I remember that one of my professors in undergrad told our class that the best thing you can do when you start learning about a new culture is to begin with their poetry. In reading it over, you learn the language, the culture’s proverbs, how they describe feeling, and what’s really important to the people. Personally, I hate most poetry. There, I’ve said it. Condemn me, if you must. As I’ve recently read, history will absolve me of my sin. Art, however, is where I find myself at home. The familiar. I love going to a new museum or gallery, popping in my headphones, making a playlist for that specific space, and creating a soundtrack for the experience. Thus, I decided to substitute art for poetry and went to the Museo Nacional De Bellas Artes in Havana. I figured that taking a look at Cuban art while also escaping the afternoon sun in an air-conditioned space couldn’t hurt.
After paying the 5 CUCs for admission, I was warned that there were no photos allowed once I headed up to the galleries on the next floor. Challenge accepted. I have had alarms sounded on me and museum staff called in because I have either gotten a little too close to the art or snapped an illicit photograph at the MET in New York or the Prado in Spain, and have even managed to touch a statue at the Louvre in Paris. Needless to say, I left the Museo with dozens of photos of the art on my iPhone. My act of subversion was helped by the fact that it was almost to 4:00 PM, the museum was closing soon, and the female guards who were stationed at each gallery seemed to be completely clocked out. They were clearly biding their time until their shift was officially over, scrolling through their phones with one hand while fanning themselves with the other. The comforting sight of someone aimlessly thumbing through their mobile while waiting for the next thing to happen was oh so familiar.
These women were are all seated in chairs and had on long sleeved shirts with matching skirts and wore black heals that were between 2-3 inches high. Some of the older women wore wedges while the younger girls had strappy pumps that they had slipped off their heels and were casually hanging from the ball of their foot. Most of them had their hair slicked back into a tight ponytail. Every one of them, however, somehow managed to make the uniform her own. Some fastened decorative pins to personalize their outfits while others wore black lace stockings underneath their skirts. I’ve noticed these stockings a lot amongst Cuban women whose jobs require they wear uniforms. I remember that upon landing in Havana, I did my best impersonation of what I thought an anthropologist would do in my position. Yes, what would an anthropologist, fresh out of their first year in grad school and having just landed in their research site after a sixteen hour layover in Santo Domingo where she had only eaten a single cold empanada washed down with a lukewarm Country Club soda, do? Keenly observe her surroundings, of course. Thus, I noticed women’s stockings.
I tried to take in every detail of the Jose Marti airport while I waited for my bag to make its way onto the carousel—which it did finally, but only after an agonizing thirty-five minutes and a total of, by my estimate, 137 turns of the carousel. Most of the items spinning by were either television sets or packages wrapped in cellophane and Dora the Explorer cartoon sheets. I later found out that these were car parts and machine pieces that were intended for resale. While waiting for my single purple Samsonite, I began to intently and discretely take notice of the people around me. The airport staff all wore tan, military clothing. Here is when I first saw those intricately patterned black lace stockings worn by the women underneath their uniforms. The contrast between such a fashionable item and the otherwise drab skirts at the airport was striking, strange even.
I had been wearing my anthropologist hat a bit too tightly my first few days in Cuba, trying to remember and transcribe every conversation I had had from the moment I stepped foot on the island. The Museo was a much-needed break from myself. For myself? From myself. Each gallery was perfumed with the scent of the woman that sat guard, and with that smell, I walked around discretely snapping shots of some of my favorite pieces while noting those and others in my small red Moleskine. Osneldo Garcia, Wifredo Lam, Enrique Garcia Cabrera, and Rafael Blanco appear as some of my more legible scribbles.
Having gone through the three floors of the Museo in about an hour, I decided to give it another look around. Yes, I succumbed to my indoor girl tendencies that simply did not want me to leave the air conditioning for the 90 degrees with 70 percent humidity that awaited me outside. I also wanted to avoid the guard downstairs that repeatedly asked me why I wore black lipstick. He did not find my matter-of-fact answer of “Simplemente porque me gusta,” a satisfying response. Looking back at our brief little exchange, I must admit that I am smirking at the fact that my makeup of choice was the conduit of a little strange in his day. I wonder if he asked any of the Museo’s staff if they noticed the black-lipped chick in the galleries. Digression aside, I stayed on the third floor looking at what I’m calling the “National Pieces”, paintings of figures from the Revolution and Revolution-themed art. Every conversation I have had about identity has included a long discussion about the Cuban Revolution–the main players, the reasons, the events, whether or not it was a success, etc. Everyone has their own opinion, adding a distinct flavor and particular set of details to each retelling. This intimate entanglement between history and identity might somehow be incorporated into my research. It’s too early for me to draw conclusions about what these conversations mean, or how I will relate them to my project. I do, however, know that I’m going to keep hanging out, asking questions, and probably continue noticing women’s socks. It’s only been a week, and I am still trying to find that balance between constantly seeking the familiar and the strange and letting the familiar and the strange find me.
I’m currently writing from Cojimar, a fishing town that’s about a 15-minute drive outside of Old Havana. In the morning, I’ll climb up to the roof, and see the boats coming back to shore with their day’s catch. Then in the afternoon, a couple of hours before sunset, I’ll watch the town’s people start to leave their homes and take up a shady spot by the water, roll down their shirts, and sip beer whilst listening to the music selection that our local rooftop DJ blasts from his stereo. Every hour or so a vendor will come by on bicycle playing Jose Feliciano’s “Feliz Navidad” while yelling, “Aguacate! Aguacate maduro!” over the sound system he fashioned out of a Zune and megaphone contraption. It’s a good place. It’s a safe place. I have an air conditioner and a small television in my room that I keep on the “Multivision” channel that plays subtitled English-language programs. I like to unmute the TV at night when I’m typing and writing up my field notes, like I am now, blending the familiar with the strange for a few hours before going to bed.
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