Abraham Echevarría spreads the phrase “You need to be happy” throughout Havana, the most recent one in the ruins of ISDi
On peeling walls here and there, on a column on Reina and Galiano streets, on the supports of a building about to collapse, at the entrance of a bookstore, in a trash can on San Rafael Boulevard, on San Lázaro Street, on the door of some abandoned warehouses on Infanta Street, in some closed multiplex cinemas, in a Metrotaxi kiosk, in the space of some destroyed ATMs on Obispo Street that serves as a dormitory for beggars, on the glass of an Oficoda on Carlos III, and beyond the city center, in El Vedado, in an old ruined shop on 19th Street, along 23rd Street, on a lamppost next to an illegal stall in front of the ghostly K Tower, on the wall of a school on the corner of G, on the corner with J, on the stairs of the El Carmelo cafeteria. In all these places, and in many other “countless” ones—he doesn’t even remember the number—including Matanzas, Pinar del Río, Sancti Spíritus, Villa Clara, Camagüey, and even Panama, the graffiti artist Abraham Echevarría has left his mark over the last few years. Three simple words, usually written in black, but sometimes in another color, with careful calligraphy, that appear before passersby when they least expect them and bring a smile to their face: “You need to be happy.”
The most recent can be seen on the remains of a wall that was once part of the Higher Institute of Industrial Design (ISDi), reduced to rubble last month and quickly transformed into a kind of illegal quarry for construction materials. Why that phrase? Why those places? What motivated this 28-year-old artist and photographer, born in Bauta (Havana) and a history graduate, to carry out this initiative? Echevarría answers 14ymedio via audio messages .
Question: Why did you choose ISDi?
Answer: Because it’s a safe place, nobody minds, they’re not going to come looking for me for painting there. Beyond that, it also interests me because it’s a place that’s slowly disappearing, and the demolished School of Design is a symbol. A symbol of collapse, of falling, of decay, of carrion. In that sense, putting the phrase there means that if it disappears, it will suddenly become stone dust for someone’s house. There’s a quote by Karl Marx that I’ve been thinking about for a while: “The people feel the punishment, but they don’t see the crime”… My phrase has gradually become one of those yellow highlighters for books. The idea is to highlight the obstacles that can exist to happiness. For me, ISDi has become that, in a way. The University of Havana is at a standstill. Supposedly they’re working outside of it, but that’s a lie. The university is at a standstill, and that’s madness in the history of Cuba, and nobody remembers that.
I’ve witnessed the ISDi firsthand because I live around here and pass by it quite often, and I’ve seen the whole process, from when they declared it uninhabitable until people started moving in, until they took away the frames, they took away the beams when it collapsed. It’s an important symbol of collapse; something is falling apart here, even literally. [He pauses briefly, then continues without interruption] I don’t know if the government is really going to fall; I don’t think so. I think they’re going to find ways to negotiate, like what happened in Venezuela, like what happens everywhere. Here, nobody falls anymore; everyone negotiates. Those old ideals, fighting to the last drop of blood, that’s a lie. Here, everyone is going to negotiate and create their own movie.
Question. Did you paint it during the day or at night?
Answer. By day, painting at night is a risk, because then I’d be hiding from something. I always paint during the day, and almost everyone paints during the day. I’m not hiding from anything, nor am I writing anything I have to hide from. Everyone understands that I’m talking about other things; I’m not even talking about politics. Clearly, I also talk about politics, because “you need to be happy” certainly refers to human happiness, and everything that affects or influences it falls within that discourse—it’s an infinite discourse—but politics itself isn’t my subject. “You need to be happy” isn’t about one specific thing; it’s a mirror where people see themselves, where people can see what obstacles in their lives are preventing them from being happy.
Question. Have you received any feedback from people?
Answer. Yes, of course, people contact me, tell me about their lives, and thank me. I’ve met everyone from university professors who are depressed because their lives have no meaning and suddenly they feel uplifted, to people who were on their way to a meeting with State Security and saw the poster along the way and it gave them strength. People have told me about suicide attempts and how they saw the phrase and decided not to do it, how they regained their will to live after seeing it. People have told me they’ve come out of the closet, that they’ve reconciled with their mothers… When people meet me in person, they thank me. But not everyone knows or sees the phrase. People are also blind to it, and even though it’s in many places, not everyone sees it, not everyone takes the time to look at it. Because it takes a little time. Most of those who don’t see it are in cars; I write on the street, for the people sweating under the blazing sun. I write for everyone, but especially for those people.
Question. Besides this graffiti, have you done other types of graffiti, with different messages?
Answer. I started doing a different kind of graffiti, where I would choose a phrase from popular slang, assign it an object, and represent it as if it were propaganda from the 1920s. I studied history at university, and my conclusion as a student was that Cuba has a long-standing, central identity crisis, and that is one of its biggest problems. My goal at that time was to try to contribute a little to strengthening that identity through art and street art, and I chose slang as a genuine element of Cuban identity, along with objects very typical of the island, to try to revitalize that identity that I saw as being in crisis. Initially, my project also included making sweaters, caps, and things that people could use in their daily lives, but that part never happened because of money.
After a period of crisis with Cuba—with society, with the people, with the government, with Havana’s own cultural circles—I decided to focus solely on this phrase, limiting myself to having a social and spiritual role in the city. The other project lost its meaning; it seemed like an unnecessary effort without results. Just as some people don’t understand “you need to be happy,” imagine trying to understand another, more complex phrase with a drawing. I kept those three words, along with a typeface chosen to be easily recognizable from afar and to also activate the subconscious, because it’s the calligraphy they teach us in schools. I don’t write like that. It was chosen with an aesthetic that stands out, that is unavoidable, so that anyone who glances by will recognize it immediately and it will attract attention.
Question. When did you start writing this message?
Answer. I made the first ones around 2018 or 2019; it was one of many phrases. I kept only that one for about four or five years. Occupying public space is a significant responsibility, especially given the political risk involved in Cuba, where you can be labeled as engaging in counterrevolutionary propaganda and who knows what else. If I’m going to do it, I have to do it because it’s truly worthwhile, and for me, this phrase is, beyond any aesthetic considerations. It’s not just a drawing, “oh, how pretty,” but something people can actually learn from.
It also provides me with a buffer against any situation with State Security, which, of course, I’ve had, and that’s why it’s important to make this clear: I’m not talking about the Cuban government, I’m not talking about Cuban leaders, I’m not talking about the embargo or the United States, but about a basic human need. That basic human need, which is happiness, is constantly at risk in Cuba; it can even seem like a luxury.
Cubans who read this phrase, of course, think, “How am I going to be happy today?” But it’s a phrase that resonates equally with people from all over the world. If I left Cuba, I would still paint it. Perhaps I would write other phrases as well, but I would continue writing that one, because I believe it speaks to humanity, to basic human needs, and it’s like the beginning of fulfillment, seeking that happiness, which, of course, isn’t about going to Disneyland or owning a car, but something else entirely. But that’s another interview; it’s a question that’s not relevant here.
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