Category: Rebeca Monzo

Many have manipulated the meaning of this word. I have always found its implications exceedingly annoying, as I have refused to be unconditional about anyone or anything. I ran into more than a few problems in my old workplace defending this position.

I remember one occasion, when I was questioned in my work by the secretary of the Party nucleus because, speaking precisely about unconditionality, I commented that I didn’t feel unconditional about anyone or anything, much less a man, because, being human, we are prone to make mistakes. I was talking about ideas, not leaders. I almost got fired.

Today, listening the shortwave, the controversy was raging on our neighboring Bolivarian country — Venezuela — because of the unfortunate pronouncements of high-ranking General Rangel, who said that the armed forces are unconditionally wedded to the politics of the president. He was forgetting that the only possible and honorable marriage is with the constitution of the country — adopted by the vast majority of the population — which he is obligated to defend, as demanded by democracy. This unconditional matrimony, in my view, is nothing more than a miserable concubinage.

November 13, 2010

The Temple and its Ceiba Tree

Monument to the Engineer Albear (who designed Havana’s water supply)

Paseo del Prado and the Fausto Cinema

Cupola of the Capitol, seen from inside

The corner of Obispo and Mercaderes, in Old Havana (Photos by Rebeca)

Congratulations my Havana, on your 491st Birthday.

The official (and only) press published it: next year in the month of April the Party Congress will be held. The only item of business will be the economy. What?

The first announcements that the long-delayed Party Congress would finally be held created many expectations. The president’s remarks destroyed what little hopes had been raised, among some believers. Nothing will change. No one dares to bell the cat, even though the cat is old and sick, everyone is too frightened to approach him because they have to look out for his long, sharp claws.

By the end of the year, the people of my beloved planet are facing the recent increase in the price of fuel, new increases in food prices, new electricity rates, the decline of public transport, the uncertainty of massive layoffs, in short, how to celebrate with renewed vigor another anniversary of the victory.

If we add to all this, the exhaustion, disappointment, hopelessness, I think we will see very little reason to celebrate. And what’s more, the fact is the Party governs the destiny of our planet. And then we add to all of that this announcement that the next official Party Congress will have a single topic.

All this reminds me of an old Soviet joke: Two friends run into each other and one says to the other, “Comrade Ivanovich, why weren’t you at the last Party Congress?” “Caramba!” he answers, “If I’d known it was going to be the last I would have made a great effort to attend!”

November 15, 2010

Every day, in the establishments where they offer any kind of service, in the shops, schools and even in offices, one finds staff who lack the capacity, knowledge and skill, for you to deal with them with any confidence, to a point that borders on excessive familiarity. Could they possibly think that in treating you this way they are being pleasant?

Wherever you go, it’s gotten so bad it’s a joke, you find people who address you with expressions like “Aunty,” “Moms,” “Old lady,” “China,” and so on. They are incapable of respect, cannot respond appropriately to a question put to them, because for the most part the lack any understanding of what respect it. And in general, they don’t take any responsibility for the answers they give you.

For two months I’ve been calling the National Archives once a week. I signed a sort of contract with them two months ago, and paid in advance, as required, for them to do some research. Every time I call the same person — I know it’s the same person because it’s the same voice — tells me, “Nothing yet Moms.” When I rebuke them, stating my rights, she says, “We don’t have enough staff Moms, to do what you want.”

Today, once again mustering my patience, I called the Archive and the same voice answered, and said exactly the same thing. I asked her name and very quickly, as if I’d attacked her, she answered, “Sorry Moms, I don’t have to give my name.”

“What? Then you are working there illegally?” I said. “Look Moms, I have to hang up,” was her response.

Given the situation, I plan to go there to meet with her in person, her and her immediate superior.

In reality, I like the haunted nights, and once a year a Halloween wouldn’t be a bad thing. But…

Here on my planet, the nights are no longer bewitched, in fact almost all are full of witches or witchcraft. They tell me that to celebrate Halloween in other countries, the children dress up, go out to walk through the neighborhood with their parents, going from door to door looking for treats. Here, they knock on the door at any time of the day or night and take off running, and when you look out to see who’s there, there’s no one. You don’t have any candy for yourself, much less to give away. As for film premieres, when we go out in the streets we can see, without even buying a ticket, several horror films: The Haunted Bus; The Assault in Broad Daylight; The Rage at the Bakery; The Onion Ghost; Life for a Little Trip; In Pursuit of Potatoes; The Chicken Pilot, etc.

Tobe dressed as a witch or a demon, is nothing out of the ordinary, in fact it’s a daily thing. At least these are the references copied from video clips. So tomorrow will not be an extraordinary day on my planet. Witches and warlocks will head out into the streets, to face our daily demons.

Happy Halloween to all of you!

October 29, 2010

Last night, at the home of some friends, where some architects were gathered, one of them, very well-connected, told us that he was very sure that they were going to demolish the Varadero Hotel International, to use its grounds to build a very dull one, certainly, just like any of the thousands spread along the different tourist beaches of the world.

I think I felt pressured, because I was indignant, impotent, sad and my face turned red, thinking that this was imminent.

I thought then of the marvelous art deco hotels I knew as a child when we went to Miami, and on returning to that beach, fifty years later, I saw, shining, as if it had just been built, emerging proudly between its two younger siblings, but much larger in size. I felt a deep satisfaction to see how reasonable people were able to defend more than the monetary value of the land, the historical memory of a country.

Just like Miami Beach would be like any beach, with hotels like you can find in any resort in any country, except that there is a but that distinguishes it and sets it apart: it’s art deco hotels and its Fountainebleau from the fifties, far from devaluing it, it made it more valuable.

From here I call on everyone who, like me, would like to preserve the architectural values and memory of a country, write to the authorities of my planet, call for the salvation of the Veradero International Hotel, its flagship hotel. This beautiful beach has already lost too much to let apathy do away with its beautiful bungalows that so distinguish it.

October 12, 2010

“A Modigliani, by Rebeca”

In my last visit to Santo Domingo, Domincan Republic, I was received, as is usual, by an incredible woman ceramics artist, restorer of porcelain (something rarely practiced today), in her marvelous museum home of Moorish architecture, in the heart of the colonial city.

To be there was like stepping into the pages of a story in A Thousand and one Nights. This time, the attic room where I usually stayed was occupied by an American girl, tall, blond, slim, very nice, who also spoke fluent Spanish. Immediately we felt a lot of empathy between us and we quickly became inseparable. I gave her the nickname Chicuela, little girl, which she accepted gladly. She had been to seek her fortune, I to another patchwork exposition, this time an homage to the Great Masters of the impressionists. I had brought the finished works unmounted, which was my custom in the French galleries, in Gazcue, where I already had experience in framing this kind of technique. The two previous exhibitions held in this workshop work were impeccable.

The Colonial City is surrounded by gorgeous houses with the architecture of the period of conquest, many of them converted into painters’ studios and art galleries. Others belonged to wealthy families who had restored them keeping all the splendor and ostentation.

Bougainvillea of various colors hung from all the balconies. It seemed as if they were copying each other. This ancient city, the premium, as they called it, counts a great number of churches, many also very old. In the wide plaza, facing City Hall, stands the proud cathedral.

Many were the rides, the walks, the laughs, but the evening of the announced day came and most of the invitations had not yet been delivered. Chicuela and I went out on foot to distribute them. It was exhausting. The day of the exposition, my American friend side by side with me, we took on the jobs of cleaning the premises of the exhibition, decorating it, hanging the pictures, ending up exhausted but happy. The big surprise was the heavy rain that broke just an hour before the opening, the flooding, making this beautiful garden we had decorated unusable, leaving limited space for the public on the roof terrace and corridors of the museum where tables were set. Despite all the challenges, which were many, they served to show Chicuela and me that two people from countries whose governments have turned themselves into enemies, have more in common than people think, and that for sensitive and honest human beings, there are no borders.

The great actress Greta Garbo knew to retire when it was time, in the splendor or her beauty and at the height of her fame. A very intelligent choice which many don’t make, led astray as they are by their ego.

But today it is not the great actress nor the stubborn that concern me. It is that yesterday I came across a document from the old store El Encanto, which still lives in my memory, and I was shocked. I remembered and I always will, most of all how their slogan marked the beginning of each season, how we all had to comply, no matter if it was cold or hot: “It is summer at El Encanto,” or “It is winter at El Encanto.” This marked the season for the whole of Cuba, regardless of the weather report.

When I first arrived in Paris, in the seventies, people took me to the Galerías Lafayette, and I experienced a feeling of dizziness, not pleasant for me, because I had come from my planet, where the streets were dark, there were almost no cars, and the display windows of the stores were decorated with streamers and books on Marxism. I said to the person who had taken me, get me out of here because I am very tired. But are you dazzled by this store, she asked me? Yes, it’s very beautiful, I answered, but on my planet we had El Encanto. Then she said, what you are is very chauvinistic.

Today, looking at the photos of that great department store (the first in Latin America and possibly in the world, in those years) with its elegant salons, exclusive clothes, charming and well dressed employees, as well as their spectacular Christmas decorations inside the store, on the façade and in its windows, something I had never though of occurred to me: At least El Encanto disappeared in full bloom, as the actress of yore. It did not suffer the shame that of the other major Havana stores such as End of the Century and Flogar, just to name a few, that time, apathy and neglect have made squalid, turning them into caricatures of what they once were.

October 16, 2010

The festivities of September 28 are almost here, the fiesta for the Committees for the Defense of the Revolution. The carnival begins.

My block, the only one who cleans is Joseito, an employee of Aurora (the State agency for street cleaning), and some other neighbors clean their gardens and in front of their houses from time to time. But today, on the eve of long-awaited party, the most militant go out to clean up what any other week, with no shame, their children and grandchildren and even they themselves make dirty.

There are those, I know them, who do not clean even the cobwebs in their entryways, nor the piece of stairway that leads to their door. But today they’re out broom in hand to sweep the street. They trim the wild bushes that grow freely during the year, and whitewash the curbs. Always the same faces, some already very faded by age and frustrations.

Always having to fake things also leave traces in the face. Anyway, there are those who, in confidence, always on the sly, timidly complain how bad the situation is and how expensive everything is.

In their houses some have hung CDR flags and the much abused national flag. A neighbor, the teacher, as we affectionately call him, uses this day to do his wash and hang, from the balcony of his house, his beach towel which has the design of an American flag on it; no one says anything because they think he’s crazy. When I observe all that is happening in my neighborhood and in all other neighborhoods, I realize why this regime has lasted over half a century. Then I feel sorry for my country and embarrassed by my countrymen.

September 26, 2010

Dear Pablo,

So your CD is titled, and it is, indeed, very beautiful, and so I want to start my missive.

Since I met you many years ago, at your home, when I visited your then wife, Zoe, I appreciated you because I found in you a good human being, simple, a great friend and father, even with children who were not your own, but you took them in and loved them as such. I admired you for your songs and also for the life you led.

Later we met in Spain, and with your usual modesty, called me to help you in the shops, as you did not like shopping. You told me you didn’t feel like it because when you went to the Corte Ingles, they would put on your music as if they were waiting to see you come in to do it.You didn’t want to believe that this music, yours, was constantly playing, because they liked it so much, it was the fad. That amused me, because you looked like a surprised child.

A long time has passed. You left the neighborhood, we have run into each other casually rarely. I also met and became friends with Yolanda, a great woman to whom you gave an international dimension with the wonderful hymn to the love she inspired in you and that bears her name.

I followed your steps, from a distance. I never liked to harass celebrities. I keep my distance, not to confuse the true feeling with fanaticism or opportunism, both of which I avoid as unpleasant.

Your previous statements, like much of your actions, have made me see the sensitive and intelligent, but above all the honest man that you are. But these latest, Pablo, I do not understand. How it is possible that, after courageously dismissing men who are over seventy-five-years-old as capable of running a country, you come to say that these same figures that you dismiss as incompetent, you now ask them to make arrangements before they die, and what’s worse to name a successor.

Do you think this is healthy, for them to found a dynasty? Don’t you think that if these characters haven’t managed, in fifty-one years, to accomplish anything, that they will achieve it now in the little time they have left. Tell me sincerely, Pablo, don’t you also dream of a free country? Democratic? Where we can express ourselves without fear of reprisals, and have the same opportunities and that everyone with their knowledge and skills can find their corresponding place in society?

I trust in your rationality and intelligence and I hope that your statements will be more in accord with the times and the century in which we are living.

September 25, 2010