Kaley Labrador

It’s dark, a cloak over the world, air muggy and sweaty. Flies swarm the white streetlights of my great grandfather’s house. Patterns of flowers stitched into the beige fabric, a renaissance painting. Polished wooden furniture, iron picture frames surrounding pale photos. 

His son became a photographer. Lived his life through the lens, spoke our language, shared our blood, but only wanted to connect through the camera. 

“Smile, but not too much, just a slight smile. Relax your eyes. Hold your hand up gently at the wrist. You’re just like a mannequin; Pose how I want you to.”

My quince, mouth full of metal, body shrouded in scarlet ballgown. I look tired. My smile fake. A plaster that rubs the shine out of my eyes. Acrylic would have done a better job.

Grapes, apples, bananas, watermelons, pears, all cluster in an image at the center of the China plates, orbiting the glass mugs. In those mugs, my great grandmother poured a thick, pale-yellow juice, foam frothing on the surface. Tasted of pineapple and cantaloupe.  

My great grandfather was an artist. A painter of oil or acrylic. Painting is the same element to a child. Flowers in vases, various flowers. Such sweet nature to cover up poisonous acts. 

My father wanted to be a rockstar. He played guitar, bass, electric, acoustic. Bass for the band, acoustic for peace, electric for release. The house would shake, my brain would flood, my voice would drown. 

“Daddy! Daddy! Mommy says that’s enough. She says to stop playing. It’s too loud. Daddy!”

Either he couldn’t hear, or he chose not to. His music was his sanctuary. His studio. 

His father had a studio for his photography and his father had a studio for his painting. Back porch, lined with plastic shelves, walking the dusty concrete. Like a museum they were to be respected, untouched with the grimy hands of children. The hands that couldn’t help but touch everything, but not here. Never in here. Invisible chains kept my hands at my side. 

Wandering mind. Wandering words. My studio is my mind. My art is my writing. Imagination turns into scenes, melts into the minds of others. Their actions become permanent. Their words documented. 

Art is seen. It is captured. It is heard. I will be the first woman, in line of Cuban men, to have her art read.