“Detrimental to the Interests of the United States”:

Cuban Artists (Not) in Residence

-Jenni Drozdek

            Imagine the following scenario: you are walking toward the doors of a building located on the corner of Sampsonia Way on the North Side of Pittsburgh.  As you turn the doorknob, a resounding “NO” startles you, and you hesitate before entering further.  Ignoring your apprehension, you enter a stark room; the echoing “NO” repeats intermittently.  You are drawn to the sound and find that it emanates from a giant white cubic structure that houses a large speaker.  An identical white box faces it, and as you walk between the two, it is immediately obvious that though both structures accommodate speakers, they are vastly differing in size.  The forceful “NO” now reverberates throughout your body as you lean toward the tiny speaker and struggle to listen to its message.  A pause between NOs allows you to hear a hushed voice.  “Si”, meaning “yes” in Spanish, it counters, barely contradicting the raucous “NO” of its giant neighbor.

            This work of opposition and incongruity was created by the Cuban artist Yoán Capote, who titled it Impotence.  For all intents and purposes, it is a simple work, almost minimalist in structure and relying on an auditory “yes” and “no” to convey its meaning.  That the “NO” is louder, more intrusive and more remarkable is both significant and fundamental to the piece, an observation that will become much clearer by the end of this paper.  As a Cuban-born and based artist, Capote, who along with his brother Iván, contributed installation works to Pittsburgh’s Mattress Factory Museum, was denied an opportunity to take part in the museum’s residency program to install his work of art.  Though his work was ultimately created in spite of arising difficulties, he nevertheless felt the “impotence” imposed upon him by the U.S. government.  Thus his work’s title, Impotence, is a fitting description of not only his own situation, but also of the other Cuban artists who exhibited - a perpetual “NO” mocking and frustrating their efforts. 

            On October 3, 2004, the Mattress Factory, a museum dedicated to contemporary installation art, launched an exhibition called New Installations, Artists in Residence: Cuba. [i]  As part of its mission as a “research and development laboratory for artists,” the Mattress Factory commissions and exhibits site-specific works.[ii]  Beginning in 1995 and coinciding with Pittsburgh’s Carnegie International, the museum launched a major exhibition.  In 1995 it was “Artists of Central and Eastern Europe” and in 1999, “Asian Installations.” 

A major resource for the creators of these site-specific installations is the Mattress Factory’s “Artists in Residence” program.  Those artists invited for residency, which can last anywhere from a week to several months, are provided with all the tools and equipment, labor and assistance, and any other support needed to realize their works of art. In addition to the actual materials and professional labor required, the Artists in Residence program provides housing, transportation, a per diem, and honorarium, allowing the artist to maintain concentration on the work at hand without the financial worries of daily life.  However, what is mostly gained for the artist (and museum), is his or her full participation in the installation project.  The artist, therefore, is in complete control of the outcome of the project, even if he or she is not alone in manually constructing the entire installation.   

            This description of the Artists in Residence program is a crucial component to this discussion because none of the Cuban artists of the 2004 show ever took residence in Pittsburgh, and thus the title of the exhibition, New Installations, Artists in Residence: Cuba was, I believe, very consciously ironic.  The entire lack of physical presence of these Cuban artists had nothing to do with disinterest or apathy on their part and everything to do with the political friction between Cuba and the United States, which has not ceased since Fidel Castro seized power in January 1959. 

This paper will focus on the recent exhibition of Cuban artists and concentrate on three of the exhibition’s works.  Such an examination will show how the exhibition evoked and critiqued, both implicitly and explicitly, Cuban-American relations.  However, I do not want to suggest that the works should be grouped together simply as “Cuban works”; such a categorization is too simplistic and does not give credence to their complexity and individuality.  Yet, several themes did arise and interweave among the artists’ works: primarily, control (both its presence and lack), impotence, and memory.  But before discussing specific works, a brief summary of the conception and realization of the exhibition must be given. 

            Political tensions often invite interesting and compelling artworks, an observation not lost upon Barbara Luderowski and Michael Olijnyk, the Mattress Factory’s director and curator respectively.  After studio visits and an agreed collaboration with Cuban-based curator Maria Gonzáles-Mora, eleven Cuban artists were invited to create new installations at the Mattress Factory, an intriguing prospect for many of them who had not previously had the opportunity to work on such a large scale or utilize an entire gallery space.[iii]  Travel between Cuba and the United States has been problematic for a long time, but in 2003 further restrictions were placed.[iv]  Thus the curator and director planned on only half of the artists arriving for residency.  As part of the application for travel visas, the artists’ passports were held for six months, and the Mattress Factory sent a letter to Pennsylvania senator Arlen Specter, requesting that visas were granted so the artists could install their works.  Ultimately, all of the requests were denied. The official reason given by both Specter and a stamped pronouncement on all the passports was that their proposed visits were “detrimental to the interests of the United States.”[v]

In June 2004, George W. Bush instituted tougher travel and trade embargos upon Cuba.  According to Democracy Now’s Amy Goodman, even Cuban-Americans can only “visit immediate relatives on the island . . . once every three years, instead of [the previous] once per year. Visits can last no longer than 14 days. U.S. citizens who are not Cuban-Americans are banned from visiting the island nation.”  Additionally, according to attorney Art Heitzer, who chairs the National Lawyer’s Guild’s Cuba Subcommittee, there exists a “control of exchange” where, for example, U.S. publications have been warned against even translating Cuban articles.[vi] 

In fact, restrictions have increased so dramatically that even communication with Cubans proved potentially dangerous.  Luderowski and Olijnyk had to hire an attorney to monitor and advise every step in the organization and completion of the Mattress Factory exhibition.  According to Luderowski, because Cuba is considered “the enemy,” a relationship with the nation is akin to one with Al Queda, and thereby, the museum’s communications were being monitored.[vii]   

            Dismayed at the refusal to grant the artists travel visas, the Mattress Factory was not defeated and resolved to continue with the implementation of the exhibition.  Because of the unusual circumstances of this show, i.e. the absence of the artists and thus their inability to take physical part in the construction of their site-specific works, a new kind of collaboration between curators and artists evolved.  Working with González-Mora, the staff of the museum ultimately fulfilled the artists’ creative visions via phone and email communication, faxes and postal mail, and “safe” meetings within Canadian borders, where Cubans are granted entry.  Every element of the installation was discussed with each artist so that he or she would always have the final word.  Samples were sent, countless photographs were taken as documentation, parts and tools were ordered and minds were changed; and the artist, though absent in body, was always present in spirit, the realization of his or her work being the only goal for which to aim.  The outcome resulted in eleven very different and very powerful works, three of which will be examine here in some detail.  It should be noted that because the works were temporary installations, most now exist only in photographic documentation and are reproduced here for the reader. 

The first work under discussion, Glenda León’s Habitat and Night Fantasy, consists of a bed facing a black wall, on which a portion of the night sky was reproduced, incorporating studded rhinestone earrings to represent each individual star.  The bed itself is Nature transformed.  Photographs of earth and rocks claim the mattress and pillow, while a “comforter” of artificial lawn represents the grass.  The headboard is another photograph of the Cuban sky, interspersed with billowing clouds.  Thus León introduced representations of several elements of nature—sky, earth, and, as I will argue, water—into her work

What León ultimately accomplished is the appropriation of the uncontrollable – Nature itself – onto which she asserted control through her clever transposition of nature onto man-made materials.  Her procurement of control was a significant part of this work since so little power was given to her, owing to the restrictive travel embargo.  Yet she did not let her absence be felt: the images of sky, rocks and earth of the bed all consisted of photographs she took in Cuba.  Though she could not be present, she made sure that part of Cuba was.

Though the side of the room that she titled Habitat incorporated photographs taken on Cuban soil, the opposite wall comprises of a completely artificial space; no photographs exist to capture reality.  The wall, painted entirely black and speckled with makeshift stars, is a clever trompe l’oiel.  Between the bed and wall of this night sky, or between Habitat and Night Fantasy (note too the titles’ allusions to the real versus fanciful), lies the floor.  Though not explicitly incorporated into the work itself, the floor becomes a significant facet of it; both its bluish-gray tonality and the allusion of space between earth and horizon suggest water, adding another element of nature to the work.  And such an allusion is not minor, since more than half of the works in the exhibition made some explicit or implicit reference to water.

To first state the obvious, Cuba is an island, therefore surrounded by water from all sides.  And water, both metaphorically and metonymically, serves as a powerful and loaded symbol for the Cuban people.  Many have traversed it to escape a repressive regime only to enter a country that rejects them.  In fact, the emigration from Cuba to the United States on makeshift boats or rafts is such a familiar occurrence that there is a specific term for such exiles: the balseros.[viii]  According to Marilyn Zeitlin, “the sea is a presence you constantly encounter in Havana. . . [It] is the way into the world, but is also the barrier.”[ix]  This statement is a powerful one since it reinforces the theme of impotence that pervades so many the works shown at the Mattress Factory. 

Returning to León’s work, one can now perhaps better understand the introduction of the water motif into it.  As Zeitlin noted, it can serve as a barrier, an observation underscored in the artificiality of the León’s Night Fantasy.  For when our imaginary balsero traverses the “water” of León’s world, he or she encounters only impenetrable and impassable space, making his or her exodus from the island impossible.  Is it any coincidence, then, that her bed recalls a grave?  Does it not elicit the idea that such a pilgrimage will lead to death?  Of course, not all balseros die during their journey to the U.S., yet thoughts of death must be unremitting when making such a journey, which is prohibited by both Cuba and the United States. 

Another work that deals more explicitly with such an emigration was created by José Emilio Fuentes Fonseca, or JEFF, as he is also known.  JEFF’s installation, Sentamiento and Pensamiento consists of two rusted structures in the shape of a house and boat, evoking the paper boats children make to float in a bathtub.  Inside both the large boat and house are miniature boats floating on rust-colored and encrusted water.

Certainly any interpretations relating to the balseros seems less far-fetched with this work.  Note that, for example, small boats are encased within larger structures, which effectively impede their egress.  Therefore, the small boats are forced to float uselessly and unproductively, never reaching any actual destination.  That they are surrounded by and made up of rust is noteworthy as well.  Rust connotes an ongoing process of neglect.  And is this not what balseros must feel? Neglected by their own government and ignored by ours?  That neglect must be a recurring Cuban sentiment, a word I use deliberately, seems a reasonable supposition.  Thus, JEFF’s titles for the house, Thought, and the large boat, Feeling, are fitting. 

Finally, it is also significant that the artist incorporated child-like elements into his work, in which the house and boats resemble a large playhouse and folded paper-boats.  That these structures are rusted alludes to one’s own innocence eventually giving way to the “pollution”, if you will, of experience.  And therefore, playful imagery becomes invested with painful feelings, particularly the impotence of the balseros. 

The final work that will be discussed is Landscape by Erik García Gómez, who photographed, in ten-minute intervals, a single spot off the coast of Havana for a twenty-four hour period.  The work, a large rectangular metal structure suspended from the ceiling, houses a long reel of film— actually a combination of single images that were spliced together to form a sort of panorama—around its perimeter in which one encounters the day from sunrise to sunset (and it is important to note that the film is positioned at eye-level).  But stand in one place for the next twenty-four hours, and the reel of film will change before your eyes. A motor within the metal casing imperceptibly moves the reel one rotation each full day.

Water, in this work, is a focal point.  And the specific location from which Gómez took the photographs is also an important observation.  Havana, after all, faces the United States, and the water off its shores has been innumerably traversed.  As one looks at the ocean view of Gómez’s photographs, the horizon appears far-off and remote; infinite space seems to separate Cuba from the United States.  That the same scene is repeated over and over again for the duration of a day, and that one must walk around the entire structure and never find an “end”, only enhances the futility felt by the balsero, now embodied by the viewer.  One can resolve to walk around Gómez’s structure or stand in front of it for eternity but is forever situated in the same spot; no traversal across the ocean can be made.

The concepts of impotence and memory in regards to the above works have hopefully now been elucidated.  However, it would be wise to return to the idea of control, since, in their works, the artists refer to both its absence while also assuming it.  Certainly as artists and makers of works, they have gained control in the mere act of creation, though in this case, not necessarily the physical completion of the works.  Yet the ideas and elements reflected in their works also interrogate the idea of control.  León, for example, appropriates Nature; thus taking control of what is in essence and reality completely uncontrollable.   JEFF, too, assumes control by, first, expediting the natural rusting process of materials via a chemical one, and, more subtly, metaphorically enclosing yet, at the same time, exposing both thought and feeling (remember the titles of his works).  Finally, García Gómez, like León, appropriates control of nature: in this case by allowing the viewer to experience the duration of a single day as many times as he or she might wish.  One can walk around the artist’s installation, watching the sun rise and set. Moreover, one can turn back the hands of time by walking around the work in reverse.  

Such an assuming of control resonated throughout the exhibition, even with the symbolic absence of the artists.  The installation by Luis Gómez, consisting of a tangle of cords and projectors that beamed live-action imagery onto the stark walls, serves as an example.  Feeling utterly frustrated at his inability to install and create within the gallery, Gómez decided to let his absence become a part of his art.  Each webcam was sent to friends and colleagues around the world, and it was they who decided what images would be projected.  The imagery could change at any time and often did.  Unavoidable was the frequent breakdown in communication, which, if anything, only added to the significance of the work.  That he completely gave up control in this work is, in fact, a taking up of it.  Gómez’s absence becomes a powerful political statement that forces the viewer of the installation to confront the harsh facts of our administration’s decision.  And such a confrontation was inescapable throughout the exhibition, though, to reiterate, was not an explicit or shared intention.

I would like to close with a quote by Cuban curator and exhibition collaborator Maria Gonzáles-Mora, who claimed that “the fact that [the show] features the work of . . . artists, all of whom reside [in Cuba], and opened barely a month before one of the more controversial and tension-filled U.S. elections, will make this exhibition especially significant . . . By taking [it on], the Mattress Factory is living up to its core beliefs, its ethical stance and its philosophy.”[x]   Her statement reaffirms the feeling of many of us who took part in or visited the exhibition: that only the suppression of these artists’ works, not their presence inside our borders, would have been detrimental to the interests of the United States.         

All material presented herein is   © 2004-2007 by ACI.