Musings in La Habana

Certain places end up on our ‘bucket list’ without much warning. They’ve somehow always been there, like a thought whose source you can’t trace. They pull us – gently or hurriedly – until our plans materialize, until we speak the words out loud.

“We’re going to Havana.”

It was a somewhat spontaneous trip, but that doesn’t matter. It’s not really spontaneous if you’ve always wanted to go.
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It was also a somewhat short trip, but that doesn’t matter either. If your eyes and heart are wide open, even a short trip can inspire you plenty, and give you that precious feeling of longing to return. 

From my first moments in town, Havana asserted itself. It became clear to me that Havana is a mood.
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Although some squares like the Plaza de la Catedral and the Plaza Vieja have a slight European feel, and some narrow lanes and charming balconies cause your mind to wander to thoughts of other cities you’ve been to, much of Havana is in a league of its own, with an undeniably distinct character.

I spent the morning hours strolling the streets of Habana Vieja. Having refrained from looking at too many photographs of Havana before it was my turn to stand there, I genuinely had no well-formed expectations. What was striking from the start, aside from the stifling summer heat, was how much there was to take in.
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I can’t think of that many other cities where I have felt the urge to comb the streets – each street – unwilling to miss anything. Venice, of course. Amsterdam, for sure. And now, Havana pulled me up and down its grid of streets, defiantly pushing my limits of time, temperature and tiredness. I followed, in awe of the architecture, the vintage cars, the colors and the contrasts between efforts of restoration and piles of decay.

“Hola!” a female voice broke my awe-stricken gaze.  I looked into an open doorway. In response to my eyes landing on hers, she pointed up. “Take a photo of that building,” she told me in Spanish. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Everyone likes to take a photo of that.”
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Many locals seemed to have grown accustomed to seeing their city through tourists’ eyes. Right from early morning, the stage was set and they were in position, keen to earn something from your mere presence. They yearned to engage in conversation, offered cab rides and tips, eager to know where you were from, where you were headed, if you liked salsa music, if you cared anything about Hemingway and where he hung out. How the conversation proceeded depended on your answers to their prompts. But they were always kind, never invaded our space, and let us go our way when we were ready to move on.

​In Old Havana, I noticed how the line between private and public was blurred. Open doorways revealed staircases that were as eerie as they were inviting. Other open doors offered glimpses into living spaces, dark and cool shelters from the beating sun. Some families happily called out to us from their windows, while other locals sat on their doorstep and offered a silent nod as we passed by.

​We walked and walked as the hours silently slipped by, and I took notes of my feelings and observations with my lens. My senses were overloaded. The color palette was enough to make skeptics dream – with its turquoises and pastels and ochres and crimsons and blues. The mixed textures of faded paint attracted my eye even more than any intentional street art. As the sun rose higher, sounds of music livened the air, intoxicating us with a rhythm impossible to ignore. Meanwhile, the nose was busy assigning meaning to various wafts of appetizing street food, enticing scents from fresh produce markets, the sweet perfume of churros, the heavy exhaust from vintage cars, and the stench of sewage and garbage – all of which fiercely competed with the other at every street corner. I watched life unfold amidst this flurry of senses, as locals went about their daily business, while dogs explored the streets, and cats hid from the sun in whatever shade they could find. 

​I finally found myself on the Malecón – the sea-wall promenade that is so beloved to locals and foreigners alike that everyone seems to love saying its name. The buildings facing the sea were surprisingly run-down, but authentic in their raw account of time. The sea was still when we were there – it had no interest in challenging the boundary that had been delineated to constrain it. Suddenly, we found ourselves standing in the middle of an informal baseball game, in the precarious position behind the batter. As the youths played below, an elderly man watched from above, standing in the only open doorway of a series of charmingly decaying houses. 

​Havana is aging gracefully, I thought, as I pondered its complex relationship with time. Parts of it are encapsulated in their own microuniverse, while others are unimmune to deterioration. The past is tightly interwoven with the present and future, through countless traces of Che and Fidel – two pillars of Cuban society that continue to watch over their people from both fading murals and kitschy souvenirs.

​I grew fascinated by the contrasts and ironies that stood at every turn. A beautiful façade flanked another in shambles, its near-perfection antagonizing the skeleton that guarded a lifeless pile of fallen stones. The governmental buildings and hotels stood polished, intruders in the fabric of the city. The double currency of the place legalized a sort of double-standard that is hard to fully grasp the ins and outs of – on the one hand, poverty, and on the other, a currency that is at par with the American dollar. Cars that are the unthinkable dreams for aficionados back home and a delight for tourists are merely a consequence of the regime that Cubans had no choice but to abide by, even if it meant having to improvise innovative solutions to maintain them.

​Locals shared snippets of their lives in conversation, explaining how there were some towns where they were allowed to work and others where they were not, describing their work hours and what they did in their time off. As I listened and watched, I wondered what it really means to live in Cuba, and how a change in leadership might affect Havana’s fate in years to come. 

​These impressions are what I hope to have captured in my Havana collection. The colors and textures, contrasts and ironies, rawness and authenticity, candor and simplicity, past and present, and that feeling of overwhelmed senses.

​All that makes up the special mood that is Habana.

To see which of these photographs made it into the all new Havana collection, check out this post.

You may have noticed that the collection is not yet in my art shop or on Etsy. I’m offering FIRST PICK, full customization of size and medium (paper, acrylic, canvas, wood or metal) and 20% off to my VIPs until August 25th.

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From my heart to yours.

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