LA MEZCLA / Hard sell

By Judy Cantor | Street Miami | 12/10/2004
Posted Friday, December 10, 2004

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Was that Street Weekly music writer Judy Cantor pushing pro-Castro newspapers on Miami Beach during Art Basel? Yep.

I'm walking down Lincoln Road carrying a tabloid with a headline that reads ''Que viva el Marxismo-Leninismo! (Long live Marxism-Leninism!) and ``Libertad o Muerte (Freedom or Death);'' in English, ''Yankees Go Home!'' also screams from the front page in red and black block letters. Inside this strange newspaper, which bears no name or date, are reverent images of Fidel Castro, and more exclamatory phrases like ''Viva Cuba libre! Hasta la Victoria siempre! (Long Live a Free Cuba! Victory Forever!).'' They're slogans that have been the soundtrack to the daily lives of anyone who has resided in Cuba for the past 40 years; they've set teeth gnashing in Miami just as long.

So what am I doing selling a Communist newspaper in the middle of South Beach? I've agreed to participate in an Art Basel Art Projects performance piece conceived by Tania Bruguera, an artist from Havana who currently teaches at the Art Institute of Chicago. The newspapers, whose text consists solely of revolutionary slogans and images from Cuban posters, are part of a larger work, called Autobiografia (Autobiography). The project also included an installation at OmniArt last weekend. Bruguera says her goal is ``to construct a memory of past and current reality for Cubans from both inside and outside the island.''

''This has to do with how politics works on an emotional level,'' Bruguera tells eight ''performers'' gathered outside the Miami Beach Convention Center entrance as she hands each of us about a dozen newspapers, as well as some cards with a text explaining her work. ''These slogans are memories,'' she says. ``In Cuba, nothing ever happens; you only know time passes because the slogans change.''

Bruguera explains that her project is a means to explore ''the place where the political becomes personal.'' Doing the performance in Miami is, of course, intentionally provocative. ''Miami Cubans have tried to create a hybrid mirror image of the Cuba they remember,'' she says. ``People talk a lot about Cuba here, but they forget that there are real people there.''

When creating her project for Art Basel, Bruguera was especially drawn to the incongruous idea of people handing out Cuban revolutionary propaganda on Miami's streets. 'It's like those puzzles that ask, `What's wrong with this picture?' '' The artist will pay us $25 for selling the newspaper, plus we can pocket any money we make from sales. Each copy costs 26 cents, the amount that, by Bruguera's calculation, the average worker in Cuba is paid for an eight-hour day. She reports that the previous evening, her newspaper sellers made about $40 total. Some had sold the paper by pointing out that it was a limited edition work of art that would soon appreciate in value. One guy yelled revolutionary slogans on the street corner, a sales pitch that Bruguera said she really didn't recommend.

I walk over to one of the tables at Lincoln Road's Tropical Cigars, where a guy in his 30s is smoking a large cigar. ''I see you enjoy Cuban culture,'' I say, gesturing toward the cigar. ''Actually, this is a Brazilian cigar,'' he replies. Turns out, he's a Brazilian tobacco merchant (Brazilian cigars, who knew?). He doesn't speak Spanish, but when I explain that the newspaper is part of an artist's project -- and hedge my bet by telling him that the money goes to ''a Cuban artists fund'' -- he gives me a quarter.

Two Cuban artists happen to be sitting at the next table. Elsoca and Fabian, who are in their 20s, crossed the Rio Grande to the United States six months ago. They happen to have been students of Bruguera at the Instituto Superior de Arte in Havana, where she founded an ''Art of Behavior'' program. The duo's work, ethereal landscapes constructed from cockroach wings, is featured in one of the galleries at Art Basel.

'' 'ño,'' exclaims Fabian as he reads some of the slogans. He's impressed by Bruguera's audacity, but not particularly moved by the content of the paper. The slogans are familiar, but for him, they don't trigger many memories. ''Most of these slogans were from the enthusiastic part of the revolution, the '60s and '70s,'' Fabian explains. ``We weren't even born then.''

A little while later, I hear someone say my name. Tomas Diaz, the percussionist from the Spam Allstars approaches; his Latin jazz band is performing tonight at Tropical Cigars. I give him the paper and his eyes grow wide. ''Oh my God,'' he shouts, giving me a disappointed look. I explain that it's an art project. ''I'm not buying that shit,'' he says, and doesn't.

So I return to the tables, setting my sights on two men with mojitos. New Yorkers. One is excited to talk about Cuba. He says he once saw pianist Ruben Gonzalez of the Buena Vista Social Club perform. He asks me about ways of going to the island, then seems to forget that I'm standing there as he proposes to his friend that they book a flight to Havana from Canada, and they excitedly discuss plans for such a trip. I show them the paper, but they refuse to buy it. ''I understand the project, but I know what those slogans are,'' explains the would-be Havana tourist. ``We don't want to support that.''

A man selling hand-rolled cigars at the entrance to the bar has been watching my interactions with the customers. I find out Karell comes from a family of cigar makers, and he's been in Miami eight years. He smiles when I hand him the paper. When he starts to read the slogans his expression turns grim. His eyes water and he shakes his head. Bruguera has obviously succeeded in transporting him through memories triggered by the text. But I wish I had never showed him the newspaper.

Karell's smile soon comes back, and he even buys a paper. But he gives me some advice to pass on to Bruguera. ''The artist should put on it that it's a work of art so that people aren't confused,'' he says. ``In Miami, we have a narrow view of these things.''

After a while, Bruguera, who's been checking up on the progress of her performers, comes to Tropical Cigars. She approaches a well-dressed man who's identified himself as working for the Art Basel organization. Although he seems like a natural to support an artist's work, he refuses to buy a paper form her. ''I saw a lot of art work today already,'' he says, waving her off. ``I'm relaxing now.''

But the majority of people outside Tropical Cigars are willing to take a copy of the newspaper, and pay for it. Most of them don't live in Miami, and don't seem to feel one way or the other about the revolutionary slogans. After about two hours and some interesting conversations, I've made five dollars. I later give it away to a homeless person on Lincoln Road.