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The dream of Cuba
By Nicholas Laughlin
First
published in the catalogue of Mi Patria Querida, a solo exhibition of work by Sabrina
Marques at Real Art Ways, Hartford, Connecticut, 19 April to 13 May,
2007
The Caribbean is crowded with imaginary
islands. Sun-struck Columbus imagined he had found the Indies.
Antillia, an island imagined by cartographers, gave its name to the
whole archipelago, the Antilles. European explorers and monarchs
imagined islands of treasure, or verdant Edens. Tourists imagine
palm-fringed playgrounds floating in warm seas, where it never rains.
Daniel Defoe imagined an island where his Crusoe might be shipwrecked,
and today’s Caribbean writers too have imagined dozens of fictional
islands, from V.S. Naipaul’s Isabella to Robert Antoni’s Corpus Christi.
Sabrina Marques has also imagined an island into being. This island is
inhabited by green elephants and pink horses, blue owls and golden
rabbits. Its landscapes have the technicolour hues of dreams, and its
stories too are dream stories, unquestionable and incomplete. She calls
this island Mi Patria Querida,
“My Beloved Homeland”; she might also call it Cuba, even though there
is a real island by the same name.
Like all imaginary places, Marques’s island is compounded of memories,
desires, and anxieties. The memories are those of her mother and her
mother’s family, Cubans who left for the United States in the years
after Castro’s Revolution. (Stories of the animals on her grandfather’s
ranch and in the courtyard of the family house in Camagüey
inspired Mi Patria Querida’s
menagerie.) The desires are Marques’s own: to know and understand this
homeland cut off by the sea that is history. The anxieties are hers as
well: that this homeland may never exist except as a dream.
And anyone looking at the sumptuous paintings of her Patria series is apt to feel a
little anxious, for a different reason. At first glance, these
paintings have the bright, untroubled charm of children’s cartoons, but
then perhaps you notice that the blue owls’ staring eyes follow you
around the room—you are ceaselessly under watch. You notice the heavy
shadow of an airplane overhead—where is it going, what is its mission?
Who is this strange stubble-cheeked child in El Baño Oscuro (The Dark
Bathroom), and what is he doing? The lushly painted foliage of the
large oil paintings begins to feel oppressive, and the speckles and
hatchings of the small gouaches suggest a quivering paranoia. Is this
island a sinister place, or does it just seem so because it is
unfamiliar?
*
Sabrina Marques was born in Mt. Vernon, New York State, and grew up in
Westchester County. Now she lives in Connecticut. She has never set
foot on the island of Cuba, though she has visited other places in the
Caribbean—the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, the Virgin Islands—and
she thinks of Miami, with its large population not just of Cubans but
of Haitians, Jamaicans, and Trinidadians, as a “second home”. She
doesn’t look phenotypically Cuban or Caribbean—with her pale, freckled
skin and red hair, she seems Irish or Scottish. Her mother tells her,
“You are American”, but Marques insists that she thinks of herself, at
least part of the time, as Cuban.
The title Mi Patria Querida
suggests an exile’s nostalgia, but Marques is not an exile, not
exactly, and these paintings are anything but nostalgic. What they long
for and obsess over is not something once known and then lost, but
something—someplace—that may never be known and can therefore only be
found through a leap of the imagination. Marques grew up with stories
of a lost Cuba told by aunts and grandparents, and later heard stories
of what Cuba has more recently become from artists who left the island
to settle in Miami. All these stories, together with accounts in books
and newspaper reports and movie images, fed the curious imagination
that produced these visual fantasies.
When asked, Marques can unravel her strange images and explain their
constituent strands. The green pachyderm in El Elephante, posing on his hind
legs, dressed in an elaborate suit and bow tie? A childhood reading of
the Babar stories left Marques with the odd notion of the elephant as a
Communist icon; the suit is her grandfather’s; the chandelier recalls
the lavish townhouses of the old Havana elite. El Baño Oscuro turns out to
be a self-portrait of sorts. As a child, Marques would draw and paint
in the family bathroom. She found it a comforting private space, she
says, and she thought of herself as surrounded by “three bodies of
water”: the sink, the toilet, and the tub. She is the child in the
painting, the five-o’clock shadow a form of “disguise”, perched on a
flying carpet suggesting the levitation of the creative act; but
knowing this does not abate the sense of the sinister in this small
dark room.
In Me Voy Solo (I Go Alone),
another child appears, a boy who sits with arms tightly folded on the
back of a giant fish, disappearing into a grove of underwater
vegetation. It is a haunting image, rendered almost entirely in greens
and blues. The boy looks like he wants to burst into tears. Does it
matter that his face is modelled on Marques’s father’s (he was born in
Portugal, and has never been to Cuba), or that when she made this
painting she was thinking of the thousands of children sent away from
Cuba in the Operation Peter Pan airlift of the 1960s? Is this
historical or personal allegory? Perhaps, and this image of a submarine
journey also recalls the many migrations and dislocations that have
characterised the Caribbean, and every artist’s journey into the murky
depths where all images are born.
*
The Caribbean has an uncanny geography that defies topography. Our
defining sea has currents that twist and curl their way through the
world’s oceans to unlikely shores. The flotsam they carry—words, songs,
rituals, names—makes (imaginary) Caribbean islands in places like
Brooklyn and Brixton, Toronto and Leeds, Atlanta and Oakland and
Miami—and Hartford. And the gravitational force that pulls these
ever-restless tides is memory.
In Mi Patria Querida, to
remember is to imagine. Here in the Caribbean—this Caribbean that
reaches all over the world—it sometimes seems we are all trying to
imagine our memories into existence, and our histories, and our
homelands. Her mother says Sabrina Marques is American. But in these
paintings—and maybe in her dreams—she is Cuban, and she is Caribbean,
and she is home.
[Download
the original brochure catalogue in PDF format from the Real Art Ways
website.]