HAVANA -- Walk around the cobblestone streets of old Havana and you'll see a flourishing of artistic expression -- oil paintings and water colors for sale in bold, heavy strokes. Look a little closer, and you'll notice overt political themes.
An abstract painting depicts two women, their faces twisted in anguish, as they stare down at an empty plate with the skeletal remains of a fish.
A nearby stall features the image of a suicidal little prince, his body dangling from a red cord while an ominous red storm cloud hangs overhead. The word suerte, or luck, is written in block letters in the background.
``This is one of the possible scenarios for hope,'' says art dealer Hildebrando Chaviano Montes, who sells the little prince painting and other works by artist Pablo H. alongside art vendors near Havana's historic cathedral.
The prince painting is part of a series that chronicles the demise of hope, Chaviano explains. The figure of the prince -- representing an archaic form of government -- and the use of the color red are clearly intended to make a statement.
``Red has many implications. The communists chose red, and so did the Nazis,'' elaborates Chaviano Montes. ``Red is not always a hopeful color.''
Did these artworks simply slip past government censors? Or do they represent a greater tolerance for dissent in Cuba?
As you ponder the question on your walking tour, you suddenly notice something else. Police. Strategically parked at almost every block.
Wary of `Black Wasps'
Some pull over motorists they suspect of operating as taxi drivers without a legal permit. But Cubans are most wary of the Special Brigade, commonly referred to as the Black Wasps.
These units -- composed of about 20 officers -- pull their Soviet-made trucks and armored personnel carriers into neighborhoods around Havana stopping bystanders in their path. Those deemed suspicious are taken in for questioning.
It's an odd contrast -- an apparent relaxation of artistic censorship at a time of greater vigilance over other aspects of daily life.
The reality is that political art sells -- it makes for a sexy souvenir for tourists coming to Cuba looking for a taste of political intrigue -- and the product is primarily for export.
Pablo H. -- creator of the Suerte series -- sells his art in the popular tourist resort of Varadero and promotes his work to with color brochures. While pretty paintings of landscapes or traditional daily scenes go for about $30, Pablo's work, popular among Europeans, fetches as much as $700, says Chaviano Montes.
Artists, like other independent artisans, restaurateurs and tradesmen, must pay a tax to the government based on their earnings -- making the state an interested party in their success.
Financial advantage
``Do you think that the government suffers any destabilization from these expressions?'' asks one artist. ``I don't think so.''
The trend toward ``controlled dissent'' can be seen at state-operated gift stands where copies of a picture book of Cuba by French photographer Patrick Glaize are on sale.
The book is filled with provocative statements, such as the opening quote by writer Zoe Valdes, who says she would have sold her body for a plate of black beans. But the photographs are attractive portraits of Cubans who seem content in their environment.
Many artists trace the latest artistic opening in Cuba to the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, when the island spiraled into a protracted economic crisis and permitted a limited amount of dissent as an escape valve.
``After the fall of the Soviet Union, this became a new tactic,'' explains a painter on the outskirts of Havana. ``Party officials realized they had to make this trend official to control it.''
Alexis ``Kcho'' Leyva Machado, considered by many to be one of Cuba's hottest young artists, has put his own stamp on Cuban political art with his constructions of discarded inner tubes and lumber to comment on the 1994 rafter crisis.
Castro parody
The stage production of Caligula, Albert Camus' morality play on the crazed antics of a dying Roman emperor that was performed before packed audiences in Havana last spring, defied censorship with its blatant parody of Castro's omnipotent hold on the country.
``It is not the first time that a man among us possesses a power without limits,'' one of Caligula's subjects declares as she participates in a plot to kill the dictator. ``But it's the first time that he makes use of it without limits. That is what appalls me about him, what I want to combat.
``There is no other [action] but to strike, but not with a frontal attack,'' she adds. ``Tyranny can be combated, but one must be astute with evil.''
Carlos Diaz, director of the provocative Teatro Publico drama troupe that staged Caligula, seems to offer the answer to the riddle of who can and who cannot speak out in Cuba today.
``I don't like formulas, I have never asked myself that question,'' he responds evasively when asked whether there is freedom of speech on the island. ``Freedom of speech as a term exists, but it depends on what the expression consists of.''
Translation: Say it without saying it directly. Learn to read between the lines.
Diaz is one of the annual organizers of Cuba's acclaimed Latin American Film Festival.
Some note, however, that as a member of the country's cultural elite, Diaz's naughty humor may be seen as originating within the ranks of the party, making it easier for the government to digest.
``The state uses artists that they know are loyal to them to make certain statements and then claim there is no censorship,'' offers Magin Perez Ortiz, a painter four times arrested for his political activism.
Copyright © 1996 The Miami Herald