An American Abroad

Murals of Resistance in Old San Juan

The road from Condado to Old San Juan rises near the edge of a steep cliff. You can follow the road the be among the tourists and the swells and the middle class people who make the old city their home. Or you can follow one of the walkways down to the bottom of the cliff and find yourself in the much poorer neighborhood of La Perla, a strip of tightly spaced ramshackle houses that were made famous recently as the setting for major portions of the Despacito video. This arrangement vividly illustrates the observation that the world around, the rich people live up high and the poor people live down low.

The wall these murals are on is a divides La Perla from Old San Juan. It’s an excellent spot to call attention to economic and political injustice. Which is what the Students of the School of Plastic Arts in Resistance did in creating these murals. Some of them refer, directly or indirectly, to the fiscal control board (locally referred to as The Junta) that controls the Puerto Rican government’s purse. Others allude more generally to the island’s colonial status.

This first one reads, “But Mr. Official, it’s just a wall. Why are walls so dangerous?” “Because walls speak when justice is silent and the media lies.”

Below: “We don’t understand this ‘democracy.'”

Left: “We record our dead: 4645” Right: “PROMESA (the fiscal control board appointed by the federal government that now runs Puerto Rico’s economic affairs) is POVERTY!” (This rhymes in Spanish.)

“Do the work, Puerto Rican, this fight is for you.”

The text below says “Get up! Stir up! Resist! Do as the cornered bull: bray! Or like the bull that does not bray: charge!” It comes from a famous poem called “En La Brecha” (Into the Breach) by the Puerto Rican poet-lawyer-activist Jose de Diego.

The spirit of resistance is alive and well here in Puerto Rico. Think of it: three million people who are subject to the laws of the federal government and yet have no voting members of Congress or the Senate and who cannot vote in general presidential elections. Who lost over 4,000 of their neighbors, friends, and family members in Hurricane Maria and suffered economic damages equivalent to a full year of the island’s GDP, and who were tossed a roll of paper towels by the President of the United States. It’s amazing to me that the people here aren’t marching in the streets every day.

Small Art on Calle Cerra

Not all the artwork on Calle Cerra is of mammoth proportions. There are numerous smaller works too, ranging from signs and door decorations up to murals painted on single story houses and walls.

This little guy is standing right next to the gate that led me to Calle Cerra in the first place.

He shows up again here.

I liked this sign. Psycho Deli, qu’est-ce que c’est?

My mother taught me that unless your last name is Windsor, you have no business having big stone lions out in front of your house. But I think a small metal lion on a security gate would be OK with her.

The twisted street signs of Calle Cerra have become a much-photographed icon of Santurce. I’ve seen pictures of this in various publications. Which way is up and what the hell does it matter?

These portraits are by Boomone787, also known as Xavier Muñoz. He also painted some of the portraits on Calle Loíza, which I blogged about when I first moved to Puerto Rico.

I thought this was interesting: it seems to be a mural depicting a house that the owners would like to live in painted on the front wall of the house they actually live in.

I applaud the sentiment here: “Fight for an education that teaches us to think and not for an education that teaches us to obey.”

This one is just the right size: modestly proportioned so it doesn’t overwhelm the house it’s in front of.

Someone’s a big Spike Lee fan.

The painting below is by Shetrock, who has done a number of murals in the area. I think the piece below that is as well, though I don’t see his tag on it.

These next two are photos of Watusi, a small bar whose patrons sit in plastic chairs out on the sidewalk, chat with each other, and watch the world go by. The art here is once again by Boomone787.

While this isn’t artwork in the usual sense of it, the patio of this Mexican restaurant seemed so well designed and inviting that I had to photograph it.

Big Art on Calle Cerra

On March 29 of this year, a friend messaged me at 8:00 in the evening to say she was locked in at the Santurce Air BnB she’d rented. Literally locked in. She’d misunderstood her host’s key instructions and now found herself unable to open the gate that would allow her to leave. She needed rescuing and gave me the address: 809 Calle Cerra, Santurce.

Using Google Maps, I navigated through the Maria-darkened streets of San Juan. I thought I knew Santurce, but I’d never been to this part before. The apartment was at the top of a flight of outdoor stairs that was accessed from the sidewalk via a red gate to the right of the building. I retrieved the key from a lockbox and released Ang from her Air BnB incarceration. We had a good laugh about it.

I caught only a glimpse of the neighborhood that night. What I could make out looked to be one-third slum, one-third hip, one third light industrial/commercial. I mentally bookmarked it as a place to return to someday. And so four months to the day after I rescued Ang, I returned to check out the neighborhood by daylight. I was delighted to find the largest repository of street art I’ve seen in San Juan.

Some of the murals covered entire sides of buildings. They were clearly not the work of casual taggers.

The one below was done by NM Salgar.

This painting was the most intricate of any I saw. And it’s big; the photo here only shows half of it. I can’t imagine the amount of time it must have taken to work in all those little color dots. It was done by Shetrock, one of the most prolific and talented of the Calle Cerra artists.

I’m not wild about this particular piece, but I admire the ambition behind it.

This tree-shaded mural shows Puerto Rican baseball legend Roberto Clemente wearing his Santurce Cangrejeros uniform. Clemente was the first Latin American/Caribbean player to be enshrined in the National Baseball Hall of Fame. The size of this mural is a reflection of how big baseball is here.

Below is surely one of the most beautiful hardware stores to be found anywhere.

I’m not certain, but I think the sign in the photo below is part of the artwork. San Expedito (Saint Expeditus) is one of the sketchier Roman Catholic saints. According to the entry on him in Wikipedia,

Expeditus was a Roman centurion in Armenia who became a Christian and was beheaded during the Diocletian Persecution in AD 303. The day he decided to become a Christian, the Devil took the form of a crow … and told him to defer his conversion until the next day. Expeditus stamped on the bird and killed it, declaring, ‘I’ll be a Christian today!’

Many stories circulated about the origin of the cultus of Expeditus. … A case containing the relics of a saint, who was formerly buried in the Denfert-Rochereau catacombs of Paris, was delivered at a convent in the city. The senders had written expédit on the case, to ensure fast delivery of the remains. The nuns assumed that “Expédit” was the name of a martyr, and prayed for his intercession. When their prayers were answered, veneration spread rapidly through France and on to other Roman Catholic countries.

Perhaps the sign is a commentary of some sort about the artwork? Who knows? Well, Shetrock probably does.

The magic of the big bunny is that the artist has imagined a three-dimensional chrome rabbit and painted it showing a contorted reflection of a street scene. It’s a painting of a sculpture that both shows the subject and mirrors the environs.

This Lichtensteinesque comic strip enlargement was four stories tall and hard to photograph. The industrial fan at the woman’s lips will give an idea of its scale.

Three Spanish ships sailing away and leaving a trail of broken, anguished bodies it their wake? I detect allegory in this one.

But if there’s allegory in this mural, it’s lost on me. It’s whimsical and fantastical, but I keep trying without success to divine some larger meaning.

This must be the coolest bus stop in Santurce. I didn’t even notice the old man sitting there until I’d taken a couple photos of him.

This last one was one of my favorites. It’s the only mural I saw that was part of an industrial plant. The artist used the idea that this is a tank of some sort to maximum advantage. Don’t lose hope: the water angel boy is coming.

Parque de la Reserva

At the time of its dedication in 1929, Lima’s Parque de la Reserva was intended as a monument to Peruvian troops who fought against Chilean forces in 1881 in The War of the Pacific. In 2007, though, the purpose and meaning of the park changed significantly. The grounds were substantially renovated to include 13 large fountains that were designed less to inculcate Peruvian patriotism than to celebrate Peruvian children, friends, families, and lovers.

The fountains are colorfully illuminated at night. Some have sensors that vary the water flow and light color as people approach.

Some of the fountains entice people into them and then spray bars of water up from holes in the ground, creating a kind of water prison.

At the perimeter of the park are benches set into small gazebos where cuddling couples can watch the water and light show.

Encouraging love seems to be part of the park’s design and intent. There are love seats in several strategically scenic places around the park that are very popular with couples and families who want photos taken.

The evening I was there, I saw two wedding parties having photos taken. This one looked a little strange, though.

Barranco Street Art 2

There’s so much street art in Barranco that I couldn’t fit all of it into my first post on the subject. The neighborhood is situated by the ocean and is divided by a gorge that cuts into the shoreline. A wooden footbridge over the gorge is so popular a hangout for loving couples that it’s called La Puente de Los Suspiros (the bridge of sighs). Many of the best murals in the neighborhood are located around the steps that lead down into the valley. Some artists’ studios are accessible only from the steps.

I was here:

Barranco Street Art 1

While the murals and street art of Miraflores are tasteful and elegant, those of Barranco are unruly and unrestrained. I’ve photographed graffiti and public art all over the world and from what I’ve seen, Barranco’s murals are in the very top tier.

The Art of Miraflores

The Bad Girl invited me to Miraflores. The titular character in Mario Vargas Llosa’s novel arrives there as a teenager claiming to be from Chile and sets the hearts of the local boys aflutter. Vargas Llosa describes the neighborhood as a kind of early 1950s dreamland, where affluent Peruvian kids listen to western music, flirt, smoke cigarettes, dance the mambos, behave awkwardly, and affect sophistication.

Just as the main character falls in love with The Bad Girl, so I fell in love with Miraflores, an upscale Lima neighborhood of that seems to have more bookstores per capita than any other place on earth except Cambridge, Massachusetts. I spent hours walking up and down Avenida Larco between Parque Kennedy and the Larcomar shopping plaza, where the avenue dead ends into the Pacific Ocean. That mile-long stretch has cafes, convenience stores, boutiques, a major theater (where a Spanish language version of Waiting for Godot was just opening), travel agencies, hotels and apartment towers.

The side streets are illuminated by beautiful murals, authorized and otherwise. As I’ve done in so many other places, I treated those streets as my museum.

The street itself makes its priorities clear. 60% of the space from building front to building front is apportioned to sidewalks, 5% to a bike lane, 10% to a bus lane, and only 25% to cars and trucks. There’s no parking on Avenida Larco, which further contributes to the pro-pedestrian feel. The streets are clean and traffic is slow and orderly. And everything works—from the street lights to the bike lane signals to the fountains and WiFi in the public parks.

I suspect this level of municipal attention to urban amenities doesn’t apply in all of Peru—or even in all of Lima. But Miraflores seemed to embdy the old slogan for Chicago: the city that works.

Judging by the number of newspapers, tabloids, and magazines I saw for sale, Peru has a lively media scene.

I saw people reading them everywhere.

Some travel authors sniff at Lima, referring to it as little more than an airport through which people pass en route to Cusco and Machu Piccuhu. “Dusty” and “arid” are the adjectives one traveler used. Don’t believe it. Miraflores is vibrant and blooming.

I stayed there for four days and began to imagine that I could very happily live there. Maybe someday….

Motorcycles & Street Art in Panama City

My two weeks in Panama were not a vacation for me. On weekdays, I stayed close to my hotel or cafes where internet service was available so I could continue working. I took a lot of photos in that immediate vicinity, namely, the El Congrejo neighborhood of Panama City. I took them on my way to and from the cafe where I spent most of my work time. And a lot of them were of motorcycles and street art. In the four years I’ve maintained this blog, I’ve put up many posts about those two interests of mine. I’m combining the two here.

I didn’t get the sense that Panama City has a booming motorcycle culture. Most of the bikes I saw were either fast food delivery vehicles or police cycles. Both tended to be Suzuki 150s.

I also didn’t see a whole lot of street art in this neighborhood, but I loved this piece that was just down the street from my hotel. The branches look something like a crown of laurels.

My favorite neighborhood eatery was the New York Bagel Cafe. One day I saw this beautiful new Vespa parked in front. There’s also a Vespa dealer on one of the more commercial streets in El Cangrejo. I was tempted to buy one and ride it all the way back to the USA.

The streets near the NYBC are lined with apartment towers. It’s a middle- to upper-middle class area, so there wasn’t a lot of tagging to be seen. So I was surprised to come across this.

Perhaps coincidentally, it was near there that I saw one of the only Harleys I laid eyes on here.

One of the most interesting works of unauthorized public art I saw was in an unlikely spot. The park that runs by the waterfront on Avenida Almador near the Bio Museum generally has an upscale feel to it. But right next door there are some modest apartment complexes where I spied this. In Spanish it reads

Somos seres humanos experimentando una forma de pensamiento que caduco hace mucho tiempo y seguimos sufriendo de ello porque tenemos medo a aventurarnos a los recónditos de perdernos cuando en realidad va estamos perdidos.

The best English translation I could come up with (which is admittedly rough) is

We are human beings experiencing a way of thinking that expired a long time ago and we continue to suffer from it because we have the courage to venture into the recesses of losing ourselves when in reality we are lost.

There were also some upscale bikes in Casco Viejo, the Spanish colonial part of town. The photo immediately below of the Yamaha is one of the finest motorcycle pix I’ve ever taken.

Murals of Indigenous Panamanian Resistance

At the edge of Casco Viejo, the oldest part of Panama City, stands a series of murals depicting the struggles of Panama’s indigenous peoples. I’ve photographed them individually to make them easier to show and comment on. I’m not well-versed in Panamanian history, but this is what I’ve been able to figure out.

The first panel is a prelapsarian ode to the Guna people. Most Guna live in the southeastern part of Panama that connects to South America; some also live on the islands nearby. The colors used in this panel are very similar to the reds, pinks, greens, and oranges still used today in traditional Guna clothing. The inscription on the jewel-like, heart-like shape to the right of the person’s head translates as “Listen to the sound of the heart.” As Wikipedia notes, singing and listening to songs are a fundamental part of the Guna social and political culture:

In Guna Yala, each community has its own political organization, led by a saila (pronounced “sigh-lah”). The saila is traditionally both the political and spiritual leader of the community; he memorizes songs which relate the sacred history of the people, and in turn transmits them to the people. Decisions are made in meetings held in the Onmaked Nega, or Ibeorgun Nega (Congress House or Casa de Congreso), a structure which likewise serves both political and spiritual purposes. It is in the Onmaked Nega that the saila sings the history, legends and laws of the Guna, as well as administering the day-to-day political and social affairs. The saila is usually accompanied by one or more voceros who function as interpreters and counselors for the saila. Because the songs and oral history of the Guna are in a higher linguistic register with specialized vocabulary, the saila’s recitation will frequently be followed by an explanation and interpretation from one of the voceros in everyday Guna language.

Next comes a triptych of Guna leaders headlined by text that translates as “1925 – 2015. 90 years of Dule Revolution.” The word “Dule” means people in the Guna language. The Dule Revolution, also known as the Guna Revolution, has been described this way:

In the 1920s, two decades after Panama had separated from Colombia, the new republic had established the objective of integrating the Guna population to the “national life”. To do this, the capital employed tactics that were used to divide indigenous communities and undermine the authority of their leaders. Given this situation, in February 1925, several Gunayala communities rose against the Colonial Police in what has gone down in history as the Guna Revolution. Shortly after, a peace agreement was signed by which the government compromised to respect the customs and traditions of the gunas, while the rebels agreed to accept Panama’s sovereignty and respect indigenous people who decided to adopt Panamanian customs. The Guna people’s resistance to acculturation and external submission has allowed them to reach the 21st century as one of the indigenous territories in the world with more autonomy.

The man on the left, Olonibiginya, and the man on the right, Nele Kantule, were leaders of the Dule Revolution. I have not been able to identify the middle figure. “Ologindibibbi” brings nothing up in the search engines I’ve tried; presumably he, too, is a Guna revolutionary.

The following panel, I think, depicts Guna life in an idealized state after 1925. The swastika flag, which appears at the bottom left, was adopted by the Guna nation after the Guna revolution. The swastika, which has nothing to do with Nazis, is an indigenous Amerindian symbol that represents the four sides of the world from which peoples of the earth came. The multicolored fabrics to the old woman’s right are molas with colorful geometric designs produced by a reverse appliqué process. Guna women still make, wear, and sell clothing made from these fabrics; I see them on the streets of Panama City every day. The man on the left is wearing the same kind of hat that the Guna leaders in the previous panel wear.

The fourth panel commemorates the execution of Victoriano Lorenzo, one of the big names in Panamanian history. During the struggles for Panamanian independence, he fought for the rights of indigenous people. When his party, the Liberals, was defeated in the war for independence and signed a peace treaty with the opposition, Lorenzo refused to lay down his arms. He took to the countryside to continue a guerrilla insurgency. He was eventually trapped and executed by the government, just seven months before Panama broke free from Columbian control. The Wikipedia article about him notes that “[m]any indigenous people in Panama understand his assassination as the defeat of their autonomous land rights and access to representation in the Panamanian state structure.” The text here translates as “Victoriano Lorenzo, why did they shoot him? Because he was a real Panamanian!”

The next panel continues to answer the question. It says, “Because he organized the Panamanian people and struggled at their side in the face of injustice. He fought beside the Liberals and they betrayed him.”

The last panel shows a portrait of Victoriano Lorenzo on the left, drawn closely from an oft-reproduced photo. The text on the right side reads, “We continue. The fight is fighting!” This last is a Panamanian idiom similar to saying “We have to keep up the fight!”



(Thank you to my son, Spencer Trumm, and the desk clerk staff at the Novotel Panama City for helping me translate and understand these murals.)

Willemstad Public Art

When I first saw these words painted on the side of a two-story building, I thought it was an ad for something. Maybe a local beer – although the “decolonized minds” caption didn’t quite fit with that. Come to find out that Tula is a local Curaçaoan hero, an enslaved African man who liberated himself and went on to lead a slave revolt here in 1795. He was eventually captured by the Dutch and tortured to death. Today he is revered as one of the most important figures in Curaçao’s history. Unknown to me until recently, there was a movie made about him in 2013 called Tula: The Revolt which featured Danny Glover in a supporting role.

These four striking paintings below were done by Alex da Silva, an artist who was born in Angola, studied in the Netherlands, and spent considerable time in Cape Verde. I was surprised to learn that there are strong linguistic and cultural ties between Cape Verde and Curaçao. Papiamento, the language of the Netherlands Antilles, is very similar to Cape Verdean Portuguese creole.

I liked this fish/submarine installation that’s situated in a small public playground in a quiet part of town. The medium is the message: the sculpture is constructed from objects the artist found washed up on the beaches here.

Across from the playground was this amazing whole-building mural, which picks up the color scheme of the fish/submarine.

Also nearby was this Miro-influenced work by Junius Isen, entitled Together As One. The 2011 mural is now in need of restoration.

The mural below is my favorite. It was created by Curacao artist Garrick Marchena. The text is in Papiamento and a translation of it reads:

They are coming.
They are close.
They take.
They don’t ask.
And we let them.

When I first posted this image to Facebook, my friends interpreted it as a referring to colonialism or to child rape. But according to local artist Avantia Damberg, it’s actually about how public access to the sea is being curtailed by hotel and condominium developments that illegally restrict beaches to their guests and residents. It’s about how Curaçaoan children’s future is being sold to the highest bidders. But though that may be the original intent, one way I assess the greatness of art is whether it’s susceptible of multiple interpretations. This mural clearly is.

While other cities treat “love locks” as a nuisance, Willemstad has embraced them. This installation by the waterfront seems to be a very popular spot for tourist pix.

There are a lot of walls in Willemstad with images or text on them that don’t seem like “art” until you put a frame around them. Like these:

The three photos below were taken less than a kilometer from where I am staying in a district of Willemstad called Pietermaai. Until just a few years ago, this district was known for its abandoned buildings, drug dens, and crime. But an aggressive restoration plan led to its rebirth as (in the words of one travel website) “the Latin Quarter of Willemstad.” Today it has boutique hotels, delicious restaurants, sophisticated music bars, and high-zoot apartments. The photos below show both what the whole district used to look like and how art is used to blunt the grimness of decaying, disused buildings that remain.

This mural on a wall in downtown Willemstad is also by Garrick Marchena. I think the illustration of the hawk is kind of anodyne, but the font for the text is wonderful. According to the artist’s website, it was “inspired by the Indian cave paintings of our ABC [Aruba, Bonaire, Curacao] islands and combined with the California Cholo style letters of the 50’s.” In Papiamento, the text by poet Hemayel Martina reads:

Avochinan preokupá mi ta invoká
boso pa eskoltá i yuda nos emansipá
sin odio ni vengansa ma ku amor
ya e presiosidat di hoya akí
por resaltá i mundu henter
skucha ora kriaturanan
dje paraiso akí ku
orguyo grita:
Ami ta Kòrsou.

In English, that translates as:

Worried ancestors, I invoke you to escort us
and help lift us into the sky of emancipation
abundantly devoid of hatred, but devoted with love and compassion
so the preciousness of this rock
may shine and the whole world
hear when voices from
this paradise reverberate
with a fervent cry:
I am Curaçao.

To my surprise, Marchena also painted the two murals below. He’s clearly comfortable working in very different styles and media.

One of my most delightful finds, though, was a whole row of whimsical spontaneous street art like this:

What’s cool about the Curaçao art scene is that the island is small enough so that most of the artists seem to know each other. I was introduced to the scene here by Avantia Damberg, a visual artist who conducts tours of the public art in Willemstad. When I was with her, it was impossible for us to walk down any given street without her meeting another artist she knew. Something about the climate here – both the beautiful Caribbean weather and the island’s reputation for tolerance – makes this place a good place for artists and those who enjoy their works.