Off I go. But Where?

Nicolás Dumit Estévez Raful

Before the advent of cell phones, and even a while after it, I fully relied on people along the road to guide me through uncharted territory. I mean, this could pertain to locations like Zagreb in 2012, in the middle of the night, in the dark, where I had never been before and was looking for the host who I had yet to meet, and who had rented me a room in his apartment. I had no internet connection on my device, so talk about taking chances and trusting the universe. The same could apply to the Dominican city of Santo Domingo in the 1980s, where I arrived one late morning from my art school on the eastern section of the island without one single peso in my pocket. Procuring from a stranger the basic funds to pay for a ride home was an exercise stretching my limits on surrendering to the care of others and, at the same time, testing the autonomy with which I had initially embarked on this uncertain journey. But how can these two seemingly opposite ways of engaging life coexist in one single occasion like the one that I am illustrating in this last example, or in the first one?

Of all places, I live in a Euro-American dominant United States, a society/culture that, generally speaking, prides itself on self-reliance and in instilling independence in individuals starting at a tender age. This obviously collides with any expression of vulnerability, let alone soliciting passersby for help with a cab fare. And there can be a degree of isolation in autonomy that makes this a challenge for me to trade for the expansiveness that can reside in the fortuitous. Now, where is freedom in all of this and what is its connection to autonomy? After all, the United States is said to be the Land of the Free. A drink of carbonated water comes in handy here. It is good for settling my upset stomach, as well as for giving me the energy to untangle the mess in which I find myself at this moment, in this reflection. The image of freedom that comes to my mind is that of the “American” supermarket with its deceptive stock of possibilities orchestrated to please the wants of every single consumer. When I think of autonomy, if there is truly any in this context, I get a saccharine response. Almost all comes down to sugar.

Anything can be sprinkled with confectionery powder or decorated with sweet crystals and marketed–sold quickly before crypto currency tanks again one more time. This is how false decision-making, masked as autonomy, permeates most aspects of life. However, for me as a creative, the capacity to tread wisely through the unknown relies on collaborations and partnerships that honor a search for personal meaning, but that are also linked to the collective with the care that this calls for. I opt out of applying to a sizable art grant that will go to a single person. Why not distribute these resources equally among several creatives, I ask myself? Autonomy in me kicks in, and kicks me in the butt, urging me to focus my attention on what will bring me regeneration, restoration and happiness. I listen to it and dispose of the link to the life-consuming grant into my computer garbage bin. I exit the competition quadrangle to catch an inner glimpse of freedom… it feels rather good.

Where does the aqueous being in Fluid Improvisations: Bodies of Water Along the Bronx River end in the experience that I have been co-generating with a cohort of five other creatives? Is it on its banks delineated by cut stones? Is it at the edge of the greenway, or does the Bronx River non-visible presence somehow encompasses Westchester Avenue until it reaches the Bruckner Boulevard and meets the far reach of the industries that provide much needed jobs locally, yet still pollute Hunts Point? Does the River conclude where it is no longer wet and muddy or does it continue into me and into those I am collaborating with? This is the autonomy that I am interested in bringing into motion; the one that makes me confront my porosity. The one that gives me the strength to cross boundaries with respect. Not the one trying to bestow an artificially sweetened sense of freedom in me that sends me home with a plastic bag full of empty calorie items. The autonomy that I am slowly starting to embrace is one that does not thrive in seclusion, but that is actually activated and comes alive within the relational. Yes, at that very core where rough contours and sharp borders grate and grind stridently, seeking a way, although not necessarily with a destination in mind–in solitude, maybe, but certainly not alone. Autonomy might in fact be the meandering road into interdependence with all beings, with all I meet with and who meets me.