Focsa Building

This article is part of the Hidden Architecture Series “Tentative d’Épuisement” , where we explore the practice of an architectural criticism without rhetoric and based mainly on the physical experience of the work itself. Este artículo forma parte de la serie “Tentativa de Agotamiento” , comisariada por Hidden Architecture, donde exploramos la práctica de una crítica arquitectónica ausente de retórica y fundamentada sobre todo en la experiencia física de la propia obra. It is almost eight o'clock in the evening. The horizon line that defines the Caribbean Sea and a sky focused on Florida merges into a flash of candle light. Loose clouds, like violet, emerald and vesuvian brushstrokes, float inertly, with no movement other than that of the earth's own rotation. With the daytime heat abated, El Malecón finally awakens from its lethargy of embers and saltpetre. It does so cautiously, as if fearing that the sticky, humid heat will suddenly return, regretting a naively premature withdrawal. The vehicles on the avenue begin to turn on their headlights. The small Soviet utility cars, the Muscovites replicated in series with the mere distinction of the colour of their bodies – contained after so many years with scraps and patches of adhesive tape or other similar home-made remedies – gradually give way to the Almendrones. The 1940s Chevrolets or Mustangs, some restored and gleaming, others rusted and worn out like the shells of ships stranded on the sand of a desert, drive along, carrying excited tourists on their backs, perhaps celebrating a newfound youth. Their radios vibrate, at a volume that always seems excessive to the newcomer, to the beat of Compay Segundo now, Omara Portuondo moments later. Memories of the Son Cubano, forgotten one day only to be recovered by foreigners and decades later.