Sunday, June 21, 2009

Are you my Papi?

Papa Don't Paint No More.

I did not know my father personally, but all the stories told paint a picture of a wonderful man. Standing six feet tall, good teeth, green eyes and a physique that made women swoon and men revere. He was heir to a family dynasty, educated in the US, sported signature style in Levi jeans, and Stetson hat that made him a most eligible bachelor in the old provincial town. He was a friend in deed, a son, husband and father. It was the best of times.

But Castro's revolution changed everything. In November 1958 father was informed of a massacre in one of our farms on the outskirts of town. He hurriedly took off towards that dreadful scene but never returned. His body was found soon after. Consequently there were charges filed against Batista's renegade cops, a quick trial was set, judgement delivered and it was of to the firings squad for a bunch of hooligans. It was the worst of times.

Twenty days later I was born. One year later we left Cuba and everything we knew. It is no wonder that after 50 years my parents generation is to this day very resentful of the tragedy that is cuba. It's like it all happed yesterday.

The photo above shows him having a good time back in good old Cuba.

He was a gentle loving happy man, far less bellicose than I am today.

Posterity on the Porch.

During the Clinton years i had my pilgrimage. Here is a photo of the terrazzo monogram on the front porch of my grandfather's house is Cuba. Today the house is a public building, the headquarters for the "Daughters of the Revolution". I was raised by a pack of females in exile. There was plenty of love in the house, but no male role model as all the men are dead. I thought there was something wrong with me during adolescence. But in time i was able to formulate my own brand of macho, a soothing blend of velvety feminist charm and cromagnum man certainty that has served me well. Today everyone in my family wears pants and skirts.

Sugar Daddy Extraordinary Shows Off Adopted Daughter.

Kenny Scharf has been like a cosmic astral brother to me. He was born in LA on the very same day my father was killed in Cuba. Coincidence is Fate. We met in 1980 in NYC, best friends ever since.

The Artist and his daughter stroll Lincoln Road.


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