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Cuba hasta siempre

Cuba hasta siempre

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Cuba hasta siempre

Longueur:
106 pages
12 minutes
Sortie:
Feb 6, 2020
ISBN:
9781496827791
Format:
Livre

Description

Magdalena Solé first visited Cuba in 2011 and has returned every year since, enchanted by the place and the people who live in this slender stretch of land. Her photographs reveal the stirrings of transformation, however subtle and hard to see, and reflect a Cuba that is both tough and vulnerable.

Cuba hasta siempre consists of more than 150 full-color photographs taken by Solé, accompanied by a foreword written by Time columnist and travel writer Pico Iyer. With minimal text, this book offers a view of Cuba beyond the tourist trade and the wealthy upper class. The photographs portray everyday settings and people engaged in daily tasks. A visual encounter with magical realism, this collection constructs an atmosphere of pervasive timelessness, a photographic time capsule. Memorabilia and objects from Cuba’s revolutionary past linger in the present, while life goes on. These soulful images offer a new visual perspective on Cuba past and present. The Wall Street Journal called Solé’s images “lushly colorful,” “formally striking,” “restless,” and “electrify[ing].”
Sortie:
Feb 6, 2020
ISBN:
9781496827791
Format:
Livre

À propos de l'auteur

Magdalena Solé is an award-winning social documentary photographer known for her sensitive expressions of culture through color artistry. Her work has been shown internationally in over twenty exhibitions, including eighteen solo presentations. She worked as unit production manager for Man on Wire, which won an Academy Award in 2009. She is author of New Delta Rising and Cuba hasta siempre, both published by University Press of Mississippi.

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Cuba hasta siempre - Magdalena Solé

Acknowledgments

BEAUTY AMONG THE FRAYING WALLS

—Pico Iyer

It’s another balmy night in Havana—April 1987—and I’m walking through the almost pitch-black streets of Vedado, a cutting-edge suburb once upon a time. There are few lights in front of the rambling mansions and their overgrown gardens, and though there are long lines around the Coppelia ice-cream parlor in the central park, there’s a good chance there’s no ice cream and a forty-minute wait will be rewarded with a smile and a shrug: Disculpame, compañero, no hay! From somewhere in the darkness I can hear a guitar being strummed, as lovers drift off into the shadows and I begin to catch the sound of quickened breath, gasps, half-suppressed giggles.

A tall, black-skinned boy ambles towards me in the street and invites me to call him Walter. Come to my house, he says in unexpectedly easy English. There’s a party. I’m thirty, just released from my job as a writer on world affairs for Time magazine in New York; nothing sounds more enticing. We get into a shuddering car from the Eisenhower years and bump between the palatial houses, long collapsing, in the even fancier suburb of Miramar.

Still there are few lights, but there’s no doubting the buoyancy, the vivacity spicing the air and giving it a charge. Music comes from here and there; Walter proves the last word in subversive charm. When we arrive at the party, it seems to consist of nothing but a shockingly bare room and a visiting Dane. I make my excuses, and then my slow way back through the ghosted streets, flashes of sea in the distance and always a sense of possibility, of romance, in the warm night I’ve never

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