Vii Bienal De La Habana

VARIOUS VENUES, HAVANA, CUBA

Since its inception in 1983, the Bienal de La Habana has tenaciously promoted itself as an alternative biennial--less cookiecutter-commercial and more genuinely representative of the art of the developing world. And yet as Cuba's economic situation has changed--dramatically even in the three years since the last biennial-so have the aspirations of Cuban artists and the ambitions of the exhibition's curators. The discreet charms (and harms) of globalization, it seems, are hard to resist. The theme of the seventh installment, "Mas cerca uno del otro" ("Closer to the other"), was designed to allow "a reflection on communication and dialogue among human beings," a proposition that suggests a fuzzily defined conceptual zone between old-fashioned liberal humanism and information-age "communicative action." In fact, this biennial dealt equally with the poetics of miscommunication, partly because of maladroit organization and frequent technical glitches and, more important, because of different local and internationa l presumptions about the function and meaning of artistic expression. Still, as a showcase for Cuban and other Latin American art, the biennial was, in its own peculiarly proud, gutsy cubano way, a triumph.

Funded by various European foundations and the cash-strapped Cuban government and organized by the Centro Wifredo Lam, this biennial was remarkable for its deft utilization of Havana's urban landscape. Because of ongoing renovations to the exhibitions' usual location, the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes (Havana's equivalent to, say, the Prado), they occupied not just the colonial-era Castillo de Morro and La Forraleza de San Carlos de la Cabana, both of which have been used in past years, but also buildings throughout Old Havana, a public walkway along the picturesque Malecon seafront, and small venues in less frequently visited neighborhoods. The Miinster sculpture show was suggested as a purported model--which in terms of both logistics and curatorial sophistication is a bit of a stretch.

Thankfully, though, Havana is so much more alive than sleepy, stuffy Miinster: The city I saw had as little to do with the charming decrepitude of Wim Wenders's romantic Buena Vista Social Club as with the vast, grotesque prison house portrayed in julian Schnabel's powerful Before Night Falls. Havana and its people were animated, warm, funny, and inspiring.

Given the presence of busloads of European and American art tourists, walking around the exhibitions during opening week sometimes felt a bit reminiscent of that scene in Godfather II when a group of '50s American gangsters on a yacht greedily cuts up a cake meant to signify Cuba. Such was the not entirely benign air of hunger and anticipation. In the evening, the bar at the still glamorous Hotel Nacional was packed, and during the day the streets of Old Havana were filled with fashionably dressed US museum "gold circle" members armed with Bienal badges and dollars with which to buy art (or pledge to do so). But after all the charter flights went home, visitors, along with Havana's always curious citizens, could actually look at the exhibitions.

Among the featured artists was JeanMichel Basquiat-a predictable choice given that the idea of the "Caribbean artist embraced then abandoned by money-driven art world in cahoots with cruel, racist system" might still have currency in Cuba. But because of wrangling on both sides of the blockade-plagued Gulf over shipping, insurance, and legal minutiae, most of the work shown was unimpressive--studies, drawings, sketches, and the like--and with the scarcity of the offerings, galleries were reduced to exhibiting photographs of Basquiat smiling with Warhol and other celebrities. Helio Oiticica's retrospective fared much better. His conceptually driven tactile and participatory work influenced a generation of Brazilian artists, and here it was easy to see why. On a table at the entrance to the exhibition were the artist's collections of Bijos, little plastic bags filled with shells floating in water; nearby were buckets of dirt you were invited to touch (through rubber gloves) and smell. "That's soil from Cuba," a museum worker proudly told me. "He visited Havana in the '60s." In the next room, another gallery worker, a young black woman, unself-consciously modeled the brightly colored Parangoles, 1963-67, outfits that Oiticica asked observers to wear.

In keeping with the biennial's emphasis on artists frequently overlooked in Europe and the United States, the majority of the approximately 170 participants was from the "Third World," with local artists enjoying special prominence. Of particular interest, for the outsider at least, was art made by Cubans who have been fortunate enough to get documents to travel elsewhere but have returned to Cuba to live. Among this group are Kcho, Tania Bruguera, and the collectives Los Carpinteros and Galeria DUPP; each presented site-specific installations that approached the (cutting) edge of censorship to explore Cuban history and myth. Kcho's Para olvidar (In order to forget), 1996, a collection of bits of wood and glass presented in a corridor of the grand San Francisco de Asis church, formed a kind of castaway's island, complete with a nearby sculpture resembling a wooden raft. To a Yanqui viewer, his installation was a little reminiscent of Gilligan's Island, only less insipid and sadder, which is perhaps what it f eels like to be an ambitious artist living on Cuba. Surviving as a castaway requires inventiveness, fortitude, and moxie--each amply displayed in Kcho's work.