Producing for the Cathedral Artisan Vendors
By Eduardo N. Cordovi
HAVANA TIMES – I wasn’t the only one who went underground among the many artisans who, one way or another, had jumped aboard the train of economic freedom through self-employment. In those early years, I began selling my weekly production to the artisans at Plaza de la Catedral in Old Havana.
To avoid drifting around like a free electron and to follow the saying “do what Vicente does, go where everyone else is going,” and to prevent future problems, I began the process of applying for a legal sales license.
In truth, I couldn’t get one, it was nearly impossible. There were already too many issued and there was no available location or space. And if there was one, it required a huge investment in dollars, which I didn’t have. Besides, it wasn’t really my line of work, if I spent my time selling, when would I produce? You can’t be both in church and ringing the bells. A producer’s license was more realistic to obtain—and I got one.
At the start, as I said, it only involved Cuban pesos, I think a little over three hundred pesos a month. I paid for two months and then canceled it because I realized the risk. I’m not a businessman, I was just working to earn the bare minimum, so I’d have time to write my books and read others, not to make a profit. And that’s why I had no savings. I’ve never been a practical guy. The only solution was to continue operating outside the law, taking the risk. Thank Heaven, I was never stopped by the police or by an economic inspector—it was as if I were invisible.
Every Saturday at noon, I’d hop on my Chinese bicycle with my backpack full of wooden carvings and go table to table trying to sell my pieces. Sometimes I sold them at very low prices, just so I could get paid in full on the spot. I have to believe in God, because I know I must have ranked among the worst, not “sculptors” but carvers in Havana.
And yet, in some inexplicable way, a pair of young brothers who lived in Mantilla and had one of the top-selling tables made me an incredible offer: they would buy my entire weekly production, paying half the price up front and the other half the following week, even if the pieces hadn’t sold yet, plus half the money for that next week’s batch.
That way, I would always be paid weekly, with a full payment in hand and half of the next week’s amount guaranteed. There was another benefit: I no longer had to go to the Cathedral or worry about inspectors. Since I lived in Lawton, it was more convenient to bring the pieces to their house in Mantilla. I ended up working with them like this for a long time—until one day, my luck changed.
One afternoon, a neighbor knocked on my door, a man I recognized from the neighborhood but didn’t really know, whose name I never learned and still don’t remember. He came with his son, a burly young man who had lived for years in Pennsylvania, in the United States. He wanted me to paint several pictures of orishas, the deities of the Yoruba religion. The commission was for six paintings, each fifty by sixty-five centimeters.
At first, it was not a very creative job—just a bit of craftsmanship to reproduce printed images he brought, some of which he had downloaded from the internet. It seemed simple, and it was, even though I’ve never liked painting other people’s works unless it’s the challenge of copying a classic.
He wanted to take the five paintings back with him within a week, which was impossible. I wouldn’t even be able to finish one before he left. I still had to stretch and prep the canvases, build the frames, and so on. We agreed I’d finish them in three months. Since I lived alone at the time, I also had to cook and take care of other chores that consumed my time. So he had to pay half the amount up front.
I had plenty of oil paint and several colors in printer’s ink. I felt at ease and thought it would be a breeze, so I told him I would charge thirty dollars per painting. He tried to haggle, but I didn’t budge—not even a little—which was unusual for me. I felt proud, because standing firm and risking losing a deal was not something I was used to doing.
Of course, I couldn’t stop delivering pieces to my Cathedral clients entirely, but I couldn’t keep up with the same weekly volume. And by the third month, when the paintings were due, I couldn’t deliver any of my woodwork to the Cathedral.
Later, in conversations with other painter friends from the neighborhood, I realized I could have charged much more—“at least fifty,” one of them said. But that would be for next time… “Solomon dying and Solomon learning,” my mother always used to say in moments like these.