Sometimes a Cigar is Only a Cigar (Freud)

Beginnings are always very difficult for me. Perhaps I was marked for this fate by way I was born. My mother was in labor for two lays and two nights. To this day she describes in vivid detail the horror of my birth. There was a knife next to her bed; they had to wrestle it away from her. She wanted to kill herself.... Finally I came into the world, feet first.

When I gave birth to Angelica, it also took me two days and two nights of primal pain. I could not deliver. Way past the deadline, I was weeks overdue. In the end the birth was not at all natural; helped along by the doctors, it was anticlimactic. Angelica's appearance, however, absolved all the guilt I had carried around for years; I was overwhelmed with a beautiful feeling of relief.

Men in America give out cigars to celebrate the birth of their sons. I participate in this peculiar custom by presenting this cigar story to celebrate my daughter, born in the midst of this project.

Whether smoked in a peace pipe by the Indians or in cigarettes by Hollywood stars, tobacco is intertwined with the history of this continent. Even now, in the midst of the anti-smoking campaign, it is no less a preoccupation: nowhere in the world are people so adamantly and passionately against smoking. From a pure ritual of the Indians, smoking was transformed into a commercial, addictive, cancerous industry. Hopefully one day we will again discover the ritual...

Several years ago I had to pass through a cigar factory regularly on the way to my workspace. Seeing the women making cigars made me curious about tobacco, smoke and fire. I am not a smoker and yet, as if drawn by a magnet, I went further and further into the symbolism of the cigar and tobacco leaf. With this unlikely subject to consume me, I got in touch with a memory deep inside each one of us: when the first spark produced the first flame. I went far from my background in Yugoslavia, to a culture entirely different, in Africa, only to discover this same memory.

The spirit of lightning and fire is everywhere, and as this natural force traveled, it was colored by the different cultures it touched, given a variety of names and forms by the minds it inspired, the hearts it penetrated: the energy with which the World began, with which it will end, the energy of Fire, the Creator and the Destroyer.

The first memory I have of tobacco is from my childhood in Indonesia. I remember rice fields, tea fields and tobacco fields. I remember men and women not only smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, but chewing tobacco. Their teeth would rot from it, and when they smiled, a bright Red stain flashed. Another strong memory from this period surfaced many times as I delved into the tobacco smoking story

My parents took us to a funeral rite in Bali. It was twilight. There were many dressed-up people, dancing and feasting; it was a great celebration. When the funeral procession finally emerged, everyone was so excited. A group of men came out carrying the corpse, which was wrapped in a huge banana leaf and covered with lotus flowers. The structure upon which the corpse was placed was built from bamboo sticks, and to me it seemed endless in height. When they brought out his wife, the crowd went into a frenzy. She was dressed in the finest embroidered silks, covered head to toe in jewels and wore a gold crown on her head, with flowers all over. She climbed onto a tall ladder and sat next to her late husband. At this point my memory blurs. They proceeded to light the structure on fire. It became my nightmare. Someone said that the bride goes to the heavenly abode with the husband. My father assured me that this is not the case anymore; there is a law against it. I don't know to this day what happened.

I had nightmares for years after. Did she scream in the flame? Did she die with the man wrapped in the banana leaf? Twenty years later, while traveling through India, I saw a TV show about Sati, the practice of putting to death the bride of the dead man. Apparently, to this day it goes on. In fact the subject of the show was a sixteen-year-old bride who was put to death that year in a village. In Sati, a woman is drugged, then a group of men come to the home and start dancing around her, chanting a death song, and then they kill her. This is a way to ensure that the inheritance stays in the husband's family and is not passed over to the wife. If somehow the woman manages to escape this dreadful fate, she is doomed in the community and may end up killing herself in despair or turning to prostitution to survive. One of the images from this show that stuck in my mind was a rally of villagers protesting the law which forbade the custom of bride burning. Behind the main speaker was a picture of a beautiful woman enveloped in flames. The audience was composed of angry chanting men. It sends a shiver through my spine.

Raised in an atheistic environment, I've never been taught a religion. This made me free to enter temples, churches, mosques and synagogues and marvel at the spiritual source in much the same way. The theatrical quality of religious rituals moves me. I especially feel close to the ancient nature religions, particularly Zoroastrianism, because there the element of fire is central to worship. In Zoroastrianism, fire is believed to be the son of God and is called on as a Warrior. The most sacred of fires, the Bahram fire, is required in order to do battle with the spiritual demons of darkness.

Millennia of millennia ago, my ancestors migrated from the Himalayas. This warrior tribe walked for miles, making rest stops of a few days, then continuing on to look for their new home. They needed a sign in order to settle down. The sacred fire was carried in golden pots and was never allowed to die out. Not only was it a source of spiritual strength, warmth and light, it was also a protection against wild beasts at night. When they reached the river Danube, they were very impressed and decided to rest awhile on this fertile soil. That very night a bolt of lightning struck at the center of the river and a two-headed bird came out with a loud thunderclap. At its stomach was a Red and blue spiral which revolved with great speed and emanated tremendous heat. Then the bird turned into a puff of smoke and disappeared. Since the tribe worshiped Perun, the God of Thunder, they knew that this was the auspicious sign they were looking for, and made this land their home. Somewhere in my genetic makeup, the memory of this story is encoded.

As a child I spent many hours playing in the swimming pool, going up and down the metal slide. Once while I was playing alone in the pool, it started raining, but in Indonesia, tropical rains are usually ignored. They vanish as suddenly as they appear. Flashes of lightning were sparking through the twilight sky. I lay on my back in the water, floating, and was looking up in astonishment. This peaceful moment was cut short by my father, who ran out shouting sternly that I must immediately get out. I was puzzled by his behavior, and he screamed furiously that I could have been electrocuted! This was a shocking idea to me. Images of the lightning hitting my body kept going through my head. I kept trying to imagine how it would feel, lightning hitting me.

It was a hot, quiet summer, 1985. Our family had gathered at the familiar spot, the house in Motovon, Yugoslavia. Motovun is a magical 13th century Venetian town on top of a hill twenty minutes away from the sea, which makes for a great distance from the hustle and bustle of the tourist-crazed coast. The river Mirna, which used to bring ships from the sea to this merchant town, has all but evaporated, and Daytona, as it was called by the Italians, is blissfully removed from the world.

On either side of the entrance to the house are two rooms with stone walls which were obviously stores; we heard that the merchant in this house sold olive oil and flour. These rooms are cold and were never really used, although they were the subjects of many of our daydreams. Our mother had so many visions for these rooms that I lost track-her favorite was of an antique store. But none of them materialized; the rooms are empty to this day.

I was reading about Agni, the Indian fire god-the Sun and the Heart of the Sun. Agni is the god who, as fire, receives the sacrifice and, as priest, offers it to the gods. The element of fire also pervades the whole universe. The Sun, in the highest heaven, is kindled in the storm cloud and comes down to earth as lightning where he is ever reborn by the hands of men. And so we are transformed through fusion with the light, the Divine light.

Inspired by these images I decided to do a performance called "Red Angel" and announced to everybody in town that the show would last for five hours. First I started working on the space. I painted the walls. One side was dark, with snakes moving toward the ceiling; it was black, Red and brown. The other wall facing the dark side was light, the future, and the center had a two-faced bird, looking both east and west; next to it was a large spiral. Then I took some wooden panels and painted them silver, with some Hebrew writing that I copied from a record that I borrowed from Lucia, a friend who comes to Motovun every summer. She sparked off the whole event in a way. We had one of those Motovun discussions about art, and I set off to prove something, I don't quite remember what...

I was hanging out with a young guy during my stay that summer. We were being really wild, like two stones hitting each other, creating friction. He became part of this Event. I painted an old chair and wrote "Red Angel" on it, put it in front of the door, as a sign. Then I filled three stone vessels that had been used a long time ago for olive oil, with colored water, one Red, another yellow, and the third black. Strange things were being reflected here-Hebrew writing and a German flag? I don't know what I was tapping into here; eerie echoes of World War 11?1 painted my whole body Red. I then wrapped myself in a Red piece of fabric and put on my head a Montenegran cap I found among our souvenirs in the house. The boy was in charge of the record; it was to play continuously. The record was of songs of children in a Jewish ghetto, in Yiddish. I really don't know why it moved me so. We lit many candles around the room. I struck a pose of a Roman goddess statue and we opened the doors to the public.

The first hour was the hardest. I had many thoughts going through my mind, many distractions from the people who started streaming in.But the worst was controlling my body. After not too long, my muscles started tensing. I started thinking that I wouldn't make it through. My mother came in and started panicking that I was standing on a cold floor bare foot—there go the ovaries! My father was getting drunk on local Red wine. It was all a challenge to keep from bursting into laughter. People were talking into my ear, purposely trying to make me move. And then I suddenly thought: "I'm wearing Red, like the monks, the Buddhist monks; they meditate for hours without moving. So I will become one of them." My eyes were half closed, and I moved my sight to a candle flame. Slowly the sounds of the people surrounding me became a murmur. I visualized Motovun on top of the hill, and myself the statue standing on top. The warm wind was caressing my body, my Red garment flowing beautifully. In the distance I imagined how the river moved when it was in its prime, with Venetian ships calmly flowing. I looked up at the sun and felt the warmth like a bath of blissful energy. Then suddenly I felt angels surrounding me, playing with me, touching me with their Wings. Amorphous, they had no faces, like birds of energy, smiling energy. I realized that they were communicating to me, that they approved of my action. Slowly there were more and more of them, creating a spiral around my body and up, up into the sky towards the center of the Sun. As I descended back into the space, I heard blurred sounds first; then they became voices and I heard someone whispering in my ear, "I love you," dropping something into my hands, which were open and cupped. I closed my hand and slowly opened my eyes. There was quite a sight in front of me; a pagan get-together had taken place. There were food leftovers, opened bottles of wine with empty cups. People sat at the edge of the room comfortably chatting. I had really become like a statue, non-imposing. It was time to close the doors....

Later, I was told what had transpired. Tourists passed through and took photographs, posing next to me. Lucia came in and started crying; it really touched a soft spot in her. I guess I proved whatever I set out to, which now completely escapes me. And then a group of friends brought food and wine and sat down to enjoy the show. In my hand was a rosary, with a Virgin Mary.

I continued to work with the image of Red Angel in many media. Appropriately enough, by strange circumstance I ended up having a workspace in a bronze foundry in Corona, Queens. I was working on a Red Angel installation that traveled to Venice. The presence of fire was constant.

Every time bronze was melted, the workers knew to call me to watch. Liquid metal being poured; I was witnessing an ancient alchemical process. One moment hard, the next liquid. One moment shapeless, the next a face, a body, anything out of our imagination. I made one bronze during my short stay there, a Wing. Just before it was ready to be cast, a fire broke out in the workroom. Thanks to one of the workers, it was saved. It was in wax form at that point, and it would have just melted away.

The installation consisted of one Red sculpture, with the wing; one white sculpture, a ship, egg shaped, on top of which were found pieces of a shipwreck; and three paintings, two Red and one white; the white one I named "White Result."

I was in a fiery creative mood there, but just as soon as the pieces were completed, I lost the space; it was sold. So once again I was without a workspace and I continued my artwork in a basement on St. Marks Place belonging to Lawson, a friend and carpenter I've known for years. It was fine at first, especially since Lawson is such a good craftsman. He helped me build a Column, a Moon, the Ship and the pedestal for the Wing. During this period I spent most of the time wearing a gas mask. We used very toxic materials and in a way they mirrored the surroundings that were developing. Crack crept into this space, and the situation deteriorated swiftly. Crack keeps nasty company; pretty soon it became unbearable. This particular smoking ritual is one of death, destruction and suicide; some very evil spirits are summoned with its smoke.

The ancient Greeks reamed much from the Zoroastrian magi, who left no monuments because they believed in natural powers. Herodotus commented: "The erection of statues, temples and altars is not an accepted practice among them, and anyone who does such a thing is considered a fool, because, presumably, the Persian religion is not anthropomorphic like the Greek. God in their system is the whole circle of the heavens and they sacrifice to him from the top of the mountains. They also worship the sun, moon, earth, fire, water, and winds, which are their only original deities...." Herodotus also mentions the Medean magi, who were known long before the days of Zoroaster as a magico-priestly caste, one of the six tribes of Medes. It is from this race of men that the word magic is derived. To the Greeks, the word rnagia originally signified the religion, reaming and occult of the Eastern magi. The magi penetrated into Greece, India and even into China. They transcended religious differences, for there was always something universal and international about the nature of magic. It was the descendants of this priestly caste that came from the East to proclaim and worship the newborn Christ.

The Greeks had a goddess who represented the priceless life-giving necessity of fire—Hestia. She was the deity of the hearth, daughter of Cronus and Rhea. In Greek tradition she has almost no mythology; she is mentioned only in the Homeric hymn to Aphrodite. She refuses both her brother Poseidon (Water) and her nephew Apollo as consorts, insisting on remaining a virgin. Hestia is a sacred principle personified and much honored. She kept apart from the disputes on Mount Olympus, and was represented in the city, which maintained the public hearth, as well as in the home. She was invoked before all sacrifices, and colonizers from Greece took fire to their new lands from their native city hearth, the prytaneia. The Romans continued the practice, renaming the state goddess of the hearth Vesta. The Zoroastrian bible was called Avesta; there is a direct connection, a tradition handed down.

Vesta was also worshipped in every household. The sacred fire of the state burned in Vesta's temple on Via Sacra, just below the Forum; it was renewed on March 1st, the first day of the Roman year (Angelica's birthday). Otherwise it burned perpetually. Her festival Vestalia was held on June 9th, the day I was born. On that day her beast, the ass, was given a holiday from labor and decorated with garlands of violets and strings of small loaves. The storehouse of the temple of Vesta was opened from the 7th to the 15th of June to enable the Roman matrons to bring their offerings to the goddess. During this period all public business ceased.

The temple of Vesta in Rome represented the house and hearth of the ancient kings, and just as the Rex sacorum was a priest who represented the king, the vestal virgins represented the king's daughters. They were originally four in number, later six, but always highborn girls from patrician families. They had a number of duties but were principally the guardians of the fire of the state hearth in the temple of Vestal. The office was a very ancient one, older than Rome itself. The vestals were sworn to absolute chastity, but they could return to private life after thirty years of service. If, during that time, one was found guilty of breaking her vow, she was buried alive in an underground chamber near the Colline gate, conveyed there bound hand and foot in a covered litter. She was made to descend a long wooden stair, which was then drawn up. (Michael Stapleton, Dictionary of Greek and Roman Mythology, Peter Bedrick Books, New York, 1986, p. 207, Vestal )

Men who are connoisseurs of smoking (in the Western world) always relate to their smoking passionately, as if to a lover. ].M. Barrie's book Lady Nicotine about the pleasures of smoking says that a gentleman must always use a "Vesta" to light his cigar. They differ from ordinary matches only in the name, the tradition.

I don't remember exactly where we were going, but we were in a bus when Shuli, an artist friend also looking for workspace, told me about this one place I might consider. A basement, again, but it happened to be in the middle of Soho. Soho! I never even knew Soho when it belonged to the artists; that was before my time. The only Soho I knew was of galleries, of trendiness, the very commercial, very expensive Soho. Shuli also mentioned something about having to pass though a very strange space. The strange space fumed out to be a cigar factory! It looked like something out of the 19th century, the exploitation of the workers in the most miserable circumstances. And that worker was a woman; in fact, only women worked in this factory. At the entrance one of the workers was beating the tobacco leaves with great anger in her movements.

Daily I passed through, observing these women, Hispanic women, illegal for sure, smoking as they worked! It was quite a sight, and the smell—your eyes would water after only a few moments. There is no way to describe that smell; it is so strong, it hurts.

I was drawn to this factory, to the women. It was becoming an obsession. I wanted to do something with it, but I had no idea what. A documentary? Definitely not. But I had to start somewhere, so I decided to simply videotape the scene. I became familiar with the workers and the owner of the factory, and when I asked him if it was okay he didn't seem to mind. So I booked a day for camera and crew.

Two days before the shoot, I was taken to dinner at 21—the famous 21, where the very famous and very rich meet. Being the obsessive person that I am, throughout the dinner I discussed only the cigar factory, how amazing it was to see those women smoking and rolling tobacco. The image one usually has in mind is of a man smoking a cigar, a fat boss ordering people around... not women, never women. Why is it o.k. for a man to suck on a phallic symbol in public?

On our way out we stopped at the restaurant's cigar stand. All this talk about cigars made my date want to light one up. And there was this beautiful Latin girl, Emilia Cleopas, the cigar sales girl. We started talking, and she spoke with such knowledge and passion about cigars, I immediately invited her to the video shoot for an interview.

When we arrived at the factory for the shoot, everything seemed fine. We set up the camera and lights and started to videotape. The next moment there was a rising tension in the air; we began to feel uncomfortable. The women started protesting, hiding their faces. Finally, the factory owner came out and said: "Victoria, I'm sorry. Next thing you know, they'll ask for a raise in pay and all kinds of bullshit."

I felt like an aggressor; the camera had become like a gun being pointed at them, the lights as if for interrogation. They were clearly frightened; frightened and angry. Angry because somebody had told them that across the street there is a man who makes a lot of money with video—Nam June Paik. They felt I was manipulating them, and I felt that they were manipulated enough, so we retreated to the basement. We waited for the cigar sales girl from 21.

When Emilia finally showed up, she was all geared up to start her talk. I had only one request, to paint her lips Red. She sat down and calmly gave a startlingly beautiful monologue about her experience of the cigar. She opened up a whole now dimension about this most male symbol in Western society—the phallic symbol itself. At 21, where she worked, successful, rich men met and made deals. She felt that when they smoked the cigar, they were practicing magic. Were they aware of that? Back in her neighborhood, the people who smoke cigars are very religious people, and more often than not, women. She smoked a cigar while she talked. It was very sensual the way she sucked on it—slowly, like a good lover, taking her time.

Emilia personified the modern age Carmen to me, especially in this setting. In the cigar factory she looked as if she belonged, and as if she came from another planet. She said that Santeristas would puff cigar smoke into a bowl of water and see your past, your future. Tobacco smoke is a very powerful medium.

According to Emilia, loving to smoke a cigar has nothing to do with penis envy. Women in South America smoke cigars, and not much is thought of that. This is their way of reclaiming the power, through the magic powers of smoke. At 21, men smoke a cigar after a multi-million dollar deal, but she smoked to come closer to God. She said that there are two Gods, the spiritual and the material—the Eastern and the Western. How she views these men at 21 is particularly interesting. They smoke a cigar while they are making a business deal because it allows them to see through the person they are negotiating with. Is it possible that modern businessmen are tapping into the archaic magic practices?

Bizet's Carmen worked in a cigar factory. The thought of all those women together in the tropical heat, half-dressed, rolling the cigars on their thighs must have inspired the opera. The smoke, she sings, is elusive, like love, you cannot hang onto it.... Women are almost always the workers in the factories; we are reminded that they are the creators of the phallus.

Emilia thinks that men are intimidated by women who smoke cigars. We are all so unaccustomed to this sensual sight. I asked her to tell more about the religious aspect of smoking. Every Monday morning when she woke up she smoked a cigar, to start her week.

And the ritual went like this: "I light all my candles, and at the end of my prayer, I light the cigar. Instead of inhaling it, I put it in my mouth and I blow out; that's the way you communicate with the saints, 'cause the saliva is on it and all your thoughts are on it, too. When I'm in deep thought, I smoke a cigar. When you die, your body leaves in a puff of smoke. I guess it's like smoking a cigar." The Buddha come pared rebirth to the lighting of a new candle from the flame of a dying one. The flame goes on, but the candle or the body is consumed. In the "Voice of Silence," a Tibetan Buddhist text, it is said: "Out of the furnace of man's life and its black smoke, winged flames arise, flames purified, that weave in the end the fabric glorified of the... vestures of the Path." The cigar is never put out, but the glowing spark is left to die. Emilia continued: "The cigar is very sacred in Santerismo. It is the only way really to talk to the saints. Anything you want to ask them, you ask through the cigar. All the women smoke cigars, all the disciples. Santerismo is the oldest religion on earth. It comes from Africa. Smoking a cigar is pure; it is a sign of power."

I had no knowledge of Santeria and asked her to elaborate. I understood her saying that its roots were in Africa, in Uruba. She didn't know the spelling or much else about it. But she was certain that it was the oldest religion on earth. "Anytime I want to know anything abut a person and their life, I smoke a cigar, and I'm able to see through them like glass. Maybe that's why when I walked in here [the factory] all the women smiled at me. I guess they knew deep down who I was."

Who was she? She came as an answer to the undefined question I had about the women in the factory, the feelings I got. She opened the door I was looking at; not the history of cigars, or the different names and makes. I wasn't interested in the accepted facts; I wanted the woman's point of view, the deeper truth, the ritual.

Right after this I was invited to do a performance at a gallery in Soho. A few friends and I smoked cigars, including Emilia, whose video was projected in the background on a large screen. The images and the smoke offended the owners and we were kicked out.

My then future husband Bogdan and I went to California to conduct an interview with his colleague, Murray Gell-Mann, a Nobel laureate and the discoverer of quarks. I asked him if he knew where Urubas were and he corrected me: Yoruba, in Nigeria. In fact, his interview began with him pointing to a Yoruba divination bowl, which he jokingly said physicists need in order to make discovcries.

The Yoruba culture was quite advanced when the white man started taking them captive in the 17th century to be their slaves, they were organized in a series of kingdoms and had a complex social structure. THe most important kingdom was Benin. Their most important city to this day is lle-lfe, which according to their legend was created by Orisha Obatala and is the origin of all that exists. From this powerful culture, they left behind a rich legacy of art. Almost every piece of African art that I found exe traordinary came from Nigeria, from the Yoruba tribe. The most fascinating part of their culture is the mythological aspect, the religious beliefs and practices. But that I found out later, definitely not from the books in the library. The material I found there was dry, studious and lacking in explanations of the rituals and magic.

In the beginning of the 17th century, the Ewe tribes invaded Yorubaland, forcing the Yorubas to migrate to the Nigerian coast, where many of them were captured by slave traders and brought to the New World. Their white masters felt threatened by their strange worship of deities, and forbade them to practice their religion. They were forced to accept Catholicism, and accept they did. Except that instead of the Catholic religion absorbing the African, it happened the other way around. The African religion was much stronger, because it is rooted in Mother Earth, in Nature. So the slaves outsmarted their white masters by hiding their Orishas behind the ""front" of Catholic saints. They appropriated with time many customs from their new home, but their roots were never lost. And just as the religion would become less African, a new boat of slaves would come in and refresh their memory.

There are also theories about the connection of the Yoruba to Egypt. Some Egyptians migrated to Nigeria looking for fertile land next to water. They taught the natives there their religion and showed them how to craft sculptures and pottery. Over time Yoruba evolved to the form it has now, reaching its peak in the thirteenth century.

There are some 4,000 Orishas (deities) in the Yoruba pantheon; it resembles the complex pantheon of the Egyptian Gods. In their human portrayal we are reminded of the Greek Gods. It is all connected--after all, Africa and Mediterranean Europe aren't that far away. Western historians arrogantly assume that Africans didn't mix much with the Classical cultures, and appropriate the glories of Egypt's past as if a completely different race were in question.

While immersed in images of Africa, with a map of the continent above my kitchen table, I got an editing job for a woman who was working on an educational video about AIDS in Africa. After this session, a dancer booked time with me in another editing room. When we walked in, the room was still occupied. At the monitors was a girl dressed all in white, and on the screens was... Africa. She excused herself for running overtime. I asked where the footage was from. "Nigeria," she said. Nigeria! Then I asked her if she knew anything about the Yorubas. She responded: "These are Yoruban rituals that I videotaped." We started talking, much to the dismay of the dancer waiting for me, but this was what I was searching for. I told her about Emilia. She asked if she was a priestess. I had no idea; the thought had never occurred to me. I asked her to write down her telephone number and next to the number she wrote "Basha Alpern, Yoruba priestess."

It wasn't easy getting a hold of Basha. I tried calling many times; she lived in a hotel uptown on Broadway. I was never sure if she got the messages. Finally one day I got a booking for editing and it fumed out to be with her. She required titles over her Nigerian footage. So I learned in the process the names of different dances, rituals, cities.... Basha lived part time in Nigeria and worked for the king(! ), videotaping his family and social affairs. Occasionally she herself would appear in the video, and it was guise a sight. A white woman (of Jewish background) dressed all in white, in the middle of Africa, a Yoruba priestess. I wondered how she got there. Through the drum, she said. She played the conga drum, started following the history of the drum. "When you follow the history of the drum, you find the history of the people."

The tape I was helping her with turned out robe for a panel discussion she was organizing, on the Yoruba culture. When she asked me to videotape the event, I knew that I was coming closer to the real story. The guests were Baba Afolabi Epega, a Nigerian babalawo (high priest of Yoruba), Adeyemi Bob Thomson, an African-American practitioner, and

Beatrice Morales Cozier, an anthropologist from Cuba. Throughout the discussion, Bob Thomson thoughtfully smoked a cigar. Earlier I had approached him and asked about the connection, but he quickly dismissed me. ("You silly girl.")

I started asking myself how all this connected with the cigar factory, with those women. I was wondering if I was losing sight. Towards the end my frustration grew apparent and there ensued a long dialogue between the panelists and myself at the camera. My first question referred to the book I was reading connecting the Yorubas to Egypt. The response was that it was the other way around; that Egypt assimilated the Yoruba culture; that lle-lfe is the beginning of mankind. I dared to ask what the importance of women in the rituals is and also about the fact that in Nigeria polygamy is commonplace. This seemed to really create some disturbance in the room. The babalawo was especially perturbed. He asked me if I knew where my husband was, trying to point out that when a man has more women they know exactly who he's with. I was unhappy with the direction all this was taking and finally directed a question to Beatrice Morales about women and cigars. Bob Thomson made a joke: "Please help her; she's been asking this question all day." I knew she was the one who could help me out of this impasse. And she was. She didn't act as if it were a far-fetched question, didn't avoid the subject, but proceeded to talk about women in the 16th and 17th centuries who were merchants of tobacco. She had to cut the answer short because it was going away from the subject that they had met there for, but in Beatrice I knew I had found the right person and was determined to continue our discussion. Immediately after the panel meeting I asked her for an interview. It wasn't easy, since the people running the place were anxious to get us out. So I climbed out onto the terrace with the camera person and set up lights. We shot a ten minute interview, until they kicked us out of there, too. It didn't look like I was going to be able to continue at another time because she lived in New Orleans and was very busy finishing her dissertation in Cuban anthropology. Here are a few things she said at our first encounter:

At that point we were rudely interrupted by the person in charge and ordered to stop and get out. I begged for only five minutes more and he agreed "Five minutes!" "Thank you," I said and turned to Beatrice to go on.

She concluded hastily as the man once again appeared, this time determined to get us out.

All this reminded me of something that happened nine years ago. It was a very hot and humid summer. I lived on Seventh Street between B and C. I went out to get some groceries. At St. Marks Place I stopped and browsed around at what was being sold on the street. Lots of junk, as usual, hot bicycles and other wares. And there, in the middle of the chaos was sitting a young man, clean shaven, dressed in black. In front of him on the pavement was a piece of blue velvet on top of which were three or four religious pieces. I bought a silver cross from him and left. On my way home I heard some Latin music and singing from a small church. There was a man standing at the door. I wanted to take a peek. He said: "Come in, come in." I stepped in. A young girl with a pretty face in a white lace dress approached me. She said "I will translate to you; I will be your Guide." She took me by the hand and sat me down, next to her. I was enjoying the music, singing with percussion, congas and guitars. It was wonderful. I turned to the girl and told her that it gave me shivers how beautiful it was. She said that meant I was in the presence of God, then got up, went to the front and whispered something in the priest's ear. Then the priest came to the microphone and spoke. People started turning around and looking at me. His speech became more and more passionate, he pointed at me. The priest said that he had a message from God and that I was sent to them to be purified from Sin. He asked me to step to the altar. I had no way out, so I proceeded. I came to the front, he told me to lean down. A woman was on the other side of him. They laid their hands on me and started screaming for the Devil to come out. Then they started playing a rhythm on the drums and chanting I looked to the left, to the right; people were turning in circles like dervishes, going into a frenzy. A woman was crying. They poured water on the ground, on me. Then, slowly everyone settled down. I gave the cross I had bought earlier to the girl, excused myself, took my groceries and left. As I crossed the street to my door, put the key in, a torrential flood of rain suddenly descended. This sent a chill through me; I ran up all six flights of stairs in one breath. When I walked in my lower body was covered with blood.

I never had an explanation of what transpired that day. But now I was getting an inkling. Certainly it wasn't a purely Christian affair. It was more like a shamanistic ritual. It must have been a Santeria church that I walked into.

Santeria is not confined to the ignorant and the uneducated. Some of the people I met who are followers of the cult are real intellectuals. There are some 100 million practitioners of the cult in Latin America and the U.S., and that is a conservative estimate. In Cuba, where Santeria has developed extensively, the Yorubas are known as lucumi This term is derived from the Yoruban word Akumi, which is the name given to a native of Aku, a region of Nigeria where a lot of the Yorubas come from. The Cuban lucumis were influenced by the Catholic imagery, although the essence of the religion is purely African. I was delighted to have met Beatrice. She was from Cuba and an anthropologist! At the panel meeting she said that her mother, Rosa Levya "Shango Laramie," was a priestess, and many times wanted her to become one too. She resisted, saying that she was interested in anthropology, to which her mother responded that there is no difference, and that one day she would have to face her destiny. It was her mother who initiated Basha into the Yoruba religion.

The ceremony of initiation was renamed asiento in Cuba, a Spanish word which means seat. The choice of this word may be explained by the fact that the saints are believed to take possession of their initiates and literally "mount" them. The santera is commonly known as the "horse" of the saints. It is almost identical in the Voodoo religion. During the initiation, the mind is conditioned for its future work. One is initiated into the mysteries and rites of the particular Orishas who are recognized as the "Mother" and the "Father."

When Castro came to power, many Cubans fled the country, bringing with them the African rituals and magic. Soon it spread throughout the South, particularly New Orleans and Miami, as well as New York and New Jersey. Who would believe that the city that symbolizes the height of civilization and modernity has so many practitioners of this cult! But in New York you can see numerous botanical, which are the centers for practitioners. These stores were opened by women originally, and they are where you can purchase your candles and potions. And for a fee, it can be arranged for someone to cast or rid a spell. Sometimes it is quite costly, all depending on the seriousness of the situation at hand.

The Havana cigar is considered by connoisseurs to be the creme de la creme. It has been a forbidden fruit since 1959, when the U.S. put an embargo on Cuban tobacco. And the symbol of the capitalist world, many times seen in Communist caricatures, suddenly became readily available in the Soviet Union. And so Cuban magic traveled to Russia. Meanwhile Castro recently received an award from the United

Nations for quitting the cigar! Many Cubans believe that Castro owes his success to the black magic of the Cuhan mayomberos (witches). It is rumored that the African deities placed him in his position of power. In fact, quite a few dictatorships in Latin America have been credited to works of magic. Only recently, when Noriega fled from the U.S. troops, they found remnants of a magic ritual in his room. Animal parts candles, offerings. And the New York Ames reported that he always wore Red underwear as a means of protection.

Cuba has a peculiar history owing largely to its geographical placement. Less than 90 miles from the Florida Keys, it commands the entrance to the Gulf of Mexico and the Panama Canal. Now that Noriega has been ousted and the Soviet Union has gone broke, it finds itself isolated. The Indians who inhabited the island at the time of Columbus's landing possessed no written language and because they were peaceful were annihilated or absorbed, or else died out. At least three cultures swept through the island before the arrival of the Spaniards: the Guanahatabeyes, the Ciboneyes, and the Tainos, whom Beatrice mentioned earlier.

Most is known of the last group. They had a rather advanced economic system based on agriculture. Tobacco, cotton and corn were the most important part of the economy. The Tainos believed in a supreme invisible being and their religion was idolatry. Ancestor worship was common and they carved idols that resembled their ancestors. Tobacco was used for smoking as well as for religious ceremonies and for curing the ill. There was almost no mingling of races between the Spaniards and the Indians. But the black slaves did have contact with the Indians. After all, their cultures weren't that far apart from one another. They both worshipped nature, above all, and their ancestors. Beatrice Morales spoke about this connection.

Emilia's Monday morning cigar-smoking was a reenactment of an ancient Indian ritual. Beatrice translated a description of the ritual from Spanish:

The rebel Indians communicated with their ancestral warriors by keeping their bones in a clay pot and smoking tobacco; this pleased the ancestors and ensured victory. One of the most interesting rituals in the Afro-Cuban spiritual houses is the peculiar way in which the mediums smoke tobacco. The Afro-Cuban medium, and all the spiritistas, place the lit part of the cigar in their mouth, and they inhale the smoke in this way, without breathing or opening the mouth. At the stream end of the cigar, which is not lit, they exhale the smoke which reaches out into a fine, beautiful line and leaves a trail of aroma in the air, covering the room. And thus they sit in a circle. The tobacco ritual prepares the environment so that the group can transcend their everyday world. The power of culture is amazing. In the same way, we can see that tobacco was being smoked 500 years ago by the indigenous people in the Caribbean. This ritual was passed on to the Afro-Cuban women who were the traders of tobacco. Some people believe that tobacco is symbolic of the AfroCuban culture. It's a combination of strength; and it's composed of different cultures—the AfroSemitic culture, which goes back to the 13th and 14th centuries when the Moors, Africans, Jews, and Gypsies formed a minority in Spain. We know that there was a lot of cultural assimilation going on when they came to Cuba in the 15th and 16th centuries....

The Yoruba tradition, as well as the Indian, was written down for the first time when it came to Cuba. Familiar symbols began to emerge as I read about Shango. Shango is a storm deity of the Yoruba. Each town or village in Nigeria has its own Orisha who acts as a patron saint and protector of the people. Shango is worshipped in the city of Oyo. This divinity was once a king, a strong ruler and a great doctor. But he was also tyrannical. He could kill people by breathing fire from his mouth.

There are different versions of the story of how Shango fled to the forest and eventually hanged himself. But all agree that the place of this tragic event was Koso. This shameful event was mocked by his enemies and they cast scorn on his name. So his friends contacted a great magician who summoned a series of thunderstorms, causing the devastation of the city of Oyo. His followers immediately proclaimed that the storms were caused by Shango's anger. Many sacrifices were made in his honor and his followers to this day proclaim "oba ko so," meaning ""the king did not hang himself."

In New Oyo, the central shrine is the palace of the king Alafin, who is said to be a direct descendant of Shango. His symbols are his mortar, in which he prepares the thunderbolts; his magic spell; his castle; and a double-edged axe, which is usually made of wood, painted in Red and white and covered with cowrie shells. His colors are Red and white and his numbers are four and six. He is the patron of the firemen. He is invoked in works of dominion, passion and many other endeavors.

All of the legends and the central theme of Shango are based on power, be it procreative, de-. structive, medicinal or moral. The power is materialized in Shango's staff, which generally depicts a woman with a double-edged axe on her head. Thunderbolts are called thunder axes and are said to fall on the ground whenever there is a storm. Many double-edged axes are found in the Mediterranean world also. The Yoruba compare the noise of thunder to the bellowing of the ram, and these animals are sacred to Shango and wander freely about the marketplaces. He is propitiated with apples, bananas, roosters, cigars, and on special occasions with the ram himself. At the mention of his name, his followers lift themselves off their seats in a show of respect for the electrifying Orisha.

The shrines of Shango in Oyo have a collection of thunderstones which preserve the power. These are collected by his priests from houses that are hit by lightning. The thunderstones are kept inside a wooden bowl which sits on a tall mortar (pilon) know as odo Shango. On the Orisha's festival the odo is washed in water containing the crushed leaves of several plants, the juice of a snail and palm oil. Then a rooster is sacrificed and the blood poured over the thunderstones. Later the blood of the ram is poured over the stones. These African practices have been preserved nearly intact in Santeria.

Saint Barbara is Shango's syncretization. She was identified with Shango because she has a cup in one hand (Shango's mortar), a sword (his axe) in the other, and a castle at her feet. Her mantle is Red, her tunic white, and she is associated traditionally with thunder and lightning. She is also the patroness of artillerymen. Once again, a virgin and a martyr. Her legend dates back to the 7th century. She was the daughter of Dioscorus, who kept her beauty guarded. When she professed Christianity to her father, a pagan, he was so enraged that her ordered her to be tortured and beheaded. Dioscorus himself performed the execution, and on his way home was struck by lightning and reduced to ashes. She is venerated as one of the 14 Auxiliary Saints, the Holy Helpers, and is invoked in thunderstorms.

The Santeria cult, like Voodoo, is frightening to a lot of people because it deals with our primitive, archetypal feelings, something that many of us have lost touch with. But any religion, cult, or philosophy can be equally dangerous, depending on how we empower it with our thoughts.

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!