From the Publisher
“Not merely a marvelously lively and sympathetic memoir but also a resonant evocation of precisely what it’s like to be young.” O, The Oprah Magazine
“There is no clear course to the past but only a kind of dead reckoning. It is such reckoning that gives authenticity to Ms. Guillermoprieto’s uneasy and fascinating account, and more than 30 years after the events, a pulsing sense of discovery.” The New York Times
“One of the most astute and eloquent chroniclers of contemporary Latin America. . . . Guillermoprieto’s description of everyday life under the revolution is intimate and poignant, and also tough-minded and shrewd.” San Francisco Chronicle
“Dancing with Cuba is about falling in love with this mythic place or, more precisely, trying to. . . . A sympathetic yet ultimately unsparing account of a personal odyssey that ends not triumphantly but nonetheless extraordinarily.” The Nation
"A pleasure to read, full of humanity, sly humor, curiosity and knowledge." —Katha Pollitt, The New York Times Book Review
"Written with the deftness that has made Guillermoprieto's dispatches in The New Yorker some of the best writing on Latin America, Dancing with Cuba makes a significant contribution to the in-depth understanding of contemporary Cuba." -The Miami Herald
“Few dancers write memoirs, and so the world of dance remains an elegant mystery to many of us… This is a tale, then, of artists and poets, dancers and architects — bewildered, always in conflict, trying to keep alive standards which they knew were essential, but which were also suspect, not to say dangerous.” —Doris Lessing, The New York Observer
"An honest memoir filled with the struggles most young people wrestle with: love, identity and idealism." -USA Today
"The memoir's greatest strength is its ability to infect the reader with the feverish, hopeful and heartbreaking sense of the early days of the revolution." —Elle
"As much a pleasure as an astonishment." - Harper's
"Written with dignity and without rhetoric or undue emotion: when this author flays her feelings, it's because she is utterly alive with protest." -Kirkus Reviews
“Guillermoprieto is one of the most perceptive commentators on Latin America, a writer whose political analysis is sensitive to culture and history and punctuated by telling details that illuminate larger dilemmas. This bittersweet remembrance of youthful hopes and disillusionment, of the contrast between the idealism of revolutionary aspirations and the clay feet of day-to-day revolutionaries, is set against the story of six months she spent in Cuba as a dance teacher in 1970…this marvelous book is almost impossible to put down.” —Foreign Affairs
"Gracefully told...splendidly rendered into English by Esther Allen." - Los Angeles Times Book Review
“A vivid chronicle.” —The Boston Globe
“In exploring her own evolving relationship to art and politics…[Guillermoprieto] proposes a genuinely original take on history. To the traditional discussion of events and ideologies she adds psychology, rhetorical analysis, and, most provocatively, ideas about how one’s physical body participates in the experience of cultural identity.” —Sarah Kerr, The New York Review of Books
“ [A] beautifully written novelistic memoir.” San Antonio Express-News
“A compelling look back — from the safe wisdom of middle age — at the role a revolution played in transforming this young dancer into a journalist.” —Sacramento News & Review
“An insightful account of a time when the revolution was past its dawn but had not yet descended into cynical political bankruptcy…also a powerful memoir of a sometimes painful journey that ‘thoroughly unraveled’ its author’s life, turning a naïve young artist into a confusedly politicized adult.” —The Economist
“Excellent…Guillermoprieto writes so well.” —Newsday
“Guillermoprieto brings out the flavor of the time…insightful.” —Street Weekly (Miami)
“[Dancing with Cuba] is a loose mix of half-memories, reporting and musings on the place and meaning of art…The mix works for some of the same reasons Guillermoprieto had such difficulty in Cuba — the sophisticated, intelligent singularity of her voice, her insistence on recognizing life’s grays and her sly wit.” —Associated Press
“A bittersweet page-turner.” —Dance Teacher
“[Dancing with Cuba] is elegantly written and captures both the spirit and rhythms of Cuba during a period of dramatic change and political upheaval.” —Tucson Citizen (Tuscon, AZ)
“A vivid memoir.” —The Wall Street Journal
“In recalling and reconstructing those days, [Guillermoprieto] has given us a convincing portrait of a young woman torn between her sympathy for those in need and her desire to do nothing except her art, between her conviction that the Castroites were trying to do good and her revulsion at their rhetoric, their methods and their very selves.” —The
Washington Post Book World
The New York Times
Guillermoprieto writes with a novelist's zest for particulars, from the taste and smell of Galo's mother's lemon meringues (and the process by which she bartered for the egg whites to make them) to the shape of her students' feet. Yet she says she has only a few pages of notes and letters from her Cuban stay. As so often with memoirs, especially the best-written ones, you do find yourself wondering how anyone could possibly remember so much. Guillermoprieto explains that she has improvised a bit -- her students are composites, dialogue is invented, her letters are reconstructed -- yet, she writes, the result is not fiction, but ''a faithful transcription'' of her memories, including the partial, hazy, revised ones, and the ones ''completely invented by the stubborn narrator we all have within us, who wants things to be the way they sound best to us now, and not the way they were.'' (Perhaps the intimacy of the subject is the reason she chose to write this memoir in Spanish; it has been gracefully translated by Esther Allen.)
Journalist Guillermoprieto (Looking for History; The Heart That Bleeds; etc.) revisits the six months in 1970 she spent teaching modern dance in Cuba. At the state-supported school where she finds neither mirrors nor music, but dedicated yet ill-trained students, Guillermoprieto realizes she's embarked on a journey that would "thoroughly unravel my life." Her intense commitment to art may seem a contrast to the revolution and its aftermath, yet it provides a jumping-off point for her book about dance, which is really about Cuba and a political coming-of-age. As the then 20-year-old former student of Martha Graham and Merce Cunningham makes the "inimitable elastic flow" of dance visible, she discusses her political education through composite characters, invented dialogue and reconstructed letters. The detail can be daunting, pedestrian even, but the experience is always lifelike. Guillermoprieto captures the complexity of a revolution that scared and bewildered but attracted her. The racism, homophobia and police activities stir "the insidious counterrevolutionary" within, but do not still the discovery that she "belonged to a wider community than that of my friends and fellow dancers." In Nicaragua several years later, Guillermoprieto finds her second calling-journalism-yet she doesn't leave dance behind. It informs her political analysis as she looks back to the failure of the Ten Million Ton Harvest: "any dancer could have told Fidel that the movements of the dance of [harvesting sugarcane]... can't be learned in a single day." Agent, Gloria Loomis. (Feb. 10) Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Spanish investment in Latin America ranks second only to that of the United States. For a time, this investment brought large returns, especially during the lucrative privatization of utilities, telecommunications companies, and banks in the 1990s. But the onset of a regional economic downturn in 2001 meant massive losses for investors. In the year after the Argentine economic crisis, the worth of the 11 Spanish companies with the biggest operations in Argentina fell by 83 percent. In this excellent book, Chislett provides a detailed and well-documented account of Spanish investors' infatuation and subsequent disillusionment with Latin America. Spanish banks, he argues, have come to believe that they concentrated too much attention on Latin America, to the detriment of domestic markets. Spanish investors on the whole are now looking at the region much more skeptically having discovered, as their ancestors did, that El Dorado is not all it was cracked up to be.
A celebrated observer of Latin American politics recalls her 1970s sojourn in Cuba-as a dance instructor. Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
The momentous year in Cuba that transformed the author from dancer into one of the most charringly honest journalists at work today. In New York City at the end of the 1960s, Mexican-born Guillermoprieto (The Heart That Bleeds, 1994, etc.) was studying modern dance-described in prose of revelatory fluidity-with Martha Graham. She then worked with Merce Cunningham, who threw a bucket of cold water on her prospects as a performer but offered her a chance to teach dance in Cuba. This opened up a whole new road, though it was not an easy one. At times the romance and emotion of post-revolutionary Cuba overwhelmed Guillermoprieto, leading to periods of confusion and despair, even suicidal tendencies. Cuba was a cauldron: she tasted the "fragile, vaporous elegance" of Havana, but she also experienced the horror of international politics, especially the war in Vietnam. "I was incurably altered by the consciousness of living in an obscene world. . . . Day by day I simply lost the logic of things and their pleasure." Like many others, the author was seduced by the infectious decency of the revolution, admiring its attempt to (in the words of a Cuban friend) "transform this Yankee whorehouse into a real country." Yet Guillermoprieto deplored the government's suspicion of the arts and was repulsed by Che Guevara's death wish. This lively, sharp history of the Cuban revolution also chronicles an intense personal confrontation: How will the author conduct her days? What lies in her future? Her prose has an odd and beautiful syncopation; it's unhurried and trim, artistic without affection, on the alert to question and commend. Here are struck the sparks that will result in Guillermoprieto's peerlessreporting for the New Yorker and the New York Review of Books on the politics of Latin America. Written with dignity and without rhetoric or undue emotion: when this author flays her feelings, it's because she is utterly alive and in protest. Agent: Gloria Loomis/Watkins Loomis
Read an Excerpt
One autumn day in 1969, before the start of the advanced class at the Merce Cunningham dance studio, Merce came over to me and said that there were two opportunities for teaching modern dance that he thought might interest me. One was in Caracas, with a group of dancers who were only just forming their own company, and the other was in Havana, where there was a government-funded school dedicated to modern dance.
My life in dance had been routine and predictable until then, if not exactly normal. In Mexico, my native country, I joined a modern dance company at the age of twelve. At sixteen I left my father's home and traveled to New York to live with my mother, who had moved here following her separation from my father. I kept on dancing. At first I took classes at the Martha Graham studio. In the world of modern dance the brilliant, temperamental Martha was the most revered choreographer. Starting in the 1930s, she had revolutionized not only dance but theater as well; her use of sets and costumes turned on its head every standard notion of what can be done and communicated on a stage. Her quest for a body language that reflected the deepest inner conflicts, and the way she used gestures and movements to stage great myths, centering them on the internal universe of a single womanMedea, Joan of Arc, Eve, all of them ultimately Martha herself in any casebrought her admirers and disciples from all the arts. She was, moreover, the first creator of modern dance to devise a truly universal dance technique out of the movements she developed in her choreography. I had studied Graham technique in Mexico, and one of my reasons for moving to New York had been to train directly at the source, at Martha's studio on East Sixty-third Street.
By that time, in the mid-1960s, Martha was very old and more or less pickled in alcohol. She put in rare appearances at her own studio, interrupting even a class that one of her best dancers was teaching to hurl philosophical exhortations and wounding comments at us, mocking our lack of passion and our flabby muscles. One of my most terrifying memories is of a mute hiatus during a class when all of us stood frozen in some pose Martha had demanded while she moved through the room, pinching this dancer in a rage, giving that one a tongue-lashing. Pain was necessary for dance, she always said, and I think at that stage in her life she wanted to contribute to our training by guaranteeing that we would suffer. After a couple of years of this I felt the need for a less orthodox and oppressive atmosphere and switched to the Cunningham studio, partly because I admired Merce's work with all my heart and partly because, after Martha's, Merce's studio was the best known.
Elegant, alert, and unfailingly courteous, Merce Cunningham was an established artist at the forefront of the Manhattan avant-garde. Modern dance has always been an art of the few, and there are not many choreographers who, like Merce, can afford the luxury of a standing company, and fewer still who have a studio where they and their company can earn money and create a pool of future dancers by offering daily classes. Even so, the studio and the classes barely enabled Merce and his company members to get by. His audience was devoted but small, and during performances one sometimes heard boos and hisses from baffled spectators who hadn't imagined, when they purchased their tickets, that the dancers would not go en pointe and that the accompaniment would be not tuneful music but a series of sounds generally produced at random, either on traditional instruments like John Cage's delightful "prepared piano" or, more often, by means of electronic gadgets. That was the case in Winterbranch, a rather long dance with no stage light that was performed throughout to a very loud metallic screechhard even for the dancers to take.
Friend, collaborator, and source of inspiration to artists like Jasper Johns and Robert Rauschenberg, lifelong companion and creative partner of the composer John Cage, Merce, always an innovator, always evolving, was respected even by his detractors for the clean harmony of his work, for the simple, lucid logic of the technique taught at his studio, and for the modest, unassuming way he had one day taken his leave of Martha's company, where he had been a principal dancer. Without any rhetorical fuss he left behind the obsession with passion and narrative that was characteristic of Martha and her disciples; the use of dramaturgy as the connecting thread of choreography; and rhythmic music that guided the dancers' movements like a tambourine leading a trained bear in a circus. Instead, he chose to pursue the meandering paths of abstraction, chance, and Zen philosophy.Yet his avant-garde experiments never interfered with the technical perfection and extraordinary refinement of his choreography. In his own way he was a classicist.
Those of us who left Martha's studio for Merce's were attracted by that Apollonian temperament, which demanded concentration and intensity but rejected drama. It was mainly women who came to his little studio on Third Avenue at Thirty-third Street to take beginning, intermediate, and advanced classes, and quite a few of us were in flight from Martha. Merce's courteous distance came as cool salve on a burn, though it too had its price. Merce sometimes taught a beginners' class that started at six p.m. He didn't say much but would correct the students very patiently, and several of the more advanced dancers, including some who were already members of the company, would take the six o'clock class in the hope that Merce would at least cast a glance at them. All of us saw him as a flame flickering in a dark chapel. We spoke his name as if it were written entirely in capital letters, and we laid siege to him with our eyes. In return, he almost never said a word to any of us.
The fleeting heyday of American dance was just beginning, and most of us who were to be found in the modern dance studios then, with who knows what tangle of secret dreams inside us, had to work as secretaries or waitresses (I was the latter) in order to pay for classes and our own spartan expenses. This meant that we came to class already tired. Merce's studio was a bare cave that stank of sweat and often lacked heat on the coldest winter days. Our motley layers of sweaters and sweatpants couldn't protect us from the cold. The concrete floor was covered with shabby black linoleum, and before class we would wrap tape around our feet in an effort to close up the alarming cracks that appeared on our bare soles as we spun across that adhesive surface. After class we rinsed off the sweat as best we could at the sink in the studio's tiny bathroom, then went home on the subway, sprawled in the seats to give our rebellious muscles some relief. All of this took its toll on our bodies, but we had no money for massages or therapies. As it was, David Vaughan, the brisk but softhearted Englishman who took our money at the front deskand who is to this day the company's resident historianmore often than not gave us a stern look and a class ticket on credit. We went on ridiculous diets: a friend asked me privately one afternoon, with a blush, whether I thought constipation could have a significant effect on your weight; she'd been feeding on lettuce and broccoli for a week, had been constipated for five days, and had weighed herself on five scales but hadn't lost a pound on any of them. Generally, by about age thirty-five, dancers no longer have healthy feet or knees or much elasticity left in their tendons, ligaments, and joints. We were eighteen, twenty, twenty-five years old, and we were the oldest young people in the world: our time was already running out.
Men were so scarce in this world that choreographers fought over them even if their feet were as flat as pancakes and their shoulders looked as if they'd been left dangling from a hook at birth. They strolled into class with a self-sufficient air, while we women were fervent and eternal supplicants, forever hoping against hope, suicidal gamblers whodespite the mirror's daily confirmation that our insteps were too low, our hips too wide, our legs too short, our arms too long, and our backs too stiffwould nevertheless go off to class in search of the miracle that would fulfill all our desires. Look at me, say I'm beautiful, say I'm for you. Choose me. Let me dance in your company.
When Merce didn't teach the beginners' class himself, he was replaced by one of the younger members of his company. The intermediate class was passed around among more established members of the company, and when they were on tour, it was taught by other dancers, most of whom had performed with Merce at some point. Though the intermediate class seemed to hold little interest for him and he rarely taught it, on his way up to his small apartment over the dance studio he used to pause in the doorway for a few moments, one shoulder lightly resting against the frame, his long arms folded neatly against his torso, his long legs together, and his curly headheavy and caninetilted attentively to one side, watching us. I would watch him too out of the corner of my eye, and I liked to think that he was sending me some correction with his gaze, which I caught in midflight and obeyed. I liked even more to think that he was aware that I did.
It was after one of those classes that he approached me for the first time. Merce, then fifty years old, employed certain well-worn theatrical tricks that nevertheless worked their full effect on us. One consisted of deploying his immense courtesy to convey the impression that you were doing him a favor by listening to him; another was to speak so softly that you were forced to concentrate completely on his words. That afternoon he leaned toward me to murmur that if I agreed and it was convenient, I might want to start taking the advanced class (which he almost invariably taught himself). That encounter, which can't have lasted more than thirty seconds, was one of the heart-stopping moments of my life.
It would never have occurred to me that there might be anything better in life than dance. I suffered because it was my destiny to suffer: I was plagued, among other things, by crippling shyness, by a sense that I was superfluous in the world, by a feeling that my face and body were unacceptable, by insomnia, loneliness, and severe anxiety attacks that often kept me even from going to class. But I had no complaints at all about my life, which, seen from this distance, truly was marvelous.
My comrades in enchantment and I stood in line for three whole nights, one after the other, to buy cheap tickets for the standing-room section of the Metropolitan Opera House. (Someone always brought coffee and cookies for everyone in the line, and the spirit of solidarity was absolute.) For three nights running we watched Rudolf Nureyev and Margot Fonteyn perform Kenneth MacMillan's Romeo and Juliet. We watched all three performances standing up but at the back of the orchestra section, at much closer range than we could otherwise have afforded. The memory of Nureyev falling to his knees in ecstasy to cover Fonteyn's skirt with kisses still takes my breath away. The Martha Graham company was at the height of its glory. In 1965, during a three-week season at the Mark Hellinger Theatre, we took in the entire repertory of that monstrous genius (again, standing behind the last row in the orchestra section). During those three weeks our state of exaltation was so great that we managed only with difficulty to eat or speak.
My romance with Merce began the following year. Several of us went to a performance in a small auditorium at Hunter College, and the sight of such pure, limpid dance, so free of sentimental baggage that it seemed to be performed by a flock of subtle, iridescent birds, convinced me immediately that I was in the presence of a true revolutionary. It wasn't long before I left Martha's studio.
New York City offered us much more than dance. We watched Japanese and Italian movies at the Thalia and alternative films at midnight at the Waverly or the Bleecker Street Cinema. We learned that if we arrived at the New York State Theater after the first intermission, the ushers would let us in to watch the rest of the New York City Ballet's program free, and thus we became familiar with a good part of George Balanchine's repertory. At the Apollo Theater we saw Wilson Pickett and James Brown; at the Fillmore East, Jefferson Airplane and Janis Joplin. We had a friend who worked as an usher and helped us sneak into Carnegie Hall, and we put together expert picnics in Central Park while waiting in line for free tickets to the performances there.
One day we heard that the revolution was in Brooklyn, and we went to the Academy of Musicagain, we stood in line all afternoon, this time waiting for half-price ticketsto see the legendary Living Theatre, back in New York after a long exile in Europe. The actors took their clothes off and crawled naked all over the audience, which struck us as thrilling in the extreme. It was the period when the traditional divisions were beginning to blur between classical and modern dance, dance and the martial arts, dance and theater, improvisation and performance. Joe Chaikin and Jean-Claude van Itallie, Robert Wilson, and the actors at the Performing Garage were inventing revolutionary theatrical forms, and we were inventing a new form of dance.
I say "we" because though I was neither a choreographer nor a famous, outstanding, or even promising dancer, I too was part of this avant-garde, dancing here and there with choreographers who were getting their start. There was Margaret Jenkins, for example, a dancer who taught Merce's intermediate class when the company was on tour, and who was starting to create her own choreography: she'd book a performance at a theater in Queens or in a Staten Island gym and then ask several of us who took her class to rehearse with her.