Quick links: my home page • my blog • Choosing My Confessions
Between a fantasy and a hard place
By Nicholas Laughlin
La Fantasie Road, in the leafy St. Ann’s
neighbourhood of north Port of Spain, is the address of the official
residence of the prime minister of Trinidad and Tobago. On 15 December,
2007, not long after a general election that returned him to power —
with less than fifty percent of the overall vote, thanks to vicious
animosity between the two main opposition parties — prime minister
Patrick Manning officially moved into the sprawling new mansion he had
commissioned in his previous term. “The occasion was marked by a simple
but moving ceremony,” said a press release, though the building itself
was anything but simple.
Four prime ministers before him had been mostly content with an
unostentatious bungalow on La Fantasie Road, tucked between a public
rugby ground, the Queen’s Hall performing arts centre, and the historic
President’s House. These modest but comfortable quarters, however, were
not quite consonant with Manning’s sense of the stature of his office.
Around the time he began regularly referring to himself at press
conferences in the third person — “The prime minister believes,” etc. —
Manning ordered the state construction agency Udecott to build him an
entirely new and rather more palatial residence.
This was just one of the controversial government-funded construction
projects which in the past five or six years have imposed outscale and
vastly expensive new public buildings on Port of Spain, a city whose
nineteenth-century street grid and twentieth-century infrastructure
were already overburdened. Like many of these other projects, the
Manning mansion was designed by Chinese architects and engineers, and
built by Chinese labourers imported by the hundreds, to the chagrin of
the local construction industry. Like these other projects, the prime
minister’s new house was criticised by many as an unneeded luxury for a
small country where, despite prodigious petro-wealth, nearly a third of
the population survives below the poverty line; where basic
infrastructure for education and health are collapsing and the civic
fabric crumbling; and where an accelerating trend of social inequality
drives a violent network of criminal gangs, gun culture, the illegal
drug economy, and the murder rate.
But unlike the new “government campus” downtown, with its ugly
Lego-block towers, or the National Performing Arts Centre on the
Savannah — its front façade like the gaping maw of an immense
creature, gulping down dollars — Manning’s house was actually completed
almost on schedule, even as the estimated bill leapt casually from
TT$40 million to $148 million to $175 million. The last reported figure
was $244 million, including generous sums for furniture, drapery, and
last-minute redecorating — not forgetting the fountain in the driveway,
and the tidy beds of the prime ministerial rose garden.
•
Two months after the prime minister moved into his mansion, and barely
half a mile to the south, another house named La Fantasie opened its doors,
having sprung up almost overnight, from an empty lot thick with razor
grass.
From the pavement in front, the little house at 43 Norfolk Street
looked like many modest homes in Belmont, a lower-middle-income
neighbourhood of narrow lanes, separated from St. Ann’s by a spur of
the Northern Range. It was a simple single-storey structure, with a
galvanize roof, decorative fretwork round the eaves, and potted palms
on either side of the front door. (No rose garden.) Only the fresh coat
of white paint gave away its newness, and only the small and unlikely
crowd that gathered outside on three or four evenings at the end of
February 2008 suggested that this was not the home of a respectable
working-class family.
The casement windows of the little white house were shut tight. Anyone
who strolled up the rough path from picket fence to welcome mat found
the front door unlocked, and half a dozen flashlights suspended from a
hook beside the doorknob. Just inside was a heavy black curtain, which
the visitor groped past to find himself in a room crowded with old
furniture, its walls, floor, and ceiling painted black, and the only
light coming from a pair of eerie video projections. Ah, that’s what
the flashlight was for — its narrow beam just bright enough to permit
the curious to explore the room’s nooks, revealing: a trail of what
looked like blood, leading to a fridge. More blood puddled atop a
stove. Plastic blood-bags, shaped like miniature human figures,
labelled “Dead Girl” or “Dead Boy.” A sinister religious painting
looming overhead — not the traditional Sacred Heart displayed in
Catholic houses all over Trinidad, but a figure with a black-masked or
-hooded head, juggling swords. In another corner, the floorboards were
removed, exposing the earth beneath the house — appearing to lift away,
and revealing a woman’s unmoving lower limbs.
Discomfited, fiddling with his flashlight, the visitor might have
discovered there was an ultraviolet lamp built in. Now, under the black
light, disturbing drawings and diagrams appeared on the walls and
furniture. Evidence of violence, betrayal, despair? A crime scene? A
haunted house? The walls seemed to close in, and the
claustrophobia-prone visitor turned to flee. Stumbling past the curtain
at the door and out into the cool evening air, he might have looked up
and noticed that just across Norfolk Street was the constituency office
of the PNM, the ruling political party.
•
The name that the three La Fantasie
collaborators gave to their project was an obvious and bitter joke at
the expense of Patrick Manning’s palatial pretensions, and mocking the
programme — some might say the fantasy — of social and economic
progress promoted by the Manning government, under the brand name
Vision 2020. But the larger metaphor — the nation as a house of
horrors, with its almost-normal façade concealing the symbolic
corpses of children and a shallow grave — is distressingly apposite to
other places in the twenty-first century Caribbean.
In late January 2008 — as Marlon Griffith, Jaime Lee Loy, and Nikolai
Noel were completing the plans for La Fantasie — six adults and five
children were brutally murdered in their homes, some of them in their
beds, when a gang of gunmen invaded the village of Lusignan on the
coast of Guyana. Less than a month later, the same gang massacred
twelve people in the interior town of Bartica. Internationally
publicised attacks on tourists in Antigua, Tobago, and other
territories in the past year have jeopardised one of the region’s chief
sources of income. And at the further end of the Caribbean, in Jamaica,
a growing incidence of child abductions and killings, on top of an
already soaring murder rate, has provoked fears of social collapse.
Many Caribbean artists, as citizens, share these fears, and grapple
with a mundane pessimism, our own tristesse
tropique, about the future of these small, unstable territories
history has bequeathed us. As citizens, as artists, they struggle — we
struggle — to survive, to understand, to respond. For the Trinidad Art
Society, in its role as middleman for the local business class, the
response has been to “beautify” Port of Spain via a public art project
which mounts large reproductions of works by socially appropriate
artists in prominent locations. Nostalgic landscapes and renditions of
folk culture — blown up to a scale that magnifies weak composition and
draughtsmanship — are meant to stimulate both civic pride and civilised
sensibilities, but instead they recede into the clutter of advertising
billboards and illuminated signs.
Less politely, a crop of young graffiti artists have seized the
opportunity offered by abandoned lots and untended walls to stage their
own unauthorised citywide intervention. The least interesting
monotonously repeat their tags, but a handful of these artists offer
more pointed social commentary: “Spade” with his stenciled caricatures
of politicians, “Louse” with his children bawling or hiding their
faces, and “Manf” with his eerie-eyed, elongated figures surveilling
the streets like jumbies of unknown motive.
But for savage indignation and sheer sardonic bravura, no visual
intervention by a Trinidadian artist competes with Peter Minshall’s
2001 mas band This Is Hell, a
phantasmagoria of black (for wickedness), gold (for greed), and
writhing limbs unleashed into the play-play land of the “national
festival.” Minshall’s vision of a people literally dancing themselves
down the path to perdition has proven scarily prophetic. It’s just as
scarily apt that eight years later his practice and process and his
Callaloo Company’s imperfect model of creative collaboration seem to
have collapsed under a burden of acrimony and despair.
•
Corruption and crime, comess and commerce, politicians’ ploys and
citizens’ protests: La Fantasie
was informed by all of these, as it inevitably was by the three
artists’ personal histories, their previous experiments with outdoor
art projects, and their experiences on the streets of Port of Spain.
The little house on Norfolk Street stood at the intersection of the
public and the domestic, the political and the personal, the individual
and the collective, the visual and the performative; somewhere between
the optimistic dream of a new nation like a new family building its own
home, complete with fenced-off front yard, and the sour reality, almost
five decades later, of broken promises, tired failures, and too many
secrets lurking in corners and under floorboards.
And then, a few days later, it was gone — another sudden void in the
urban landscape — its materials recycled by the workmen who helped
build it. As the razor grass reclaimed its space, what was left of La Fantasie was a curious memory
for its temporary neighbours on Norfolk Street. And perhaps for the
rest of us — visitors from other neighbourhoods who passed through its
black curtain, and were confused or amused or repelled — a troubling
reminder of how quickly things (and people and places and promises) can
disappear. +
August 2009