- CHAPTER 12 -
Why Havana? Why Cuba?
Monday, February 29, 1999
I'm enjoying my second mojito at the Nacional just as the first one kicks in.
Saturday’s journey through Hemingway’s world is still with me, greased by the rum. I see myself, a writer, living that life here in Cuba. Then, I realize I've come down here on a different mission. I’m here to build a winter version of what I created in Maine—a workshop center for creative image-makers and storytellers.
Victor and Anna join me at my table. Victor asks me what I'm brooding about.
"My career..." I say. “Sometimes I see myself as a photographer, other times as a writer. Mostly, I’m an entrepreneur, organizing workshops to help other creative people reach their potential.
“What does that mean?” Asks Victor—he has no idea what these one-week workshops and master classes I organize are about. I guess I’d better tell him.
“It was the summer of 1972. I was living in Vermont, struggling to keep a weekly newspaper afloat. The Goose City Gazette. It was a free tabloid, but the headline on the cover said you could buy it for a nickel if you could afford it. I was writing about life and politics in a Vermont ski resort community, including town meetings, school board meetings, and the characters in the valley. I wanted to play in a bigger pond—like working for The National Geographic Magazine. That summer of 1972, I attended a workshop in Aspen with Bob Gilka, the Director of Photography at National Geographic Magazine. I went to see if Gilka would give me an assignment.
That week changed my life. I showed Gilka tear sheets of stories I wrote and photographed during my hitch in Vietnam for Stars and Stripes and my unit’s monthly newspaper. He got halfway through my portfolio, closed it, pushed it back across the table, and asked, “Do you earn a living with this stuff?'"
What I experienced that day was Ego Death, a profound humbling. It was something I guess I needed. Being humble is the first step to learning—you can't learn if you think you know everything. Needless to say, I didn’t get the assignment I expected. But Gilka did send me on another assignment—a much more important one.
The experience of that week in Aspen helped me realize who I was and who I wasn't. As I watched others in the class go through similar realizations, I learned what I needed to do to improve as a storyteller and photographer. The experience opened my eyes and my mind. A year later, I opened The Maine Photographic Workshops in the basement of the old Town Hall in Rockport, Maine. I wanted to share the experience I’d had in Aspen, and the best way to do that was not through my writing or photography but by bringing my fellow photographers together to experience the transformation itself firsthand. That’s why I’m here now, in Cuba.
“Did you create the school to share your experience or to learn more about photography?”
“A lot of both. The initial idea came during a casual conversation with friends. They thought my idea of a photography workshop in Maine was a natural. That encouraged me. They offered to help. Having someone else believe in your idea helps. Yes, I thought I would be taking classes for free, but that never happened. After 35 years of building and running my school, I never did get to take one of my own workshops.
“What were you doing all that time?” Victor asks.
“I’m that guy behind the curtain, the Wizard of Oz, pulling levers and turning knobs, creating magic for the folks out front. That’s who I’ve been since high school—the stage manager. I guess I’m good at it. But it's not who I set out to be.
“Who were you supposed to be?” Asks Anna. \
“A photojournalist. Someone who travels the world, exploring various cultures and bringing back pictures and stories of what they've seen and learned to share.
“You’ve done that, haven’t you?”
“Yes. The Navy sent me to Vietnam as a photojournalist for a SeaBee outfit. As a sports photographer and writer for skiing magazines, I traveled throughout Europe and North America. Today, The Workshops gives me a ticket to explore the world’s culture—like I’m doing here in Cuba. But I don’t write about it, except for copy for catalogues to sell the trips. It’s not creative writing.
“But aren’t you doing that?” Anna asks. “Instead of writing about your exploration here in Cuba, you bring people here, to Cuba, to experience it for themselves?”
Indeed, the writing process is what I miss the most. Discovering hidden truths as I write. The art of storytelling captivates me. I'm not improving my writing skills.
“So you created this school to help creative people, and you don’t use it yourself?” points out Victor.
“That’s very perceptive. This school is supposed to do that—be a place where creative people can get a jump start, find their personal vision, and acquire the skills and methodology to realize that inner vision. It’s where you get a slap in the face to wake up and a kick in the pants to set you on a new career course.
“Who kicks you in the pants?”
“Wish I knew. All I write these days are course descriptions, proposals, and promotional literature for the school. I haven't taken any photographs other than those for the catalogs. My writing career has taken a backseat. You asked me what I was prodding about. That’s it. No personal work.”On that dismal note, we head out for dinner. Victor suggests dinner at a nearby paladar, the Scorpion. It’s within walking distance of the hotel. Paladares are small, privately owned restaurants, which the government permits for a hefty license fee, provided they do not become too prosperous and compete with the government-owned restaurants. When we arrive, the living room—now a dining room—is nearly full. We are shown a table among a dozen others and settle in for a meal in what could be someone’s home. The breaded grilled fish, served with traditional rice, beans, and a salad, was far superior to the food I had at the hotel cafeteria the previous night.
Later, I write: Now that I have a family, I see my creative time evaporating even more. I'm so tired from the drudgery of my office work and the baby that I don’t have enough energy left to make a journal entry. I lay awake at 4 AM in the morning, story ideas, dialogue, and whole paragraphs spinning through my head. They are there for the grabbing. Do I have the energy to get up and write those ideas? No. Once upon a time, I used to do this. I’d throw back the covers, pull on a bathrobe, drag myself to my word processor, and begin to put down what was rattling inside my head. Today, those visions still visit, but they appear as if behind a screen. I'm a zombie, creatively. There's no time for personal work—not even journal writing—like this. It's been years since I've written something authentic.
“I’ve heard you tell others,” Anna added over dinner. ‘If the story is worth telling, the writer will find the time to write it.’ If you were given the time, would you write, or would you just spend the time on something else?
“I don't know... That’s what I’m wrestling with right now. What a writer or any creative person needs is a hook, a vision, or some idea that drives them to explore their curiosity. After that, it's just finding the willpower to show up every day to do the work. It's the discipline of the craft that keeps the spark alive. John Gardner, the writer, states in his book On Becoming a Novelist that all a writer needs to do is write enough so that when they read what they've written, it brings them back to the 'fictive dream'—that's the spark that got them started.
After the initial flash of creativity, it’s the craft of writing—the rewriting process—that gives shape to the idea, gives it life, and provides it with a context in which to grow.”
A corner of solitude in an otherwise crowded city, at the Harboir enrance, El Morro stands guard.
