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Artspeak,

Artspeak

Exhibitions

(de)constructing utopias

MANUEL PIÑA
March 22–April 19, 1997

Interview with Manuel Piña by Peter Hudson and Susan Edelstein
March 19, 1997

PH: (de)constructing utopias involves a form of documentation of the Microbrigadas. Could you spend some time describing them?

MP: The Microbrigadas are one of the many projects organized by the Cuban government that have been happening for years in Cuba. The Cuban government would call upon people to help them solve major social problems. For example, when we had food shortages, we decided that we would attempt a record production of sugar so we could get through the crisis. For many years the government didn’t pay attention to living spaces, so we had a major housing shortage. It was impossible to find housing in Cuba. You would often have four generations of people living in the same house. The government proposed to provide people with materials and they could build there own living spaces-under the condition that they would first build a kindergarten, a small school, a small hospital, or some other kind of social facility. For many reasons the Microbrigadas never worked. There are people who have been working for fifteen years to get an apartment that still hasn’t been built. The Microbrigadas were an example of the utopia ideals that people believe in- although they know that somehow they wouldn’t work. For me, the Microbrigadas are important because they were the last time that people really believed in these ideals. They were the last utopias of the Cuban Revolution before the social crisis we experienced with the fall of the Soviet Union.

PH: How does this come through in the Artspeak show?

MP: I’m not talking exactly about the crisis in the show, I’m talking about the mechanisms at work behind utopian movements. I suggest it has to do with an almost religious hope. It has to do with the necessity for people to believe in something and to imagine an ideal future that you are willing to do whatever is necessary to build. Your actual needs or feelings are then delayed; everything is postponed to build this future. You don’t cease to become a person; you become something that is important only in so far as you are able to help to build the future.

PH: Do you feel there was almost a psychic shift, a shift in consciousness, when people who had dedicated their lives to this movement became fed up with or betrayed by this utopian prospect? Was it somehow manifest on the streets of Cuba?

MP: Yes. The Cuban nation went through a kind of trauma. We’ve never realized our ideals of freedom. As we were about to gain our independence from Spain, the States took over and we became a colony of the US. We went straight from the hands of Spain to the hands of the States. This feeling of frustration is something that the nation has always remembered. In the first decade of this century, we had a revolution that was never realized; then we had another revolution in the thirties that was stymied again. When Castro came to power it was as if all our ideals were realized. And besides that, it was a very important moment, not only for Cubans, but for left-leaning people all over the world. Cuba was a dream come true for the left. This created a shift in Cuban consciousness: we became not only free, but we also became an important nation in the world. People came from all over the world to see this dream. Intellectuals and scientists from Europe came to Cuba to work. It was an amazing moment in Cuban history, and of course it shifted the ways that Cuban people viewed themselves.

SE: So now you’re attempting to recreate history—or making a fictional history—from the photographs mounted in the gallery. You’re asserting the notion that historical documentation is not accurate. How does this make feel about the future? Do you feel like you have inserted the possibility of hope or change by altering the viewers perspective?
I guess I wonder if Cuba’s future seems futile to you?

MP: Again, talking about this crisis, there was a sensation that there was nowhere to go. People—like my father—who had devoted all of their lives to the Revolution all of a sudden found out that it had failed. They got some information on what was happening in Russia and they realized that they had idealized the revolution. We became suspect about what was happening. You felt hopelessness. You didn’t believe in anything, it’s as if everything was a lie. I think the saddest part of all of it was that, morally, people decayed. In a previous piece, Manipulations, Truths and some other Illusions (1995), I emphasized the nature of photography as a means of constructing history, but in de/constructing utopias,I was trying to focus on how this beautiful idea of utopias and equality—of sacrificing your life just to get something better for your future or for future generations—is something that will never work because it becomes oppressive.

PH: We spoke earlier about criticism and the possibility or impossibility of finding a place to critique from. Could you speak about this in regards to the function of artists in this sense?

MP: I wouldn’t say that artists were critical of the Revolution. They were making political statements, but many times they were on the side of the Revolution. The government, the nature of photography as a means of constructing history, but in de/constructing utopias,I was trying to focus on how this beautiful idea of utopias and equality-of sacrificing your life just to get something better for your future or for future generations-is something that will never work because it becomes oppressive.

PH: We spoke earlier about criticism and the possibility or impossibility of finding a place to critique from. Could you speak about this in regards to the function of artists in this sense?

MP: I wouldn’t say that artists were critical of the Revolution. They were making political statements, but many times they were on the side of the Revolution. The government, however, didn’t always understand that and artist were regarded with suspicion. Now, of course, many artists are using this “critical” position to create a market for themselves and attract collectors. This kind of political art which apparently showed the Cuban situation is attractive to collectors and gets very good prices. But it’s not political any more of course: it’s just a cliché. Looking at all of that, I don’t think that art, in this society, is in a position to criticize anything as we are part of that. I am trying to focus more on the personal responses to this situation. I would say I’m talking about ethics more than anything else.

PH: So in a sense, the utopian project shifts from being about social processes on a macro scale, to ethical process on a micro scale.

MP: I would say so. I would say that its hard for someone to decide what’s right for others, whether you are an artist or a political leader, but I think if you took an ethical position, questioning yourself first, it would help things. That’s the kind of position I’m trying to suggest that people take.

PH: I was a little surprised at the scale of the work when I first saw it. I was expecting a more spectacular, polished work that would really take over the gallery space. But the understated nature of the show is a subtle but extremely effective comment on this utopian project. Could you talk about the original installation of the work and some of the problems you’ve had in transferring it to a Canadian context?

MP: Originally, this piece was designed for a much larger space, whose walls were very rich in detail. Thick plaster walls that had aged over time and acquired a patina composed of various paints. The pieces are so small that they would become a natural part of the space. The images acted as traces of a utopian project that was attempted in the room. I was trying to convey the sensation of looseness and hallucination that you feel when you are in this crazy, but at the same time blissful, moment of utopia. I wanted to pass on to the viewer a feeling of disorientation. I did get this, but it was very unpleasant to viewers and many people did not like the piece. Some of this reaction was because the work was a part of a bigger show where many of the other artists were creating very strong installations with powerful images; after looking at the rest of this show, it was a strange experience entering this almost empty room. Many people loved the piece, but many people hated it. Nevertheless, because of the images of construction, it was very clear to Cubans what it was all about. I don’t really know how it will be read by Canadians. Although, of course, the connections between building materials and fragments of the human body are very suggestive.

PH: Because of your play with the photos of Eduardo Muñoz, an article I recently read on your work discussed how it became kind of ambiguous as to who the author of these photos was, and hence, of the entire installation. It seems related, there’s a connection between the ego of someone who positions themselves as an architect of utopias and the desire of an artist to assert an ownership over images or a vision. In a sense, your name becomes almost loosely attached to (de)constructing utopias.

MP: The negatives were shot by Eduardo Muñoz, a brilliant Cuban photographer who was trying to document the Microbrigadas. I was trying to critically manipulate the images by juxtaposing things that were not supposed to be juxtaposed. I was trying to ideologically manipulate them so that they would give you a completely different version-my own version-of what happened there.

I was trying to show the similarity between this and the way history is constructed. Historians take facts and they manipulate them into their own version. Also, because they are not my images, I am questioning notions of authorship and originality. By doing this—and this is something that I had done already in Manipulations, Truths and some other Illusions-I was trying to examine the possibility of originality and authorship in this cultural context.

PH: It seems like a risky venture to take because it undermines your own position as someone who is trying to survive in the art world.

MP: Actually, no. The fact is, in Cuba we don’t have an art market so my art tends not to sell. This gives me a freedom to do whatever I want. For example, artists who are part of the New York art scene have to be very careful about what they create

because of the surveillance of the art market. Selling my art is not a big issue for me. In this sense we are in an advantageous position as we have a freedom that allows us to do things that others, elsewhere, would hesitate to do.

SE: This installation seems to be such a radical departure

from your previous work. The small scale and deteriorating photo paper suggests an anti-aesthetic

freedom that retreats from the photographic norm of “pristine” or archival documentation.

MP: Each one of my pieces is somehow different from what I’ve done before, even though there are common points-like the idea of photography as a base for the construction of history, and the ethical concerns I’ve discussed. Formally and conceptually the pieces are still quite different from each other. I thrive on the challenge of experimentation, and though I’m always nervous about how new work will be received, the freedom that I mentioned allows me to be faithful to my ideas.

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