By Monique Jones
By Travis Cohen
By Liz Tracy
By Terrence McCoy
By Morgan Golumbuk
By Ciara LaVelle
By Carolina del Busto
By Michael E. Miller
Local residents often lament Miami's lack of culture: no stellar museum collections, a dearth of first-run, first-rate theater, frequent snubs by rock and pop stars who bypass us on their U.S. tours, and so on. But while many sit and bitch about our relative poverty in the fine arts as compared to other urban centers, Historical Museum of Southern Florida folklorist Stephen Stuempfle and a team of local consultants have intelligently mined our rich natural resources, and they've put together a fine exhibition that says a lot about what's really going on here.
Caribbean Percussion Traditions in Miami presents a stunning panorama of the instruments and artifacts that Miami's disparate Caribbean communities make use of in concerts, public festivals, and private religious ceremonies, allowing for a comprehensive look at some of the most important -- and largely unrecognized -- forms of popular art created in South Florida.
On a recent Saturday, a clamor came from the museum's small auditorium, where a man in a bright yellow satin suit with matching gloves marched in circles, blowing a tin horn. Four other musicians pounded metal drums wrapped in colored felt and feathery trim. The group was a Bahamian junkanoo band that usually performs outdoors at events like the Goombay Festival. Indoors, the heart-racing rhythms reverberated claustrophobically. The audience might just as well have been dancing down the street during Carnival. Seemingly oblivious to the close quarters, some shook metal rattles the band members had passed around.
That deafening performance was part of a daylong percussion festival held in conjunction with the exhibition. On a more typical day, the museum's first-floor galleries are relatively quiet, with competing strains of Cuban rumba, Haitian ra-ra, and Puerto Rican plena escaping softly from headphones and video monitors scattered throughout the beautifully installed display.
While the audio-visual aids contribute to one's understanding of the exhibition, they don't distract from its focus: the instruments themselves. Drums and other percussion instruments used in religious and secular music of South Florida residents from the Bahamas, Cuba, Guyana, Haiti, Puerto Rico, and Trinidad are displayed. A team of local experts -- mostly percussionists, but also priests, musicologists, and anthropologists -- assisted with the installation.
"In percussion traditions, particularly the Afro-Cuban religions and Haitian Vodou, the drums themselves are honored -- they're sacred and they're kind of put on a pedestal," says Stuempfle, the show's curator. "In a way the museum has that same effect, because a museum sanctifies or sanctions objects. By putting them in a museum, which in Western society is treated as a sanctuary or a special space, we're calling attention to these as valuable objects from valuable traditions."
Stuempfle was most concerned with accurately reflecting the different cultures. "We didn't want to present the drums in a vacuum," says the curator, who took two years to organize the exhibition. "It was important to show how they fit into community life."
Thus the Haitian section includes a display of rooms in the house of a manbo (priestess), designed by Carole Demesmin, a local manbo. A table holds ceremonial objects: a box of cigars, splendid sequin-covered bottles, painted tcha-tchas (maracas), a bottle of rum, a machete. On the floor, a veve, an intricate graphic symbol of a Vodou deity, has been drawn in white powder. A wooden armoire in the bedroom is an exquisite assemblage filled with small colored-glass bottles, beads, and satin fetishes. A white cotton priestess's dress hangs on the wall.
Another display refutes the notion that Puerto Rican music begins and ends with salsa. (The exhibition avoids salsa altogether, in favor of the African-rooted genres bomba and plena.) Panderos (a kind of tambourine) of various sizes, gYiros (gourds), hollow bamboo branches and barrels played with sticks, and the small cuatro guitar are arrayed, backed by a photo mural of the Broward group Los Pleneros del Borinquen. (Unfortunately, a video of the band was on the fritz during several visits to the show). Papier-mache masks resembling friendly devils and fanciful monsters, worn during street festivals, are clustered nearby.
Elsewhere three sacred Afro-Cuban bata drums are displayed with satin costumes trimmed with shiny braid and cowrie shells. These personify different deities, or orishas, during Santeria ceremonies. An adjoining altar is lavishly hung with yards of colored satin and animal-print fabric. Individual shrines, called soperas, are fashioned from ceramic terrines covered with satin in the colors of the respective gods. These are topped with elaborate metal crowns from which hang small charms in the shape of knives, hammers, hatchets, and other "tools" said to be used by the spirits.
What makes these sacred objects particularly notable is that they were made in Miami. Some, like the two-headed bata drums crafted by Ezequiel Torres (the subject of a feature story this week; see page 13), were commissioned for the show. Metalsmith Domingo Antonio Salas made the sparkling crowns and "tools" in his Allapattah workshop, as he has been doing for members of the Cuban community for the past 30 years.
In general, Stuempfle says, he sought out local crafstmen. He had the most difficult time finding drums for the display; working percussionists cannot easily give theirs up for months at a time. As a consequence, some of the instruments were specially made for the show and purchased for the museum's permanent collection. A minority of the objects were mass-produced, and that ends up creating some interesting juxtapositions: A commercially made conga drum with a shiny black fiberglass body and metal tuning lugs, for example, stands next to a homemade Haitian kongo drum (similar to the conga) made of unfinished hand-carved wood and a goatskin head complete with hair.