аЯрЁБс>ўџ /1ўџџџ.џџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџьЅСY ПbjbjѓWѓW *‘=‘=ѕџџџџџџ]"""""""66668n z6щіšš(ТТТТТТЎАААААА$пєг Тд"ТТТТТдТ""ТТšТТТТ"Т"ТЎ66""""ТЎТьТЎ""ЎТŽ 0бЭPпPТ66ТЎ Postcard from Nouritza in Downtown Habana Vieja In the second half of December I succumbed to an irresistible urge to go to Cuba - a dream which had tantalized me for ten years while I practised salsa weekly. Was it worth going just for eight days? I could be back for Christmas Lunch. Four days later I was on a flight with a couple of friends and a Cuban dance teacher extraordinary. From the moment I landed there was music and it continued morning, noon and night. We pitched back half a century into Habana Vieja, with crumbling magnificent architecture, horse-drawn buggies, gorgeous powder-blue Buicks and sugar-pink Oldsmobiles, all fins and chrome from the sixties, motorbikes with side-cars, handsome people stalking the pavements in street underwear, street-parties, warm weather, constant appreciation for the beauty of the opposite gender and no one in any rush to get anywhere. E-mails were almost impossible and phone calls too. Few computers around and I never saw a mobile phone. Everyone you want to meet will eventually be found on the street. Cubans are warm, gentle, charming, life-enhancing, roguish. Che Guevara blesses the huge billboards with his Christlike beard and benedictions, 'Venceremos cada dia con la revolucion!' 'We shall triumph each day with the Revolution!' across the facade of a new hospital or pig farm. Fidel is almost invisible. To protest against the Americans in Afghanistan one evening, the most popular Salsa band in Cuba 'Los Van Van' played on the corniche to the National Students Association at a gigantic street-party to some very tasty dancing by the National Folkoric Group in striking tight pants and bra tops! Everyone danced. Some protest! Daquiris, we drank at Ernest Hemingway’s favourite bar ‘La Floridita’, his own stool chained to the bar, to the tango and cha cha; in Plaza San Fernando a special cocktail from crushed sugar cane and rum was mixed only in the mornings to the mambo. (see photo) I heard the finest bands from NG, Van Van, Isaac Delgado in clubs, and discovered some new stars in village squares and on pavements, Puly y Su Sonora. It sounds like 'Let them have their cake and eat it' for us to observe that they are free from the pressures of our consumer society. Yet music and dance surges from within and their culture, rhythms, beliefs, give them a sense of identity which the regime seems unable to erode. After viewing an astonishingly fine collection of Cuban art in the Contemporary Art Museum, I attended a vernissage in the first private gallery. A high point of my trip was to visit the Centre of Contemporary Art of Wifredo Lam. Undoubtedly the most famous Cuban artist, born in 1902 like Arshile Gorky, Lam shared a special frienship with the Armenian artist in New York. Lam had been one of the last to see Gorky alive and undoubtedly took the last photograph of the tragic Arshile resting on the ground. Thanks to some detective work from Wifredo’s first wife, Helena, I actually received the original photo from Paris and I published it for the first time in my book, along with another photo of the two friends just after Gorky’s cancer operation. I had carried a hardback of my book for the library which I gave the Directors who were avid for stories.I answered all their questions. It was a touching encounter and as I shook hands they pulled me back, kissed me and invited to the Wifredo Lam Centenary Year to lecture, perform my one-woman show on Gorky. ‘Quizas en Espanol?’ by now they’d convinced themselves that I was part Spanish while to me they recalled friends in Yerevan. Low on the material, high on the intellectual and emotional register. ‘I will try to bring Helena with me,’ I promised. Leaving the high colonnaded courtyard which now felt like home in Havana, I entered Cathedral Square sweeping down to the sea-front, my hunch about Gorky and his gentle Cuban friend Wifredo was finally confirmed. Every sunset the sky defied all the rules of colour and light. Before Christmas everyone was rushing from one Santeria to another; the musicians were never so busy playing for the ‘Santos’. These are Yoruba deities brought over by the slaves cloned with Catholic Saints and adopted individually as personal guiding spirits. 'In the last few years there has been a real flowering of voodoo', a museum official told me. Catholicism never really caught on in Cuba and it is thought that Fidel preferred a bit of witchcraft against the power of the Pope. Jose Marti, Che, Fidel rule alongside Yemaya, Chango, Eleggua and a host of other 'Santos'. Even those artists who live abroad and return to visit their families immediately set about organising a huge Santeria for their feast day. Everyone drinks rum from plastic cups and dances the rhumba from 2 pm till the next morning, all for the sake of 'la religion'. Only close friends and family, mind you. And what a party those saints will enjoy? Offerings of cigars, rum, drumming, fried chicken and 'Moros y Cristianos' (rice and black beans) and dancing through the night. 'Please stay one more day for my Feast. I have been preparing it for a week,' a famous dancer/musician begged, 'the finest drummers in Cuba are coming and you will be my guest at a private ceremony.' My dream of a lifetime. I had studied Santeria and Voodoo years ago and would have given my right arm to see an authentic ceremony. I thanked him for the honour. My flight could not be changed. Clutching cedar wood bongo drums, maracas made of bulls testicles, and a stack of Salsa CDs, for the last time I fixed my eyes again on the half moon rocking indolently on its back in a hammock, the way it does only in the Southern hemisphere, before I boarded the deserted BA plane at Jose Marti Airport. Before Habana changes with the remodelling of the old city now taking place go and see this McDonalds' free zone, listen to music which needs no amplification and dance with people who paradoxically, as if to defy their misfortunes, walk proud and free. CUBA SI y Muy Feliz Nuevo Ano. Copyright Nouritza Matossian 3.1.02 Nouritza Matossian is author of the celebrated biography Black Angel, A Life of Arshile Gorky now in paperback, Pimlico Press and now also in paperback in the USA, The Overlook Press distributed by Penguin. She has also published the only biography of Iannis Xenakis. After her recent appearance at the Tate Modern in London she will perform her one-woman show on Gorky playing the four women in his life on 12 April 2002 at the Melina Mercouri Theatre by invitation of the Cyprus Professional Women’s Association. 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