The Caribbean. That wild place. That place of maritime meeting land- scape. That blinding light and deep darkness. That haunting in the heart. That first globalized space in the world. A fecund epicentre loved and looted by so many histories, pirates, mapmakers, botanists, bohemians, cartel barons, aristocrats, and myths. That mystery where secret tradition and phenomenology give way to the vice of the passer-by. Rum. Sugar. Sex. The unpoetic engagement of native self with foreign self; a sprawling, fluid, attraction.
Cuban Mischief delivers luscious canopy-scapes. It exposes alluring body parts. It spies masked revellers and moments with water. It introduces native inhabitants in moments of synastry and of sometimes sharp relief, to shoot tourism with an arrow of reality.
