Thoughts in Progress

I went to see a Polish movie recently at the ICA. It was called “Beyond Words” and at first sight it dealt with an issue close to my heart: a father-and-son relationship. Yet, as I thought about the feature and peeled the layers off it after I left the Institute of Contemporary Arts, I realised that there was an overarching theme: immigrants and how they see their host country. And how their host country sees them, which is just as important. Mirrors do talk back.

Michael is a successful Polish-born lawyer. Yet for all his perfect-sounding German that makes him blend in easily in 21^st-century Berlin, he is still looking for a real identity. This identity conundrum is further complicated when a man, claiming to be his father, turns up out of the blue. The two of them spend some days together trying to work out trust-related issues. Michael’s father, a Polish bohemian with very unorthodox ideas about life in general, brings chaos into his son’s otherwise orderly life. Whilst at the beginning we see resistance from Michael to this onslaught, little by little he begins to relent and finally surrenders to the only link he has to his native Poland. At the same time there is another narrative going on. One which is just as important as the father-son puzzle.  This subplot involves Michael and his employer and friend, German-born Franz. Asked by the latter to defend an African poet applying for asylum, Michael refuses on the grounds that the case is a lost one. In reality, it is Michael’s prejudices against the African man that stop him from taking his case on. In an ironic and sad twist, Franz reveals a hitherto hidden side of him. He doesn’t see Michael as an equal. Just like Michael doesn’t see the African man as an equal.

The film made me question my “Cubanness”. After 20-plus years in the UK, how much of Cuba is there still in me and how much of Britain has filtered through and settled in? As soon as I got home I scanned my new place for signs of “Cubanness”. Other than music and books, all I could find was a Cuban flag on the side of a jar of Cuban honey, kindly gifted to me by my friend D. For some strange reason I also suddenly recalled some lines from Paul Muldoon’s poem “Cuba”, in which he never mentions my country, but does allude to Kennedy, “nearly an Irishman/So he’s not much better than ourselves”.

This question of identity and belonging, to me, was the main theme in “Beyond Words”. The (almost) demand on an immigrant to conform to a pre-established concept of authenticity. This concept can be laid down either by the immigrant themselves, or the host country, or both, following a centuries-old unwritten agreement whereby we do not deviate from our pre-assigned roles. Yet, what happens when we do? This is exactly what makes Michael’s father run away from his son when the latter cracks a well-known Polish joke. The words are Polish and so is the wisecrack but the man telling them… what is he? Michael’s father is not the only person estranged from something or someone. Michael himself is estranged from his culture. I don’t think I have reached that point yet, nor do I think I ever will, but certain attitudes do set me apart from what would normally be labelled “Cuban culture”. And yet, isn’t there an incongruity in that very term? For what is culture but an ever-shifting, always-forward-looking phenomenon? Am I to be only salsa, sun and sand? Who decided that?

Later on as I fell asleep the last image that flashed in my mind was that of a pebble thrown with intent and purpose by a child across a lake. The stone left a choreography of uniformly-shaped outward-fanning ripples.

Who are you? Who am I?

© 2018

London, my London

This time London, my London will take you from Ally Pally, where we left off last time, to a lesser-known spot. Again, we are not focusing on shortcuts or quick routes, but on culture, history and the never-ending energy that characterises London. A city that only lives in the past (or off it) becomes dead, or at least it turns into a zombie. London is the opposite, it is alive and we, Londoners, born here or not, are the ones who keep it going.

You could say with a narrow margin of error that although London is not very hilly, as I remarked before, it is mostly hemmed in by elevations north of the Thames. South of the river, I know there are inclines, but they are fewer or at least easier to avoid.

The only positive outcome of hills – besides the exercise they provide – is that once you have exhausted yourself going up one, you will have to come down at some point and this is exactly what I did as I left Alexandra Palace in the borough of Haringey and carried on north-western bound. The ride down was smooth and along tree-lined streets. At the end of Alexandra Park Road I found myself with the chic barrio of Muswell Hill on my left. Together with neighbouring Crouch End and Highgate, this is an area that has become renowned for its arty-creative-type, middle-class demographic. Independent and – and you could say very – idiosyncratic shops line up along Colney Hatch Lane leading to Muswell Hill Broadway. If you happen to be staying in or visiting the area I would strongly recommend a stroll around some of the shops near the Muswell Hill Broadway roundabout. For those on foot there is a bus depot near the roundabout with good connections into town. A stone’s throw away is one of my favourite spots in London, Highgate Wood There is nothing more satisfying than walking down Muswell Hill Road in autumn until you reach Highgate Wood. This is a 28-hectare ancient woodland. Plenty of wildlife has made it its home and the woodland trails are picture-perfect. If you are travelling to London with little ones in tow, they will appreciate your effort. The playground in the park is worth a visit.

For me, the cyclist, the route was simpler although I must I admit I did get lost. I crossed Colney Hatch Lane and went straight down Page’s Lane. My goal was to get to Barnet and cycle through Finchley.

A confusing and bizarre trait of London’s urban geography is both its postcode and its borough demarcation systems. The former, I will go into detail in future posts; the latter is almost comical. I had been only a few minutes on Creighton Avenue when I realised that I had already crossed the border from Haringey to the Borough of Barnet. I retraced my steps to double-check and saw the welcome sign, but it was so inconspicuous that it was easy to miss.

A cycle lane brought me to the other end of Church Road and there I got lost again. The method I was following was the old-fashioned way. Although I had a built-in GPS in my mobile, I didn’t want to use it. For me a few scribbled-down street names on a piece of paper, with arrows indicating in which direction to turn, was more than enough. I approached a group of women talking outside a house. Not only did I get my bearings right after their instructions but I also got a short history lesson on this part of Finchley. The road I was looking for was East End Road which I had written incorrectly on my piece of paper. The street was not a mere thoroughfare but it had originally bequeathed the name to this area before it became East Finchley. The problem was that at the time there was also an East End in London famous for its deprivation and crime. The residents of this better-off north-western barrio wanted nothing to do with their down-on-their-luck fellow Londoners and changed the name to East Finchley.

I cycled away from the Old White Lion, a 1700s pub that still stood there on the same century-old spot and found myself speeding down Kingsley Way, through the middle of Hampstead Garden Suburb, an example of good “domestic architecture”. The fact that this early-20^th-century blueprint for town planning looked like another world was the result (as I later found out) of a community-focused and joint co-operative effort by a group of like-minded citizens. Quiet, tree-lined, wide streets sporting impressive-looking hedges on their front gardens were visual balm for my tired limbs.

Hampstead Garden Suburb (photo taken from Flickr)

Upon turning left onto Finchley Road the lyrics of Mor Karbasi’s song, Judía, popped into my head all of a sudden: Judía será tu nombre/mi frente besó mi madre cuando nací/un beso de amor me dió mi madre cuando nací. If you are wondering what the words of a Sephardic Jewish singer are doing in a post about northwest London, perhaps you are not aware that Golders Green, the neighbourhood I was cycling through at that moment, has been home to a very diverse Jewish community for decades. A Jewish community about which I will write in my next post. Or rather in my next love-letter to London, my London.

© 2015

Next Post: “Voices and Faces of London”, to be published on Saturday 31^st October at 6pm (GMT)

Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections, Music and Dance

Spring is the most terpsichorean of seasons. The way flowers suddenly sprout from trees that were bare just a few days ago has the same magical quality of a grand jeté or one of Chango’s somersaults. This is the time of the year when daffodils crane their necks, like ballerinas, to peer upwards at the still let’s-play-hide-and-seek sun. Birds stage their own version of the X Factor and nature slowly awakens from its stupor. Like a dancer, nature stretches its cramped muscles, atrophied by what this year has been an endless cold snap.

Spring in my garden

Performers are show-offs. It’s one of the unwritten rules we all learn the minute we put on our leotards, tracksuit bottoms or shorts. We want to be seen, we want to be acknowledged and if praise is also given, then, it’s a hat-trick for us. Spring is the same. It boasts the smell of the first blossoms, the sensual, effervescent energy of animals leaping about after spending months in their winter lair and the melodic whistles of winged creatures. No wonder spring’s one of my favourite seasons together with autumn. But, whilst the latter’s beauty lies in its slow demise and the colours it uses to draw its death, the former conjures up life at the snap of its green fingers. The early morning chill is usually replaced by the welcoming warmth of the afternoon sun. And in the midst of this beautiful madness it’s not rare to come across butterflies challenging each other in a dance-off.

Yes, for one season only, nature becomes Terpsichore, choral song included.

This is “see you later” from me. As usual I will go into hibernation for a whole month. There won’t be much activity on my blog because I will be away from my computer almost totally. Thanks for your comments and support. I wish you all a happy Easter break!

© 2013

Photo taken by the blog author

Next Post: “Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music”, to be published on Sunday 28th April at 10am (GMT)

Urban Diary

As soon as I come out of London Bridge tube station the late morning winter’s breeze hits me. There is a freshness in the air, a chill that hints at colder temperatures ahead and yet the sun’s presence suggests (misleadingly) warmth.

I turn left on to Borough High Street, spot the cross through the bare tree branches and know that I’ve arrived. Borough Market beckons me.

This is a part of London of which I’ve heard much but to which I’ve never been. Following two years of disruption caused by Network Rail’s decision to carry out some construction work in the area, the market has just re-opened its doors recently.

I thread my way in amongst the stalls. At one of the entrances I’m greeted by the smell and sight of a beautifully cooked Spanish paella. It is a real piece of art. I ask the man behind the counter if he is Spanish himself. No, Polish, he answers. I smile at him and regret not knowing the Polish expression for “thank you for keeping the Hispanic tradition alive”.

Once inside the market the traders vie for everyone’s attention. At the Free From Bakehouse I ask Caroline Aherne, the owner, if she has any dairy-, egg- and nut-free cake I could buy for my daughter. She has but sadly it’s the same banana cake my little one is so good at cooking herself. My luck changes for the better at the Chocolicious stall. Hayleigh Bazelya is an expert in her field and she has the right product for me: half a dozen bonbons made of pure chocolate with neither milk, nor egg, nor nuts in them elegantly wrapped.  At two quid per bag, it feels like a snip. Now it’s the turn for my wife, my son and me.

At the Ion Pattiserie I find exactly what I’m looking for: a thick, brick-like, almond cake, with a soft cream centre. The owner, Georgeta Decuseara (or her husband, for it is a bloke who serves me) is also talkative, solicitous and courteous. I buy three slices which set me back just over a fiver. It’s time to have lunch I tell myself.

I stop at La Porteña where I simultaneously hear the traders speaking in Spanish to each other and spot a mate gourd sitting on a table. They’re both Argentinian. Their empanadas (pasties) are just a couple of quid and look the business. Yet, after having some small talk with them, I turn around and let my nose dictate the way. It leads me to the German Deli Ltd. I buy a gigantic sausage with plenty of Sauerkraut, mustard and ketchup.

I have spent just over an hour at Borough Market and yet I have covered just one third of the area. I make a mental note to return soon. I would like to visit the De Calabria stall where they sell soppressata, one of Italy’s more popular salamis. D’Issa is another option with its wild array of products from Croatia. Similarly, I would like to experiment with some of the spices sold by SpiceMountain.

But for now, I head out of the market on what has become a bright, February winter’s afternoon.

© 2013

Photos by the blog author

Next Post: “Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music”, to be published on Sunday 3^rd March at 10am (GMT)

Pieces of Me, Pieces of Havana

Ripples of laughter undulate in the windless, stifling heat, carrying the mirthful tones of the two women's voices across each dwelling. Carmen is telling Mirta that Cuca's plans to go to Spain have been thwarted. The "gallego" she found on an online dating agency, courtesy of Pepe's wife, turned out to be disabled. Cuca - Cuquita to her close friends - is a "daughter of Changó" and therefore unable to accept boyfriends or partners who have physical impediments. After a whole year of online courtship, she has to go back now to square one and update her profile on the website. In order to do that she will depend once again on Yolanda, Pepe's wife, who works in an office that deals with foreign firms and in which there's only one PC with access to internet. Half Yolanda's colleagues already have profiles on the same or on other dating sites. Although Carmen and Mirta are laughing out loud, their voices lower when they talk about Cuca lest the "man from the CDR" finds out that she wants to flee the country. However, Carmen and Mirta needn't worry. Everybody knows the story.

Welcome to the "solar habanero". Where your business is everybody's business.

The Havana slum is one of those landmarks in the Cuban capital that never makes it to the tourist brochures but without whose presence my city would be a limping ghost; bereft of one limb. The slum is an entity in and of itself, a self-proclaimed republic of concrete and cement where Darwin's law has reigned supreme since time immemorial, with Marx's edict by its side. The "solar" is a direct descendant of the Indian "bajareque", "caney", "bohío" and "barbacoa", sometimes the four of them rolled into one. It's social promiscuity to the nth degree, Einstein's law of relativity stretched to the maximum. How many people live in a Havana slum? No one knows. Not even census-takers. Above all, the "solar" is alive. It lives in its stories, its (semi) (non-) houses, its lingo and social interactions.

The "solar" is a challenge to mathematics. Homes are not rectangular, or square, but amoebic, capable of changing shape because of the movement of its cells, viz., inhabitants. There's always room for one more. Or two. Or three. And with that comes the extension, a daring excursion into architecture. Venture into the "solar" through the makeshift front gate, fashioned out of a dirty white sheet that's seen better days, or if you're really lucky a piece of cardboard. Walk past María's house, the first one of a series of cavernous dwellings, where she will be plaiting someone's hair whilst the sound of Paulito FG and his band playing some hardcore timba blares out of her radio. María is one of the unofficial DJs in the "solar". Next to her lives Ismael, an elderly man in his 90s whose wife died ten years ago when she was seventy-four and for whom he always arranges a "toque" for Oshún with violins on the anniversary of her death. Ismael looks fragile but he's still able to help Clara's children with her homework because he used to be a teacher in his youth even if the way multiplication and division are done nowadays differ greatly from his own practice. Ismael always dresses in white. Rumour has it that he's had his "santo" done. Clara, on the other hand, is rarely seen without her uniform, now that she works at the new supermarket across the park, the one the locals call "shopping". Clara is a robust, mixed-race, strong-minded woman in her early forties. She is kind and giving but if she has to put someone in her place she will do so without a second thought. That's what happened to Virginia who fell out with Clara badly some time ago over a shirt left behind, hanging on the washing line. Virginia thought the item of clothing belonged to one of her three boys, whilst Clara was completely sure that it was Enriquito's, her ten-year old son. Strongs words were exchanged and accusations made: "You know why you're so bitter? Because your husband left you and nobody wants you." "Look who's talking, the one who's always flirting with the butcher so that she can get a little bit of extra meat". "At least, it's the butcher and not a bunch of teenage boys who're always peeking through the broken slats of your front window to see you taking your clothes off. And you know they're there. That's why you do it. Bitch!" And the hands became fists and the neighbours had to pull them apart. But soon after the two of them made up, because Virginia's fridge broke down and she needed a place to store her durofrios in. The ice-cubes that calm the thirst of the children of the "solar". And of some of the adults, too. The flavours vary from vanilla to strawberry, the sugar is the quick fix the little ones need to carry on playing baseball, football or hide and seek. Virginia also sells "raspaduras", the creamy toffee that is so sweet you have to eat it bit by bit. She used to be married to a very abusive husband, who used to wake up the entire solar in the middle of the night everytime he beat Virginia up. Despite Virginia's constant black eyes, he never went to jail. Prison only caught up with him when he broke into Domingo's shop.

Domingo is the grocer. He is a direct descendant from gallegos, who arrived in Havana in the early years of the 20th century. He likes living in the solar. He has a big moustache and a round belly and there's always a smile on his face. Although he was born in Cuba, he affects a Galician accent. His house is probably the most modern-looking one. He has a little business on the side, selling the surplus of fruit and vegetables in his state-run shop out of the back door. But if you ask him, he will say that he's doing nothing wrong. In fact, he'll tell you that at least he's being honest; he makes sure everyone takes their share on the ration card before working out how much he can get out of a pound of carrots or a kilo of potatoes. Domingo is good friends with Pedro, the caretaker. Nobody gave Pedro the job title, or the position, come to think of it, but the only water pump in the solar happens to be located in his house and he's the only one who knows how to work it. Every two or three days, depending on the water level, he will tell the neighbours to turn their taps on at 6pm, or 7 pm to fill up their tanks, buckets and bowls. You could say that Pedro is more considerate than Domingo. Once, when he found out that Fefa was not coming home from work at the usual time because she had a Party meeting, he didn't turn the water mains on until she arrived. He made sure everyone knew why he was doing it. The Sunday after, Fefa took a plate of rice and peas with chicken fricassee she had just cooked to his house to thank him for his gesture. Fefa's abode is also one of the least dilapidated. Everyone knows why. She's a member of the Communist Party and you can see the evidence the minute you walk into her house. A huge picture of Fidel Castro Ruz in military fatigues greets the visitor. Korda's image of Che Guevara stares at guests from one wall, whilst Camilo Cienfuegos's ever-smiling face beams down from another one. Two rocking chairs, a couch and a set of one table and four chairs make up the furniture. Fefa has a guest staying with her these days. A German guy who's interested in finding out how Cubans really live. He pays rent to Fefa for the small room in which he sleeps but it's a token amount. In his mind, however, he's the winner. All his theories about the dictatorship of the proletariat, all the ideas he embraced back in his native (formerly West) Germany have turned out to be true. Never mind that his passport and wallet got stolen as soon as he arrived at the solar (and mysteriously re-surfaced within a couple of days) or that he can't speak much Spanish, or that the scheduled blackouts still catch him unawares. He looks on the bright side, this Teutonic idealist, he does. He's taking percussion classes with Puchito, on an old conga drum that's usually wheeled out everytime there's a bembé in the slum. He's also attempting to learn Spanish with one of Felipito's sons. Felipito came all the way from Oriente some years ago and little by little he brought his whole family, including two uncles and a great-great-auntie. People in the solar call his family, "los muchos" (the many). At the beginning Cuquita tried to ensnare the German guy, but when she was told by her neighbours that he looked more as if he was atoning for past sins supposedly committed by capitalism than a one-way ticket to El Yuma, she gave him a wide berth.

There's only one person in the solar who doesn't get on with the German guest: Francisca, Panchita to her neighbours. She's an old, black woman who had just one son. He got killed in Angola in '84. When the German guy found out about her he told her that  her son's death had not been in vain, that in the end everyone was going to be free and that there would be world peace. Maybe it was the fact that he couldn't say it in Spanish properly, maybe it was the mix of English and German, maybe it was his body language, but Panchita told him to f... Well, the whole solar shook to the ground. And no amount of "Entschuldigen Sie, bitte, Ich verstehe nicht" could calm her down. Straight away all the neighbours were reminded of the day when the television cameras rolled into the slum and Francisca's hands trembled convulsively as she held the mike that was thrust in her direction. They wanted to know how it felt like to be a martyr's mother. She couldn't utter one single word. She burst into tears and the cameras were switched off immediately. It was the last time there was a live broadcast on the subject on the telly. Until then, Panchita'd had a bad (unfounded) reputation for being thought a descendant of "congos". Rumour had it that she was into witchcraft. But after the television incident, everyone changed their attitude towards her. One person who's always got on with Panchita, however, is "China man" Wong. Wong lives across from her, in a run-down house where the lounge, the dining room, the bedroom and the kitchen are one single room. He uses the communal toilet and bathroom outside. Nobody knows how old Wong is. He looks as old as Methuselah. He had arrived from Canton, China, probably sixty or seventy years ago and ran  his own pharmacy until 1959. After having his business confiscated by the government he ended up in the solar, married to a mulatto woman and producing half a dozen children. Wong is still the person to go to, if any of the children falls ill and conventional medicine fails to cure the ailment.

On Sundays there's usually rumba in the solar. And sometimes there are fights because of the alcohol being consumed, past grievances and misunderstandings. For instance, Angelito, who is "entendi'o", accepts and is happy with his homosexuality but can't put up with people making fun of it. In the same way that his conversations are peppered with "darlings" and "dears", he pulls a knife on anyone who dares question his masculinity, campness notwithstanding. Same with Rafael and his girlfriend Rebeca, the two rockers of the solar. Their hair is long and sometimes it's hard to tell them apart, what with being blond and blue-eyed, the two of them. But the minute Papito starts taking the mickey out of him and his girlfriend, Rafael jumps him. By Sunday evening, or Monday morning, however, everyone is back to saying hello to each other and whatever happened the day before stays there.

The zinc roofs, the DIY-ed doors that barely guard people's privacy, the dirty water that often runs down the concrete corridor en route to the road, the aroma of the fresly-made coffee, brewed at three in the afternoon regularly, the barefooted children eating sweets and memorising salsa songs, the congregation of neighbours in Domingo's house every Saturday night whenever he gets a new movie on video (he used to show them for free on his VCR years ago until he found out that he could charge a small amount and now the weekly or fortnightly video experience has become another business on the side), the sound of the wooden boxes being hit with bare hands or bent metal spoons on Sunday afternoons and the smell of pork scratchings. That's the solar habanero, the Havana slum. And as I venture back out, those ripples of laughter undulating in the windless, stifling heat, carrying the mirthful tones of the two women's voices, travel with me.

© 2012

Next Post: “Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music” to be published on Sunday 12th February at 10am (GMT)

Lilya 4-Ever (Review)

Whenever immigration is discussed in the UK, the following words and/or phrases are wheeled out: illegal, scroungers, taking our jobs, many, too many, no space, burden on the NHS/education sector. Less attention is paid to what makes some people up sticks and move to another country, sometimes travelling in a boat on dangerous waters, or in the back of a lorry.

That was one of the reasons why I welcomed Lukas Moodysson's film "Lilya 4-Ever". Because he dares to go where few directors will. Moodysson's feature packs a mighty punch. Like a scientist, he dissects the living, breathing (post-socialist) contemporary Russian society and reveals its bleak reality.

Lilya (Oksana Akinshina) is a vivacious sixteen-year-old girl who lives with her mother in a poverty-stricken, derelict Russian town. Her mother meets a man through a dating agency and together they decide to emigrate to the States. At the beginning, Lilya is pretty much part of her mother's long-term plans but soon that changes and she is left behind. The situation takes a turn for the worse when Lilya's auntie asks her to move to another flat which is in a worse condition than the one in which she lives now. Lilya befriends a local eleven-year-old boy, Volodya (Artyom Bogucharsky), who has a crush on her and together they get up to all kinds of pranks. About the same time, she also falls in with the wrong crowd and ends up meeting a smooth-talking young guy in a club, who promises her that he can take her away to Sweden where she will have the opportunities that are denied to her in her native Russia. What Lilya doesn't suspect, nor has she the ability to, is that her "boyfriend" is a pimp who procures prostitutes for a vast network of clients in European countries. He doesn't even travel to Sweden with her.

Once in the Scandinavian nation Lilya is locked up in a flat on her own where she has to perform all kinds of unspeakably sexual acts. And it is here, in civilised, liberal Sweden where she meets her horrible fate.

Lilya 4-Ever is, above all, a film about betrayal. Lilya's mother betrays her daughter. Lilya, then, betrays Volodya when she meets Andrei (the pimp) and leaves her friend behind in an attempt to improve her life in Sweden. Lilya is consequently betrayed by Andrei, too. At the same time all characters in the movie are let down by society, both the Russian and Swedish, for their role in it amounts to no more than a mere cameo.

But the movie is also about the failure of the "big Soviet dream". One should never build a polity on utopias. One of the reasons why the socialist panacea failed - and continues to fail, in the few countries that are left - was that it created an illusion it couldn't deliver. The effect of this mirage was alienation amongst its younger members with the concomitant outcomes: drugs, alcohol and prostitution. For Lilya, read the youngsters jumping over the Berlin Wall in '89, or the Cuban rafters in '94, or the lone man facing the Chinese tanks in Tiananmen Square. The squalor in which Lilya lives is not just the result of deficient post-Soviet economic policies, but also of erstwhile blind, centralised, political bureaucracy.

I admit that I rented the movie from Lovefilm without having an inkling about the director's work. It turns out that his two previous films have been comedies. Talk about career change!

Moodysson forces us to confront certain truths that are not at all comfortable. Who cleans the floors of the schools our children attend, before the little ones even get there? Who prepares the salads that wind up on the shelves of our local supermarkets? Who picks our fruit'n'veg? Who keeps the sex and porn industry afloat? And on top of that they have to put up with yet another sanctimonious Daily Mail headline demonising them.

There's no doubt that Lily-4-Ever is a tough movie to watch. But it is also riveting. It's cinematography at its best. The music is very good, ranging from hardcore metal to soft, harmonious melodies. The scenes where Lilya is repeatedly raped by different men are shot from her perspective, thus rendering her ordeal more palpable. The dreamlike sequence where Volodya's spirit appears to Lilya would have been thought kitsch in any other context. But coming on the back of yet more physical and mental pain for the protagonist, they are beautiful to watch. As well as painful. The photography reminded me a little of Ken Loach with its no-holds-barred documentary-like approach.

This is another must-see movie. And I, for one, will be now looking up Moodysson's comedies on Lovefilm. Just to balance a bit, you know.

© 2011

Next Post: “Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music”, to be published on Sunday 24th July at 10am (GMT)

Killer Opening Songs (Ser O No Ser/To Be Or Not To Be)

If you thought that with the release of the recent album 'AfroCubism', a collaboration of artists from Africa and Cuba, the music from the Caribbean island had reached its apex, think again. There's a new kid in town and she's rocking the house!

Danay Suárez is the latest Cuban talent to emerge from what has already become a springboard for creative expression. And Killer Opening Songs is proud to promote such honest efforts. Since 2007 Havana Cultura's sessions have become a cauldron where visual artists, dancers and musicians mix and showcase their remarkable skills.

In Danay's case, the opportunity arose when Gilles Peterson, creative director of Havana Cultura, got together with Roberto Fonseca and other musicians to rehearse for an upcoming European tour. The sessions were so successful that Gilles booked an extra day to record a few songs with Danay. The result is an amazing EP which shows off Sanchez's vocal prowess and Fonseca's superb musical arrangements.

The album's K.O.S., 'Ser O No Ser' ('To Be Or Not To Be'), weaves the Shakespearean motif into a medley of piano riffs, lyrical solos (from every instrument, including a mesmerising double bass effort by Omar Gonzalez) and vocal improvisation. The song also contains a line with probably one of the most acerbic remarks about Cuban society in recent years, in this case about prostitution ("There are materials aplenty/and they don't cost a penny/ in a warehouse inside your body/In order to build a better future for you/you need to leave your hang-ups behind"). The track ends with Danay's soothing voice intoning that Afro-Cuban classic 'Drume Negrita' (Sleep Little Black Girl).

The second track, 'Hay Un Lugar' ('There's a Place') is pure late-night, laid-back, smoky jazz. Listening to Suarez's vocal, there's no doubt that comparisons will be made with Billie Holiday, even if they might be a bit rushed.

Third song, 'Guajira' ('Peasant Woman') is a typical 'guajira-son', namely, a countryside melody built on layers of Cuba's traditional son, the rhythm that served as the basis for salsa. Once again, Fonseca riffs on the piano whilst Danay's melodic voice seems to be addressing an errant lover.

The last piece on the EP, 'En Lo Profundo' ('In the Depth') is an Afro-Cuban onslaught supported by a piano refrain. The combination of Bantu-inspired, repetitive drumming patterns (excellently executed by percussionist Vince Vella) with Danay's soaring vocals will surely remind listeners of live performances by Jill Scott or early Rachelle Ferrell.

Suárez joins an elite group of contemporary Cuban singers who refuse to be pigeonholed by genre. Guitar-wielding Yusa is often referred to as Cuba's version of Tracy Chapman whilst hip hop artist Telmary has been likened to Lauryn Hill. However these comparisons miss the versatility that characterises these singers' creative output. Danay completes this triumvirate with a voice which travels the gamut of emotions: from a strong, powerful tone to a more lyrical and harmonious one. Killer Opening Songs hopes that you enjoy the clip below. It can't stop playing it on its mp3.

© 2011

Next Post: ‘Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music’, to be published on Sunday 20th February at 10am (GMT)

Waltz with Bashir (Review)

Sometimes I think that our memory is a capricious device inserted in human beings at some point during our evolution to act as a "Je t'accuse" tool. A reminder that no matter what we get up to in our life, there will always be a possibility that our mental capacity to revive facts will unearth an unwelcome one. From our past, for instance.

That is the thesis that runs through 'Waltz with Bashir', a feature-length animated documentary that focuses on a man's recurring nightmare connected to the time he spent in the Israeli army in the first Lebanon War in 1982. In the dream the man is being chased by twenty-six feisty dogs, a number that remains unaltered whenever he has this nightmare. Encouraged by his friend, Ari Folman (who is also the writer and director of the film) the man sets out to meet old friends around the world who were also involved in the military conflict. What he finds is disturbing to say the least. Slowly, images from the war creep up, mixed with other visions that he is not sure of having experienced. Did everything he imagines happen exactly as his dreams appear to dictate? Could his memory be tricking him, or could it be the effect of having fought a war where the civilian death toll was huge, especially in the Sabra and Shatila refugee camps?

What director Ari Folman also addresses is how memory can be a selective tool to discriminate against unwanted, intrusive elements that might pollute our reputation at a moment in our lives when stability and domestic bliss are the goals desired. The nameless man in the film acts as a gigantic metaphor for the Israeli forces whose decision to allow Christian Phalangist militia into the Palestinian camps ultimately proved fatal for the civilians based there.

The movie benefits from a combination of dark colours, minimalist music and comic-like animation. The effect is like walking on a wide wooden plank above a precipice, with the board eventually getting narrower and narrower without us realising it. The atmosphere is stifling and almost claustrophobic, not just for the main character, the nameless man, but also for those around him. Even Folman doesn't escape this collective amnesia. When confronted by the man's nightmare and the spectre of the war looming large over it, he baffles his interlocutor by claiming that he cannot remember if he was near the camps at the time. The man's meetings with his ex-comrades yield some of the most beautiful moments in the movie, from an aesthetic point of view. One recalls being ambushed and escaping by swimming out to sea in the moonlit night. Another one remembers having an erotic fantasy of an enormous naked woman towing him away whilst his confreres are getting killed. The nameless man himself has a quasi/faux memory of emerging from the sea completely naked with his fellow soldiers and wading on the beach at Beirut. The macabre dance-effect of the latter scene could well have been drawn from the stable of the late Pina Bausch. And dance is even present in the movie's title, named after a scene in which a machine gun-toting commander executes a waltz in front of one of the posters of Bashir Gemayel, the Lebanese president murdered in East Beirut.

'Waltz with Bashir' is a film about the reality of war from a dream-like perspective. One of the reasons why this approach works is because the director avoids pointing his finger at anyone in particular, except for at the Israeli Defence Forces for their role in the massacre of Sabra and Shatila. In what I can only call a 'snap of the fingers to wake the viewer up' moment, Ari Folman includes real TV news footage of the slaughter at the camps. To me the message is clear: it's OK to feel dreamy, and be intelectual and rational about it, but people did get killed. And no matter where you hide or how many years go by, your memory will hunt you down in the end.

©2010



Next post: 'Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music', to be published on Sunday 13th June at 10am (GMT)

Greatest Hits - Track 4 'Roberto Uría'

Holidays needn't be an excuse to stop one from using one's brain and Malaysia and Thailand - if I end up going there after all - will be/are great opportunities to explore the rich culture(s) that co-exist in these Asian nations. In the meantime I shall leave you now with a post that was first published in September 2008.

Why is Leslie Caron Crying? By Roberto Uría

The Institute of Meteorology said today will be a warm, sunny day. And, after juggling probabilities and percentages of rain, wind and surf, concluded that the maximum temperatures this afternoon will vary between twenty-nine and thirty-two degrees centigrade. It might have been a warm, sunny day, but I woke up feeling cold – that kind of cold that starts in your stomach - and windy, with a wave of panic running through my whole body. I’m practically rainy. Wintry.

After they brought me into the world, there were considerable family disputes over my name. Hector versus Alejandro, Enrique versus Jorge. How about Hugo? How about Javier? In the end, Francisco won out. But all these years I’ve been Panchito and, on occasion, Panchy (with a ‘y’ instead of ‘i’ to make it sexier)… Except that I’ve come to prefer Leslie Caron more than any other name. It’s so musical, so European. And besides, my bosom buddies admit that there’s quite a resemblance between the actress and myself. We have the same grace, the same celestial quality…

I belong to a ‘holy family, just about perfect, the kind you don’t find anymore. With a mother, a father, adorable little sister, a dog and lots of plants, it’s a close-knit bunch, foreign to me. The house, of course, is the classic little nest, decorated and decorous. So it seems I turn out to be the only gray cloud spoiling the prosperity of an oh-so-blue sky.

Because, it has to be said the dialectic didn’t work well on me, or else, it worked so well as to not comply with the imperfections of our time. I don’t know. The fact is that the members of my family, like almost everyone, are ‘useful beings’, ‘so-cial-ly-pro-duc-tive’, wage-earners of progress and conformity, saints and virgins, bastions of the economy. And I, for my own sad part, feel alone like a butterfly or a snail: I am a beautiful parasite. I take the time to make myself attractive and happy here and now and don’t think about the ever-so-revered tomorrow, which increasingly promises to be atomic or neutronic or I-don’t-know-what all…

I quit school because it bores me to tears spending five or six hours a day with specialists, cramming with diagrams, preconceptions, a succession of disasters and mistakes, false perspectives and redundancies. I got sick of it, that’s all. And screw the future.

And where could I earn my salt from the sweat off my brow? Where, without being cremated in the cold oven of timetables and meetings? These are such barbarous times! As Attila would say.

I choose to be ‘gay’. The most explosive gaiety is mine; each stretch of the street, the city, is my stage, and I am the most sought-after starlet. I bury myself under a heap of sequins and mercury lights, I hope I don’t perish under the weight of my own lights…. That’s why I adore bus stops, parks, shops and markets, lines at movie theaters. Of course, there’s never been a public bathroom on my resume. I’m too much of a hypochondriac and a romantic for that still. What I like are flowers, music – Barbra Streisand is my idol - ice cream, and a sunny beach, the ocean spray and all the people, especially the people, good heavens! Really, practically naked! What a charming little country! It’s the enchanted isle of gorgeous men. Everyone is beautiful. Everywhere I go, strong, young men of all shapes and colors encircle and devour me. They’re mammoths who crush you with all their vitality. They encircle me – like ‘a necklace of throbbing sexual oysters,’ as Neruda would say – and yet so few ever belong to me. Watching isn’t bad, but it’s better to touch.

To touch: to perish. An instant, a wing-beat and then swift flight, on the back a relentlessly epidermic era. What a way to inflict damage! But anyway…

The fact is that I stop in front of the mirror and always look at myself and end up asking, ‘What will become of this queen? What am I going to do with you, Leslie Caron? Why did I have to be like this?’ I’ve tried to change, but I can’t manage to find anything that truly interests me. Not anything or anyone. The majority of people I just feel sorry for. They’re empty, so fake, they just move through the narrow margins of the designs imposed upon them. I chose this bondage. I didn’t choose myself, but I accept the cards I’ve been dealt and play my own deadly game just like anyone else. It’s like eye color. I don’t like mine, but since I need to see there’s no choice but to use the eyes I’ve got. And oh, the things I’ve seen and will see!

I’ve seen a father who works too much and has ‘meetings’ even more; who, when he’s not off fishing with his work buddies, runs around with other women; a father who has never remembered his children’s birthdays.

I’ve seen a mother who works like a dog; who imprisons herself within her own cold-cream-slathered skin; who, when she’s not suffering the macho antics of her husband, sets her son to brushing her wigs and goes off to forget her woes. I’ve seen a sister who marries a guy just because he has a house in Miramar and a VCR and an exceedingly long et cetera; a sister who goes and leaves her queen brother without trousseau, practically naked. And how everyone envies her! Yes, I see it clearly.

And I’ll see a poor, crestfallen fairy, all wrinkled and lonely, with no family, no friends to speak of, perhaps surrounded by a few cronies as old and ostentatious as he is. A fairy hoping to someday see the end f this daily chain of deaths she has been subjected to. I’m not committed to the future and I’m not being dramatic and I hope to God it won’t really be quite like that. But what is to be done? What miracle could change the course of these visions?

And sometimes I say screw my fear of wrinkles and I let myself charge an exorbitant amount and (believe me) I cry and cry like a baby. Yes, I wake up cold and rainy, and that’s how I take my revenge on the perfect backdrop of a warm, sunny day and sadistic realities.

And if someone were to ask, ‘Why is Leslie Caron crying?’ the only answer would be, ‘Because life’s a bitch.’



Translated by Lisa Dillman.

This tale is included in the anthology of Cuban stories ‘The Voice of the Turtle’, edited by Peter Bush and published by Quartet Books Ltd.

Synecdoche, New York (Review)

Is a movie good because the rest are rubbish? When the regular stream of films offered by Hollywood feels so repetitive and cliché-ridden, does that give a left-of-field flick a golden chance to break through regardless of its quality?

That and many other questions were crossing my mind as the final credits of 'Synecdoche, New York', rolled up on my television screen. The brainchild of Charlie Kaufman, the writer behind cinematic gems such as 'Being John Malkovich', 'Adaptation' and 'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind', 'Synecdoche' had a lot to live up to. The movie works in a similar way to the aforementioned ones, blending the mundane with the surreal. In this case we have hapless theatre director Caden Cotard's (played impeccably by Philip Seymour Hoffman) chasing the Holy Grail, his magnum opus: the play everyone will talk about. By chance he gets a MacArthur grant which enables him to hire a group of actors and actresses who will re-enact their own banal lives inside a gigantic warehouse. But Caden has his own problems and his life is far from dull. He and his wife have been distant for some time (hilarious and cracking scene at the counsellor's office), his health deteriorates rapidly and when his wife leaves him to begin a new life in Berlin, she takes their daughter with her, thus, plunging him into a crisis.

'Synecdoche' functions as a meta-representation of New York and modern society in general, with its neuroses and existential angst. The flaws, and in my opinion there're just a few, are self-inflicted. A movie like this, carrying so many metaphysical motifs in an already crammed plot, will either delight or disappoint audiences. At times I felt bombarded by symbols: the burning house Hazel (Caden's estranged girlfriend) purchases, the blurring of lines between dream and alert states, Adele's (Caden's ex-wife) miniature paintings. And at just over two hours long, I felt that the editor's shears should have come out more often.

But the main theme in 'Synecdoche', that of the play (a part) representing New York, or even the US (the whole), makes for compelling viewing. Caden, as the director intent on creating a piece full of gritty realism, is an example of artistic integrity, especially in our times, when mediocrity triumphs over uncompromising art so often. His medical condition, which makes his body shut down its basic functions gradually, raises questions about our lifestyle and its consequences. And the wordplay combining Schenectady, an actual place and the film title is a stroke of genius.

Coming out as it did in the same year 'RocknRolla' and 'Sex and the City' were also released, 'Synecdoche' is a bold cinematic step in the right direction for Charlie Kaufman, and I can't wait to see his next film. As for my two opening questions: not applicable on this occasion, but still relevant, I think.

Copyright 2010



Next Post: 'Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music', to be published on Sunday 21st March at 10am (GMT)

'Nation' (Review)

If, like me, you're a fan of Mark Ravenhill's fortnightly columns in The Guardian and were wondering what the acclaimed playwright's been up to, I advise you to make your way down to the National Theatre, located in London's popular South Bank. There, you will be able to enjoy the quadragenarian venue's latest family show, 'Nation'.

Based on the novel of the same name by Terry Pratchett and adapted for the stage by Mark Ravenhill, 'Nation' tells the story of Daphne and Mau, two children on the cusp of adolescence who meet in very eventful and extraordinary circumstances. Daphne sails off from Britain to see her father, when a gigantic tsunami wave overthrows the ship on which she is travelling. Suddenly she finds herself on what appears at first to be a deserted island in the South Pacific. Meanwhile, on the same island, local boy Mau is in the middle of his coming-of-age ritual when the same wave catches him unawares. The meeting and eventual interaction of these two beings become the main plot in both novel and play. For Daphne this means changing her posh ways and getting used to the natives' culture. For Mau, on the other hand, it signifies premature leadership; the wave has destroyed his country and the few survivors feel desperate and hopeless. Danger comes in the form of Cox, Daphne's former butler, who is now the chief of a rival tribe and treated like a god. The ex-servant, still traumatised by the death of his five-year-old son many years before, has focused his hatred on Daphne, whom he blames for many of the ills he has suffered. In reference to 'Nation' Terry Pratchett has said that it deals with 'a boy and a girl and a parrot, and about how people tend to be very similar to other people once you get past a few insignificant differences. At one point it was a book about how the Archbishop of Canterbury might have been a cannibal chief, if he had been born in another place at another time.'

Though I bought the book at the theatre, I have yet to read it so this review is mainly focused on the play. As a spectator, I found it to be teeming with several themes, subtly presented. For instance, the big wave is a reference to the tsunami wave that brought chaos and devastation to many countries in the Indian Ocean in 2004. Creation myths are analysed through the powerful and ubiquitous presence of Imo, the God of Mau's people. Colonialism is also examined through the relationship between Daphne (the name she adopts on the island) and Mau; and also between the rest of the shipwreck survivors and the island's inhabitants.

Above all, 'Nation' is a play that moves easily between humour and tragedy and does so with quality and panache. This is down, for the most part, to excellent performances and a superb mise en scène: a rotating stage that allows multiple settings, an ingenious use of new media, imaginative props (the vultures and the giant boar are spectacular) and live music. In the leading roles both Gary Carr (Mau) and Emily Taaffe(Daphne) stand out, even if sometimes they're both overshadowed by Jason Thorpe (Milton, the foul-mouthed parrot).

That this family show premiered last year, just before the annual Yuletide jamboree should be an indication that Christmas needn't be a time to switch your brain off. At the National they're already taking care of that.

Copyright 2010

Image taken from the telegraph.co.uk




Next Post: 'Killer Opening Songs', to be published on Thursday 11th March at 11:59pm (GMT)

Yesterday by the Jasmin Vardimon Company (Review)

Of all the art forms, I believe dance to be the most ephemeral. Although plays equally depend on a stage to come alive, there's usually a manuscript that ensures lasting legacy, otherwise how would we know about Shakespeare and Molière? Paintings are created and displayed in museums or arts centres around the world. Photographs are framed and hung for the amusement of many an aficionado. But dance is evanescent. I'm not talking about pieces for television or cinema, or choreographies that are filmed at a particular venue and then shown on the box. I'm referring to the pure, unadulterated experience of watching dance in a theatre. Just any kind of dance: contemporary, African or African-derived, experimental, classic ballet. To me, the instant the curtain falls, all I'm left with is the memory of the soloist's technique, or the togetherness displayed by the supporting cast.

This fleeting aspect of dance's make-up should not, however, be taken as a sign of failure. A good choreographer's observational experience will influence his or her audience, sometimes leaving them marked by a particular piece. And that was the case with Jasmin Vardimon when I recently saw her insightful work 'Yesterday' at The Place in Euston, London. Jasmin used her latest choreography to look back on her company's ten-year career. Along the way she revisited characters from previous pieces, which resulted in a tour de force where amazing duets and dazzling solos combined with video and animation to regale the spectator a passionate, physical and intellligent story.

Although it was the first time I had seen the Jasmin Vardimon Company - and it won't be the last one, I hope - the retrospective element did not floor me. On the contrary, dance has a peculiar way of exercising collective memory; thus, some of the themes explored by 'Yesterday' were familiar: the woman who self-harms, the über-patriotic Englishman, the couple whose burning house symbolises the collapse of their domestic bliss. These are topics that are addressed in both a dramatic and humorous way.

Jasmin grew up in Israel and for many years trained as a gymnast. It was only by chance that she was spotted by a ballet teacher and from then on her love affair with dance started. Having being conscripted for two years' compulsory military service, she trained as a psychological interviewer. This task allowed her to develop a very observant nature which has served her well in developing her own work. As she herself has stated: '... the fascinatign reality of this job was that it exposed me to an incredible wealth of human stories and personal histories; harrowing, haunting, jubilant - a melting pot of real human experiences.'

That these experiences have informed her work well is beyond dispute. However, if we take into account the debate going on in the dance world in the UK nowadays about women's role in this art form, the future presents many hurdles for the likes of Jasmin Vardimon were they to get the recognition they rightly deserve. This situation reached its apogee recently when Dance Umbrella, Britain's flagship dance festival, hosted a debate entitled, rather ominously, 'Where Are All the Women?'. It was a sell-out.

It is a strange situation, though, because dance's profile in the UK has grown considerably in the last few years. And at the time of writing this review, one of the more popular programmes on telly on Saturday evening is BBC1's 'So You Think You Can Dance'. But look closely and the male names will start jumping at you like wild salmon leaping out of a river. Matthew Bourne (and his innovative all-male 'Swan Lake'), Russell Maliphant and his extensive, experimental collaborations, Mark Baldwin and his highly influential Ballet Rambert; these are some of the figures leading the way currently in the UK'S dance sphere. The main reason for their success is not just their quality, for they have it aplently, but also the type of work they produce: bombastic, bona fide box-office-hit and large-scale.

In contrast, female choreographers such as Jasmin Vardimon focus more on personal life stories, with a lower profile and a more emotionally-driven agenda. Is this a gender issue? Maybe, there are some indicators I can see: physicality (men are more willing to rip off their clothes to show off their six-packs), marketability (men are better at promoting themselves to choreographers), ratio (with more women than men taking up dance as a career it doesn't take a genius to figure out who will reap better results in the long-term) and opportunism (many of the trailblazers of the early 20th century were women, but it was men who took over and cashed in on the success of their female counterparts' experimental styles). There are many more indicators of which I can think, but these will suffice for now. Also, I am not passing any judgement on the ones I mentioned before.

The Jasmin Vardimon Company, however, goes some way to redress this imbalance. 'Yesterday' had a very proportionate amount of brawn and brain and you'll notice that when you watch the clip below. Its lack of central narrative was, in the words of the choreographer, the biggest challenge. And yet, as Jasmin stated:'... in turn, this allowed a freedom in itself. In 'Yesterday', the location is my memory'.

And mine. And yours.

To find out more about the Jasmin Vardimon Company's current UK tour, click here.



Next Post: 'Living in a Bilingual World', to be published on Thursday 11th February at 11:59pm (GMT)

London, my London (Cuban Stories at the Rich Mix)

A new arts centre in a metropolis like London should not make the news. But when the arts space in question is made up of five floors that teem with creativity, then one ought to stop and pay attention.

The Rich Mix, located in Shoreditch, east London is a good example. With a varied programme that encompasses films, performing arts and exhibitions, it has quickly become a first-stop for those who enjoy the British capital's cultural and vibrant diversity.

It was to this centre where I made my way last Wednesday 27th January. I had been invited to the private view of the centre's new exhibition, 'Cuban Stories', an excellent and inspiring collage of images by three very talented photographers: Claire Boobbyer, Angel Gil and Helena Smith. And whilst at the centre I also had the privilege to chat with the three exhibitors about their work, their motivations and their inspiration*.

Helena Smith’s black and white images capture the Cuba of 2009, 50 years on from the Revolution, with reportage-style portraits and cinematic street scenes.

Angel Gil explores the relationship between people and place. We follow 27-year-old Michel Palacio Colina as he discovers a passion for rearing and training messenger pigeons for racing, and finds his peace within the hustle and bustle of Cuban life.

Claire Boobbyer recently made a 5000-kilometre road trip round Cuba, in the process capturing striking propaganda images that adorn walls, billboards, workplaces and roadside hoardings across the cities and fields.

(Artists' profiles taken from the Rich Mix website)

A Cuban In London (ACiL): Thank you very much for kindly giving me the opportunity to talk about your work. My first question would have to be: Why Cuba? Why did you choose Cuba as the theme for your exhibition?

Helena (H): I had a set of black & white images I wanted to show and by serendipity Angel approached Rich Mix at the same time. They decided to mount a joint show, and I brought in my friend/colleague Claire who was my road-trip buddy and tour guide in Cuba.

Claire (C): We had all travelled in Cuba in 2009 and Helena and Angel first approached Rich Mix with the idea for an exhibition. Cuba is a highly photogenic country and I have been fascinated with the country and its culture and history ever since I first went there in 1998.

Angel (A): This was my first visit to Cuba and I was looking for a project to photograph, something or someone special. Cuba is one of the most photogenic places I've visited and even though I did arrive with a couple of ideas for projects, I tried to keep an open mind and see what was beyond these ideas.

Bar in Santiago de Cuba by Helena Smith

Christlike Che by Claire Boobbyer

ACiL: You obviously have travelled extensively. Do you have preconceived ideas when it comes to photographing a place and its people or do you have a more flexible and relaxed attitude to it?

C: Well, I have photographed Cuba from many different angles but I particularly wanted to document, if you like, the political billboards as they are unique to Cuba and ubiquitous and some are already disappearing so there is almost an historical urgency about it now too.

H: I was extremely relaxed in Cuba as I was on holiday and not taking photos on assignment for a travel guide, which is my usual job. For that I have to follow the brief provided by the author, whereas in Cuba I had my very old Olympus camera and a stack of film, and no worries about taking pictures to order. I did no research before I went. It was a bit like going to a film when you don't want to know the story so everything is fresh and a surprise. I had no preconceptions.

A: I think that the more you travel, the more you learn not to have any preconceived ideas of what you would like photograph. Even after doing some research and reading guides before visiting a new place I try to keep an open mind, I like being surprised.When I arrive somewhere new I enjoy mixing in with its people; I talk to them, stay with them, and I ask them about what it feels like to be from there and what life is like there. I often find that this stimulates creativity.

Messenger Pigeons by Angel Gil

Red Car, Red Mural by Claire Boobbyer

ACiL: When I've said to some people in the past that I love photography, sometimes they have reacted by saying that that's not real art because the photographer already has his or her work cut out for them. It exists, so they don't have to make it up. What's you take on this assumption?

H: That the three of us went to the same country and came back with three varied sets of images. I think Angel's work shows a sensitive and observant quality in him, Claire's demonstrates her interest in and knowledge of Cuban history, and mine reflects a nostalgic love of old cinema and early/mid-twentieth-century photography. In fact Claire and I photographed the same subject at the same time - the headless statue at La Guarida, and came up with two very different images.

A: I think people that say that may not necessarily know much about photography. Just like a paintbrush or a chisel, the camera can be a creative tool too, its all about where you aim the lens. Some people don't understand that the difficulty with photography is to try to see right through all the visual clutter.

C: As Angel said, the camera is a tool. Three people could look at the same scene and view it differently. In fact, a guy at the private view who lived in Havana for three years said of the headless marble statue figure in La Guarida that he had photographed that courtyard many times but he had never seen the angle I had photographed before. The photographer always needs an 'eye' for a picture in the first place otherwise he/she is lost.

ACiL: I recently read an interview with the artist Chris Ofili in which he said, in reference to his 1998 Turner prize 'No Woman, No Cry' that he thought this painting 'might say something'. Did you ever feel like that when you were taking photographs in Cuba? And if you did, what do you think that (those) photo(s) said?

H: I don't feel my pictures have a particular agenda, but that they depict a cinematic quality in Cuban streetlife. Coming from a culture where so much is thrown away, I was struck by how many things in Cuba have been nourished and have survived from a more glamorous past - I'm thinking of the beautiful cars and the architecture. I felt that using film rather than digital technology was a way or mirroring this. Also that darkroom prints have a handmade and archaic feel that seemed appropriate.

C: I think mine speak of the power of widespread political messaging.

A: I did, I constantly thought if it was possible to capture the passion I saw in what Michel was doing. I felt it whilst I was there and that's what drove me to share it with everyone. If the viewer feels something whilst looking at the photographs then it has been a success.

Girl with Sausage Dog in Havana by Helena Smith

Messenger Pigeons by Angel Gil

ACiL: And finally, is there any other theme you would like to explore in Cuba in the future?

C: I have some lovely images of older Cuban men who seem to be particularly photogenic and I would like to continue with that theme as well as general portraits in Cuba. I also particularly like photographing the Art Deco and modern architecture and signage in Cuba.

H: I would love to go back to Cuba, and I concentrate entirely on portraiture, perhaps focussing on dance, or photographing one community.

A: I find Cuba and specially Havana very photogenic, there is so many subjects I would like to explore photographically.People are what make a place so I would love to start there again and see what adventure this will lead to again.

*This conversation was actually taped and a transcription of it would have formed the backbone of my post tonight. Alas, technology let me down and I had to e-mail the same questions through to Helena, Claire and Angel. They very kindly responded promptly and, thus, saved the situation. Many thanks to you three, Claire, Helena and Angel, it was a pleasure meeting you and seeing your exhibition.

Celebrating Cuba VISUAL ARTS / Cuban Stories by Angel Gil, Helena Smith and Claire Boobbyer Date: 27 Jan - 27 Feb 2010 Venue: Rich Mix (Mezzanine / Free)35-47 Bethnal Green RoadLondonE1 6LATel: 020 7613 7498

Next Post: 'Food, Music, Food, Music, Food, Music... Ad Infinitum', to be published on Thursday 4th February at 11:59pm (GMT)