The Clothesline Mansion

A giant four-story mansion rising nonchalantly from the street labeled Concordia in Old Havana. Soft yellow facade richly sculpted and terraced on every floor. Huge arching windows. Inside, a wide, stone staircase spirals up into a vast, open, airy space of crumbling concrete and shredded ochre walls. Ceiling and arched windows of staggering height, held up by stone columns spaced out by sculpted archways. Smooth, dusty concrete floor. Void of any furniture or fixtures- only clotheslines zigzagging every which way across its emptiness. The landing is thrown into shadows by the winding stone staircase overhead that leads to the next floor. A silhouette of a small gargoyle statue atop the beginning of this banister seen from behind. Sounds of laundry from the other side of the banister. The twitter of birds magnified in this echo-y chamber. A rooster's crow in the distance.

I come out of the shadowy landing and wander around. Through the soaring archways I had witnessed from street level, streams in the white light of a morning in the Caribbean. It strikes the gargoyle statue from the front and transforms it into an armless female figure, her bodice a pink faded with the chemistry of time.

The laundress is on the other side of this banister. By now, she has hung 6, 7 large sheets along the network of clotheslines that run from column to column, and from column to archway all around the room. They billow dreamily in the light breeze. She begins to clip the next sheet. I take my place distant enough from her work and begin a sequence from one of my classes. The flow of this sequence is akin to the task of putting pen to paper and creating an entire drawing without once lifting the pen until the drawing is complete. The shapes of the hands are borrowed from traditional folkloric dances of Cuba.

Back home it seems, my body hardens and moves linearly with angularity. A week on this island smooths out the angles; my body rediscovers circularity, fluidity, centeredness, and strength- and in effect, liberation from itself. The head and neck rejoin the torso in fluid motion. The breastbone, fingertips and toes reach for walls, windows, ceilings and the sky. The breath becomes full and complete. All movement comes from center. To relax becomes essential. Essential to being Cuban.

Here on this island, I find music and rhythm in the tiniest of spaces- and thus, joy.

Knowing all the while that this peak state of strength, fluidity and internal rhythm will melt from my body by this same time next week after a few days of my regular life in front of screens and sitting in chairs. I live two lives. I require constant renewal.

The laundress has exited for the moment. I explore the view from the balcony, and then weave back in through the aisles of white sheets ever growing. Jete away from them. Spin toward them, spin away from them motivated by arms in changing positions, hair falling over my face. Reach for the clotheslines. Loose shoulders and hips. Passe steps off the stage.

Leap like a fish out of water.

Tiles of leaping porpoises accompanied by seagulls.

A couch dropped with an unnerving bang! From the sky into the street. Is carried away into another room across the street- a new home for the repurposed soul.

A toilet bowl.

Flying pizzas.

The 10,000 uses of fans.

A plaque commemorating a washing machine mechanic.

Men on styrofoam boats fishing in the dark, only ever in the dark.

Iron red fields under a blistering sun, and an old man working it with a lone ox.

  The waiting game.

A listing of options when there is only one option. 

A gift of woodcarved dancing figures in positions of ecstatic reach of the arms and leg.

Dull blue shutters. Glorious rays of light through studio windows. 

Walls of cheerful and brilliant blues. A wall-sized painting of Jemaya, her skirt in motion indistinguishable from the thrashing sea. Dancers through glass walls and glassless windows. Ballerinas walking home from class in full gear and bun held aloft among the general chaos of the streets. 

A doll-sized living room. Walls of a bright turquoise. Son music crooning from a tiny mp3 player propped along a slim ledge. Cutting under the four count to catch the off beat. Hips as a consequence of the ribcage. I am a little bit Cuban. Elegant, expressive, sensual, playful, and above all- relaxed.

Yellow walls and taped windows surrounded by palm trees blurred by a tropical rain. A marley floor constantly in need of cleaning. Filthy bathrooms with no toilet paper and one sink with running water. 

Why is there no toilet paper? 

There is none. 

There is none in the markets. 

The smell of stovetop espresso wafting into the studio in the middle of the same sequence every morning. 10,000 spoons of sugar and a drop of coffee. A pair of congas in one corner; an old piano in the back. Sequence after sequence with increased complexity and pace. You must enjoy the moment.

Walls lined with age and peeling so badly as if afflicted with a strange psoriasis. Huge chunks of ochre yellow paint torn off at varying depths to reveal several shades of murky yellow and brown. Wood ceiling above badly torn to reveal more of that ochre history beneath.

Legs in the air. From balancing on forearms and one shoulder, I return to the ground, stand up and dust off my arms, my knees, my black pants. Wipe the sheen of sweat from my forehead, breathe and look around.

Large white sheets billow everywhere across the space. Dozens of smaller dinner napkins are strung across the archway openings, their white folds gleaming against the silhouetted indoors. Beyond the folds lay the clear blue sky, sweet yellow stone banister, crumbling concrete blocks, low roofs topped with bright blue tanks that hold the household rations of water, a ubiquitous object across the roofscape of Havana.

The laundress is no longer alone. She and two other women stand under one of the archways among the strand of gleaming dinner napkins, in casual conversation as they hang the last couple cloths. Soon the laundress picks up her belongings, and leaves the room, her work complete. She pauses for a moment as we notice each other.

Soon after, I gather my belongings and leave too- back down the winding stone staircase and into the street. I am dreaming of breakfast- an egg sandwich on fresh fluffy bread with a smidgen of ketchup for flavor from Don Luigi's Cafeteria. A glass of pineapple juice drunk right at the vendor's window as he comes around to switch the signage and add pizza to the menu for the coming lunch hour.