By Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo
Dissident Cuban author, photographer, and pioneering blogger Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo provides a set of surreal, irony-laden images and texts from his local urban. His "diary of dystopia"—an unforeseen fusion of pictures and words—brings us towards Havana's scaffolded and crumbling facades, ramshackle waterfronts, and teeming human our bodies. during this publication, as attractive and bleak as Havana itself, Pardo courses us in the course of the relics and fables of an exhausted Revolution within the waning days of Castro's Cuba.
"It is tough to catch in photographs the soul of a panorama or a urban, might be simply because they do not have one by myself yet many. Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo's pictures, and the commentaries they're followed with, trap whirlwinds of souls and supply them to us in such manner that our personal soul is transformed." –Fernando Savater
"Some [photographs] have a sly humor, others an summary beauty...Mr. Pardo Lazo resists any effortless categorization."...
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I am unique, but I continue here. No one in the world could fill my place now, in this end-of-an-epoch debacle and the beginning of nothing. ” 25: My father, who has no homeland I was my father’s grandson. He was called Dionisio Manuel, and he was fifty-two years old when I was born, on December 10, 1971, the International Day of Human Rights. My father left me two homelands much more durable than Cuba: chess and English. Those two secret universes opened my mind to the labyrinth beyond, in a Havana of claustrophobias and State crimes, all in the sacrosanct name of the Revolution.
Shoefiti. Shoestring spiritualism, remix of medievalism and postmodernity. National shoe repair. Well-known flying objects. Shoes hanging in Havabilonia. Reebokolution. Stomping as the national dance and barbarity: the little shoes squeeze my toes (only the crystals crack, the men die standing on their feet), the socks make me hot (arise you workers from your slumbers, arise you prisoners of want), and the little kiss you gave me I still keep within my heart… 35: The unreal palm The Royal Palm is our national tree.
The shadows repent their FIDELity. Like a Cuban of Cuba, I have walked among these antisocial shadows of socialism with my Canon camera hanging from my neck, almost as a punishment. I have seen, I have shot, I have witnessed the terminal phase. Click, flash, thousands of mute images. With so much gazing into the abyss of barbarity I have become one more shadow within the speechlessness of that mystery full of ministries that still calls itself Havana. Veni, vidi, vici? 2: Back in the USSR We used to call the Russians in Cuba bolos.
Abandoned Havana by Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo