and my friend Claire later joined me because Krishna had to go back home for work.

About a week after Krishna and I arrived in Cuba, we were getting dinner at a restaurant when some paintings caught my eye. After we sat down, I walked to the bathroom. On the bathroom door, I saw two voluptuous rear ends painted on two tiny wooden plaques (see figure 1 in the appendix). “Cool,” I thought, as I pushed the door open. I glanced at the artwork again on my way out and decided that I liked the tiny paintings. They were pretty good, I thought. When I sat down, I asked the waiter if he knew the artist. “It’s by Botero,” he said. “He’s Cuban — you can find his work at the

San Jose Market in Habana Vieja.” 1

The tiny paintings were filled with yellow, pink and red hues, and they depicted the rear view of two busty subjects who were facing away from the viewer, completely nude. The paintings mirrored the warm, light-hearted atmosphere of the restaurant. They looked vaguely familiar, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how interesting they were. I hadn’t seen many artistic depictions of heavier bodies — probably because there isn’t a lot of that in American art culture. Botero’s figures were reminiscent of the famous

Venus of Willendorf sculpture, but besides that renowned work, I had not seen anything else like it. A couple days later I decided to go to the San Jose Market to search for more of Botero’s work. After nearly an hour of searching the market, I discovered some

1 For readability, I translate the dialogue throughout from Spanish to English.

5 magnets with the same style of the paintings. “It’s Botero,” a vendor confirmed. I bought all of the Botero magnets I saw. I showed them to other vendors at the market, hoping there would be more for sale.2 “There are no more left — we are sold out completely,” they said, disappointed. People seemed to really like Botero in Cuba.

The next day, I walked around a smaller art gallery in Habana Vieja and admired the owner’s art book collection. At the very bottom of the pile, I spotted a book called

“Botero.” It was published by Taschen. I was immediately impressed — this guy must be a pretty old and famous Cuban painter, I thought as I picked up the book. 3 Sure enough, while flipping through the pages, I saw Botero’s signature backward-facing busty, nude subjects.

“This Cuban artist is incredible,” I said to the gallery owner.

“Oh no,” she said. “This is a famous Colombian painter. We love him like he’s our own in Cuba, but he is not Cuban.” That explained why I couldn’t find much of his work at the San Jose market.

“If you love Botero,” the gallery owner added, “you would love the artist Juan

Carlos Garcia. He lives in Vedado and you can visit him any time. His studio is always open.” She walked over to her desk and scribbled his address on a piece of paper. I thanked her and headed home, thrilled to discover another artist.

From the outside, Garcia’s studio looked like any other building on the street.

Colorful, pied beauty. Cracks ran down the wall and the pollution from the old cars on the street had coated the blue paint with a dusty gray film. The wooden door leading in to

2 Together, I bought four magnets that were about 20 Cuban Convertible Pesos (CUC). CUC and USD are equal, so the total was $20 USD. 3 Taschen is an art book publisher based in Germany.

6 the studio from the street was cracked open, so we walked inside. Juan Carlos Garcia and his swiss artist-friend Lazaro Noris were painting and drawing together next to a window that looked onto the street.

Claire and I introduced ourselves and Garcia gave us a tour of his studio. He showed us every painting, some small, the size of a book, and some large, the size of a door. His paintings also depicted busty nude figures, but they employed cubist, geometric elements. I asked Garcia which painting he liked the best, “This one,” he said, pointing toward what looked like a cubist and mouthless version of The Mona Lisa (see figure 2 in the appendix). I asked him why she didn’t have a mouth and he responded, “I painted my own Mona Lisa without a mouth because I do not have a voice in Cuba.”

Aim and Scope

The more I thought about Garcia’s Mona Lisa, the more I realized how political it was. It was a commentary on censorship – on the inability to speak your mind in Cuba.

After this 2018 trip when I met Garcia, I decided to return to Cuba to research this subject he had unveiled to me: political critique in contemporary Cuban art.

Thus, my thesis examines political critique in contemporary visual art in Havana and looks at how Cuban urban art contributes to the global conversation regarding the experience of living under communist regimes. This project addresses the massive problems that the regime has caused the Cuban people and how these problems manifest in subtle art forms.

My anthropology thesis discusses the oppressive Cuban government and how a small group of visual artists in Havana has managed to openly resist the commuist regime

7 by spreading messages of dissent in public spaces. These artists utilize stencils, tags, sculptures, paintings and performances to spread their message publicly, but their work does not come without punishment. Many of them have been imprisoned and threatened, yet they still continue to persevere. I examine what drives them and how they manage to continue working despite the constant pressures from the government to surrender.

This thesis explores the following questions: (1) How is political critique expressed in Cuban contemporary street art, painting and sculpture? (2) How has political critique emerged throughout Cuba’s transformation to the era of consciousness following

The Special Period? (3) How is political critique in Cuban contemporary art shaped by the local and international market? This study demonstrates how people use agency to confront and also cope with the communist regime in Havana. All residents in this study have long histories in Cuba and use their history to create discourse about the oppressive

Cuban government. To answer these questions, I analyze fieldnotes, paintings and audio recordings from my interviews.

My research entailed ethnographic methods and visual anthropology methods. I interviewed around 25 people for this study, and I conducted eight in-depth interviews with dissenting artists in Havana. I used participant observation, photography, snowball sampling and semi-structured interviews in my research and in my thesis, I engage with the literature surrounding the anthropology of communism and post-communism, the anthropology of art, the history of Cuba and the anthropology of political critique in art.

Ironically, the foundation of the Cuban revolution was based upon the ideals of organic thought and free will, and those original ideas continue to persist in the minds of

8 these contemporary artists in Havana. As long as they have the resources to create, they will continue to express dissent in hopes of changing the nature of the communist regime.

By looking at dissent in communist Cuba, this research aims to contribute to the global discussion about communism and its effects on daily life, and it is intended to foster discussion about communism and its practicality.

Censorship and Dissent in Communist Cuba

In 1948, just five years before the Cuban revolution, censorship began, and the

Cuban constitution declared that freedom of speech was allowed “in keeping with the objectives of a socialist society” and that artistic expression was permitted “as long as its content is not contrary to the revolution.”

Although censorship began in the mid 20th century and continues today, Cuban artists have always found a way to speak their mind. During the revolution in the 1950s, new art spaces emerged. This art was characterized by “disagreement with the thinking that dominated the country in that ‘dark’ time” (Valdés 2016). Scholars of Cuban art noted:

When the circumstances in which the artist lives are essentially negative, it tends

to negate the presentation. Artists are no longer motivated and attempt to move

beyond the hostile environment using the elements that the visual arts offer them.

When a country’s social crisis coincides with a cosmopolitan acceptance of these

aesthetic values, abstraction almost inevitably finds a means to develop. Cuban

artists were no exception to this dynamic. The final disintegration of the standard

political formulas, and the absence of a reality that could offer expressive

9 possibilities, paved the way for abstraction — the denial and repudiation of a

reality in crisis (Valdés 2016).

Although abstract art does not have an overt political message, this style still reflects the deep discontent Cubans felt during that time. Despite the seemingly positive idea behind the revolution, the Castro regime was not inclusive, and persecuted the gay community and dissenters of the revolution.4 Not only were people persecuted for their sexuality or political beliefs — many died in internment camps following the revolution, “The late and widely respected University of Hawaii historian R. J. Rummel, who made a career out of studying what he termed “democide,” the killing of people by their own government, reported in 1987 that credible estimates of the Castro regime’s death toll ran from 35,000 to 141,000, with a median of 73,000” (Glenn Garvin n.d.) And from 1959 to

1994, it is estimated that over 205,000 people left Cuba (Florida 2016).

The Cuban government has fostered a dictatorship for decades that has murdered, tortured and exiled thousands of people. It is important to mention, however, that despite its corruption and callousness, there have been some positive side effects to the communist regime. While my thesis focuses on oppression that is indicative in the lives of many Cubans, positive pieces of the revolution do remain. Some of the original ideals exist: health care and the education system in Cuba are superb, and the Cuban visual art, music, dance and literary scene have remained as vibrant as ever, thanks to the government’s fervent support of academics and the arts.5

4 The original purpose of the revolution was to make Cuba run by Cubans again, because the U.S. had a huge financial and political hold on Cuba during that time. 5 According to the CIA World Factbook, as of 2017, Cuba’s physician’s density is 8.19 physicians/1,000 population, compared to the U.S.’ 2.59 physicians/1,000 population average in 2016.

10 From 1950 through the 1970s, the Socialist-Realist style dominated visual art, because it romanticized Cuban Communism. This style was characterized by “the excessive sovietization and dogmatism of the culture by internationalizing local content”

(María Gaztambide n.d.). Following this era, the 1980s was characterized by an avant- garde scene. Then in 1989 and 1991, Cuba experienced economic, social, and political upheaval following its detachment from the Soviet Union (Eckstein 2004). During this time, many artists stayed, and many fled. Some scholars call the decade following The

Special Period (some also debate that the Special Period still continues). During the decade following Cuba’s detachment, over 30,000 Cubans left the island, and many who stayed were persistently hungry and malnourished (Zurita 2016). In her book, Cuba in

The Special Period, anthropologist Ariana Hernandez-Reguant calls this epoch “a defining category of experience,” she adds, “Such a time frame, within a specific geographical space, is often identified with a collective type of consciousness”

(Hernandez-Reguant 2009). This “collective type of consciousness” was characterized by distaste in the government’s oppressive regime, and it is this distaste that is evident in many works of art in this era. Is there a new consciousness in Cuba today, or has the collective consciousness remained the same since Cuba’s detachment? During the avant- garde period and Special Period, discourse surrounding identity was encouraged. This identity is what many Cubans call Cubanidad — Cubanidad examines the multifaceted ways of what it means to be Cuban. It is evident in many works and especially includes pieces expressing political critique. For example, one of Cuba’s most famous street artists, Yulier Rodriguez, said in an interview with Reuters, “I want to create a social conscience with my work, an awareness about what we are turning into (Marsh 2017).”

11 Symbolizing Cubans’ unwillingness to publicly express dissatisfaction for fear of punishment, his creatures often have no mouth.

Fidel Castro began to change Cuba’s developmental path concerning domestic and external affairs during The Special Period (Eckstein 2004). After the revolution’s extreme radicalization and Castro’s subsequent attempt to create a utopian communist country, Eckstein adds, “He retreated and accommodated to conditions far short of ideal”

(Eckstein 2004). This general trend has continued in Cuba with the current president,

Miguel Díaz-Canel. Living conditions in Cuba are still difficult for many. Grocery stores consistently run out of food, sometimes for weeks, and as of 2017, government employees make an average of $25 every month (The Miami Herald 2016). These frustrating occurrences have prompted many Cuban artists to express dissatisfaction with the poor living conditions.

Each time I have returned to Cuba, I notice more and more political art strewn across the street walls. Although the government continues to crack down on public street art, people continue to paint. Art in Cuba now has close to a century of work haunted by communism, and artistic expression today continues to reflect the critical consciousness of Cubans surrounding the communist regime.

Anthropological Theory and Communist Political Art

My work draws predominantly from three theoretical literatures: the anthropology of art, the anthropology of communist aesthetics and other ethnographic works that look at the intersectionality of visuals, politics and markets. Anthropologists look at aesthetics in communist and post-communist societies and expressions of dissent among these

12 aesthetics, promoting art as a way of promoting ideology. In today’s post-Fidel Cuba, censorship under the communist regime still exists. My thesis deals with communist themes such as the stiob aesthetic and the exoticism of art created under the regime, and it also looks at hidden themes of oppression, fear and frustration.6 I draw from scholars of anthropology such as Alexei Yurchak (2006) and Sofia Kalo (2017), who have conducted ethnographic studies of aesthetics in communist and post-communist political art. I draw from their work to parallel their observations about late communist art to Post-Fidel

Cuban art. Cuba occupies this unique space in time: it is in a late-communist phase, but it dawns a thriving capitalist market. While scholars like Kalo and Yurchak did not research within the same communist time period that contemporary Cuba falls into, their analyses still help place Cuban political art on the map of transitioning communist countries. My thesis more specifically looks at where art, censorship and protest fall into place in the post-Fidel market. I look at how public space is used as a way to critique the Cuban government; my research looks at the harassment and censorship these artists have faced for years and continue to face today.

My thesis examines three central themes. One, that dissent and censorship surrounding Cuban political art creates an ongoing tension between the communities being censored and the government. Two, that these visual street artists express critique with motifs of creatures that symbolize how the government dehumanizes and manipulates the Cuban people. And three, that this group of Cuban artists utilize the

(dawning) globalized capitalist market despite the prevailing communist system.

6 A Russian genre of irony in art and performance in the Soviet era.

13 Methodology

The material that forms the basis of this discussion was formed over a period of eight weeks in Havana, Cuba, between May of 2018 and December of 2019. I stayed in

Havana during a one-month period of fieldwork in May 2019, a three-week period in

May 2018 and a one-week period in December 2019. During my research in Havana in

May 2018, I made new contacts and became acquainted with the city, history and culture.

Additionally, I formed new friendships and became more familiarized with Cuban

Spanish. This experience provided the basis for my research and helped with my assimilation. I revisited several neighborhoods within the city in 2019 including Vedado,

Habana Vieja and Centro Habana, where I previously made key contacts as well as observed pertinent street art and paintings.

In the summer of 2019, I conducted ethnographic research using methods such as semi-structured and unstructured interviews, participant observation, snowball sampling, photography and a visual analysis of paintings, drawings and graffiti that expressed political critique. I conducted semi-structured interviews in Spanish and occasionally

English with eight Cuban contemporary artists. These interviews were held at coffee shops, restaurants, on the street or in a studio, and they lasted anywhere from 45 minutes to two hours. Some artists I interviewed multiple times. I also conducted 18 informal interviews with people on the street with my research assistant; we walked up to Cubans hanging out or passing by the murals with the goal of looking at how they might be affected by these political messages. I also wanted to see if people were aware of the suspicious nature in which one of the murals had disappeared.

14 I had two research assistants helping me before, during and after the interviews. I befriended these assistants when I arrived in Havana in May 2019. I pitched my project to them the second day I arrived, and both of them seemed genuinely fascinated by it. I encouraged them to ask questions during my interviews and they did. My primary research assistant was Diana Perez, a then-23-year-old recent interior design graduate from the University of Havana. She has a background in art and design and was familiar with one of the artists I interviewed. My other research assistant was Sergio Mercenit, a father in his late 50s who teaches English and French to other Cubans. Sergio does not have an educational background in art, but he is well-versed in the art world because he has an extensive book collection detailing many subjects from art to war. Both Sergio and

Diana helped me tackle how to pose dangerous questions about the Cuban government depending on who we interviewed. I reviewed my questions with them before I asked them to the artists, and they always helped me edit the questions if they thought it was needed. Luckily, the two of them were comfortable with my research project because both of them expressed feelings of discontent for the Cuban government. During my time in Havana, I found that the younger people seemed to make up the majority of those who protested the government. Thus, younger interviewers seemed less intimidating and the artists appeared to open up more when they were interviewed by Diana and me.

I utilized photojournalism as a visual anthropological method to detail this counterculture of artists who express political critique in contemporary Cuba. I photographed their artistic processes, their work in the street and occasionally, their life outside of their work. These images I collected are presented throughout my thesis, most

15 prominently following chapter two, where I discuss several prominent political Cuban artists.

To prevent selection bias, I drew from several artists from various institutions.

Some artists were formally trained, some artists were self-taught and some pursued art education at the University of Havana. I learned how these artists were producing and distributing their art both locally and internationally, how they articulated political critique and what obstacles they encountered on the way. I examined how the price of their work might fluctuate for different audiences or consumers, and the purpose of creating this art. Who do the artists cater to and why? Is it to encourage free thought? To make money? Both? Additionally, I visited their studios and spent time with them one on one and also around their families and friends at places like cafes and galleries, or just walking from errand to errand. While I spent time with them, I noted how their work affects their everyday life and vice-versa. At their studios, I observed their process of making art, displaying art and communicating their vision. I also looked at the artists’ relation to the economy: what is their full-time occupation and are they employed by the government? Do these artists mainly sell their work to Cubans or foreigners?

I researched at many locations including several galleries and studios. During my interviews with individual artists, I was attuned to how these artists negotiate censorship in their country, how the government surveilles their artistic work and how they themselves might have circumvented official rule around censorship of artistic expression. I paid close attention to the way they used visuals to express political dissent, the ways they represented power and the kind of political claims they expressed with art.

16 Interviews, photos and participant observation I gathered after spending weeks with all of these artists provide key data in my thesis. Furthermore, I made photos of street art, paintings, studios, and galleries to compile an archive of political artistic expression that I observed in Cuba during my trips. In addition to the extensive interview material I gathered, my photos also provide rich ethnographic data which I use to illustrate the current political critique through visual art in Cuba.

Thesis Outline

This thesis addresses the numerous ways the Cuban communist regime has continuously attempted to eliminate freedom of expression, and I illuminate how a small group of artists in Havana have revealed the many injustices Cubans face at the hands of the government. Using anthropological theory, ethnographic research and visual anthropology elements, I wholly examine this subculture in Cuba.

Chapter one discusses the literature that provides a basis for my research on political critique in post-Fidel Havana. I detail the anthropology of political critique in art, how to approach art in an ethnographic way, the anthropology of communism and a brief history of Cuba and how the four overlap.

Chapter two focuses on my main artist informants: Yulier, Yolo, Fabian and

Salsita. It discusses the messages they aim to portray; their artistic influences and the effect social media and censorship have on their work. It reveals their thoughts on censorship, the international protection they might receive and the relationships they have or lack because of their artistic choices. This chapter opens with a description of my role in the study, how trust was established and how all of this information was obtained. The

17 opening also details the gender-bias that exists in this artistic sphere in Havana, since my main informants are all male.

Following chapter two, I present photos and scans from my research. This visual portion of my thesis parallels the structure of chapter two: it opens with a portrait of each artist in the order of how they appear in the chapter. After each portrait, I include a typology of their art, so the viewer can see their style and how their work exists in public or private spaces. After the typology, I present a scan of artifacts each artist gave me, and after the scan, I include an image with further details about how the artist works or how their work is presented in public. Furthermore, in the appendix, I present visuals that support important works or people I discuss throughout my thesis.

Chapter three examines official and unofficial art. Where is art allowed and not allowed? Which displays are censored and why? Is social media censored? And if so, how? This chapter includes a visual narrative made of photographs of censored art and art that is technically illegal in the public sphere, but not censored. It also briefly examines the harsh political critique allowed in private spaces, but not public ones.

Chapter four examines the global market. How is political critique in Cuban contemporary art shaped by the local and international market? I examine the history of the globalization of art in Cuba and discuss the artists’ main consumers. Additionally, I look at the consumers’ role in shaping the artists’ message.

Ultimately, I hope that the contributions of these chapters will wholly illuminate post-Fidel Cuban life under the communist regime: detailing political art as a form of resistance, the complexity of the contemporary Cuban market and the dichotomy between today’s private and public spheres in Havana.

18 CHAPTER ONE

POST-FIDEL HAVANA

Argentine writer and journalist Rodolfo Walsh noted, “Las paredes son la imprenta de los pueblos.” (The walls are the printing press for the people.)7 Although graffiti in the United States is often overlooked as trivial, this quote could not ring truer for contemporary street art in Havana, Cuba. As is its power, graffiti in Havana is ubiquitous. Street art, however, is not the only medium that dominates Havana. Painting, sculpture and drawing, too, are instrumental and serve as a platform for self-expression and political critique within the city. Twentieth century Cuban painter Wifredo Lam revealed a facet of this notion, “With regard to life, modern painting is a revolutionary activity…We need it in order to transform the world into a more humane place where mankind can live in liberty.” 8 Influential artists like Wifredo have undoubtedly opened the door for self-expression through artistic media, and the legacy of such artists has carried into contemporary Cuba. Cuba’s long and complicated political history has created a fascinating art scene in today’s Havana.

When walking down Havana’s Malecón, you are confronted by decay; the most ornate buildings overlooking the sea are lined with piles of rubble, and the colorful paint has long been worn away. 9 Massive pastel-colored apartments border the sidewalks with gaping holes, and the grocery stores are filled with empty shelves. Sometimes, the stores go for days without stocking bottled water. This is what the capital of communist Cuba

7 For readability, this is translated to English from Spanish; this quote is famously attributed to Rodolfo Walsh; J. Delgado-Costa, 2019, Personal Communication 8 For readability, this is translated to English from Spanish; attributed to influential Cuban painter Wifredo Lam 9 The Malecón is a Spanish word used to mean a paved public walkway by a lake or ocean; in Cuba, the Malecón spans for about five miles, lining the main neighborhoods in the city.

19 looks like in 2019. The art scene in Havana reveals the dissatisfaction with such decay — a decay that is symbolic of the government’s continuous disinterest in caring for its people. Art such as Garcia’s illuminates the pain and discontent that stems from this callousness. Illustrating this frustration allows artists to contribute to the incremental improvement of their city. In this chapter, I examine literature that provides a basis for my research on political critique in post-Fidel Havana. I detail the anthropology of political critique in art, how to approach art in an ethnographic way, the anthropology of communism and a brief history of Cuba and how the four overlap.

Communism and Post-Communism

Communism is a hot topic, and its titillating and tenacious tentacles have reached many countries around the world. Since its origins in the French Revolution of 1789, followed most prominently by Karl Marx’s The Communist Manifesto in 1848, communism and post-communism have grown into international phenomena. China,

Cambodia, Cuba, East Germany, Ethiopia, North Korea, Poland, Romania, the USSR, and Venezuela are examples of countries that have instituted communist policies.

Anthropologist Katherine Verdery, author of What Was Socialism, and What Comes

Next? notes the desirability of such a system: “Inequality, hunger, poverty, and exploitation — to these perennial features of the human condition socialism offered a response. It promised laboring people dignity and freedom, women equal pay for work, and national minorities equal rights in the state” (Katherine Verdery 1996). After the institutionalization of socialism in some countries, however, these promises were not kept and often backfired. Anthropologist Alexei Yurchak looks at this disenchantment through

20 his analysis of late socialist art in the post-Soviet Union, examining political critique and the expression of discontent in art and performance in his book, Everything Was Forever,

Until It Was No More: The Last Socialist Generation. Yet, still, as anthropologist Kristen

Ghodsee examines through her collection of fictional and non-fictional ethnographic essays, Lost in Transition, to the surprise of outsiders, socialism is often reminisced fondly (Kristen Ghodsee 2011). In this chapter, I examine literature such as the latter to establish a greater understanding of the relationship among communism, art and dissent.

Before I discuss political critique and anthropology of art, I would like to first provide a historical basis for the role of art in communist Cuba. Che Guevara (1965) gives a detailed outline of where he places art’s importance in Cuban communist society in his letter to the editor of a Uruguayan weekly paper. In this letter, he writes:

For a long time, individuals have been trying to free themselves from alienation

through culture and art … One defends one’s individuality, which is oppressed by

the environment, and reacts to aesthetic ideas as a unique being whose aspiration

is to remain immaculate. It is nothing more than an attempt to escape (9-10).10

In Cuban communist society, artists were regarded as a fundamental component of the workforce, and they were especially important because “They were nurtured as instrumental to the reproduction of revolutionary nationalist ideology” (Hernandez-

Reguant 2009). This pushback against artists in Havana is ironic, considering the Cuban communist mastermind, Che, was incredibly supportive of artists since the very beginning.

10 For readability, the text has been translated from Spanish to English.

21 Approaching Aesthetic Forms in Anthropology

Art is a fundamental component of every culture, and anthropologists have been interested in how art and culture are superimposed since the early years of the discipline

(Florida n.d.), (Malinowski 1961), (Lévi-Strauss 1966). When analyzing, discussing and critiquing art, many assume the perspective of a critic. The critic’s perspective, however, removes art from its original context. And, art-critic perspectives are based on western cultural education. The ethnographic approach to art examines the social history and relationships that produced the work — the context is key rather than the mere skill that produced a particular aesthetic (Coote and Shelton 1992), (Price 2007). While an ethnographic approach to art may sound obscure and unfamiliar, its significance and value should not be overlooked. By understanding different anthropological concepts such as art as a social process, modes of embodiment and matters of engagement, the culture and circumstances in which art is created can be better understood (Bakke and

Peterson 2017). This section discusses the anthropology of art and explores the scholarly works that engage with art and culture. Specifically, it emphasizes the idea of analyzing art as an anthropologist and not a critic, “Anthropological work on the arts tends to be less concerned with individual works of art than with an analysis of the artfully made world — be this textual, sonic, kinesthetic, olfactory, or material” (Bakke and Peterson

2017). Like Bakke and Peterson, rather than looking at individual pieces, I look at how entire bodies of work fall into place within the fabric of Cuban culture. In Havana, street painting, among other art forms, has continuously played a crucial role in shaping Cuban culture and the critique of it.

22 Anthropologist Alfred Gell carves out what art means in the context of anthropology in his book Art and Agency: An Anthropological Theory. The

“‘anthropology of art’ focuses on the social context of art production, circulation, and reception, rather than the evaluation of particular works of art, which, to my mind is the function of a critic.’” He adds, “the anthropology of art cannot be the study of the aesthetic principles of this or that culture, but of the mobilization of aesthetic principles

… in the course of social interaction” (Gell 1998). Gell examines this anthropological theory of visual art: his anecdote suggests that art and aesthetic principles are always intertwined through a history of social interaction. He concludes that fine art can often be partly, if not completely, an escape from or an accidental enhancement of the main experiences of living and being.

This approach also echoes Claude Lévi-Strauss’ (1966) reflections on the process of the production of art:

The painter is always mid-way between design and anecdote, and his genius

consists in uniting internal and external knowledge, a ‘being’ and a ‘becoming’ in

producing with his brush an object which does not exist as such and which he is

nevertheless able to create on his canvas. This is a nicely balanced synthesis of

one or more artificial and natural structures and one or more natural and social

events (Lévi-Strauss 1966).

Lévi-Strauss emphasizes the importance of experiences that lead to the creation of art. He says that art is a combination of internal and external knowledge. Looking at both personal and shared experiences portrayed in Cuban art was a fundamental component of my research this summer.

23 Expounding on this idea about creating works that reflect political dissatisfaction, anthropologist Sofia Kalo (2017) notes nuanced ways in which artists express critique, writing about artists in post-socialist Albania, “ … artists are cognizant of the fetishistic demand for state socialist subject matter in the transnational art world, the commodity potential of their work does not thwart its critical and political potential insofar as it is employed to complicate mainstream discourses on the socialist experience and the politics of the present … ” (Kalo 2017). While many artists are aware of the intrigue of communism, she argues, this awareness and their need to express themselves are not mutually exclusive. Furthermore, in Everything Was Forever, Until It Was No More, anthropologist Alexei Yurchak (2016) analyzes works that are humorous critiques of the government. He discusses the slang term stiob to describe an ironic aesthetic practiced by artist-groups in late-20th century Russia (Yurchak 2006). These groups of artists create works that subtly mock authoritarian figures in late-soviet Russia. Yurchak notes, “The aesthetic of stiob was based on a grotesque ‘overidentification’ with the form of an authoritative symbol, to the point that it was impossible to tell whether the person supported the symbol or subverted it in a subtle ridicule (Yurchak 2016). Yurchak then lists examples of work such as “the text of a slogan, the script of a ritual, a visual image of propaganda art or simply mundane formulaic elements of the Soviet everyday” that fall into this genre (Yurchak 2016). Kalo (2017) writes about another similar political and artistic jab in paintings, but she portrays zealous socialist followers. In her article, she interviews the Albanian artist Konstandini who reveals the truth behind her work:

Despite appearances, the message of these paintings is sad,” she emphasized.

“Arrows are shooting toward Athens, Prague, and Berlin. People are smiling, they

24 are energetic. But the idea of being closer to Europe is an illusion since we

continue to be surrounded by the same reality, the same problems (Kalo 2017).

Although works in every communist or former communist country have varying nuances, the underlying theme is the same: though communist and post-communist governments tend to issue cheerful and propagandistic messages, there is still confusion and intense discontent. Taking both past and present politics into account is important when studying art made under a communist regime, especially in the current chaotic political climate of post-Fidel Havana.

Adding onto this idea, Gretchen Bakke (2007) details Slovenian contemporary art in the early 21st century and discusses the importance of artistic expression and how art can give people a platform to speak:

Physically invasive artworks were clearly providing an outlet for the other side of

the story: art was being used as a visceral and extremely expressive space for

“speaking” about things for which there were neither adequate words nor suitable

for a for complaint — beyond those offered by galleries” (Bakke 2007).

Similar to Slovenia, many artists in Cuba have utilized street walls or personal studios to express critique, and they continue to produce art regardless of how difficult it is to accomplish.11

Infrastructures of art, or the institutions and networks that “provide support for the presentation and circulation of people, goods, resources, and arts” are other fundamental components to analyze when considering art forms (Bakke and Peterson 2017). For example, Brian Larkin (1997) discusses a shift in the network of pirated material to legal

11 Many Cuban artists are deeply of legal punishment or public disdain.

25 media. Larkin notes “This wandering over the lines that separate the legal from the nonlegal has been a common experience … ” Artists in Cuba walk this line every day — selling both legal and illegal art. Larkin also writes about how piracy creates an aesthetic,

“a set of formal qualities that generates a particular sensorial experience … ” (Larkin

1997). Art that circumvents censorship in Cuba certainly has an aesthetic. In both Juan

Carlos Garcia’s work and Yulier Rodriguez’s work, the subjects often have no mouth.

This theme is indicative of a larger trend that draws attention to aesthetic.

Sometimes, to learn more about art and its place in a culture, establishing artistic rapport is necessary. Dorathi Bock Pierre (2006) provides useful insight on how anthropologist Katherine Dunham was able to establish rapport with her informants.

Dunham described needing a moral backing so that her subjects could understand her desire for native research. To establish this rapport, she performed for them and included

“traditional ballet numbers or aesthetic interpretations” (Dunham n.d.). Dunham said that they loved her performance and thus, trust was established. To learn more about art in

Havana, it was necessary in some situations for me to develop a way to establish credibility as an artist just as Dunham did — for me, I established credibility through

Instagram as a photographer.

Looking at communist Cuba in more detail, trends of communist political critique can also be found in literature and film during The Special Period. In the film Fresa y

Chocolate (Strawberry and Chocolate), produced in 1995 by a government organization called the Institute of Cuban Art and Cinematographic Industry (ICAIC), the protagonist is an openly gay man who blatantly questions the credibility of the Cuban government and revolution (Tomás Gutiérrez Alea, Juan Carlos Tabio 1995). The premise of the film

26 is that if you are gay in Cuba you are anti-revolutionary by default. The film questions the purpose of the revolution and poses the question: if people are excluded from the revolutionaries for something like sexuality, is the revolution truly as open-minded as it claims? (Tomás Gutiérrez Alea, Juan Carlos Tabio 1995). Anthropologist Noelle Stout

(2014) writes that the Cuban government’s funding of the film “sent a powerful message about counteracting Cuba’s international image as homophobic and broadening the public’s perspective toward homosexual citizens” (Stout 2014). Others argue that the purpose of the film was more nuanced. Some say it sent the message under the pretext that the Cuban government does not prosecute those who criticize the government, because they did not prosecute the Fresa y Chocolate filmmakers. This is a contested message, however, because the government has and continues to prosecute those who express political critique. In his 1992 autobiography Before Night Falls, esteemed Cuban writer Reinaldo Arenas documented his experience as a gay man during the revolution

(Arenas 1992). This autobiography he wrote on his deathbed in New York discusses his imprisonment in a gay internment camp and his many experiences with discrimination during the revolution. The book was banned in Cuba in 1992 and is still banned today.

Art in Cuban History

For many years in Cuba, people have found ways to express their distaste for the current political system. According to an Amnesty International article by journalist

Josefina Salomon, in 2015, Graffiti artist Danilo “El Sexto” Maldonado Machado was jailed for painting the names of Raul and Fidel Castro on two live pigs. His plan was to release the pigs as part of an artistic performance, but, after being accused of contempt,

27 he was thrown in prison for 10 months before he could follow through (Josefina Salomon

2016). Soon after his release in Cuba, El Sexto emigrated to the United States in January

2017. He was then again arrested in September 2018 and convicted for a year in the

Miami for allegedly stalking his ex-girlfriend. Despite the U.S. headlines, the artists I met in Cuba were certain that a Cuban government agent found a way to plant this information to get El Sexto arrested in the U.S., so he would not continue criticizing the

Cuban government.

Contributing to this field of thought, Hernandez-Reguant says that artists who fall into commercial culture have “developed a sort of ‘double consciousness.”’ She claims that these artists make pieces that cater to the desires of tourists with a “distancing gaze.”

Adding onto the nuances of the fetishization of communist art, René Francisco and

Eduardo Ponjuan’s Reproducción prohibida satirized a Cuban communist leader whose image was banned for reproduction purposes, which led to the censorship of the entire series and its removal from the public (Mari Carmen Ramírez 2018). It can no longer be viewed online, but its presence was documented by a large art gallery in Minneapolis. It should be noted that posters of Che Guevara and Fidel Castro are popular in Cuban homes and in the tourist market — knowing this, it can be inferred that the aforementioned work featured one particular revolutionary leader: Che Guevara. Guevara is an icon of communism and has simultaneously become a symbol of capitalism. The commodification of his image is one of the many humorous failures of the Cuban

Revolution that artists have since satirized. Works like these serve to overidentify, and thus, draw attention to the iconizing of Cuban communist leaders and the prevalence of

28 their images in society. Because in Cuba, it is nearly impossible to walk down the street without seeing one of their faces plastered to a wall (see figure 3 in the appendix)

Censorship in Cuba began in 1948, and in 2013, the Cuban Human Rights and

National Reconciliation Commission estimated that there were over 4,000 arbitrary detentions in connection with free press, expression, and association (Viviana Aldous

2015). Even more recently, President Díaz-Canel threatened to further curb this freedom.

A new law signed by Díaz-Canel in April 2018 has continued to affect artistic self- expression. According to Erika Guevara, Americas Director at Amnesty International, this law, called Decree 349, allows for an increase in arbitrary detentions. “Under the decree, all artists, including collectives, musicians and performers, are prohibited from operating in public or private spaces without prior approval by the Ministry of Culture,”

Guevara noted. Given the historical context, this law does not come as a surprise, but it has been disappointing for many Cubans who have been hoping for a change in the system. And more recently, in December 2018, journalist Jasmine Weber reported in

Hyperallergic that over 11 artist-activists were detained after planning a sit-in at the

Ministry of Culture to protest the incoming Decree 349. The artists are said to be Tania

Bruguera, Amaury Pacheco OmniPoeta, Michel Matos, Luis Manuel Otero Alcantara, and Yanelys Nuñez Leyva. In this article, Weber interviewed Cuban artist and scholar Coco Fusco, who said: “[The artist-activists] perceived that this was going to be an attack on the poorest artists, the most autodidact, the most political, and the people that don’t want to work with the government … And so they’ve been fighting this in a number of different ways since July.” Fusco added:

29 [This group] had exhausted all of the legal means in Cuba to get the government

to sit down with the art community, and they weren’t getting an answer. They

submitted forms to every political entity in the country, and they got no answer

(Weber 2019).

This group of artists reported that they were under surveillance before the sit-in. Patrol vehicles would park outside their homes and watch their every move (Weber 2019).

Some were arrested in their homes, and others, outside of the Ministry of Culture in

Havana. These arrests have drawn national attention and in England, The Tate Modern

Museum has issued a statement saying that its institution stands behind these protestors.

Their community created T-shirts with a trending hashtag #noaldecreto349 (no to decree

349), Weber said.

Regardless of the recent developments in Cuba, artists continue to discover novel ways to find a voice amid the chaos. After artist Tania Brugera’s work was banned in

Havana at an exhibition in a Spanish colonial fortress, she sought a national audience.

According to a 2018 article in The Miami Herald, the Cuban government shut down

Brugera’s work after a few hours under the pretense that male nudity was banned. She presented her work at the fortress because it is the site where the Castro regime tortured and killed its opponents in the 1960s (2018). According to her program, her work addresses the contradictions of life in Cuba under the Castro regime. Brugera still lives in

Havana, but studies in New York City, where her art was exhibited at the Museum of

Modern Art (MoMa) until March 2018.

30 Conclusion

Artists still beat on against the current in their hometown Havana through street art. Marsh (2017) notes that graffiti is “a means of touching on social issues in a coded way.” She says that the recent influx of graffiti in Havana indicates the increasing effect of international culture as the country gradually opens.

Regardless of where Cuba moves politically, its people will always find new and innovative ways to express Cubanidad so their voices can be heard in their country and around the world. Although Cuban media does not show the true voices of the people, only censored propaganda from the government — walls, canvases, galleries and other forms of public displays have become a true, monumental and united voice for citizens of

Havana. The stories that follow are one example of how dissent perseveres in contemporary Cuba.

31 CHAPTER TWO

RESPETO EL ARTE URBANO

(RESPECT URBAN ART)

On Yuli, Yolo, Fabian and Salsita

The artists who publicly protest the Cuban government, however small, have a voice that circulates throughout the city and sometimes, around the world. When I asked an artist how many people created such work, he said “probably around three." Their sculptures, paintings and drawings, installed as public displays of resistance, continuously have a significant impact on Havana.

While these artists don’t consider themselves part of a group or movement, they are intensely cognizant of the each other’s government run-ins. Their work has similar layers of complexity: it constantly plays with absurdity, irony and politics in the public sphere. This is often done by portraying the government’s treatment of its people through inhuman creatures or animals: worms, rats, tool-humans or defeated-looking figures in masks: they all simultaneously symbolize abuse, apathy and oppression inflicted by the government.

In this chapter, I illustrate what I learned from spending a month with these artists. I look at their encounters with the government and censorship. What is it that drives their work? How does their work speak to the political situation in Cuba? What is the effect of political critique through their art?

32 Yulier “Yuli” Perez Rodriguez

I walk into a loud restaurant on the corner of a busy street that is located at the edge of Old Havana.12 It’s windy and I can barely hear the conversation of the couple sitting at the table next to me. I’m worried, because I’m supposed to meet the street artist

Yulier P. Rodriguez here for an interview in 10 minutes, but I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to record his voice over the noise of the wind and traffic.

15 minutes later, Yulier walks in. My research assistant Diana Perez and I introduce ourselves and sit down. We order food, and Yulier orders a beer. We begin to talk.

Yulier “Yuli” Perez Rodriguez, 30, is from Havana, Cuba, and he has lived there his entire life. He has a fiancée, Igmay Wilson, who is pregnant with their child.13 He lives with his mother, cousin and fiancée in a tiny apartment in Centro Habana as he and

Igmay prepare to move out into a bigger space for their new family.

When Yulier sat down with us at the café, he told us he must meet people here when he goes out. The government always watches him; they own this restaurant, he says, and keep tabs on him here. He takes my Zoom recorder and hides it under his napkin. This will work? he asks. I nod my head, unsure.

"I was kidnapped inside my own home," Yulier said. Before 2017, Yulier's politically-motivated street paintings were estimated to have covered over 200 walls in

Havana. Now, Yulier calculates, there are only about 20 full paintings left. Most have been covertly destroyed by the government at night. The morning after, the murals are

12 Old Havana is the tourist neighborhood of the city. There are upscale restaurants, polished architecture and tourist shops everywhere. But on the very edge of the neighborhood, you get a taste of real Havana: where the buildings aren’t quite as polished, and decayed walls are more commonplace.

13 Igmay and Yulier broke up shortly after I left Cuba in 2019; they will no longer have a child together.

33 painted over, or they look like they have succumbed to the natural decay that affects

Havana’s buildings.

“You start to be censored when you (have) a level of credibility or promotion that affects the image of the government,” he said. And for Yulier, censorship wasn’t the only punishment for his political art; he was also kidnapped and thrown in jail. “They kidnap you, they interrogate you for five hours … they throw you between shit and trash and between criminals,” Yulier said.

Yulier does not have many friends, and he feels very isolated, he said to me one night. He’s afraid to make friends, he said, because the government is ever-present in his life and it makes it difficult for him to trust people. Dorathi Bock Pierre (2006) describes anthropologist Katherine Dunham’s experience establishing rapport with her informants.

Just like Dunham, I had to figure out how to establish rapport with Yulier. After I met him twice, I asked if I could go with him to his studio, but he was clearly not comfortable with that idea. So, I asked him to meet me again at the café. And again. I took photos of him and shared them; he was thrilled to have good photos for his social media accounts. I met him at least four times for several hours at the same café before he invited me to see him paint. And before I went to his apartment for the first time to meet and spend time with his family, I spent hours in his studio. After Yulier realized I was not just a student but a fellow artist and friend, he let me into his life and we connected more deeply.

The government has imposed a lot of pain on Yulier over the years. After he was kidnapped, jail was not the only punishment the Cuban government inflicted — it also threatened his family: it threatened to expel his girlfriend from her university and eliminate his mother’s prescription medication that she needed to survive.

34 But Yulier still paints. “I am part of a generation that grew up in fear. What I do is the result of all of that fear … All the frustration, all the impotence with which the Cuban people live. Fear, hunger, misery … all that accumulation of resentment,” he said. And

Yulier’s work manifests these ideas. “My work talks about … part of the history that I have had to live and of which I am witness.”

In the 1980 Mariel Boatlift in Havana, Fidel Castro allowed nearly 125,000

Cubans to be exiled to the U.S.; they were deemed “criminals” in Castro’s eyes. Castro called these exiles gusanos (worms). Many had suffered in concentration camps made specifically for people who were gay. These people wanted to be away from a government who did not treat them well, and the gay community in Havana consisted of a great deal of that population. Because they were gay, they were deemed “criminals” and

“anti-revolutionary.” They were beaten and starved in these places, and leaving that year was their only hope for freedom. Yulier’s paintings focus on these horrific details in

Cuban history. He often paints gusanos, because he wants to reveal the oppression that

Cubans have faced for many years. When Diana and I were interviewing Cubans passing by one of Yulier’s large murals, one pedestrian noted “[Yulier’s] paintings convey messages of what everyday Cubans face, [things like] misery and hunger.”

When Yulier was imprisoned, the Cuban government forced him to sign a document that said he would never again paint on public walls. Yulier hasn’t painted on them since, but he’s found other ways to display his work in public; he doesn’t want people to continue to be brainwashed by the government. So — he paints on rubble, on taxis and he’s plastered his tags (stickers) all over the city. He is always coming up with new ways to spread his message.

35 Yulier is not a member of the Cuban government’s art agency, for which you must apply, so he is not legally allowed to sell his work.14 Instead, he sells his paintings under the table. I saw a couple of his paintings that I liked in his studio, but I didn’t have enough cash on me at the time to purchase them. He told me to meet him the next day at the café where we had originally met. When we met, we sat at a table and he said in a soft voice “pretend my backpack is yours and put the cash in it.” So, I did. A few moments later, he handed me a long tube with the paintings I had requested. All transactions with his work in public must be clandestine, so he is not punished again by the government.

When asked why he still paints despite threats and imprisonment, he said: “I am simply a person who decided to live without fear and decided to live free. And in front of me, I will not endure injustice.”

Fabian “Supermalo” Lopez

2+2=5 covers many walls in Havana thanks to Fabian “Supermalo,” Lopez, a 22- year-old living in Centro Habana, who is arguably Havana’s most prolific contemporary street artist. Hailed by many as “Havana’s Banksy,” Fabian’s work often alludes to

George Orwell’s 1949 dystopian novel 1984. 2+2=5 first appears in his novel as an imaginary social experiment, because if everyone accepts it, the protagonist thinks, then that makes the equation valid. The phrase 2+2=5 also appeared pre-Orwell in a political context at the origin of the French revolution. Abbé Sieyès’ 1979 political pamphlet What is the Third Estate? pokes fun at the Estates-General, because of the unequal voting power among the clergy and aristocracy at the time (Boyer 1987). Sieyès notes,

14 The Cuban government banned Yulier from legally selling his work.

36 “Consequently if it be claimed that under the French constitution, 200,000 individuals out of 26 million citizens constitute two-thirds of the common will, only one comment is possible: it is a claim that two and two make five” (Boyer 1987).

Apart from his widely recognized 2+2=5, Fabian’s street art has three main components: a masked man wearing a balaclava, an egg and a question mark. Fabian says the egg is a satirical note about the food shortages in Cuba and the scanty rations the people are served under the communist regime, and the balaclava protects the character from harm. The question mark represents the uncertainty of the future for Cubans because of the hardships they face daily.

When Diana and I met Fabian, he was hanging out with a group of friends in front of his apartment — all young men and women dressed in oversized t-shirts and sneakers with tattoos winding around their arms and legs. Diana immediately recognized one of

Fabian’s friends, and they talked as we walked upstairs to his apartment. Some of

Fabian’s friends followed, and we sat near the window in his small bedroom filled almost entirely with a bunk bed. The window in the room bordered the street, and it was small with metal bars jutting across. The window had two panels, one of which had 2+2=5 spray painted in the middle. His room was dark, but there was enough light to see the chaotic scribbles and paint that filled the walls and ceiling completely. The window sill was filled with paints, tape and other materials for his work. I even saw a cracker painted with his distinctive masked character.

We started the interview, and Fabian began to tell me a story:

I once painted on…Fidel’s birthday [which I did not remember] and I went with

some friends in California and started to draw police wine that said, “we’re

37 screwed,” and they imprisoned us. They released the tourists, they left me

imprisoned for two days and the tourists … [ended up] paying my fine … They

have [caught] … me many times, but that is normal. Here, you do something

different and you’re caught.

When asked about decree 349, Fabian expressed his anxiety about the new law, noting that many protestors of the decree have used reproductions of his work as an example, but he himself has not paid too much attention to what it entails. I think Fabian has not been paying attention to the decree, because the government has always affected him and always will; to him, nothing has changed.

Fabian described his process of painting on the street walls. His work dominates the walls in Havana, so he feels comfortable talking to some police. In one situation he shared, he told a police officer he wanted to paint a mural, and the officer approved it,

“… a patrol car went by and I stopped him, and I showed him the picture (of my sketch) and I said ‘I want to do this on this wall: and the guy sees it and tells me ‘take (the wall).’” Later, Fabian said that the police were looking for him and told him he had to serve 12 years in prison for his painting. Luckily, the international press helped him escape the jailtime, he said. Univision, an American- Spanish language television network particularly popular in Miami, commented on the government’s unjust role in

Fabian’s work. Fabian noted that the government was not thrilled by this commentary, because if they imprisoned him, it would reflect badly on them.

When Fabian is planning to paint on a wall, he looks for a door. If he finds one, he then knocks and asks permission to paint on the wall. “If there is nothing, I draw a mask and it takes me five to ten minutes.” Several of Fabian’s street paintings have been

38 removed by the government. He says that the coverings of his paintings are so well-done

— some of his paintings were even partly destroyed by a landslide and still painted over afterward. Some that were already intact were painted over with extreme care so that no attention was drawn to them: “When I walk through old Havana, one [mural] was covered in each block … they covered it with yellow color, done on purpose, but good.”

A painting he made of Donald Trump was taken down just five days after it was completed.

When asked if his work is critical of governmental policies, Fabian said it is not; most of his work is social critique. Fabian cites “OsGemeos,” (Portuguese for Twins), who are graffiti artists from Brazil as artists who have inspired his work. Just as

OsGemeos, Fabian paints a distinct character repeatedly on street walls (OsGemeos n.d.).

Because of Fabian’s numerous distinctive characters, his work is probably one of the most widely recognized in Havana; everyone recognizes the mysterious masked man in yellow.

Yolo “403215”

Yolo “403215” was inspired by Yulier when he began his work as a street artist.

Yolo met Yulier in 2014 at a gallery in Prado.15 “I approached him because I wanted …

[exposure] and I liked his work and wanted to talk about his art; I was very intrigued by what he was doing,” Yolo said. Now, Yolo’s work is easily the most critical prima facie, if not overall, and he believes in the importance of openly discussing politics, fear and corruption.

15 Prado is a neighborhood in Havana.

39 I first saw Yolo’s work when I was headed to meet Juan Carlos Garcia.16 Yolo’s brightly colored stencil was plastered on a busy street corner in Centro Habana. I took a picture of it at the time and showed it to Yulier later that week. “That’s Yolo’s work,”

Yulier said immediately when he saw it, and scribbled down Yolo’s phone number in my notebook, so I could contact him.

At the beginning of the interview, Yolo introduced himself by his real name, but asked me to use his artist name when I wrote about him. Yolo marks his stencils with

"403215,” the numbers he thinks are closest to the shape of the letters in his real first name. I was the first person to tell him what Yolo means in English (You Only Live

Once). The English meaning seems fitting, especially considering his daring personality and avant-garde lifestyle.

Despite his passion for criticizing the government for its criminality, much of his life was consumed by fear in Cuba. Shortly after I met him in May 2019, Yolo married a

French woman and moved to Paris. To spread his artistic message, he would only paint in the dark and early hours of the morning in Havana — around four or five a.m. He was arrested once for painting on the walls, but the police did not understand his work, so his name and paintings were not recorded; he was released after his arrest the next morning.

Yolo saw the police passing around a picture of his stencil that said “Help,” but they could not figure out what it meant. He was released a few hours later, because they never figured out the message’s intent. “Everything is wrong in this society,” he said. “For that reason, I represent [Cuban] workers as tools.” Yolo often portrays tools and hands in his work, which represent the powerful and the powerless. “Tools are replaceable,” he added.

16 Garcia is the creator of the Mona Lisa Painting I discussed earlier.

40 “You use them, they break, and you replace them. [All] tools are replaceable like the jobs in Cuba. If you are sick, they fire you and then replace you.” When asked to describe his work that portrayed a police officer and a dog, he said:

I have to tell you a story of how the police work in Havana, so you can

understand. All the police in Havana come from the provinces of the interior. Of

the East, above all. And what happens, given the economic conditions of the city,

which are quite bad, then imagine the economic situation of the countryside, or

more introverted. They are really bad. People do not have much culture there,

they are really ignorant usually. It’s like a police factory for the government. And

the government goes, reads promises, tells them that they are going to have a

better life, that they are going to be economically stable, and then those people

accept to come from the police here in Havana. But usually they are people who

have no culture, they are people who are promised things that are not fulfilled.

And in the end, they are used too. And that’s why I represent them as there is no

difference between the animal dog and the policeman. Much of Yolo’s work is a dark and ironic portrayal of the government’s oppressive presence in Cuba. Many of these portrayals are reminiscent of the late-Soviet aesthetic stiob: Yolo’s numerous tool-creatures dominate much of his work; he even plays with creating woodblock prints that are eerily similar to old Soviet propaganda posters from the 20th century. With the idea that Cuban workers are not treated as anything more than tools, he illustrates a massive crowd of people (portrayed as wrenches) facing three hands

(symbolizing dictators). Stiob is used when a phrase is ironic parody. Yurchak (2006) discusses the prevalence of stiob in the Soviet everyday: stiob could be found in text,

41 scripts, visual propaganda and many other forms. Yurchak defined stiob as “a grotesque

‘overidentification’ with the form of an authoritative symbol, to the point that it was impossible to tell whether the person supported the symbol or subverted it in a subtle ridicule (Yurchak 2006). Yolo’s artwork grossly identifies Cuban workers and dictators in their communist society in an attempt to ridicule the Cuban regime, employing these similar elements of stiob that Yurchak analyzes.

Furthermore, Sofia Kalo (2017) examines an artist’s painting from post-soviet

Albania, whose work also draws from old communist propaganda posters. Just as Yolo’s work is ironic overidentification, Kalo says that Konstandini’s work:

… exaggerated displays of pride, optimism, and achievement. Euphoria was and

is a strategy, according to Kostandini, to deflect attention from poverty, isolation,

fear, and censorship. “Despite appearances, the message of these paintings is sad

[Konstandini said]” (2017).

While Kostandini’s work superficially appears happy, the message is sad. Yolo’s work, on the other hand, is grim at first glance and even darker once understood. Both Yolo and

Kostandini make politicized art under late communism that experiments with communist propaganda aesthetics, agency and irony.

Yolo’s work is incredibly well-orchestrated, but no one in his family is an artist.

“In fact, in my family I have been criticized a lot for doing the kind of art I do. They [say to me] ‘you’re crazy, how are you going to say that … do that? … they are worried

[about me],” Yolo said. The government’s removal of four or five of his pieces from the street walls terrified his family. But, the government is still trying to figure out who he is, he said. Now that Yolo lives in Paris, they probably never will.

42 Làzaro “Salsita” Medina Hernandez

Lazaro “Salsita” is an artist based in Centro Habana, La Habana, Cuba. His trademark works are upcycled rat sculptures, and many of them appear in cages. He also draws rats. “The process is a bit experimental,” he said:

As with rats, all the time we are in social research. The caged rats represent the

feeling people in Cuba have because of living on an island. It represents what is

happening now: how difficult it is to enter and leave the country, like with

migration. The social issue that I raise is the work the people go through to get in

and out ... you can be imprisoned until you are free. Sometimes I feel like that too;

I feel like I can be in that position ... the first thing people try to do [to rats] is to

catch them or kill them or cage them. It is difficult because it is very clear: there

are many empty cages because many of them have left. All those cages were full

of my work. Some of them have found their place. My pieces have traveled;

people have taken them, and they have been rescued from their cages.

Salsita’s rat sculptures are especially popular among children. He often leads workshops to teach kids how to make their own sculptures: “I believe that ... youth, or children ... can save humanity [if you] give them the right path to take. My job is to give them that path. For me, [that is] the most important thing [about] my work.

Salsita is watched by the government because spreading a message of political critique among children is perceived as a huge threat; molding the minds of youth is one of the government’s biggest fears. Salsita was kicked out of the 2019 Havana Art

Biennial because of his work with children, but he decided to continue his work regardless of government support: Salsita created a sculpture for the Biennial, but he

43 installed it himself inside an empty government fountain next to the Malecon. All passersby assumed it was part of the public exhibition, so it was not questioned and ended up being present for the Biennial’s entirety. Unlike Yolo’s work, Salsita’s work is cheerful and humorous prima facie, but once explained, the dark undertones are clear.

Salsita is like that too: he is joyful and always smiling, but once you talk to him about politics and art, you realize there is a lot of pain underneath.

Conclusion

While Yolo, Fabian, Yulier and Salsita have different ways of portraying the

Cuban experience under a communist regime, they all still manage to reach a wide audience with their work. Whether their art appears humorous, dark or childlike, the government is always watching, because it is aware of these artists’ ingenuity, power and persistence. As long as they can keep finding materials to create, they will continue to resist the government with fervor. As Yulier says, “I have to live free.”

44 VISUALS: Havana, Cuba, 2018 - 2019

Yulier Perez Rodriguez

Yulier pauses for a moment to look at his painting in May 2019. He’s working in his new studio on the outskirts of the city to try to keep a low profile, but still, government workers continue to check in on him.

45 VISUALS: Havana, Cuba, 2018 - 2019

Yulier used to have over 200 paintings on the city walls, and now, he estimates that less than 30 still exist. Here are some of his last remaining paintings from Havana, as of 2019.

46 VISUALS: Havana, Cuba, 2018 - 2019

Yulier still puts up stickers of his paintings on the city walls, another one of his ways to circumvent official rule. Here are a couple Yulier gave me as a gift in 2019.

47 VISUALS: Havana, Cuba, 2018 - 2019

Scenes from Yulier working on his gift project in May 2019. First, he finds rubble on the street. Next, he brings it into his studio to paint. After it dries, he puts it back on a busy public street for someone to find it as a “gift.”

48 VISUALS: Havana, Cuba, 2018 - 2019

Fabian Lopez

Fabian looks down at his window sill inside his apartment in May 2019 in Havana. The window sill is littered with paints and materials he uses for making murals in the city.

49 VISUALS: Havana, Cuba, 2018 - 2019

Fabian has hundreds of murals in the city; these are only a few that I saw in 2019.

50 VISUALS: Havana, Cuba, 2018 - 2019

Fabian gives out this sticker to friends and people he meets. His artist-character is “Super Malo” (Super Bad)

51 VISUALS: Havana, Cuba, 2018 - 2019

One of Fabian’s murals a few doors down from his apartment in Central Havana in May 2019.

52 VISUALS: Havana, Cuba, 2018 - 2019

Yolo "403215"

Yolo stands in front of a political stencil he spray-painted ironically next to previous graffiti “Viva Fidel” in a park on the outskirts of Havana.

53 VISUALS: Havana, Cuba, 2018 - 2019

Yolo has dozens of murals in the city; these are only a few that I saw in 2019.

54 VISUALS: Havana, Cuba, 2018 - 2019

A print Yolo made on fabric that I purchased in May 2019. Yolo mainly paints tools that represent Cuban people. He says that the government treats people like tools, and the large hands on the stage in this print represent the omnipotence of Cuban dictators.

55 VISUALS: Havana, Cuba, 2018 - 2019

Yolo’s hand after spray-painting in a park in May 2019.

56 VISUALS: Havana, Cuba, 2018 - 2019

Làzaro “Salsita” Medina Hernandez:

A portrait of Lazaro in his studio and home in May 2019.

57 VISUALS: Havana, Cuba, 2018 - 2019

Lazaro’s work in his studio in May 2019. The government newspaper (top right) is used on a piece of toilet paper, and the rest of his works above explore how the Cuban government treats people: Lazaro says Cubans are treated like animals, so he often sculpts rats.

58 VISUALS: Havana, Cuba, 2018 - 2019

Two of Lazaro’s drawings: (left) Lazaro says this drawing discusses how Cubans’ votes don’t matter and (right) illuminates the feeling many Cubans have of being stuck on an island.

59 VISUALS: Havana, Cuba, 2018 - 2019

On the far right of this image, Lazaro’s rat sculpture stands on top of a fountain in Antonio Maceo Park. Salsita was kicked out of the 2019 Havana Art Biennial because of his work with children, but he decided to continue his work regardless of government support: Salsita created a sculpture for the Biennial, but he installed it himself inside the empty government fountain next to the Malecon.

60 CHAPTER THREE

PUBLIC AND PRIVATE SPACES

“Public space can be a lot better with some private space to contradict it

and vice versa. It keeps the system alive. If the system is just one

thing, then it’s closed, and it eventually dies.”

-Vito Acconci

This chapter examines the specificity of public and private spaces in the context of art as social critique in Post-Fidel Cuba. In 2018, Cuba recognized private property for the first time in their new constitution. The current Soviet-era constitution “only recognizes state, cooperative, farmer, personal and joint venture property” (Reuters

2018). Thus, as of 2020, Cubans have been able to own private property for nearly two years. Many art galleries have popped up on private properties — some of which are owned by the Cuban people and some by foreign embassies. These private properties are open to anyone from the public, not unlike a park or public library. Some of them require a cover charge, and others merely have a suggested donation or donation box. But, unlike a public library or park, these galleries are privately owned by Cubans or foreign governments. The Danish Embassy, for example, has a full floor gallery filled with

Cuban art pieces, many of which are critical of the government. In what follows, I look at the differences in the positionality of such displays. How is it visible to the public? Is it visible from a street view? Is it displayed inside or outside? Additionally, I examine the differences in censorship with regard to positionality. In which of these spheres does the

61 government censor these pieces? Why do they censor in some spaces but not others?

While critical art may be on private property, it could be visible on the street. In which of these scenes does the government choose to censor political art? And while critical art may be displayed on public property, it is not necessarily visible on the street. Here, I examine the nuances of censorship in the private and public spheres from which people view art in Havana, and I look at the distinctions between these private and public spaces.

Walking with Gaby

I went on a walking-art-gallery tour in Vedado in May 2019, led by a young

Cuban art history teaching assistant at The University of Habana named Gaby.17 Before taking the tour, my research assistant Diana shared my interests in Cuban political art with Gaby. When I met Gaby, she told me that every gallery we were going to walk to in

Vedado was full of overt political critique — sometimes much more political than the work I had seen on the street. I expressed my surprise and Gaby said, “Well yes, the government does not care so much about what art we choose to view privately, what matters to them is work that can be seen by many people all the time; work that is in public spaces.” This prompted me to begin thinking about the differences between expression in the private and public sphere in Cuba. While street artists can be strictly punished, artists displaying critical work in the private sphere are overlooked. Gallery after gallery we visited were full of ironic portrayals of the regime and harshly critical of the communist leaders. While not rare in the public scene, political critique is less visible in the street because of strict censorship. The confusing thing about this occurrence is that

17 Vedado is a neighborhood in Havana known for being wealthier than others.

62 most of these galleries we visited were free to the public. Technically, this art was accessible to everyone. So why was it not censored? I asked Gaby. Gaby said:

Because only artists go to see the work of other artists usually. Graffiti is illegal

even if it is not political. And, political critique is trendy among artists

right now in Cuba.

This fascinated me, so I asked to interview her later. After the tour, I found out that Gaby was the second woman I had ever heard of in the Cuban art scene who had been censored because of a public display she created.18 Gaby also shared her views about political art and her perspective on sexism in Cuba, specifically within the art scene. 19 Women still need to be encouraged to join the arts and voice their opinions, she told me. When I asked her why there are not many women that express political critique in public, she told me that, like many other countries, feminism is growing, but sexism is still pervasive and prevents women from excelling in many fields, especially because of the macho culture.20 Given the communist ideals of gender equality, this caught me by surprise.

Gaby’s work walked the line between being in a private or public space: it was installed inside (seemingly private), but the display was visible to the public through the windows. In the gigantic windows of a privately-owned grocery store in Havana, Gaby had installed large mirrors that were covered almost entirely in a yellow plastic and starkly visible from the street. In the middle of these mirrors in large letters she had cut

18 Tania Brugera is the only other female artist who has experienced censorship that I could find, but I was not able to interview her. 19 According to The Miami Herald: “Despite achievements in gender equality, emancipation and representation at the highest levels of government, women in Cuba still face problems related to domestic violence and sexism, according to the secretary general of the Federation of Cuban Women (FMC).” (Espinosa n.d.). 20 Macho, or machismo, is a sociocultural phrase used to characterize a set of values about masculinity. Machismo is often used to describe a strong display of masculine pride.

63 words out with an X-ACTO knife. She cut out these letters with the knife in Spanish that read, “What happens when nothing happens” (see figure 4 in the appendix). Gaby explained its meaning, “It has to do with the state of life, with a state of seeing, of being almost like an automaton, like letting everything happen …” She described her piece as an encounter with oneself. “Looking at yourself in the mirror and realizing what is happening.” Like the work of many political Cuban graffiti artists, her work was not up for long before being taken down by the government. The grocery store owners lied to her, she told me. She was walking past the windows one day and realized her work was no longer on display, so she went inside to talk to the owners. The owners said they had to replace her installation with new products for their store. Only, the new products were not there, she noted with a smile. “Everyone has the fear of being heard, of being watched. [My parent’s generation] is always [worried] something can happen to you. I feel that our generation does not [worry] so much.” 21 Political critique is so common, especially in the private sphere because “artists try to be avant-garde … so they contest everything,” Gaby said. Gaby added that worldwide, the public sphere is often monitored by those in power: “public space is undermined by instances of power in all countries; you have to reach a kind of negotiation.” When I was reading over Gaby’s interview transcript, I was reminded of a quote by Michael Taussig (1999) (cited Shryock 2002); the statement examines power and how it can manifest in public spaces: “Wherever there is power, there is secrecy, except it is not only secrecy that lies at the core of power, but public secrecy (7).” Whenever there is an authoritarian regime like that of Cuba, there is

21 I observed this notion during my stay in Havana, too. In the context of interviewing political artists, my research assistant Diana said, “Cubans [who are not trusting of the government] do not trust older people as much, they tend to assume that older people are more likely to tell the government something you did that they did not like.” And, instead of hiring an older person to assist me in Cuba, I hired a younger woman, so that the artists I interviewed were not afraid.

64 so much government secrecy — secrecy that’s observable to members of the public who do not believe in propaganda. An example of this in Cuba is the voting system. Elections are public, but many people think they are secretly predetermined. Cubans are led to believe they have a voice, but their voice is neither valued nor counted.

After giving me a tour of the galleries in Vedado, Gaby took me back to her apartment where she showed me the giant yellow mirrors. She also offered to give me a

USB drive full of Spanish and English articles about political critique and art in Cuba, which I gladly accepted.

What is public?

When looking at art in the private and public sphere, it is also important to consider intent. Why does an artist choose to display work in private instead of public?

And vice-versa? The tourist gaze in Havana is massive; many Cubans in Havana rely on tourists’ money as the sole source of their income (Stout 2014). Perhaps, then, does the tourist gaze affect whether an artist chooses to display their work in public? Yulier told me that he paints because he wants the whole world to know how Cubans are being treated: he wants Cubans to face reality and he wants the world to see that reality. But beyond painting on the street, Yulier reaches an audience beyond Cubans and tourists who come to Cuba. With his popular Instagram and Facebook accounts, he can share his work and thoughts with the rest of the world. Yolo, Lazaro and Fabian too, share videos, stickers, t-shirts, prints, and other public displays on Facebook and Instagram for an international audience to see. For them, their social media accounts are like a street wall on which they can illustrate their ideas. Viewers can then engage with their posts

65 worldwide, asking questions or commenting words of support. Occasionally, other journalists or photographers will reach out to them via social media and connect with them about a future interview too, just like I did. Additionally, Yulier sells a small portion of his work in the tourist district in Habana Vieja (Old Havana). Small drawings of his are sold (illegally) and almost exclusively to tourists internationally. A couple I befriended in Havana who were from Vienna, Austria, were determined to buy Yulier’s drawings from this tiny shop on a busy Havana street. Despite its prime location, Yulier’s work was in the far corner of the shop, clearly not visible from the street. Yulier is prohibited from selling his work in Cuba because he does not have a permit from the government to sell art, which is required. Either the government has not yet discovered his small trove of drawings, or they do not care, because the gallery does not get enough foot traffic for it to be a threat.

However, just like street walls are censored, so is social media. During my last visit to Cuba in December 2019, Yulier told me how the government hacked his

Facebook. “I had to make two accounts,” he said. “I did not know I was hacked until I logged out of my Facebook and tried to log back in. My account would not let me. Once I made a new password, so many messages I had received months earlier came flooding in

— the government had been keeping them from me.” Yulier says that even his private forms of social media like WhatsApp have been hacked. “They always want to check in on me,” he said.

Despite being under constant surveillance, Yulier continues to toy with the use of public space and rules outlined in the document he signed years ago. While the document explicitly says that he can never paint on public walls again, it does not say he cannot

66 make art in his studio and leave it visible to the public. So, Yulier created a project called

“Los Regalos” (The gifts). Cuba’s buildings are constantly deteriorating, and there are many piles of rubble on the street. So, Yulier chooses his favorite piece of rubble from a nearby pile and brings it back to his studio to paint. Later, he puts it back on the pile of rubble and leaves it as a gift for passersby. Like his other works, these painted stones are political, often depicting worms. The vernacular image of worms has a special potency in

Cuba — calling to mind the many times Fidel Castro labelled Cuban exiles worms during his reign.

In addition to Los Regalos, Yulier implemented another project in public spaces.

He made paintings on top of bicitaxis.22 While the tops of these taxis existed in the public sphere, they were not visible to the public eye. They could only be viewed from apartment balconies, which are ubiquitous in Havana. Older folks who live in the city will sometimes spend hours sitting on their balcony, looking out at the busy street below.

Thus, Yulier’s work undoubtedly reached many onlookers from the crowded balconies of

Havana.

What is Private?

Occasionally, Yulier shares his work in private spaces. In December 2019, he had an installation in Vedado at La Fábrica de Arte Cubano (The Cuban Art Factory).23 The factory is a famous, hip gallery and performance center housed in a massive old factory on the outskirts of the city, and it draws international celebrities like Beyoncé and Mick

22 The bicitaxi, also known as a cycle rickshaw, are rickshaws powered by human pedaling. 23 Fábrica de Arte Cubano is the “it” spot in Cuba among both Cubans and tourists; it constantly draws international celebrities. There is a line out of the door that wraps around the block when it opens in the evening; it is only open 2-3 times a month Thursday through Saturday, so its infrequent openings give it an exclusive appeal.

67 Jagger.24 The gallery requested Yulier fill an entire bar in the art factory filled with paintings and sculptures. In this exhibition, Yulier created massive paintings and even a sculpture (which he does specialize in). The factory loved the paintings, but they had strong feelings about the sculpture. The sculpture, a stuffed animal Santa dressed in the green attire Fidel usually wore, was impaled by a large thick nail and stuck to a white panel. The factory, afraid of who might see this installation, told Yulier it needed to be removed. Yulier was frustrated and told them that if they removed his sculpture, then he would withdraw everything else in his exhibit: it was all or nothing. Reluctantly, the factory listened, and his exhibition debuted in December 2019.

While the art factory certainly has a mark of exclusivity, it is still a private space open from evenings until early hours of the morning to the public.25 As a “private” space, however, it differs greatly from the smaller private art galleries around the city.

Because of its popularity and the variety of events offered in the factory, it draws thousands of people every month. And, unlike most art galleries, it is never open during the day. Last year, TIME magazine named it one of the greatest places in 2019, “Within the cavernous warehouse’s refurbished walls, you’ll find galleries, performance-art spaces and a dance floor that’s home to the capital’s most captivating movers and shakers

(Lang 2019).” The online travel company TripAdvisor calls it “a new oxygen in

Havana.” Due to its increasing popularity and heavy foot traffic, it is not a surprise that its owners were afraid of government pushback, especially with Yulier’s reputation as a dissident.

24 Transforming old factories into artistic hubs is especially popular in Europe; one of my friends from Austria who went with me to the Cuban Art Factory told me about this phenomenon. 25 There is a cover charge to get in, and you have to know what their hours are ahead of time, because they are often closed for renovations or installations.

68 What is censored?

While the government does not appear to censor much of what exists in indoor spaces, it does check in on them. I can account for this phenomenon firsthand: when I went back to Havana in December 2019 to conduct follow up research and create a short film about Yulier, we had a run-in with government agents. One afternoon, Yulier and I were filming on the roof of his new apartment on the outskirts of Havana. Yulier took a break from painting and looked down at the street below. He stood still for a minute, with his brow crumpled slightly. “The government agents. They are here to watch me,” he said. “They want to see what I am doing. You can take a picture, but make sure they don’t see you.” He sat still for a moment while I quietly tried to take photos. None of them turned out — my hands were too shaky, and I couldn’t get a good angle without them seeing me. Yulier looked at me, “Actually,” he said, “you can try to film them if you’d like. Just pretend you’re filming me. I’ll walk outside with you. It will be safe.” He was quiet for a minute. “Are you sure it’s safe for you?” I said. “No, it is okay … this is my life,” he said. “Nothing is safe for me in Cuba, but I think it would be cool for you to get this shot. Are you scared?” “I’m not,” I responded. “I just don’t want you to get in trouble.” “No, it’s fine,” he said. And we walked downstairs and through the front door.

As soon as I walked 10 feet outside the door with Yulier and my large camera and tripod, the two men jumped on their motorcycle and sped away. “Do you see?” Yulier said. “I knew they wouldn’t like that. Did you get a picture of their faces?” I told him I did and showed him the picture. The agents were both wearing hats and sunglasses. “Nice,” he said with a smile.

69 After this encounter my heart was racing. What were the implications of our actions? I wondered. Almost immediately, Yulier answered my thought. “They might try to arrest you,” he said. “What?” I responded, shocked, and wondering why he didn’t think to mention this before. “You can give me your SD card,” he said. I shook my head and told him I’d be alright. Luckily, I was. I don’t know if it’s because of the American government’s stigma, but they never approached me in person about our brief but strange encounter.

Creating lasting art in public spaces without government approval can be tricky, but, like Yulier, other dissident artists have found loopholes. During the 2019 Cuban Art

Biennial, when artist Lazaro “Salsita” was banned for his artistic government critique, he decided to participate in the public display on the Malecón anyway.26 He created a massive rat sculpture and placed it on top of a fountain in Antonio Maceo Park in Central

Havana.27 It stayed up for the entire month of May; as far as I know, it was never removed by the government, nor was it noticed by them. Lazaro said, “people think it is part of the Biennial.”

The Cuban Revolution of the 1960s had “visions of justice and human fulfillment, of realizing, at last, a historic destiny, the audacity to proceed on its own terms, on the one hand; the inevitable gaps between a revolution of ideals and its regime of controls, on the other” (Weiss 2010). And, since the 60s, the government has struggled to balance its power and its original ideals of “equality” and “free-will.” The communist government

26The 2019 Cuban Art Biennial was a massive public art exhibition along the Malecón in May, featuring dozens of famous international and local artists. Robert Fabelo, a famous Cuban surrealist artist, was among those who had installations or paintings on display for the month. 27Antonio Maceo was known as a guerilla leader in the Ten Years’ War; The Ten Years’ War was part of Cuba’s fight for independence against Spain. The war was primarily led by wealthy Cubans or native planters; it was the first of three wars for their fight for independence.

70 has been teeming with contradictions for decades, and the policing of human expression has long been among those inconsistencies. In her short essay “Si quieres tomar ron pero sin Coca Cola” (If You Want to Drink Rum without Coca Cola) that was published for the Havana Bienial in 2009, Gita Hashemi mocks such contradictions and also acknowledges the importance of the Cuban revolution’s old but original ideals:

The revolution will not unfold in the convivial clink of wine glasses, polite

conversations or cozy knitting circles. The revolution will not attend opening

nights, dinner parties, gallery or city tours. The revolution is not an innocuous

performance. The revolution’s space is that of conflict and its aesthetics

antagonistic and utopian … The revolution’s relationality is in ongoing negation

of relations of dominance and exploitation; its sociality guided by enduring,

never-relenting utopian ideals; its utopias always in-progress. The revolution is a

political aesthetic. Its representational field is populated by real people in real

time and space engaged in real action. The revolution is real and continuing. Viva

la revolución (Hashemi 2009).

Hashemi also touches on the fact that while the Cuban government refuses to accept or revisit its original notions of fostering free thought and expression, those notions, however censored, still remain ingrained in the Cuban population.

Censorship in Cuba exists not only in public displays of graffiti, painting, sculpture, or drawing, it also exists in performance: in dance, spoken-word and hip-hop music, especially, reggaetón.28 In a conversation I had with one of Yulier’s artist-friends,

28 Reggaetón is a genre of music that originated in 1990s Puerto Rico, known for spreading through everyday networks; it’s extremely popular in the Caribbean, especially in Cuba. It has been influenced by American hip-hop and other Latin American and Caribbean Music. It can often be heard loudly in the streets, blasting from large speakers in apartments or cars parked nearby.

71 I learned that reggaetón is probably the most censored artistic expression in Cuba because of its public popularity, and the large number of reggaetón fans who attend concerts.

After learning about its popularity, I read about the recent decree. Decree 349 was instituted in July 2018:

[prohibiting] artists from operating in public or private spaces without prior

approval by the Ministry of Culture and [giving] authorities power to shut down

artistic activity if they feel something contains “sexist, vulgar or obscene

language.” Since the heavier themes of música urbana fall under that category,

people have pointed out that the law could take aim at popular styles of music

(Lopez 2018).

But the Cuban government has cracked down on other small public displays of resistance

— or even banned gatherings they thought could possibly be a threat in the future. During the time I spent in Havana in May 2019, hundreds of Cubans orchestrated a march to advocate for better treatment for animals.29 At the end of the march, a participant yelled

“Para cambiar” (for change) and the marchers panicked. “The government did not like that,” my friend Sergio said. “They are afraid of what change means.” The gay community in Cuba also attempted to orchestrate a gay pride march, but the government denied their application. Many people were outraged. “The government wants to keep people from gathering in any way,” Sergio said. Another one of my friends, Biti, an avid skateboarder, was arrested and put in jail one night for skateboarding on the street. “It is crazy,” he said, “I couldn’t believe it.” A group of skateboarders had planned to skate together the week before he was arrested, but the government banned the gathering, for

29 Animal abuse is pervasive in Cuba, my Cuban friend Sergio told me, and many stray dogs and cats live on the streets; this march was to raise awareness for the poor treatment of animals in Cuba in hopes of making a change.

72 fear of a coup d'état. Thus, the government issued a strict ban on skateboarding altogether. Yulier retaliated by making stickers with a picture of a skateboarder that said

Se Busca (Wanted), drawing even more attention to the government’s unreasonable acts of censorship. In December 2019, I also saw graffiti art in Habana Vieja, depicting a person wearing roller blades that also said “wanted,” because roller skating is a popular activity among young people in the plazas at night. These skaters also hang out in groups, and I saw policemen watching these gatherings at night to make sure they did not become a “threatening” size.

Conclusion

If the law indicates that the government must approve expression in both private and public spaces, then why does it often overlook critique in private ones? Drawing from ethnographic research carried out in Havana last year, I observed that smaller art galleries which get less foot traffic than La Fábrica de Arte Cubano are subject to little (if any) censorship. Gaby could not recall an instance in which the government had removed anything from the galleries she knows in Havana. Since La Fábrica de Arte Cubano has recently become an international sensation for arts and culture in Cuba, the owners are afraid of any government pushback that could hinder their success and lucrative business.

The government does not clamp down on privately-owned or operated avant- garde spaces such as a Cuban-owned galleries or foreign embassies. Rather, it cares about heavy foot (or eye) traffic. If something is visible in the street view (like public street art, or its equivalent on social media), it is either shut down in secret, or an owner is encouraged or forced to take it down. Anything visible from the packed streets of Havana

73 will certainly be seen. Large critical art displays visible to the public or displays in galleries like La Fábrica de Arte Cubano, that continuously have thousands of visitors on a monthly basis, are also shut down or encouraged to do so if their art is deemed “too political.” The Cuban government of the Post-Fidel era does not have that totalitarian feeling because of their varied approach to the censorship of political art, but they still work in the shadows of some private and public spaces, leaving many Cuban artists afraid to speak their mind. Censorship in Cuba is not applied everywhere, but there are spaces where critical artistic thought is allowed. This distinction across public and private art also relates to the different kinds of markets that operate in Cuba — the communist market and the participation in a global capitalist market.

74 CHAPTER FOUR

THE ART MARKET IN POST-FIDEL HAVANA

“Art is the most intense form of individualism the world has ever known”

-unknown source

I recently visited a Taschen store in Miami, Florida, with my friend Sue who shared my passion for art history. We discovered shelves of books that featured artists from around the world. The cashier immediately picked up on the excitement in our voices: “you are art history students?” She guessed. We both shook our heads but explained the importance of art in our lives. As Sue was leaving, the cashier said “… at the end of the day, we just have art.”

I couldn’t help then but think about the value of art, especially in societies like

Cuba. Despite vast censorship, art has always united Cuban society. While Cubans live under a regime with no journalistic outlets and scanty food rations, their art culture has remained rich. Art played a pivotal role in the Cuban revolution, after all. In some ways, art keeps people alive. It gives them a voice, and it can also give them an income greater than the government’s $30 monthly average. It is common to meet vendors in tourist markets in Havana who went to school specializing in chemistry or pre-medicine but decided to work as an artist instead, selling painted plates to tourists because they can make more money that way. So many people have decided to go into the tourism market, because the Cuban economy is built almost entirely on it. It is easy to make significantly more money than a government employee as an artisan, taxi driver or restaurant worker catering to tourists. As the deteriorating buildings in Cuba continue to collapse daily,

75 many Cubans are forced into the art market. Painting plates and selling them in an artisan market is a far more stable profession than repairing the many buildings in Cuba that so badly need to be fixed.30

Apart from the goal of expressing dissent, frustration or dissatisfaction, art is also a means of survival. Not all artists are government critics, but many express hopes, desires or social commentary in their work and others paint and create merely to survive.

Regardless of artistic intent, the art market in Havana has continued to grow for years, most recently, through increased publications on social media.

In this chapter, I dissect the nuances of the art market in Post-Fidel Havana. What drives people to create art? Who is the intended audience of these works? What population fuels the art economy? How are these transactions made? And what makes this art market characteristic of Post-Fidel Cuba? I look at the formal and informal art market in Havana and the distinctions between the two. Why does a black market for art exist? What does success in the Cuban art market look like? Is the Cuban art market

“communist?” Using my field notes, observations and interviews, I look at the patterns in

Havana’s informal and formal contemporary art market. The Cuban art market is constantly transforming — it is perpetually impacted by international tourism, Cuba’s multiple currency system and the basic need for socio-economic survival under the communist regime. Even today, the art market is undergoing significant changes —

30 Lewin (2018) noted:

Some 3,856 partial or total building collapses were reported in Havana from 2000 to 2013, not including 2010 and 2011 when no records were kept. The collapses worsened an already severe housing shortage. Havana alone had a deficit of 206,000 homes in 2016, official figures show. The housing crisis is one of the most pressing challenges facing Cuban President Miguel Díaz-Canel, who vowed to improve housing after taking charge of the communist nation of 11 million people in April [2018].

76 changes brought by decreasing numbers of tourists from the U.S. and Miguel Diaz

Canal’s failed attempt to switch the Cuban economy to a single currency system. In this section, I argue that the Cuban economy has two ever-evolving spheres at play: the communist and capitalist sphere, and within the capitalist sphere lies the art market.

The Globalization of Cuban Art

In the framework of the social history of global commerce, anthropologists have analyzed the patterns of the migration of people and objects in the “transnational world economy” for many years (Steiner 1994). In this section, I look at how the transnational world economy has been impacted by Cuban art. How has Cuban art circulated? Is it possible to trace the movement of Cuban work to particular countries?

In the 1940s, Mario Carreño exhibited his paintings at institutions like the San

Francisco Museum of Fine Art. As early as 1945, the internationally renowned painter

Wifredo Lam sold his famous painting The Jungle to the MoMA. Then, in the 1950s,

Cuban art began popping up at London auctions (2019). Since it began in 1984, the

Havana Biennial has also served as a profound platform, spreading Cuban art internationally (Samuels 2017). Accomplished Cuban artists and others from Central and

South America and Spain (and recently the U.S.) are invited to display works in the

Biennial in Havana in order to:

[challenge] a conception of the world defined by the centre-periphery duality, and

its organizers have strived to create an intellectual space where visitors and artists

can reflect together on visual culture. Major themes at the Havana Biennial

77 include the re-conceptualization of colonization, tensions between art and society,

individual memory and technological progress (Samuels 2017).

By bringing in these internationally renowned artists such as the American artist JR or the

Brazilian artists Os Gemeos, Cubans are not only drawing attention to their art scene, but also to the importance of discussing Cuban society and memory. Furthermore, Samuels

(2017) notes, “The Havana Biennial has radically redefined the state’s relation to art and has also provided an opportunity for local artists to obtain international recognition (4).”

However, the change in the state’s relation to art has negatively impacted many artists.

Lazaro “Salsita” noted that he was banned from the Biennial because the government was fearful of the political message he was spreading. Because the Biennial draws many tourists and international visitors, what artworks the government chooses to display in its large public spaces are heavily policed. Like many governments, the Cuban government wants all public displays to reflect positive messages about its operations; anything deemed remotely political is steadfastly banned. After listening to Yulier and Fabian’s experiences with censorship, it became clear that the punishment for disobeying a ban is heavy.

The Cuban art market has been globalized for decades, but the American demand has increased in the last few years, likely due to a rekindled fascination with

Cuba now that Americans can travel directly to the country. However, because of the

U.S.’ new 2019 policy that banned American cruise ships from travelling to Cuba, the art demand from Americans has undoubtedly decreased in the last six months. An online article by Christie’s, an art auction house founded in the 18th century, discusses undiscovered Cuban artists and artists who are undervalued:

78 We’ve seen a rise in prices for modern and contemporary Cuban art, but nothing

near the prices achieved by European or US artists. Unfortunately, it is common

for female artists to sell for significantly less than their male equivalents, and

Cuban female artists are no exception. Works by well-known artists of great merit

such as Zilia Sánchez, Loló Soldevilla and Ana Mendieta, for example, can

typically be acquired for a fraction of what works by their male equivalents in the

US and Europe might sell for. New collectors should educate themselves about

these artists’ work and enlist the help of a knowledgeable advisor to help them

make financially prudent and art-historically significant purchases (2019 n.d.).

Reading this article reaffirmed what Gaby had told me and also what I had observed in

Havana: female and female-identifying artists are taken less seriously, so their work is not seen as much in the public eye. Thus, female artists in Cuba are not as present in the art market, especially on a global scale.

As social media and the overall increase in internet-usage continues to grow worldwide, so will the knowledge and international spread of Cuban art. Hopefully, the increasing globalization of Cuban art means a growing awareness of Cuban political art. I also hope this means social media and journalistic articles will remain a space where

Cuban political art is shared and discussed in a global context that explores the effects and influences of other communist regimes.

The Contemporary Cuban Art Market

While the art scene is not equally represented by women and men, it does have some marks of uniformity. Weiss (2018) noted in an interview with Walker Art Center

79 that the Cuban art scene is fascinating because of “the fluid exchange between the artists/works and the broader conversation — at lots of levels — about where the society

[is] going, what the problems [are]…. That seemed extraordinary and exciting and hopeful to me” (Weiss n.d.).

While many artists may not openly express their hatred for the communist regime, social critique is still pervasive. Juan Carlos Garcia, an older artist in Havana who is late middle-aged, noted the difference when I interviewed him over the summer. While he painted his version of The Mona Lisa that I discussed in the introduction, a piece that seems to poke fun at government censorship, he stated, “My work is critical, but it’s not political criticism. Political critique can be found among dissidents in Miami, not so much here.” Sergio, who was my research assistant that day, noted that Juan Carlos seemed content with his life and career. He had a nice home and gallery, with several international art buyers. His current socio-economic position likely influenced his comfortability (or lack thereof) with discussing Cuban politics in a negative light; he has much to lose, Sergio said, and why would he want to do that when he’s living so comfortably? Sergio brought up another interesting point: “isn’t everything that’s social also political?” he said. I began to think again about his Mona Lisa painting. Even that critique, whether it be social or political, was still playing it safe. Juan Carlos had painted one of the most famous icons in the Western European art scene. Depicting a Mona Lisa with her mouth covered is certainly less politically or socially offensive than painting a

Cuban icon with their mouth covered. Instead of making a statement about the myth of

Cuban democracy in a communist country, Juan Carlos created a painting that could be interpreted as universal humorous commentary.

80 Perhaps Juan Carlos was living comfortably relative to the current Cuban economy, but I noticed that he didn’t have many paints with which to create more work. I spent another day with Juan Carlos after I interviewed him with Sergio to photograph him painting. “Do you buy your paints here?” I asked. “Is there an art store?” He chuckled.

“No, there hasn’t been for a long time,” he said. “All of these paints are from my friend in Switzerland. You can’t really buy art supplies in Cuba.”

Juan Carlos had a massive studio apartment on a busy street in Central Havana.

The street he lived on was loud, but the thick walls of his studio drowned out the noise.

His apartment had a large courtyard, a studio space with high ceilings and a stunning collection of paintings from other artists. He also lived a five minute or less walking distance from a grocery store, affordable and fancy restaurants, a bookstore and a park.

He also has maintained a job as a professor in the arts department at the University of

Havana. It makes sense why he might not want to lose that. He’s older, not very fit, but is very content with his life and career. With such a nice apartment and prime location, why jeopardize that? Jeopardizing his life and career by painting messages with overt political critique could mean jailtime, constant surveillance and ongoing threats from the government — something Juan Carlos avoids at all costs.

I watched Juan Carlos paint in his studio, and I noticed that his brush was unusually tiny. I leaned in to take a closer look. My eyes widened, “Is that nail polish?” I asked, shocked he had painted something so lovely with such a small and pungent brush

(see figure 5 in the appendix). He nodded, “It is my daughter’s,” he said. “There is nothing else here to paint with … to get paints, I usually have my friend Lazaro from

Switzerland bring them to me here. It is the only way.”

81 Despite being a successful painter in Havana with international buyers, Juan

Carlos’ painting supplies still run slim. When I visited, it looked like he had one or two full bottles of paint; his supply had nearly run out. How is it that a successful Cuban art professor runs out of paints and has to resort to using his daughter’s own nail polish?

Even someone like Juan Carlos who is comfortable in Cuba still lacks basic materials needed for his career.

Yulier, too, shared his frustration with the scant materials available in Havana. “I am constantly running out of paint,” he said. “I always need to have someone bring me paint from another country.” Yulier, though, always seemed to have 10 or so tubes of paint scattered across his tile floor — I had never seen him paint with something like nail polish, although I had seen him work with Sharpie pens. Is the number of materials an artist has indicative of their success? Could Yulier be more successful than Juan Carlos, even though Yulier is not legally allowed to sell art?

To gauge how successful Juan Carlos and Yulier were, I asked them how often they sell pieces. “At least once a month,” they both answered, “sometimes, multiple times.” The minimum price for their paintings started at about 100 CUC, which is the equivalent of $100. That’s more than three times the average monthly salary of a Cuban working for the government.

During my December 2020 trip, the couple I met from Vienna told me they had purchased over 30 of Yulier’s pieces and were considering opening a gallery in Kiev or

Vienna that would showcase his work. Most of his pieces they had purchased started at

$300 or $400 and went up exponentially from there. The couple met Yulier in 2017, so

I’d guess Yulier has made at least $10,000 from them in the last three years alone. The

82 average Cuban would make less than 13 percent of that number in the same time — and that income was only fueled by one couple. I alone spent over $200 on his work while I was researching. Who else has been supporting Yulier’s art? And how much has he really been making?

In December, Yulier introduced me to an American couple that wanted to interview him. They, too, happened to be from Cincinnati. One of them was working on a book about Caribbean art, and they both lived in the Cincinnati neighborhood where I grew up. What a coincidence, I thought. Every time I’ve been around Yulier, I always meet five or more people. Some of them foreigners, some of them artists who greatly admire his work. Based on my observations of his multiple international and local connections, between selling his work at the small store in Old Havana and selling his work under the table, I’d guess that he feels pretty comfortable with his savings.

A Multiple Currency System

When I first began researching in Havana in 2018, Cuba firmly maintained a dual currency system. The country used two national currencies: the Cuban peso (CUP) and the Cuban convertible peso (CUC). The CUC is used in “capitalist” transactions, such as imported or higher quality goods and services (Tankha 2018). The CUP is used for

“communist” transactions, such as locally-bought (and usually lower-quality) products and state services that are typically only provided to Cuban citizens (Tankha 2018).

Tankha (2018) notes: “In principle, the CUC and CUP are freely convertible, however, the unequal exchange rate (1 CUC = 24 CUP) and differential access to these currencies has exacerbated disparities between foreigners and Cubans as well as among Cubans with

83 access to remittances and jobs in tourism versus those employed by the state” (111).

While this notion still rings true, another “capitalist” currency has been added to the mix: the U.S. dollar.

From what I can see, this multiple currency system has already been affecting the lives of these artists; I have yet to meet an artist in Cuba who accepts CUP. In my three trips to Havana and hours observing transactions with art, I only saw transactions with

CUC. Thus, the Cuban art scene appears to be existing in a merely capitalist sphere; a sphere fueled by tourism and completely separated by the communist CUP sphere. This communist sphere is dominated almost entirely by Cubans, and the capitalist sphere is filled almost entirely by tourists and Cubans who are well-off. I asked several artists the demographic of their customers. They all answered the same: Cubans cannot afford the high cost of paintings and sculptures. If a Cuban does own art, it is because it was given as a gift or it was traded for something. Foreigners are the only art consumers.

After I made the final payment to my Cuban research assistant, she told me that for the first time, she had money to buy a painting. The next day, we went to the gift shop where Yulier sold his work under the table. We looked at her options — we must have spent an hour trying to pick out the right one. Ultimately, she picked a drawing of one of

Yulier’s grim looking creatures that she said reminded her of one of her father’s prints from a Spanish painter. She bought one of Yulier’s drawings for 20 CUC — she was elated to hang it in her apartment.

When my boyfriend and I were getting ready to leave Cuba for our third (and final) time before I completed by thesis, we decided we wanted to stock up on exquisite

Cuban coffee. We asked some of our Cuban friends who had lived next to us over the

84 summer for store recommendations. Since we could not find any coffee for sale at the grocery store, we asked them where else we could look: “At the airport,” they said. But you can’t purchase the coffee in CUC, you have to use USD. Our eyes widened. “USD?” we repeated, shocked. “But we’ve never used USD here except to exchange money. Why are they only accepting USD? We can’t even withdraw money from our credit or debit cards here.” Our friend replied, “It is a new thing the government is doing. Some stores in

Havana will only take USD now too.” We had not yet encountered this phenomenon.

But, sure enough when we got to the airport a few days later, they wouldn’t take any of the remaining CUC we had. They said they wanted USD. Euros were okay, too, they told us. This reminded me of the temporality of fieldwork. As I was leaving Cuba on my last trip, I realized that even then, massive economic changes were occurring.

Having a dual currency system was confusing enough, but after learning about this new multiple currency system, I began to wonder how it affected the art market. The

Cuban government first created a dual currency system in 2004. Since then, the dual currency structure has created a dichotomy between the tourist market and the Cuban market. Couterier (n.d.) discusses this transformation in his paper “Cuba’s Globalized Art

World and Evolving Art Market:”

Because of the exchange rate, the prices of the artists' works first increased by

10%, virtually overnight, and then just a few short months later with yet another

exchange rate hike the increase in prices became almost 20% … As the dollar

[CUC] weakened, and the Euro began to be accepted in Cuba, many artists started

charging in Euros which, in a number of cases, has caused an even steeper rise in

prices.

85 Since CUC has the simplest exchange rate to USD and Euros (and now many tourist- businesses do not accept CUP), many tourists and wealthier Cubans use CUC, and according to Couterier, sometimes Euros. Thus, multiple currencies are used in transactions across Havana. There is no doubt that this triple currency system will continue to have a massive effect on the economy. Moving forward, it will be important for ethnographic researchers to continue examining how this multiple currency system operates. Will it become a single currency system due to the increasing capitalistic characteristics of the Cuban tourist economy?

Reflecting on my transactional experiences in Cuba, I have only used CUP a few times: maybe less than three. When I bought meat at a small neighborhood carnicería in

Central Havana, I purchased the meat using CUC and received CUP change.31 It is common in Cuba for foreigners to get shortchanged because they are not familiar with the exchange rate, but luckily, I was not shortchanged. I used CUC in Cuba for nearly all my transactions: for paying my research assistants, buying food at restaurants, transportation, grocery shopping and certainly, for buying art. There were a few instances where I also used USD. Both of my Airbnb hosts asked if I wanted to exchange my USD cash with them for their CUC. They both promised a better exchange rate than I would find at a

Cuban bank, because it would be cheaper for both of us that way. They both said that they needed USD for their upcoming trips to Panama, a popular vacation destination for

Cubans.32

31 A carnicería is a butcher’s shop. 32 Flying to Panama is relatively cheap for Cubans, and often Cubans go there to shop in addition to going on a vacation. Many Cubans buy appliances and other household items in Panama, because Cuban stores don’t sell many items apart from basic groceries and appliances. If stores do sell appliances in Cuba, they are extremely expensive.

86 Conclusion

In November 2019, a month before my trip, “Cuba banned the import and export of convertible pesos and began charging travelers in tradable currencies at airports once past the gate” (Frank 2019). And just a few days before my trip to Havana in December, the Cuban Central Bank began experimenting with eliminating the dual currency system

(Frank 2019); they required two department stores to only give change in CUP. However, while the Cuban government attempts to work out this potential switch, a spiraling economy remains. This new government action will undoubtedly have a massive effect on the art market, especially since artists like Yulier prefer to be paid in CUC. Will

Cuban artists request to be paid in Euros or USD in the future because of the current instability of the Cuban economy? The contemporary Cuban economy is changing so quickly, and the observations I made over the past two years are indicative of an even greater change coming. As Cuba’s economic system continues to morph from a communist to capitalist regime, perhaps the multiple currency system will become a single currency system. Perhaps, too, Cubans will be allowed to pursue other fields outside of art, restaurants, Airbnbs and casa particulars where they are able to make a livable wage. Now more than ever we need researchers examining these continuous massive structural changes in Cuba.

87 EPILOGUE

“To deny people their human rights is to challenge their very humanity”

- Nelson Mandela

As I sat down on the plane in Havana, headed home for the last time before finishing my thesis, I began thinking about how difficult it is to explain the current socio- economic changes Cuba is undergoing — a difficulty that is characteristic of the temporality of fieldwork. Each time I visited Cuba over two and a half years, dramatic changes occurred; changes regarding international trade, travel restrictions, currency use

— all things that have a significant effect on everyday life in Cuba. When I visited

Havana in December 2019, the normal goods (basic food products) at the grocery stores were scant because of Venezuela’s political crisis.33 Cubans are so dependent on outside forces like tourism and imported goods that if their foreign relations change, so does everyone’s life — dramatically. In the U.S., it is rare that major structural changes would affect day-to-day life (especially among the middle and upper class), but in Cuba, that happened every time I visited: U.S. cruises were banned from visiting Cuba in May 2019, and Havana’s restaurants along the coast took a huge hit. At the same time, mobile data use became an option for everyone. If you run out of phone data now, you can pay for more data if you have the money — even the government is implementing capitalistic measures. And in 2018, the Havana airport accepted CUC everywhere. Now, only USD or Euros are accepted in most places. Another unexpected aspect about conducting

33 Venezuela was temporarily not shipping oil to Cuba, because of the political corruption and violence. Thus, Cuba was not able to resell the oil to import more goods into their grocery stores.

88 research in Cuba is the lack of information on the web about current policies and changes. Since the U.S. is so close to Cuba, but has a decidedly poor relationship with

Cuba, little to no articles are written about these structural changes that occur.

Occasionally, The Miami Herald will cover something, and once in a while The New

York Times will write an article — but for The New York Times to care about Cuba, something pretty serious has to happen, and it usually involves the U.S. I learned about most of these new Cuban policies from talking and listening to Cubans while conducting fieldwork. In this sense, anthropology is incredibly important. I like to think that ethnographic (anthropological) research is a kind of honest journalism. Like a journalist, anthropologists may also interview, observe and participate in activities with those whom they document, but unlike journalism, findings in anthropology are reflexive, and anthropologists usually dedicate much more time to communities. While they too conduct interviews, they also befriend people and are truly engaged in a community; they are not merely there to observe and take. Furthermore, since anthropologists usually research during extended periods of time, they can truly get a grasp of the changes that occur during long time spans. Since there is not much international coverage of Cuba, ethnographic research is especially valuable. I hope that my thesis has shed light on the nuanced socio-economic/socio-political changes that have occurred throughout the time I have spent there.

I began my thesis by examining literature that provides a context for my research on political critique in post-Fidel Havana. I looked at the new research area of the anthropology of political critique in art, how to approach art in an ethnographic way, the anthropology of communism and a brief history of Cuba and how the four are

89 intertwined. I argued that Cuban political critique differs significantly from other artistic displays of political critique created under communist regimes, although some themes overlap. Additionally, I affirmed that my research presents new findings about art under communist regimes in the context of the anthropology of art, and in the following chapters, I described these findings in detail.

I then introduced four artists who were my main informants in Havana: Yulier,

Yolo, Fabian and Salsita. Chapter two discussed my interactions with them, the stories they shared and the interconnectedness of this community of artists who express political critique. This chapter also examined the messages the artists aim to portray, and the effect social media and censorship have on their work. Additionally, this chapter revealed their run-ins with the government, the limited protection they have and how their artistic choices indirectly affect their relationships. I reflected on my role in the study, how trust was established and how all of the information I gathered was accurately obtained and then securely stored. I also addressed the existing gender-bias in the arts in Havana, since most of my informants are male. I argued that displaying political art in the streets of

Havana requires massively complex schemes: schemes that are not always successful.

But, despite failure, these artists continue to work tirelessly to prove that they have a strong and meaningful voice.

I then moved on to examine public and private spaces. Where is art permitted?

Where is it banned? In what context is art censored? Is social media censored? How, and in which platforms? This chapter detailed the specificity of public and private spaces in the context of art as social critique in Post-Fidel Cuba. I argued that the government does not censor privately-owned or operated avant-garde spaces such as Cuban-owned

90 galleries or foreign embassies. Rather, it cares about heavy foot (or eye) traffic. Thus, I concluded that the Cuban government of the Post-Fidel era does not have a totalitarian feeling because of their varied approach to the censorship of political art, but they still work in the shadows of some private and public spaces, leaving many Cuban artists afraid to speak their mind.

I concluded my thesis with an examination of the art market that fuels the income of these dissenting artists. It looked at the contemporary Cuban art market, the history of the globalization of Cuban art, the multiple currency system that exists in present-day

Cuba and how foreigners end up fueling the (nearly) entire income of artists, even those expressing political critique. I discussed whether the global market affects the content of the artists’ work. How is political critique in Cuban contemporary art shaped by the local and international market? I discussed the artists’ main consumers and why the customers are consistently the same. Additionally, I looked at the consumers’ role in shaping the artists’ message. Here, I argued that the Cuban economy has two ever-evolving, but separated spheres: the communist and capitalist structures, and within the increasing capitalist structure lies the art market.

Research can be a form a solidarity. By listening, recording and seeking to understand, we can show our support. I have written this paper in solidarity with the

Cuban people: the people who never stop reading, questioning, creating and protesting, however subtle it may be. While not everyone in Cuba is bold enough to paint anti-Castro sentiments on the street walls, others protest in different ways, like refusing to work for the government. Many young people know that working for the government is a tedious task, and they also know that working within the tourist economy can give you more

91 freedom and most importantly, more money. Since the death of Fidel Castro, more and more young people are losing their faith in the communist system. But not only do they push back by working in tourism, they push back in different ways as well. They continue to skate at night despite the government’s orders to stop and they continue to form groups (like the animal rights activists), despite government fear. While it is difficult to say what the future will bring, I believe that if young Cubans continue on this trajectory, a change will come; the government is increasingly getting nervous that they are losing control of the people. Hopefully, a real revolution will happen.

As I write this, Cuba is undoubtedly undergoing massive changes — for better or for worse. Who knows what currency (if only one) they will be using in the future, whether their tourist economy will be thriving or failing or whether the government will continue a semi-strict censorship within the next year — or even month. But, as I write this, I know that one thing will remain unchanged: the resilience and drive of Cubans.

After learning from these dissenting artists in Havana, I discovered that the real revolution has remained within the spirits of the people: concerns about the government are voiced across generations, and people continue to read, write and philosophize fervently. Despite the censorship, there is constant questioning, and despite the overbearing communist regime, a capitalist economy is blossoming quickly in its cracks.

There are many forces at work in contemporary Cuba, and as long as Cubans continue to use agency to combat the communist regime, small changes will morph into significant ones. By writing this thesis and sharing these stories of their struggle for democracy and basic human rights, it is my hope to raise some awareness, however small, of the Cuban

92 government’s current restriction of one of the most basic human rights: freedom of expression.

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critical-areas-of-cuban-art-in-the-1950s/5304/.

Viviana Aldous. 2015. “Censorship in Cuba,” Law School International Immersion

Program Papers, .

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Yurchak, Alexei. 2006. Everything Was Forever, until It Was No More: The Last Soviet

Generation. In-Formation Series. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

Zurita, Eric. 2016. “Yes, My Family Had to Flee Cuba. But Staying Mad about It Doesn’t

Achieve Anything.” Washington Post, March 25, 2016, sec. PostEverything.

98 https://www.washingtonpost.com/posteverything/wp/2016/03/25/yes-my-family- had-to-flee-cuba-but-staying-mad-about-it-doesnt-achieve-anything/.

99 VISUALS: Havana, Cuba, 2018 - 2019

APPENDIX

Figure 1: The mystery paintings

These are the Botero plaques I first saw on the bathroom door in Havana in 2018.

100 VISUALS: Havana, Cuba, 2018 - 2019

Figure 2: Diana Perez

My research assistant, Diana, in Juan Carlos Garcia’s studio in May 2019. Behind Diana in the top right corner is the Mona Lisa painting that I described in the introduction.

101 VISUALS: Havana, Cuba, 2018 - 2019

Figure 3: Icons in Cuba

Sculptures, billboards and posters of communist icons Che and Fidel are commonplace is public and private spaces in Cuba. Here is a stencil on the side of a street depicting Che. This famous photo of Che Guevera was made by Alberto Korda in 1960. The photo has since been made into t-shirts and other random communist propaganda.

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Figure 4: Gabriela “Gaby” Román González

Gaby’s political window installation that says, “What happens when nothing happens.” Gaby posted a series of images on her Instagram account that make up a full image of the installation; this is a screenshot taken of its presentation on her Instagram.

103 VISUALS: Havana, Cuba, 2018 - 2019

Figure 5: Juan Carlos Garcia

Juan paints with his daughter’s nail polish inside his studio in May 2019.

104