Antonio Ferrer Cabello - Interview

CHARACTER STUDY

By Reinaldo Cedeño Pineda
Translation by Ellen Rosenzweig

Santiago’s shadows are luminous. The only survivor of a legendary generation at the San Alejandro Academy. Creator of the city’s first gallery. He paints the mind, not the face. “Carnival is a part of me.”

Every day, without fail, for who knows how many years, Antonio Ferrer Cabello has climbed up the stairs to his third-floor studio, on the corner of San Pedro and Heredia Streets, in the heart of Santiago de Cuba. As he moves upward, he sees the city through the window, like a framed watercolor.

If he reaches out his hand he can almost touch the Cathedral, which in turn blocks out all but a tiny view of the sea. Céspedes Park has a different appearance every hour of the day; sometimes people are rushing through it, and sometimes they’re sitting there peacefully. The roofs reverberate and the sinuous streets fade as they slant downwards or end at a set of stairs.

With no concern for the car horns or the music heard on the street, he picks up his paintbrush. He studied under illustrious Cuban painters and served as a teacher of younger artists. The stories he tells are like good wine: the more they age, they better they are. His hands have held brushes and palette knifes, fashioning clay and oil paints into portraits and landscapes. His countenance is serene, but his legendary life has had its ups and downs. A century parades through his memory.

SANTIAGO IS A CARNIVAL

“I observe the city, I contemplate it, I examine the diversity of lights created by different atmospheric conditions, the clouds, the mist, the clear days and nights. That landscape, in its myriad aspects, always fascinates me and gives me moments for study and appreciation.”

The best time to paint the city is in the morning, because at other times it’s highly variable; the wind comes up from the south and the clouds blow around. The morning is the most stable time.

“Santiago has a characteristic appearance which is very beautiful, very moving, and it’s not always the same. Then there are the outskirts of the city, the Sierra Maestra mountains, which are very interesting. My friend and teacher, Rodolfo Hernández Giro, used to tell me that one had to be very careful painting an urban landscape, because the mountains often look so close that they seem to be bursting out through the rooftops. It’s not easy placing the mountains exactly where they should be; if the painter isn’t careful, things can go wrong.

“Santiago’s sun is very strong. I think it’s hotter than on the rest of the island, hotter than western Cuba. Here’s something I’ve become aware of and have studied: in Santiago you can’t paint a violet shadow or a dark shadow, because there aren’t any. Its shadows are brilliant, as luminous as the light.

“You have to be careful because otherwise the shadows come out muddled, without the brilliance they really have. Santiago de Cuba is a roller coaster: when it’s not going up it’s going down, and that uneven terrain makes it fascinating.”

Ferrer, you’re one of a long line of great masters who have painted this city. Do you see yourself as continuing tradition or as breaking away from it?

“Look, earlier artists and great masters such as Tejada, Hernández Giro, Bofill and others couldn’t capture that. In my opinion they were too easily satisfied, without seeking out the light that is specific to Santiago, that color you’ve got to have in a painting. Some people have said to me, ‘When I look at your canvasses I see the heat of Santiago, its streets, its landscape.’”

But… other painters demonstrate impeccable technique.

“ Yes. José Joaquín Tejada, for example. Tejada did lovely landscapes! For instance, he did Guayo Street very well, with great mastery, but maybe it still reflected a somewhat European vision. It’s called Guayo [which means ‘grater’] because the mules that had to climb that hill were worn out by it. He did indeed reflect our cities’ landscapes, that no one can deny. But that sharp light doesn’t have the same impact as it does in impressionism, for example.

“Bofill did some beautiful watercolors, revealing an absolute mastery, but he didn’t deal with the question of light; I think maybe he settled for the colors he had. The only one who really delved into what I’m talking about and captured the light was Rodolfo Hernández Giro. These are things that have to be studied in Santiago de Cuba.

“Juan Emilio y Rodolfo Hernández Giro painted brilliant, stupendous watercolors. Rodolfo was more spontaneous and Juan Emilio did more finished paintings, and was more inquisitive. He sought perfection, and his watercolors were like oil paintings, without sacrificing the transparency.

“ I would go out to do watercolors with Rodolfo at a time when they hadn’t yet built the highway to Gran Piedra [a voluminous rock structure crowning a mountain of the Sierra Maestra]. We would hike up because there was no highway like there is today, or we would sail there on the bay. Rodolfo was much older, I was only a boy then; now I’m older than he was then.”

And how have you tried to resolve these particular problems of the light?

“ In the color contrasts. One cannot reflect Santiago without considering a certain intensity and color. It’s something very special, the contrast of the sun and its reflection. Painter and professor Justo Orozco Novín studied it. He talked about the exterior colors, subjects like that, although he never expressed it in painting.

“I deal with it by studying, looking, observing. I try to clear the palette, as they say, to find a way to reflect the scene without muddling up the color. It’s the same in landscapes as in still lifes, which all the geniuses of painting studied, because it’s a way for painters to learn.

“It’s achieved by struggling with the colors, clean colors. Sometimes you muddle up the color without realizing it, and the color comes out opaque, dirty.

“Painting can become an everyday affair, but it’s important to study with a goal in mind, because unfortunately many people study and graduate, and think they’ve done it all. But a painter has to keep on studying, experimenting, trying new things, just like when you write a piece of music.

“ It’s too bad that many of the young, talented artists we have think that everything that springs from their palettes is perfect, permanent… I think you have to experiment, make sketches.”

Do you mean that after all these years you still do preliminary sketches?

“I work in my own way: a detail, an effect, all that comes out along the way. I used to write down my observations and note the colors. But there are many things on the streets of Santiago that come from within. The painting isn’t based on what I see, but rather on what I’m feeling.

“If you take a painting of mine out of the studio, you’ll see that there are things on the canvas that aren’t visible on the street. I don’t just paint what I see, but also what’s happening inside of me, and I bring that out. I use the palette knife a lot, to give that tactile effect.

“I haven’t moved into oil painting mechanically. I hang out on the street corner, I have my fun and then the painting comes out, if it comes. There are always things like that; there are things that don’t work on the first try, and I keep at them until I achieve what I want. At my age, I still take notes, do sketches and drawings.”

Do you even take notes for your many carnival paintings?

“Yes, I’ve taken notes on carnival, but brief ones. In the case of the carnival paintings, I prefer to sit in front of the canvas and delve into my memory. Such rich and dynamic images spring forth, and that’s why I’ve done several paintings on carnival. Santiago is an endless carnival.

“Carnival is a part of me. That movement is also part of me, I like the rumba, dancing, I enjoy it. I’ve been in the carnival parades and the conga lines. I love to see them dance the rumba, and there are so many incredible colors and magic.”

What places have you painted most?

“I’ve painted San Jerónimo several times, because of the old buildings, the high corridors, but all the streets of Santiago are extraordinary to me. There are great things on El Tivolí, it has wonderful spots which Botalín has portrayed to great advantage. San Jerónimo, San Bartolomé and other streets are like roller coasters, with their sunshine, their colors, their vibrations.”

Have you painted landscapes outside of Santiago?

“ I did some painting at the Kolhy estate, which was where I took the San Alejandro Academy’s landscape classes, but I never did urban landscapes anywhere else. That was born here in Santiago. I also painted Manzanillo some, I took some notes.”

But becoming a painter wasn’t so simple for Ferrer; in fact, it was an uphill battle. And having a father who was a well-known painter didn’t make it any easier.

MY FATHER KEPT DELAYING MY ART STUDIES

“My father, Esteban Ferrer, studied painting in Santiago de Cuba, at an academy run by the provincial government. He went to war in 1895 and went to work when he came home. When Emilio Bacardí – the first mayor of Santiago de Cuba in the 20th century – founded the Municipal Academy of Fine Arts, my father joined the teaching staff.

“He was a student and friend of Tejada, and also of José Uranio Carbó, both of whom were painters. He didn’t miss a concert or an exhibit. I was his oldest son and when I was still a little boy he began taking me to all those events. I gained an ever-greater appreciation of those activities, and I never stopped attending them, but…

“At that time it was impossible to make a living as a painter. The salary he received from the city government was laughable, and he had to maintain a constantly growing family. So he had to do church decorations, restorations and house painting, anything he could.”

Of course, you’d watch him paint and…

“He would have me stand right next to him, so I could see how he did things, and when I watched him, I wanted to be a painter, too. But he always told me I shouldn’t study painting, that it should just be a hobby, recreation, not a profession. He told me to study law, business, medicine… that he would try to help me in that, but that I should never be a professional artist!

“He would say, ‘Just look at Ramírez Guerra,’ who was a dentist. ‘When he doesn’t have any patients, he paints.’ Bofill was the director of the Bacardí Museum, but he couldn’t live on that salary alone. Everybody wanted him to give away his paintings, without considering the expenditures of materials and effort involved. Tejada, on the other hand, owned the Ponupo magnesium mines; he had money to support himself with, so he didn’t have any problems.

“My Uncle Antonio was a great sketcher – I think he was better than my father. His work was very clean, extraordinary. But he went to ruin at an early age.”

What was the first time you remember painting?

“It must have been, if memory serves me, around ’29 or ’30, at about that time. I did my little things. It never even occurred to me to go to Havana. My father said, ‘I’m going to send you to Mexico. I have a friend there, so you can study art.’ But all of that was just to keep my illusions alive. He kept putting it off. He didn’t have any interest in my becoming an artist.

“When I decided to concentrate on painting, he said, ‘Son, there’s no art market here. People here don’t buy any art at all, so think of other work. I’m not telling you that you shouldn’t paint in your spare time, but…”

So due to his father’s advice – which had an undeniable measure of truth – time passed and Antonio Ferrer Cabello’s yearning to be a painter remained unfulfilled. But, undaunted by any obstacle, the young man finally took matters into his own hands.

“The young people with artistic ambitions demanded the six scholarships granted to Oriente, to study at the San Alejandro Academy. The politicians were keeping those scholarships for the sons of their sergeants, but we carried out a campaign for them to give them back. The war veterans supported us, and some of the scholarships were given to us, even though they amounted to only half of what we were supposed to get.

“Certain documents were demanded of the applicants. I asked my father to do the paperwork at the mayor’s office to issue the certificates of morality, deportment and financial need. My father said, ‘Yes, yes, I’ll do the paperwork,’ but the days passed and nothing happened. My father was busy and he put off doing it, so I did the paperwork myself.”

Without hesitation, Ferrer marched over to the mayor’s house. The conversation that ensued between the artist and the official is worth recounting:

“Good morning, Mr. Mayor. I came to see you because I need a certificate of financial need, for a scholarship to the San Alejandro Academy.”

The mayor eyed him slowly and carefully, recognizing him and responding with a question: “Don’t you live at 72 Santa Lucía?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And you’re the son of Ferrer, the painter, right?”

“That’s me.”

“Then… you aren’t financially needy!”

“Oh, yes I am.”

The mayor’s tone hardened. “Isn’t your father a homeowner? Doesn’t he own his own house?”

“Yes, sir. My father is a homeowner, it’s his house. Everything is his! I don’t own a thing. I’m financially needy.”

The mayor glared at him from head to foot, broke out in a smile… and handed him the signed certificate. After that, the mayor would seek out other authorities who would attest to the young man’s “morality and good behavior.”

SAN ALEJANDRO: IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF THE MASTERS

January 1937 signified a radical change for Ferrer Cabello, because that was when he began studying at the San Alejandro Academy, the mecca of Cuban painting and possibly the only artistic institution from that period which remains intact today.

The year after he entered the academy he was already a member of the Communist Youth League and Student Body president, thus assuming a leadership position among the scholarship students. He received a stipend of 26 pesos and 75 centavos, for a whole month, and with that sum he had to pay for his room, board, clothes and school supplies.

“I went through a lot of hardship. At that time the scholarship only consisted of that bit of money, and you had to rent a room and buy school supplies with it. José María Carbonell, Arturo Aramís Paso and I shared a house. To save money, for breakfast, before we went to school, we had bean buns made by the local Chinese residents.”

The artist’s memory is as pristine as his paintings. During those years at the academy, he took classes from some of the greatest visual artists in the island’s history. And his fellow students included names that are now well known, such as René Valdés Cedeño and Servando Cabrera.

After completing classes in drawing and modeling in the Elemental School, he moved on to anatomy, sculpting, geometric drawing and drawing nudes at the Higher School. He was expected to complete all this in six years, although he would actually finish in slightly less.

He studied amidst so many of Cuba’s greatest: sculptors Florencio Gelabert, José Sicre and Teodoro Ramos Blanco; painters Armando Menocal, Esteban Valderrama and Leopoldo Romañach were just a few.

“The nude drawing class was held in a small classroom with a large number of students. When we worked with a live model we split up in several groups in order to save time. I was placed in the last group, but I always arrived in class right at the beginning. I would sit down if there was an available seat and take in all the lessons.

Looking back now, what are your most significant memories of that time? Tell us about those renowned professors you had and your relationship with them.

“In general I was on very good terms with them, and I had wonderful experiences. They knew that I was always on the offensive as student body president, but I was extremely respectful – even though there was always some professor who wanted to kick me out of school. We fought to have color and sculpting during the first year, and we achieved that.

“One day Professor Antonio Sánchez Araujo said to me, ‘Look, you have a lot of talent. Forget about politics and concentrate on your painting, because if you don’t you could be kicked out of school.’ ”

And what did you say in response?

“With great respect for that demonstration of confidence from the man I considered my second father, I said, ‘Professor, I thank you for your advice, but I was born this way. If I have to leave school that’s bad luck, but I’m not going to abandon my ideas. I wasn’t born with a scholarship.’

“When he was chosen to conduct a summer course at the Fine Arts Circle, he made me his assistant. That took courage, and I’ll never forget it.

“I’ll always recall the great Teodoro Ramos Blanco. He used to invite me for Sunday lunch at his home. He was very strict and you had to clean up the work area. If he spotted the slightest bit of clay on the floor, he’d make us pick it up.

“Valderrama, the professor who taught perspective, would invite me to visit his studio, and I recall that one day he picked me up in his car and took me to examine the portrait he was doing of Dominga Maceo, a great personality, and give him my opinion of it. [Not only was she one of General Antonio Maceo’s sisters; she also clarified the circumstances of that hero’s birth in the city of Santiago de Cuba. Furthermore, she was president of the committee that brought back the remains of Mariana Grajales, mother of the Maceo brothers, from Jamaica.]

“Sicre introduced me to famous painters such as Francisco Gattorno and made it possible for me to get to know all of them.

“I have great memories of Spanish Professor Mariano Miguel, who taught engraving. He was very strict, and anyone who received the grade of outstanding in his class could feel very satisfied, proud of himself. He talked a lot about Spanish painting and the great masters in his classes, and I listened with great interest.

“We had to submit a drawing for his approval, transfer it onto a plate and then etch it in. I took him a drawing of a closed fist representing struggle, drawn from my own hand, and my fellow students, who really disliked the way he treated people, told me, ‘Take it to him, to see what he says, and if he wants it improved, let him do it.’ When I showed my drawing to Mariano Miguel he said he wanted me to do it again. He explained its defects and told me to bring back both drawings when I was done.

“When I left the classroom, the students were anxious to find out what happened. ‘What did he say? What did he say?’ they kept repeating. I told them that he said to do it over. ‘Don’t do anything over. He should do it.’ But I did it according to his instructions and I took him both drawings. He explained the differences between the two in detail. When I finished the course I got a grade of outstanding, and I knew that was a great prize.

“I wanted to come to Santiago de Cuba, so I applied, saying that I had a job opportunity there, even though that was a lie. I needed to take some tests to transfer, but Mariano Miguel contacted me and told me that I didn’t have to take the test. ‘Your grades are good enough,’ he explained.

“I also remember when Professor Menocal would arrive at the landscape class in the Kolhy estate. The first thing he would do was look for me, the student from eastern Cuba, because he was a war veteran and had achieved the rank of captain, and for that reason he felt closer to me. He called me the cultured man, because once while he was reciting a poem by José María Heredia Girard he forgot a line, and I continued on for him. He said, ‘Oh! So you know how it goes? Don’t tell me!’”

It’s an understatement to say that it was a privilege to work with such legendary figures of Cuban art, but among all of them, there is one whose image shines brighter still: Leopoldo Romañach, the celebrated creator of Las Marinas (Seascapes) and La niña de las cañas (The Girl in the Sugarcane).

Ferrer’s voice takes on a special tone when recounting those moments when time seems to stand still and the universe seems to exist only for oneself.

WAIT TILL THE POISON SUBSIDES

One day he surprised Professor Romañach (who wasn’t easily surprised) with his use of what was called the “limited palette,” consisting of the utilization of the primary and a few other colors, with the goal of achieving the same luminosity and finished look as with the whole gamut of colors. That was something Ferrer had learned from Rodolfo Hernández Giro.

“Keep going, keep going,” the astounded but admiring professor would tell him. “Try this… Seville red is better here…”

“I was always one of the first to arrive in class, and he saw how interested I was. One day he said, ‘Look, you don’t need to come to class. Paint wherever you can, where you feel like it, the place where you find the right colors, where you feel best. When you’ve finished a painting, bring it to me for my evaluation.’

“There were several bars near where we lived at San Rafael and San Miguel Streets, and an old white man and a young black man made deliveries. I asked them to sit for me, and then I took the painting to Romañach, who made commentaries on it.”

But that freedom became a fierce obstacle at the end of the course. While Romañach had no doubt that Ferrer was the only logical candidate for first prize, the rest of the three-judge panel was against him. He already had all his other grades, but the grade for the class on color was still undecided – and there was no resolution in sight. Finally the school principal called the student into his office.

“Look here, Ferrer. How is it that you’ve been turning in work that wasn’t done during class time? That can’t be!”

“Sir, Professor Romañach authorized me to do it.”

Upon hearing the name of the highly respected professor, the principal acquiesced. “If that is the case, then it is all right.”

But the decision on his grade was still not forthcoming.

“So I went to see Professor Romañach,” Ferrer explains, “and I told him, ‘Sir, I don’t want to cause any more problems for you. I’m going to take them my work, so they will finally give me a grade. This is the only subject for which I haven’t received a grade.’ ”
Romañach slowly raised his hand to his chin. “No, son, wait till the poison subsides. Wait till the poison subsides.”

Romañach refused to accept the other professors’ decision. In the end, another panel was formed which awarded first prize to Ferrer.

SANTIAGO DE CUBA’S FIRST GALLERY

One would assume that when three recent graduates of the San Alejandro Academy arrived in Santiago de Cuba, they were received royally. But nothing was further from the truth.

“We went right away to the Visual Arts School on Heredia Street, to ask for jobs as art teachers, and that’s where the hemming and hawing started. The other two had the backing of ‘Mon’ Corona, who was the governor, and that paved the way for them. But I was accused of being a Communist and they didn’t give me a chance. So I had to work for free, and prove myself.”

But it wasn’t all hardship and pain. His love affair with Bertha Estiú led to marriage, and his new family came to his aid. Ferrer’s father-in-law was a crony of Mon Corona, and a job soon appeared: as a clerk in the provincial government. He became a member of the commission for the Visual Arts School and received a salary of 60 pesos – well actually only 50, because the other 10 had to be donated to the governor’s political spending fund.
He worked as a drawing professor from 1943 to 1950, and although the venue was new, it was the same struggle as always. The school urgently needed to grow and broaden its scope, with the inclusion of some new classes, and finally Minister of Education Pérez Espino recognized the institution as being at the same level as San Alejandro.

But before long the minister’s successor, the infamous Aureliano Sánchez Arango, issued a decree that reversed that great accomplishment, denying the validity of the school’s new status, and ruling that Visual Arts School students had to validate their degrees at San Alejandro.

“That sparked a great revolt among the students and graduates. They took over the school and threw things into the street. The police were called in, the minister ordered that the principal be fired and that the students involved be subject to disciplinary hearings. The professors decided to serve the time with the students during their vacation, because we were also affected by the ruling.”

In those circumstances, taking over the job of school principal seemed tantamount to standing on a powder keg, and none of those proposed would accept the post.

Someone at the back of the hall said, “I propose myself.” And everyone at the meeting gladly accepted the proposal. That’s how Antonio Ferrer Cabello became the head of the school, and he remained in that position until 1957.

“The students didn’t even want to register. I called a meeting and told them that the school would go on, and that we – if necessary – would enroll our own relatives in order to keep it open.

“I told them, ‘We can’t give in now; nor can we maintain a rebellion with no future.’ And they eventually came back. The minister’s threat was still hanging over us, and I called a faculty meeting. I stated that we had to get the support of the Santiago community, and that we needed to have a gallery where our works could be exhibited.”

Until that time, the only art shows were at recreational and social clubs. “We would ask them to let us use their halls for two or three days, because they needed them for their own activities.

“The professors ‘fined’ themselves every month, and our gallery fund began to grow. In 1953 we talked to a cousin of Tejada’s on Heredia Street – at a building that is now the local headquarters of the ARTEX cultural corporation – and she rented us the whole ground floor. After we fixed up the premises, we opened the first gallery in Santiago de Cuba in 1953.

“We put on an exposition of international engraving, sponsored by painter and engraver Carmelo González. We organized an exhibit of works by professors and the school’s most outstanding students, with a catalogue and everything. We began to seek out sponsoring associates who would give us a peso a month. We brought in shows from Havana, and that was the beginning of the region’s understanding of modern art and abstract painting. Our exhibitions included one by the celebrated Group of Eleven, and one by well-known painter Eduardo Abela.

“Many events for professional groups were held there, along with collective shows by the school’s professors of painting and drawing. The gallery hosted concerts and lectures, and the School of Modern Dance, headed by Manuel Márquez, was founded there. Professor Daniel Sierra Badué waged a legal battle for the school’s qualifications to be recognized.”

It was a convulsive year, the same one in which the Moncada Garrison was attacked by a group led by Fidel Castro, and that was a clear call to action. Didn’t you have any problems?

“The gallery was also a center for rebellion. Members of the 26th of July Movement and the Popular Socialist Party went there. Galería journal, edited by University Professor Jesús Sabourín, was born, and it was one of the best art journals published in Cuba. The police raided us seven times, but they never found anything.

“Afterward, we took some canvasses further away, very close to Santa Lucía Church, after which the street is named. There, we began the Arena Theater with Professor Francisco Morín, on the suggestion of distinguished Cuban intellectual José Antonio Portuondo, rector of the University of Oriente, which was shut down at that time.

“It was a time of intense cultural activity, with no snobbery. Everyone came – blacks, whites, poor and rich. It was an institution that fought for social and racial integration. Later on it was granted a subsidy of 100 pesos a month, but we had to constantly demand that it be paid.”

In 1957 some members of the renewal movement participated in the World Festival of Youth and Students, in Moscow. And along the way, they were able to visit a number of European museums.
A boat to Vigo, a train to Paris, another one to Vienna, and finally to the Soviet capital. Ferrer Cabello sent copious postcards from Italy and other cities, describing his experiences in world-famous museums.

How did that contact with the European masters affect you?

“It was extraordinary. I took lots of photos. In Venice I saw those bridges and canals. In Florence, the works of Tintoretto, which were strong, hard-hitting, violent compositions. And Michelangelo! There is a painting of some slaves that he wasn’t able to finish, and another rough draft where it looks like they were going to break open a rock, and I saw the David. It was flawless.

“In the Louvre I was ecstatic over the Rubens. I sat down to stare at them, I got a migraine, I felt nauseous, there were so many feelings on that trip. The Prado Museum: Velázquez’s Las Meninas is delicious; there is a mirror placed there in such a way that you seem to be inside the picture. And Goya’s dark art – so moving, so forceful! I saw the works of Joaquín Sorolla in his own environment. I returned with all that energy, ready to plunge into my own work, in my own way, but with new facets.”

In the meantime, a mural of Ferrer’s had been put up at the Secondary Education Institute, and the images of revolutionaries Antonio Guiteras, Julio Antonio Mella and Pablo de la Torriente Brau scandalized the school’s principal. As a result, one night their faces were erased from the mural.

When Ferrer returned from Europe, he was greeted by the news that he had been replaced – so he could “rest.”

“Okay,” Ferrer replied, and he returned to the post of professor, where he had started on that staff.

IMMORTAL FACES

How many portraits has Antonio Salustiano Ferrer Cabello painted? No one knows the exact number. He still has some hanging in his studio, including the one of the delivery boy from the bar at the time of his studies at San Alejandro, and another of Abraham Lincoln.

His attitude toward portraits is very personal and authoritative. Some consider him a painter of the trova musicians, given that a large number of his portraits adorn the walls of the famous Casa de la Trova in Santiago de Cuba. But the fact is that his portraits and the personalities they represent are really quite varied.

Ferrer, when we look at one of your portraits, we see beyond the physical characteristics of the person, who may or may not be a celebrity. How have you managed to inject that spirit, that character into your portraits?

“When I’m going to do a portrait, I always do a preliminary study to familiarize myself with the lines and the character of the person, so I can reflect every aspect I want.

“Some say that I capture the psychology of the subject in my portraits. I haven’t really thought about that, but I can tell you that I’ve never done a portrait without first doing a preliminary study of the person’s character.”

How do you get the painting to look like the real model, whether you’ve chosen the person or were commissioned to paint him or her? How much creativity is sacrificed in the effort to make the portrait look like the real person?

“There are photogenic people, the kind you’d like to stop in the street to make notes, or to tell them, ‘Come to my studio, I’d like to paint you.’ When the face has some special feature, it’s easy and enjoyable. By accentuating that feature – which could be a particular gaze, a specific form of the head – it’s possible to make the portrait look like the person. But there are faces that don’t say anything, and those are the hard ones.

“Romañach used to say that he didn’t like portraits, and recommended doing head studies instead, because portraits are limiting, they don’t allow the painter to develop. Once in a while a portrait is impressive, with strong brushstrokes, but it doesn’t look like the model although it’s good artistically. So yes, one may have to sacrifice creativity to achieve the likeness, and that – in my opinion – degrades the work.”

But you’ve done self-portraits. How have you handled them?

“When I paint myself, I’ve done head studies, not a self-portrait as such. Sometimes they work out, sometimes they don’t. I’ve never tried to improve any of my features or anything like that. I study myself.”

Why did you paint Abraham Lincoln?

“I was commissioned by the Luz de Oriente Society, which is an association of black people, people of color. It was in recognition of that fact that Lincoln freed the slaves during the War of Secession.

“I like that portrait and many people have tried to buy it from me. I really didn’t know very much about him, beyond what we all know about him as a historical figure. When they commissioned me to do the portrait, I looked up information about him and read two biographies to find out what he was like, how he had come to be the president of the United States, and anything else I could find out.

“I searched for the human aspects, not just the history, and it was only after that research that I started to make drawings on paper. I created a virtual laboratory about Lincoln, until I decided to do the portrait. I painted it on the basis of a photo that coincided with my way of thinking and searching for him, and I recreated the background.”

What are the elements that link together the trova singers, that whole cast of popular geniuses you have painted?

“I used to go to paint and chat with people at Virgilio Palais’ little grocery store, which was located close to my studio, and he would ball me out when I didn’t go to see him often enough. He cared about me a great deal. All the trova musicians hung out there. I also used to go to Trocha Street, between San Agustín and Santa Rita Streets. A whole lot of those people, who played very well, used to meet under a tree there.

“When Casa de la Trova was finally opened in the ’60s I kept going there. Since I knew some of the musicians, they would play for me and I would make sketches.

“I painted some – like Miguel Matamoros [“Son de la Loma,” “Lágrimas Negras”] and Salvador Adams [“Sublime Ilusión”] – from photos. I painted Pablito Armiñán in person. I would follow him around every day. I had to do his portrait while sitting in the hallway of the Luz de Oriente Society. I took my paintbox and did his portrait while chatting with him, listening to his stories about his musician friends.”

Writer José Soler Puig [El pan dormido, Bertillón 166] told me about the portrait you did of him, and how he liked the sketch better. What’s the whole story?

“It’s simple. I knew him from childhood, he was a neighbor of mine on Santa Lucía Street. I wanted to give him a portrait as a present, but he couldn’t come to sit for it. So I myself snapped a photo of him and did the portrait. I was familiar with his personality, and that helped a lot. First I finished the sketch and started to paint Soler’s portrait, and I recall that the great painter Pedro Arrate really liked the sketch.

“Well, when I gave Soler the painting he thanked me, but when he saw the sketch he clearly preferred it. One day he said to me, ‘Look, man, take the painting and give me the sketch.’ He liked the preliminary study better. But I don’t think the painting was bad; today it’s hanging in the headquarters of the Union of Writers and Artists of Cuba (UNEAC) in Santiago de Cuba. These things happen.”

And I gather from what you say, it wasn’t the only time.

“No way! Alberto Saba, a sculptor from Santiago de Cuba who had studied in Paris, was a friend of mine, and I told him I was going to do an artist-to-artist portrait of him. He said ‘Of course! It’s an honor!’”

And when it was done…

“ What do you think?”

“ Oh, it’s great. But couldn’t you… well, fix it up a little here, on the eyelid?”

“ No, Alberto, I told you that this painting was by one artist of another, and I’m not changing a thing.”

That portrait didn’t leave with its subject.

But there’s still room for another story, proving the opposite.
Ferrer was still a student at San Alejandro Academy when his father suggested he paint Enrique Schueg, a relative of the Bacardí family and a man of high economic standing. So Ferrer used a photo of Schueg sitting at his desk, pen in hand. José Bofill Cayol praised the portrait when he saw it, so Schueg hung it on his wall and asked Ferrer:

“ Well, how much do you want for this painting?”

“ Don Enrique, I didn’t do this painting for money. I did it for you as a gift.”

The powerful man slowly took 100 pesos from his wallet. It was the first time in the young artist’s life that he had seen so much money, quite a sum at that time.

“ Is this enough?”

He took the bill, thanked Schueg and ran home overjoyed. But the story doesn’t end there.

“ Spanish painter Samaniego did a different portrait of Schueg. He went to the rich man’s house and took down my painting, as a surprise. They say that when Schueg arrived he called for the housekeeper, demanding to know what happened to the portrait done by the younger Ferrer. Well, all I can say is that I picked the Samaniego painting out of the garbage.”

THE GROWTH OF A STRANGE FORCE

The Emilio Bacardí Museum, Cuba’s oldest museum, has a wonderful collection. During his tenure as that prestigious museum’s director, for almost all of the 1960s, Ferrer oversaw many structural changes. A second-story gallery was built, where the works are exhibited today exactly as they were when it opened. The responsibility of preserving such magnificent art sparked a new and exciting phase of his career.

The son of Esteban Ferrer Vargas and Manuela Cabello began his dynamic life in Santiago de Cuba on June 8, 1913. Before long, stories and controversies found their way into his existence – including one related to the date of his birth. On official documents, he is listed as being a year younger, but (as you might imagine) there’s an explanation for that.

It was a large family – 13 children! – and the birth registration books had not yet arrived in Santiago de Cuba. (Some government official had “accidentally” pocketed the money allocated for them.)
Time passed, and finally one day, “My sister Carmen, who wasn’t registered either, was asked to do so, and she registered all her brothers and sisters at that time. She was the oldest and took a year off her own age, so she had to make everyone else’s birth a year later as well. That’s why I was registered as having been born in 1914, but the correct date is listed on my baptism certificate.”

He has had the same studio since 1960, and it is littered with sketches, palettes and books on painting, which Ferrer says he “visits” frequently, including those on Van Gogh, Matisse and Picasso, some of his favorites. When he’s not painting, you can be sure that he’s doing watercolors or pen-and-ink drawings.
In one corner there’s a mini-gallery of his own works, some by his father, and sketches made by his uncle. The sculpture of his son Vladímir – who died at an early age – seems to look back at us. Two more of his offspring – Guamá and Guarionex, names reflecting Cuba’s indigenous inhabitants – are also artists.

“My works are part of my love and affection. Sometimes it’s hard for me to pull myself away from them, and that’s why I haven’t sold more. I always think about what I could ask for them. I’ve never had an obsession with selling them. I get attached to all my artwork.”

Antonio Ferrer Cabello, what would you like the public to feel when standing in front of one of your works?

“I’m going to answer you with a phrase of José Martí’s: ‘It is a sad person who, when standing before a beautiful painting, does not feel a strange force growing inside of him.”