June 7, 2014
For so long we wanted to model dresses in Abuela’s shop. To be pretty girls with such pretty costumes, exotic as jungle flowers, with reassuring touches. But now our friends, our boyfriends, will see us. I think she is going to cry. We all want blue bracelets.
Abend Gallery is publishing a book of the images and verse from Cuba An Adventure in Image and Word. Should be out in about a month.
May 31, 2014
Wanting to experience Cuba is a silly, romantic notion
It could just as well have been the Amazon, or Mars
We gawk at The Iglesia y Convento de San Francisco
It’s beautiful pink tower watching over Sancti Spiritus
The Assemblea Municipal with its Roman columns
Peach in the Caribbean sun
We meander among the statues and gardens in Plaza Major
Look up to Che’s noble countenance
Atop his Jeffersonian mausoleum
We declare entire towns World Heritage Sites
Fill them with our monuments
Reassuring monoliths that define
How we see ourselves
As if we have built Mount Everest
We saw something similar in Dehli, Kathmandu
Bangkok, Juarez, Chiapas
Pedi cabs, bicycles, donkeys
Surrounding us in a chaos of purpose
Yaks, horses, fantastic trucks
Motorbikes and all manner of quaint utilitarian carts
Transporting hustle, bustle and hope
Everywhere everyone afraid of each other’s intentions
Of being taken advantage of
Creative energy desperate for the American Dream
Except Cuba is arrested development
A communal society of scarcity
Less buyer beware than we are all in this together
A street vendor hawks his wares
And when we throw up our hands
He patiently tells us it is a national holiday
Gives us directions to a wonderful festival
A young couple walks quickly up behind us
Follows and eavesdrops
Latches onto us
Takes us for dinner and dancing
A boy on a bicycle chases down our car
It is obvious we are lost
So he leads us through a labyrinth of narrow winding warrens
To the casa particular we have booked for the night
It is a dark stairwell
Jungle flowing over the roof
We cannot bear to enter
Walking along a canal
The sunshine reflects gloriously
Off the pastel surfaces
A motorbike accosts us
A young boy smiles welcomingly
Pressed against his father’s back
The man’s friend booked our room
In this fine man’s, this fine boy’s, home
We have made other arrangements
He is crestfallen
His son looks at him quizzically
We apologize, hand him ten CUC
He does not want to take it
His eyes ask
How can we live together
If we do not mean what we say?
We are bound more by what we cannot fathom
Than what we can see we have in common
Tiny insulated tribes cowering
In air conditioned houses and cars
Our small plane touches down in Nassau
All of us who can come and go as we please
Disregard our matronly stewardess
The plane still our taxi
Hustling and bustling to be first
She claps her hands
As if rapping our knuckles
We look up to her
Like the son looked to his father
What did the man tell his boy
About the American Dream?
And she answers
What is wrong with you people?
May 30, 2014
We are drawn in through a window or the frame of a painting, by reflections and tones, surfaces and textures, Dos Abuelas competing since they were chicas for dolls and babies, and our attentions.
May 26, 2014
Some thought it cheeky, but others endearing, two women wearing the same thing, with one arm pulling close a shoulder, the sides of their touching hips swooshing as they walk barefoot along the beach, ponytails skipping behind like ecstatic puppies. Soft as a cool summer pillow, or grating like the canvas of a palm used to work, the sensuousness of Raw Linen.
May 22, 2014
She’s ageless, larger than life and nimble as a sprite, carefree, wise, and if she inspires fear, it is from the certainty she knows things, that her life is happier, this woman of big wet sloppy lipsticked kisses Dancing in the Street.
May 20, 2014
It’s been a long road. Each terrace is a milestone, a relief to my thighs, my back, an artificial landscape that’s been here so long even the island accepts it as natural. Row after row, sweet smell of tobacco drying in the sun, hemmed in by prickly bushes that tear my thin trousers. It helps to imagine the road as a fast flowing river, blue with little white caps carrying me along. I feel at home detouring up and down the rows, trickling like irrigation ditches that come and go with the barely perceptible seasons. I want to stop at the white roofed buildings, see if they might have something for me; to eat, a place to lay my head, maybe forever. It might be better than anything over the hill.
Peggy painted over Terraced Tobacco, it no longer exists. I felt compelled to post it because the verse the painting inspired, its blue road, the long white roofs, the horizon over the hill, speaks to me, puts me walking through my vines and lateral acequia ditches in Taos, always on a journey, even when at home.
May 17, 2014
She’s a faithful old girl, yawning for the dentist, with a Bondo facelift and dentures fashioned out of parts from broken down Soviet refrigerators. On every street clubs of men tinker with their cars. Artists make brake pads and solenoids in their living rooms. The hood comes down. A puff of blue smoke, and like magic she smiles and runs smooth as factory new.
From Cuba, An Adventure in Image and Word, Paintings by Peggy McGivern and verst by Peter Stravlo, Abend Gallery, Denver
May 16, 2014
The technology is simple, brute strength under the hot sun. Everyman work, though not every man has had to do it. Praise them in poetry, appoint them our philosopher kings, for tying the rails together, making it safe for everyone to get somewhere. We should all wear green overalls.
Shutters are mainly open and wires crisscross in front of four stories. A mother sings a love song and scrubs her family’s clothes. On a floor below a boy ties his tie, dons a green jacket and red hat before skipping down flights of stairs to meet up with friends. A warm breeze turns the pages of a book while a girl does her homework, wondering how she’d get to school without her pony. On the ground floor men gather each evening to discuss how to make the parts they need to keep the Austin Healey running.
From Cuba: An Adventure in Image and Word. Opening reception tonight, 5-8pm Abend Gallery Denver. Paintings by Peggy McGivern and verse by Peter Stravlo. I’ll be reading tonight.
May 15, 2014
Rain is washing color down the canvas, making one-of-a-kind rectangles and obtuse triangles, highlighting windows and doors to my imagination. There are an infinite number of compositions, but waving the white flag of surrender, all eyes are drawn to the Orange Building.