Sometimes a Cigar is Only a Cigar (Freud)

Every day I went down to the basement and worked with tobacco leaves and wood. I was working on an installation at P.S. 1, which was to open on January 9th, my grandmother's birthday. It consisted of six large objects, covered with tobacco leaves, with videos inside, interviews with three women: Emilia, the artist, Basha, the priestess, and Beatrice, the anthropologist. Through their stories I would present a completely different viewpoint of the cigar and tobacco, the woman's point of view.

But December was approaching and I hadn't succeeded in setting up an interview with Basha or Beatrice. It was as if they were avoiding me. They probably didn't know what to make of my interest in the subject; generally there is a strong suspicion of outsiders of the religion. The Yoruba religion is composed of an intricate system of rituals and ceremonies which are usually performed in the forest; it is a nature religion. There was a great deal of persecution from the white masters, so the slaves were forced to surround their religion in a cloak of secrecy. This secrecy, which never existed in Nigeria, still exists today, and I was experiencing it.

I met with Basha to discuss the possibility of an interview and she told me that there were a lot of racial tensions and she was afraid she might aggravate the situation. When the Cubans came to America with their religions, many Afro-Americans rediscovered their religious heritage, a religion of their own, not imposed by the white man. And here was a white, Jewish woman, a priestess of Yoruba! And not to mention that she worked for the king of Nigeria on top of it all. When Basha realized that I was pregnant, she opened up to me, and told me that she had been I wanted a child desperately and had been trying for awhile. Beatrice Morales, on the other hand, lived in New Orleans, and was very busy with her dissertation, besides having three small children to take care of. But she told me that she might find some time when visiting New York. So there was a remote chance.... I was in the last trimester and my stomach was bulging. One time in the subway, while reading about Santeria I came across this: December 4^th millions of followers honor Shango and Santa Bar bare. Suddenly everything fell into place. Shango, Cigars and Women. I had less than a week! I ran to the first phone and called Basha, asking if we could arrange the interview on Shango Day in the cigar factory. For the first time she showed some enthusiasm, saying that she had thought about it and decided to do it, but that she would talk about the sacred drums and introduce herself as a musician. My excitement grew when she told me that Beatrice was coming to town the following day, and that she probably would like the idea of doing the interview on Shango Day. After all, her mother was a priestess of Shango. December 4th was a Sunday, which was the only day of the week that the factory was empty all day. Basha decided to organize a small celebration and got her group together, Grupo Ore-lre. Before they all arrived she called and asked if I could bring Red and white flowers, some candy, a cup of coffee, green bananas, and rum. I obliged. They brought their drums, talked about the bata drum÷the sacred drum÷and made a libation. Beatrice Morales came a little later and gave a beautiful talk about Shango, women and cigars. I felt that the goddess of thunder had smiled.

I was walking barefoot on a dusty road somewhere in India, for days and days. Exhausted, I arrived at an ancient temple at the steps of which was a monk. I approached him, asking for directions; he didn't respond. A young girl came up to me and said that he was in deep meditation and in another reality, he couldn't hear me. I decided to go in and drink some water. As I passed the monk, he opened his eyes and pointed at me: "She, she is the sacrifice." Terrified, I started to run away, through the temple, into the garden. There was suddenly a group of them behind me, chasing me like an animal. I ran desperately, approached a small ruin of a house, ran through it, out the back door, again to a garden. There I saw high stone steps, covered with moss. The stairway to heaven. I started the long, long climb. There seemed to be no end. I was surrounded by beautiful tropical greenery. I climbed and climbed, gasping for breath. When I reached the top, on the last stair was the Woman. She was so ancient, transparent, dressed in white. Her eyes were open, but she seemed to look right through me. I pleaded with her: "They are right behind me, please help me, they want to sacrifice me." She didn't respond, didn't move. I was desperate, how do I reach her, which language does she speak. A lightning flash went off and I understood that not words but only thought could save me.... I woke up in panic. Sacrifice, sacrifice. The contact between us and God is enforced with sacrifice. This is how we receive power. All ancient people have sacrificed first humans, then animals, finally food. Now we reach a point of self-sacrifice. But 1, myself, must make that decision; no one is allowed to put me to the stake.

It seems that the most disturbing fact to Western people about Yoruba and Santeria is the aspect of sacrificing animals. And yet, if you think about it, we participate in a much more horrendous mass sacrificial rite. Millions of domestic animals are kept in the most uncivilized cages and slaughtered with no emotion. We do not see and therefore do not accept the fact that we are part of this sacrificial rite. Much blood is spilled daily, for our Big God÷material wealth. I am not coming to the defense of the reality of crime and violence that is connected to the Santeria cult; many drug dealers are worshippers, and summon the protective powers of the African deities. However, what is frightening and repelling to us Westerners is the simplicity, the bluntness.

I set up the tobacco installation and shortly thereafter gave birth to Angelica. She was two weeks old when it was taken down. It is as if this whole project had a note of fertility ringing through it. Basha got pregnant, finally. She told me that the conception took place right around the Shango Day celebration. And throughout this childbearing year, the landlady of my studio was desperately trying to get pregnant. Forty and single, she came across some terrible barriers. The time of her ovulation was invariably a time of crisis in the studio. The frozen sperm was being Federal Expressed from California, and it had to arrive just at the precise moment. Once, my mother stayed at the loft for a while, and then my tall, dark and handsome brother moved in. He had had a fight with his wife. My landlady ape preached him, and said he could stay provided he donated some sperm. I don't know how he responded, but after that incident I was handed papers from the lawyer to terminate my lease, stating that this was a strictly commercial property. Everything was straightened out eventually; my landlady adopted a beautiful baby girl after all the struggle. It is as if the childbearing urge became contagious; everyone around me was having babies all at once. I was passing out cigars like mad.

Angelica turned one and I traveled to Cincinnati to do a performance. Upon my arrival at the hotel where I was to stay, a large group of Yoruba drummers stood at the entrance. They too were guests that day. I took this as a sign that I was not losing my way, and felt sure of myself while performing that night in front of a handful of people.

I am neither an anthropologist nor a priestess. Like Emilia I am in between these two worlds: the artist, the messenger. With the cigar and lightning I made a journey, from the Golden Leaf cigar factory in Soho to Nigeria, Cuba, Spain, Greece, Serbia and back. And I decided to create my own myth in the end, the story of the beginning of the World. In the end, I deliver my own story of the beginning.

In the beginning there was a Woman. She created the World first in her Mind, then through her electrical body. Her favorite place for meditation and creation was on top of mountains that today we call the Himalayas. Her skin was transparent. milkywhite, all the veins could be seen clearly. She had blue blood flowing through. Her World was still. As She, the goddess Earth, created the seas, lakes, rivers and oceans, the mist entered her pores and she had a terrible urge to push. Through her third eye, millions of pearls were released, each of which fumed into a different creature as it touched the Earth or the Waters.

When She opened her eyes, She realized that it was lonely on the top and she was missing a partner. She envisioned Man. But to create Him, She needed Tobacco, the sacred plant with which Magic is performed. She descended from her great heights and searched for the plant. When She finally found it, She rolled it into a Big Cigar, in order to create smoke. En route back, She placed the Cigar in her Vagina, so as not to lose it. This gave her such pleasure as She climbed back up, that She envisioned Man with an organ just that shape. Together they would create offspring, in unity. When She took it out, She bled÷Red blood. She squeezed some milk from her breast onto the Cigar, lit it with a lightning stroke and puffed on it. The smoke produced a thunderclap and a flash of lightning. She puffed on it again, and an image of Man appeared out of the smoke. She called Him Thunder and immediately fell madly in love with Him. Because Her love for Him was so potent, She endowed Him with equal powers, the power of Good and Evil, and the ability to create anything He wished. To further prove Her love, She decided to take on the burden of carrying their offspring, to endure the pain of childbirth and to feed through Her breast. Together, they created a whole Hierarchy of Gods and Goddesses and the World's situation steadily became more and more complex. Each deity had a Vision and Power different from the other. Woman and Man were busy keeping equilibrium. It was a difficult task to keep the harmonious balance, so they divided their duties and spent less and less time together. Every full moon, the Woman spilled blood from her body to commemorate Her original sacrifice. One time She felt particularly nervous and unappreciated by Man, neglected. So She fumed herself into a Golden Bird and flew high into the heavens to bring down some thunderbolts, to exhibit her Rage. On the way down, She dropped one, and it fell right at the feet of her Man. It fumed into a most magnificent Red, white and golden blaze. He was delighted, thinking that this was a gift from the heavens, failing to notice Her. This enraged Her even more; the thunderbolts fell creating a Super Loud Noise. All Creatures of their World scattered in fear, an emotion that had never existed before. She threw the Tobacco on the flame and created a double-edged axe, throwing it at His feet, then pissed on the flame and put the fire out. But while doing this, some of her pubic hair burned, and this smell spread all over the World, awakening sexual desire in all Beings, Male for Female, Female for Male. She desired unity. But Her Man got enraged while witnessing her display of power and didn't like being reminded that She is his Creator. He grabbed the axe and threw it with all his might to the Center of the Earth. This brought out the warrior spirit in all races, and they started separating into tribes, striving to dominate one another. Men and Women came together in sexual desire and love, creating offspring, but each carried a memory of this Great Event and would keep separating and coming together. To this day they haven't worked it out. And this is how it all began, with a Bang.

I wonder how Freud would analyze that! Freud, the Father of psychoanalysis, who needed cigars in order to work. He was fatally addicted, he who claimed that addictions are substitutes for the "single great habit primal addiction"÷masturbation. He who wrote about women's "penis envy" was so obsessed with smoking cigars that he developed a terrible cancer that caused him much suffering and pain. He who wrote so much of the oral primitive needs failed at self-analysis and epitomized the Western Man who has lost touch with Nature. It is true that Tobacco causes cancer, but that is because the Ritual of worshipping Mother Nature has been forgotten, and in our emptiness we seek endless gratification in overindulgence of one sort or an' other. Freud and Jung had an exhaustive exchange about the importance of smoking.

In the end Freud said, to get out of it all: '"Sometimes a Cigar is Only a Cigar." Well, now I can relate to that!