There is an infinite quantity of references
around the photographic representation of Havana. Cañibano is
interested in its architecture as it dialogues with the human being. The
city emerges as the mirror of desires for the voyeuristic lens that
follows the free wandering of the next person with its poetic charge:
this is the Havana in times of leisure, where there are festivals,
romance, rest and the gestures of socialisation. He
can catch them on the invisible stages of the street or indoors where
he sometimes peers in by candlelight.
His
wandering camera often prowls the coast of Havana and the walls that
bound it: the omnipresent Malecón oceanside walkway which is also a
frontier of non-time, a space of unearthly times, of
meetings and missed meetings, around which the scenes are multiplied
and often tinged with that aura that made André Breton, who was passing
through the city, feel like he had entered surrealist territory.
Cañibano
seeks repeated forms, creators of rhythms, right where daily life
reaches a mode of intensity without myth. In that City of Columns the
passage of time favours narratives in bulk. Havana
is superb in its deterioration, and is generous to excess in decisive
instants that the photographer steals from life. Taking advantage of the
order of the coincidences, he creates parallels in scenes that are
appetizers to multiple potential readings, uniting
situations that may have a relationship of stating or of contradicting
through the conceptual charge of the image. In this manner he
reconstructs life – like Joyce did in his native Dublin – through a
visual approach that captures the chaotic convergence of
the urban experience using the simultaneous nature of dissimilar
situations.
Cañibano’s
gaze travels through the open city revealing its spaces, feeding off
the histrionic feeling of the Cuban who, as the critic Juan Antonio
Molina once said, gives himself with glee to
the pose and the theatrical game. One loves Havana, although it is no
longer like when Luis Cernuda saw it, “beautiful, aerial, airy, a
mirroring”; and because for each Havana resident it is still the “city
with most open windows”, as
Abilio Estévez wrote in his Inventario secreto de La Habana; or, just as Fayad Jamis lived it: “This is perhaps the true centre of the world”.
MYTH AND REALITY
Series like “Ocaso” [Sunset] and “Fe por San Lázaro”[Faith
for St Lazarus], reformulate the imaginary of two of the segments
historically sensitive to the rhetoric of the press, and to
an exoticism anchored in the photographic iconography of
underdevelopment.
“Ocaso”
registers the overwhelming loneliness and abandoning of old age in
Cuba, as a metonymy of the cracks in the system. These images taken in
an institution or in the streets of the capital
explore a facet that is not often shown but which was often visited by
other documentary photographers of the nineties. Cañibano accepts the
challenge of this rhetoric and constructs an emotive social document
with a strong human impact.
Brimming
with the elegance of visual maturity, “Ocaso” stands as a cognitive
experience that works through catharsis. The series transcends the
meaning of each initial shot, drawing out the tale
of a world alienated by social indolence. It is a pessimistic view, but
which brings out the exceptional value of the individual gestures that
restate life in its unshakable dignity.An
analogous exploration of the drama
takes place in “Fe por San Lázaro”, a series which delves into the
survival of religious sentiment in Cuba. Every 17th of December
thousands of devout worshippers congregate at the Rincón Hermitage, a
few kilometers away from Santiago de Las Vegas, in order
to form a penitent procession with one of their most revered figures:
not Lazarus, the resurrected, but the beggar in the parable in St Luke,
Babalu-Aye in the Afro-Cuban religion, lord and master of the contagious
diseases and protector of the sick.Cañibano’s
photographs open a parenthesis of eloquence on this subject. The set
eludes the logical sequence of causes and effects, but it manages to
achieve a unique coherence thanks to the suggestive power of the close
up.
This grants “Fe por San Lázaro”a
clear cinematographic
spirit. Certain images come apart in ambiguities and are then brought
together again in the spectator’s reading. Some resort to paradoxical
coincidences, situations that are too fortuitous to be the work of
chance, and too authentic to be the product of manipulation.
All together, they synthesize that legendary pilgrimage of which the
only purpose is to return the miracle of favours granted to the saint,
through the coins of devotion.
PHOTOGRAPHY AS EXCERCISE OF SOCIALIZATION
One Hundred Years of Solitude,
one of the most important books in Latin-American literature, arises
from the journey that took García Márquez, many years later,
back to the land of his origin and to the desire of “leaving poetic
constancy from the world of my childhood”. In a parallel manner,
Cañibano felt the call of the “Tierra guajira” [Guajira Land]
where he lived a part of his childhood in the Argelia
Libre sugar mill in the town of Manatí, in the province of Las Tunas.
“Tierra guajira” is inspired by that return, which is as geographical as
it is affective, giving rise to the most lyrical of his series, and
that which defines the journey as a resource,
and photography as an exercise.
“Some
were very difficult journeys,” he comments, “and on others I had the
opportunity to strike up friendship with the peasants and stay in their
houses for days, sharing their shortages (…).
They are very noble people and they share what little they have. And I
helped them bringing them work clothes and tools that I got in Havana. I
thus travelled from town to town, first along the Martiana route, from
Playita to Dios Ríos, and then all throughout
the countryside: Gibara, Remedios, la Ciénaga, Consolación del Sur and
La Isla de la Juventud.”
The
series was carried out as a long term essay, and contains the poetics
of an unbreakable alliance between the soil as the source of life, the
man who works it and the animals that live on it.
It is a stark gaze – just like life in the countryside – but one which
registers the sensitivity of the country peasant through his daily
ritual activity, whether at work, at celebration, or in the intimacy of
those homes with their doors always open.
Both
the urban images and the rural ones are mainly taken of moments of
leisure – that space ignored by the photography that preceded him. But
while in the city one can sense an atmosphere of
isolation and fragmentation, what
predominates in the countryside is an inner unity that projects the
imaginary of a pleasant world, without any ruptures. Thus the
photographer’s simultaneous work on both series establishes a revealing
counterpoint on the aesthetic and sociological level.
It
is very possible that the photographs of the boys may function as
self-portraits, in an attempt to bring back the marks of a childhood
blurred in memory. In conspiring with his games, the photographer
captures a playful power capable of bending reality, and recreates a
particularly beautiful instance of his relationship with the animals,
built on the certainty that the life of one realm is not possible
without the other one. If
"literature is childhood finally recovered,” as Georges Bataille
states, Raúl Cañibano’s photography is the idyllic recovery of that
“Tierra guajira” by means of a camera that looks at reality with the
eyes of the child he was, and gives him back his innocence.