out of time
Cuba, it’s the story of a revolution.
The story of a regime.
The story of a dictatorship.
The endless story of a war of a good and a bad without faces, without time.
In this country where the Che figure prevails, what does freedom mean?
Is independence to be found in rationing and prohibitions?
In abandonment and deprivation?
What is left to the inhabitants of an island when there is no more perspective, movement, circulation, evolution?
When each day is the same as the day before?
When time is no longer the unavoidably violent mark of progress and age?
When time no longer gives rhythm to life?
Cuba, it’s the story of as many delusions as there are inhabitants.
The painful marks of history are right there, embedded in the buildings as in the hearts of those who live in them.
They impregnate their looks. The looks they have on their country, their future, their life.
A suspended life.
Because in Cuba, time has stopped. Given up.
For more than 50 years, generations follow one another waiting for life to pass by.
With no hope of improvement for the next generation… beyond the hope of even being able to hope.
Cuba, it’s the story of an open-air prison.
A life sentence.
Cuba, it’s the story of a time that watches itself pass by.
Inexorably.