Havana

Havana. She’s like a post apocalyptic Barcelona. The Gilf of the colonised worlds. You can see she’s been beautiful, but her graceless ageing has a quality of disgrace and urgency that super charges the senses, and her once great beauty, though still evident, is, and has been for sometime, open to anyone and everyone. Like a lady of breeding sold out, accessible and tragic, but without repair or remorse, and without shame, merely flooded with a richness of character that exudes seduction and compels fascination, with at first, a little fear. There is a rhythm to Havana, and the entrepreneurial nouse of her pimps astounds as communism breeds capitalism from the ashes to which it had first reduced it. Havana is the time capsule whose seal has failed and let the salt spray in, then left to time, allows a glimpse back in to 1959, but at the same time, forward, to what could be any European City desiccated of grandeur and left to be raped of her practicalities.