is central to the practice of Kcho (Alexis Leyva Machado, born
on the Isla de la juventud, Cuba, 1970). In this regard, he is
like many of his compatriot artists, for whom drawing is a way
of visualizing, a visual language for experimenting with an idea.
Drawing in the Cuban practice as in that of many artists---- one
thinks of the brilliant drawing output of Bruce Nauman--- is the
medium ideally suited to conceptual thinking since it can be direct
and unfettered by technical gadgetry, allowing the passage from
mind to hand to visual ground almost instantaneously. The Chinese
knew this. In the Chinese amateur tradition, as opposed to the
academic, painting and writing held the place above all other
art media, conjoined by the use of the same tools: paper or silk,
brush, ink stone, ink stick, water. In the case of Kcho, the mention
of Chinese painting is more than casual.
Kcho is best known for his installations.
The drawings are in many cases the visual beginning of the sculptural
idea within space. The monumental Archipiélago de
mi pensamiento (1997)(i)
that Kcho showed at the sixth Bienal de La Habana grew from
the drawing of a vertical stacking of boats. It is like Noah's
ark in its scale, and as varied, with tables, boats, ropes,
wire spools, a surfboard, and a makeshift antenna. It also recalls
the makeshift floating villages of the film Waterworld(ii)
as it floats on an undersized puddle of bottles. Virtually all
of Kcho's imagery can be found in this work, and nearly all
his strategies converge in it. In the drawing, the form is topped
by a sail, and an oar lies beside it on the floor at the foot
of a figure.
Like all strong artists, his
forms suggest many things, with more unfolding as association
is triggered. In Kcho's case, this multiple array of meanings
opens out without an extra line, with no sacrifice of simplicity.
He is one of those artists with a seemingly infallible ability
to say it in drawing. His ability to suggest transformation
is supported by this skill. He does this by shifting context
of found objects. Using one thing to serve a purpose for which
it was never intended is the Cuban way to survival. Kcho turns
it into an aesthetic strategy. A propeller in the air suggests
not only an airplane, but moves water into the air, and thereby
places the viewer under water. He exploited this technique of
dislocation perfectly in Lo mejor de verano (1993-94)(iii)
by suspending boats at the top of a room, with light coming
from above through a net that suggests a surface, and a dark
floor below. It suggests drowning without a figure or a drop
The drawing is built up in a
grid of cross-hatching, like a stack of boat-shaped baskets,
not unlike Estructuras similares (1995)(iv)
made in honor of Vladimir Tatlin and the Model for the Third
International. But Kcho places the skeleton of a rowboat
leaning against the recognizable form of the Monument, equalizing
them in scale, as if to equate the two and make a monument that
would serve the grandiose aims of revolution and at the same
time honor the fisherman or the balsero. At the same
time, the woven form and even its shape recall a fish trap.
The square element in the drawing for the Archipiélago
resembles a crab pot.
Installations are site-specific.
Kcho is a master of the use of space, his mind clearly fired
by the volume, shape, and history of the use of the room. The
space of the colossal room in which the finished Archipiélago
was installed is sketched in white, like a palimpsest, the arches
of the room in El Castillo del Morro de La Habana immediately
The place that water holds in
the Cuban imagination cannot be exaggerated. In the work of
artists of his generation, the "odious condition of water
all around" and images of boats, rafts, bottles have become
clichés. But like many clichés, this icon still
carries a terrible truth. The 1994 exodus of thousands of Cubans
in boats little more seaworthy than a fish trap ended in death
for many. The departure of the balseros was a response
in most cases to the privation caused by the collapse of the
Soviet Union and the loss of support for the Cuban economy that
had come to depend so heavily on this aid. Fuel sources disappeared.
Food was so scarce that it caused a rare protest against the
The relationship of death and
water is made eloquent in a pair of drawings, one of an upturned
boat, the other of a pair of oars. The two are drawn in red,
with smears and runs that suggest blood. In anyone else's hands,
this could be an outrageous platitude. In Kcho's, it is not.
It is completely convincing. The holes in the boat and oars
remind me of drawings done by Salvadoran artist Roberto Huezo(v)
that depict the victims of torture. The bodies are scarred with
burns from cigarettes applied to encourage confession, or possibly
just to disfigure and dishonor the dead. Kcho does not draw
bodies. He does not need to. He has used boats as stand-ins
for bodies before.(vi)
But the boat easily becomes the back of a body and the oars
an abject pair of crossed arms without excessive imagining.
They form an elegy for the unknown dead in as simple a visual
language as possible.
In Cuba, much seems to hang by
a thread. The collapse of the economy led to neglect of the
infrastructure both on a public level--- roads in Cuba are a
Calvary--- and at home. Cubans invent alternatives. They must.
In two drawings, Kcho proposes two mobiles. In one, a pair of
rowboats are balanced on a stick that hangs from a cord. The
boats can only go in circles, a quiet statement about futility.
Another shows an oar as the crossbeam, from which are balanced
propellers. The propellers do not spin, powering the motion.
Rather they are unfueled, passive as sails that can only move
the whole with the force of wind.
In the seventh Bienal de La Habana
that just closed, Kcho showed several works in the Convento
de San Francisco de Asis. He had already made several works
that place a boat on a sea of bottles. Two are titled Para
olvidar. The first, done in 1995,(vii)
brought him international acclaim when he was awarded the prize
for it at the Kwangju Biennale. He was 24 years old. Another
version done the following year(viii)
places a kayak on the bottles. The meanings immediately evoked
are both about escape: the boat of desperation of the balsero;
escape through alcohol, the waters of oblivion. The bottles
are a brilliant formal solution to what to do about the base,
and in his treacherously vertical Archipiélago,
they are the perfect contradiction to stability through their
lightness and precariousness. In San Francisco de Asis, Kcho
recycles this idea, the sea of bottles, with another that he
has used previously, a ready-made, found dock. In El camino
de la nostalgia (1996)(ix),
the dock alone suggests the elegiac state of memory. The placement
directly on floor converts that base into motionless water.
In the version in San Francisco de Asis, the bottles are, most
of them, medical dextrose used in intravenous feeding. The reading,
at first glance, is a commentary on the Cuban economy. It is
also far more explicit than most of Kcho's works in its grizzliness.
The evocation of a hospital or of flotsam of medical waste is
more openly horrifying than we expect from him. But at the back
of the vast room, overshadowed by the other, colossal works
is a minor piece, one that could easily be overlooked altogether.
It consists of a stick with a lump of rubble on it. The stick
is hooked at the end, like the garabatu used in santería
as a signifier of power within the spiritual community. The
rubble suggests the escombros all over the city of Havana,
where there are piles of rubble from houses that have collapsed
or are being torn down before they do. In two drawings, what
look like overturned boats break the back of a fragile structure,
like the chunk of rubble that seems to snap the emblem of spiritual
authority in the work in the Convento. In one a boat or giant
boulder breaks an oar. The oar is attenuated, made fragile by
its exaggerated length. In another, the boat/ boulder breaks
a flimsy table; a chair topples. It is another way of suggesting
the straw that breaks the camel's back.
The way these last two are painted
brings us back to the ideas of Chinese and Japanese painting.
They have a similar parable quality to Ch'an or Zen painting
as well as its subtlety of works such as Hakuin's Candlestick
(18th century Japan).(x)
With the sureness of the archer idealized in Zen, without an
unnecessary mark or a distracting thought, the artists draw/
paint a simple form, allowing the viewer maximal space for thought.
The Japanese master draws a candlestick, a simple practical
necessity. But it is also a metaphor for Zen practice to reach
one-pointedness. It is readable on either or both levels. Kcho
demonstrates the same economy in his drawings, suggesting his
forms with a minimum of brushwork, even creating space in a
few lines to place the sculptural elements in installation context.
The two artists share another important characteristic: humor.
The little theater of the boulder crushing the table is tragic-comic.
To work with this iconography
that has been used and overused in Cuba is a challenge that
does not even distract Kcho. First, it was his iconography by
dint of his birth on the Isle of Youth off the south coast of
Cuba. He grew up around water even more than most Cubans do.
But he takes these images, and through the strength of his skill
as a draughtsman and the absence of overt sentimentality, he
not only gets away with it, he honors the dead and all that
die and conveys the power of the real tragedy to which these
- Marilyn Zeitlin
no. 1, 1998, cover.
(ii) Kevin Costner,
(iii) Dan Cameron,
Cocido y Crudo, Museo Nacional Reina Sofia, Madrid, 1994,
similares, 1995, collection of Eileen and Peter Norton,
Santa Monica, California.
(v) Marilyn A. Zeitlin, Art Under Duress: El Salvador 1980-Present,
(vi) In the
series Todo cambia, 1997, Kcho coated found boats, oars,
surfboards with a reddish clay, transforming these found vessels
into flesh. The series gave its name to the title of the exhibition
curated by Alma Ruiz and Paul Schimmel. Ruiz's essay is the
essential source on his work. Museum of Contemporary Art, Los
Angeles, Todo Cambia, 1998.
(vii) Para olvidar, 1995, collection of Kwangju Biennale,
(viii) Para olvidar, 1996, collection of Arizona State
University Art Museum, Tempe, Arizona, purchased with funds
from the Elizabeth Firestone Graham FUNd and Arizona Progressive
(ix) El camino
de la nostalgia, 1996.
Awakawa, Zen Painting, p. 118.