Creativity in times of chaos
I sit, staring at this screen. I sit, and I stare, and I will words onto the page without my having to type them, like magic. The problem with writing, it seems, is that you have to do it. The problem with not writing is that you forget how. Of the two states, writing is still the more terrifying. Beyond the gargantuan effort it takes to put words on the page, you must contend with the fear of other people reading them, other people scrutinizing them, or, worst of all, no one reading them at all - the ever-present threat of irrelevance.
Making art during times of upheaval and destruction can make it feel more irrelevant than ever. As nations wage war and murder civilians, as emotional and insecure megalomaniacs hover their stubby fingers dangerously close to nuclear launch buttons, I wonder: what could possibly cut through this mania? What do we do now?
The answer, in one form at least, is in an Island nation in the middle of the Atlantic.
Some years ago, on a quiet Sunday morning in Havana, I wandered through the old town in search of coffee and breakfast. The streets were hushed as many Cubans, children in tow and dressed in their Sunday best, hurried to church. Laundry hung from rusted hangers outside of windows. In the center median of El Prado stood painters, easels akimbo, sketch artists, musicians, and poets. Around them on the cool stone sat children of various ages, pencils or instruments in hand, watching their masters carefully.
Curious, I approached one man, also observing. “They are teaching classes,” he said. “Please, feel free to join them”.
“How much are the classes?” I asked, settling on the low granite wall a little further back, where women, mothers of the children being instructed, I assumed, chatted quietly with friends nearby.
“They are free,” the instructor answered, instead. “Every weekend, artists all over Havana teach our craft to children, to whoever wants to learn.”
Artists sell their wares throughout the week on the Paseo del Prado, Old Havana. On weekends, they teach free classes to young people.
Photo by Meg Sequeira 2017
I watched, amazed, as children sketched the streets of Old Havana, their pencils worn down to nubs so small they disappeared in their tiny hands. Some drew with even greater precision than their teachers, their eyes fixed on their masters, unbothered by the Plaza’s rising traffic noise, as the city awoke on that sleepy Sunday.
Past the guitar instructor a few meters down, I stopped at an oil painter whose use of pinks and purples flooded the street he was painting with light, though in reality the crumbling façades of the city were pale cream and faded pastel blue and orange, like an easter egg dipped in food coloring.
“O’Reilly Street,” he said, looking up from his work and smiling. I was mesmerized and stood nearby to watch him add details to the painting, light and shadow giving it more life than such a small canvas ought to have. As the children packed up their paints and grabbed their mothers’ hands, preparing to cross the busy Prado intersection, I asked, “How much?”
“Two hundred and fifty pesos,” he said.
Twenty five dollars. I gave him a double. Yet, he cut the canvas so close to the painting that when I returned home to Vancouver to have it framed, the framers struggled to work with it. Despite the money, and because of the crushing embargo, Cuban artists have immense difficulty finding quality paint, canvas, and materials and sometimes rely on charities on vacationing regulars to bring supplies into the country.
Una tarde en la calle de O’Reilly, Havana - Diego Delgado
Yet, despite all this, Cuban art and music remains extraordinary and untouchable. From the 13 x 4 painting that hangs next to my front door, by the Havanese artist Diego Delgado, to the guerilla graffiti that dots the city, to the lasting impression Cuban music and dance has left all around the world.
I walk by that painting dozens of times a day. It sees me off to work and when I return. It sees me as I find ways to busy myself instead of doing what I ought - writing. It sees me as I trudge up the stairs in search of a snack and down again, now full, yet unwilling to set my mind and my heart to writing. It reminds me that creation persists in chaos. So, I suppose, can I.
