BELKIS AYÓN / MYTHOLOGIES

Belkis Ayón (1967–1999) is one of Cuba’s most prominent artists. The exhibition presents creative highlights from her brief career, from the mid-1980s to the late 1990s. 
 
Ayón worked with collography, a graphic printing technique that she refined and used in an innovative manner to expand both expression and format. The figures, symbols and rituals that feature in Ayón’s monumental works are drawn from the Abakuá, a secretive Afro-Cuban brotherhood that she explored throughout her artistic career. Her interpretations of Abakuá mythology introduce ideas about the amalgamation of religions and belief systems. She reveals the power of myths, while radically transforming and challenging these narratives. Ayón’s iconic works create their own universe of traditions, hierarchies and worldviews.

Introduction

Belkis Ayón devoted her brief but intense artistic career to depicting scenes from a previously unseen world. Using the graphic technique of collography (glue printing), she created monumental imagery that speaks of belonging, silence, power and resistance. One important source of inspiration for her work was the mythology and traditions of the secretive Abakuá brotherhood.   

In her works, Ayón retold the myths surrounding the Abakuá, with a particular focus on the female character Sikán, who – despite her central role in Abakuá mythology – had been excluded from religious practice. By giving a voice to Sikán and other silenced figures, Ayón challenged both religious and societal power structures in Cuban society. Her work dates back to a period of economic crisis and profound uncertainty in Cuba, issues reflected by many artists of her generation. From the perspective of a woman and an atheist, Belkis Ayón’s works proposed a radical new mythology through which to reinterpret history and influence the future.  

Ayón pushed the boundaries of collography, in which materials such as paper, cardboard, and sandpaper are glued onto cardboard to create the printing plates. Early on, she limited her colour palette to black, white and tones of grey – a conscious aesthetic and symbolic strategy. Working with great technical skill and a sensitivity to the expression of the material, she created works in which the unspoken and the forbidden are embodied. Her imagery is multi-layered, combining myths, dreams, an existential search and politically charged symbolism. 

Ayón never intended to reproduce and perpetuate the Abakuá myth exactly as it was. Instead, she created a new iconography to bring together its visual and poetic elements, adding her own interpretations and inviting the audience to add theirs. Belkis Ayón’s work is a timeless contemplation on the human condition and spiritual yearning. It is both deeply personal and universal. 

Artworks in the exhibition

Belkis Ayón / Mythologies presents more than thirty artworks and sketches, created between 1985 and 1998, of which the earliest are the lithograph Sikán from 1985 and a series of small-format colour prints from 1986. Initially, Belkis Ayón experimented with various graphic techniques, primarily lithography, before eventually choosing collography as her main medium of expression. The works Veneración [Veneration], Nasakó inició [Nasakó Initiated], ¡¡¡Ekwé será mío!!! [Ekwé Will Be Mine!!!], Sincretismo I and II [Synchretism I and II] – all dating from 1986 – offer visual interpretations of figures, ceremonies and symbols drawn from Abakuá’s mythological world.

In 1988, Belkis Ayón began working on a larger scale. She created monumental works by assembling several individually printed sections, each approximately 100 × 70 centimetres in size. The format was both adapted to the printing press, and manageable, which allowed her to control the printing process with great precision. Over time, she increased the number of sections so that a work could consist of up to nine or twelve pieces. In this manner, she was able to reproduce figures and scenes at nearly natural size. The scale, composition and irregularly shaped edges contribute to an impression of depth and an almost three-dimensional presence, with the figures seemingly emerging from the images to confront the viewer.

La Cena [The Supper] from 1988 is one of the artist’s first large-scale colour collographs. Three years later, in 1991, she transitioned to working exclusively in black and white, creating a second version of the motif. She maintained that the black-and-white format was best suited to express the existential drama inherent in Abakuá mythology.

La cena unites elements from Abakuá’s initiation banquet, Iriampó, with the Christian Last Supper. However, the figures are women, and Jesus is symbolically replaced by Sikán – the sole female character in Abakuá’s legends. In 1990s Cuba, the work represented a challenging reinterpretation of these strictly male-dominated contexts. As an embodiment of death, sacrifice, and silenced power, Sikán’s white body stands in stark contrast to the surrounding dark figures. Also present at the table is a male figure – Leopard Man – who symbolises patriarchal power and religious authority. He has committed a grave offense by consuming the sacred fish, Tanze, an act that provokes concern and dismay among the women around him.

Belkis Ayón created many of her most iconic, monumental collographs in 1991. Several of these works are included in the exhibition: Sikán, Mokongo, La familia [The Family], La consagración I-III [The Consecration I-III], Ya estamos aquí [We Are Here Already], Nlloro [Weeping] and the black-and-white version of La cena.

Sikán is a central figure in Abakuá’s mythology. According to the legend, while fetching water from a river, she inadvertently caught the sacred fish Tanze, thereby unveiling the secret of the sacred voice – a power reserved exclusively for men. This transgression of a fundamental taboo ultimately led to her death sentence. Sikán’s inner struggle, marked by conflicting emotions of strength and vulnerability, resistance and oppression, became a recurring theme in Belkis Ayón’s work.

Within Abakuá’s rigidly patriarchal world, Sikán emerges as a controversial embodiment of femininity – a complex mythological figure who is both a traitor and the symbolic mother of their brotherhood. Paradoxically, her discovery of the sacred voice empowered the men, who silenced her. In a manuscript from 1988, Belkis Ayón wrote: “She [Sikán] is like me, and she lives through me in my restlessness, as I instinctively search for an escape.”

Belkis Ayón created visual interpretations of myths that had previously been passed down orally. She developed her own iconographic universe of symbols, figures and ceremonial objects that capture rituals and sacred traditions. The three-part work, La consagración I–III alludes to three levels of the brotherhood’s initiation rituals: the initiation of a new member (ndisime), the installation of spiritual leaders (plazas), and the formation of a new group (potencia), which represents the smallest organisational unit within the Abakuá community. The images abound with symbols drawn from the Abakuá ritual world: the chieftain’s batons, the snake, feathers, the rooster as a sacrificial animal, goat heads, halos, and crosses. Certain Christian elements – the halos and the cross – attest to the convergence of African and Catholic traditions within Abakuá’s syncretistic fusion of diverse religious and cultural elements.

The work La familia pictures Sikán seated on a throne. Her identity is intricately intertwined with Tanze, the sacred fish of Abakuá mythology. The throne is partially adorned with fish scales, and a small fish rests on Sikán’s lap – a gesture that alludes both to Tanze and to Christian symbolism. Sikán bears a cross which, beyond its Christian reference, also evokes Abasí, the supreme deity in Abakuá mythology.

Beside Sikán stands a male figure, while at her feet lies the sacrificial goat, Mbori. The composition, structured in a triangular form according to traditional Western portrait conventions, expresses a balance of power and dignity. The work draws on depictions of the Holy Family in Christian art and also references Paul Gauguin’s painting Annah the Javanese, 1893-94. By alluding to elements of Gauguin’s work, Ayón highlights the often objectifying nature of the colonial gaze. In La familia, she interweaves motifs from Afro-Cuban, Christian, and secular European art traditions to create a dynamic dialogue about identity and power.

The mythological figure Mokongo is an authoritative leader within the brotherhood. He is the great warrior, associated with strength, wisdom, and the ability to uphold order and tradition. Mokongo also assumes a spiritual or ceremonial role as a mediator between the earthly and the divine. Here, Mokongo is depicted seated on his throne, accompanied by his itón (chieftain’s baton), a cross, the sacred fish Tanze, and the serpent that guards the river where Tanze was discovered.

Nlloro – “weeping” in the Abakuá language – is a ritual following the burial of a departed member of the brotherhood. However, in this work Belkis Ayón places the deceased at the heart of the ceremony. The participants’ tears, gestures, and prayers express a deep mourning for the lost brother. They are intended to foster a peaceful ascension and to prevent the soul from returning. The ritual signifies the passage from the earthly realm to the heavenly, serving as both a farewell and a blessing.

The work boasts a complex composition and rich symbolism. Figures in various positions overlap one another. The black figure to the right is the spirit Anamangüí, who watches over the departed and is charged with guiding his soul to heaven. He is adorned with anaforuanas – graphic symbols imbued with profound meaning in Abakuá rituals – which form a visual code expressing the sacred and esoteric knowledge of the tradition. At the far left stands Mpegó, a priest who carries a drum bearing the same name. He is the one who inscribes the anaforuanas during the ceremonies, rendering them a central element of the rite.

In 1993, Belkis Ayón increasingly shifted to working in a medium format, approximately 100 × 70 centimetres. The exhibition presents several of these mid-sized collographs, such as Mi alma y yo te queremos [My Soul and I Love You], 1993, Vamos [Let’s Go], 1993, La sentencia [The Sentence], 1993, Sin título (Sikán con chivo) [Untitled (Sikán with Goat)], 1993, and La soga y el fuego [The Rope and the Fire], 1996.

The work Sin título (Sikán con chivo) portrays Sikán from behind, in a half-profile perspective. Her body and head are partially covered in scales reminiscent of fish or snakeskin. In her arms, she holds the ritual sacrificial goat, Mbori, whose head rests on her left shoulder as she gazes toward us over her right. Her rounded belly hints that she is pregnant. On her back hangs a medallion, where one can discern a figure with a halo, a cross, and a small lamb – perhaps an allusion to Jesus or a saint? In the background, the fish Tanze appears.The work weaves together symbols from different traditions, foreshadowing the sacrifice and the shared fate of Sikán and Mbori. 

The foundational Abakuá myth has various versions, yet in none of them do the men express remorse for sacrificing Sikán. Nevertheless, through Ayón’s eyes, Sikán is more than a victim. The artist’s critical and symbolic reading of the ancestral myth elevates the African princess to a deity worthy of reverence. In her reinterpretation, men invoke Sikán in repentance for the cruelty of her sacrifice. 

In Mi alma y yo te queremos a character transformed into a mountain gazes down at a figure, diminished besides its vast presence. The large silhouette occupies nearly the entire surface of the paper. And even within that deep black – achieved using carborundum – a series of textured marks or anaforuanas can be seen. The small figure appears to be seated atop an Ekwé, the sacred drum. Sharp-eyed viewers might also spot the tiny silhouette of Tanze, the fish, imprinted in this section of the work.

Who is the figure judging with glowing, completely white eyes? It could be a shadow, reminding the men of their fatal decision to sacrifice Sikán. Or it could be Sikán herself – her omnipotent, unrelenting presence – judging them. This act of vindication recurs throughout many of Ayón’s works, in which she subverts the original narrative and reimagines it through a postmodern lens.

Around 1997, Ayón began experimenting with a new format – one that marked a notable departure from the body of work she had produced up to that point. This new direction took the form of a series of circular collographs enclosing newly imagined narratives. While references to Sikán and the Abakuá myth persist – as in ¡¡¡Déjame salir!!! [Let Me Out!!!] – a distinct group of prints stands out for depicting solitary figures engaged in dialogue with various elements and textures previously unseen in her work. Such is the case with the series My Vernicle or…, titled after lyrics from vallenato, a traditional Colombian music genre. Through these solitary characters, the artist reflects on certain ethical stances, made explicit in titles such as Intolerancia [Intolerance] and Acoso [Harassment], both from 1998.

Some critics have interpreted the circular, concentric format as a kind of premonitory sign of the path the artist would ultimately choose in 1999. Others have pointed to new emotional experiences unfolding in her life as a young woman. Overall, this body of work reveals Ayón’s versatility and deep commitment to artistic exploration.

All works in the exhibition courtesy of the Belkis Ayón Estate.

Curator´s text

There’s Always Something That Escapes Us

Sandra García Herrera
April, 2025

It may seem that everything has already been said about Belkis Ayón’s work. Numerous exhibitions and essays have attempted to unravel that “mystery” which continues to captivate viewers’ sensibilities across contexts and cultures. I suspect it will remain so, for there is something unfathomable in the totality of her output – an essence that resists definitive interpretation.

1. The Rope and the Fire

The lives of Belkis Ayón and Sikán share a trajectory that, despite its brevity, left an indelible mark. I like the word “mark” because it also evokes the act of printing or stamping – much like an intaglio plate pressed onto dampened paper.

According to the psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan, the construction of the “I” occurs through the subject’s identification with an external image, which articulates their internal tensions and contradictions. Belkis Ayón’s work – and the intensity with which she engaged her practice – continues to yield readings from multiple perspectives. One approach is to understand the artist through the aesthetic strategy of the alter ego.

Belkis Ayón was born in Havana in 1967. She began studying art at just ten years old, back when Cuba still had several visual arts elementary schools. She progressed through every level of artistic education – always within specialised institutions – culminating in her graduation from the prestigious Instituto Superior de Arte (ISA), alma mater to many of Cuba’s most prominent contemporary artists. The 1991 year not only saw her graduation from ISA but also her entrance into Cuba´s and the world´s contemporary art circuits.

It was in the 1980s that she discovered the theme that would define her brief but intense career. As a student at the Academia Nacional de Bellas Artes San Alejandro, she had already shown interest in Afro-Caribbean imaginaries. Her early printmaking experiments¹ depict scenes, symbols, and figures drawn from the cultural traditions of the African diaspora in Latin America and the Caribbean. Curator and essayist Corina Matamoros rightly notes that Ayón joined a path opened in the early twentieth century by Cuban artists, musicians, writers, and intellectuals.² Her engagement with the research of Enrique Sosa and Lydia Cabrera³ would further shape her fascination with the cryptic world of the Abakuá brotherhood.

Sikán is the name of an African woman who is the protagonist of the foundational myth of this fraternity. Versions of the legend vary, but they all agree on her sacrifice for having accessed a secret reserved for men alone. Like all labouring women of the Calabar region, Sikán went daily to the Oddán River – dividing the Efor and Efik peoples – to fetch water or fish. One day, unknowingly, she carried in her vessel the sacred fish Tanze, a totemic animal symbolising prosperity, salvation, and power. This three-tailed fish was believed to be the reincarnation of the ancient king Obón Tanze of the Efik, an embodiment of Abasí, their supreme deity. 

By coming into contact with the divine breath of the fish, Sikán became the bearer of salvation and greatness for the Efor tribe to which she belonged. Leaders and warriors from every clan around the river had long sought this creature, whose legendary roar would guarantee their people’s well-being and strength. A young woman had succeeded – and for that she was punished. Her body became the site of unspeakable atrocities, a lasting reminder of the forces that drive ego and power. This event marks the birth of the exclusively male Abakuá fraternity, where Sikán’s “error” becomes the very foundation for women’s exclusion. Paradoxically, it is this woman who is counted as the first Abakuá, whose sacrifice gave rise to a mutual-aid society.

“I see myself as Sikán – somewhat observant, intermediary, and revelatory… Sikán is a transgressor and as such, so am I,” Belkis Ayón confessed in 1999,⁴ after more than a decade working with the myth’s narrative. In her own words we glimpse the deep affinity she felt with the legend’s central character.

One untitled work – noted La soga y el fuego – stands out among her collographs. The silhouette of Sikán in profile bears facial features directly referencing Ayón herself. They merge into a single entity: Sikán surrendering to sacrifice, while Belkis witnesses it. The archetypal founding myth thus becomes a mirror reflecting the artist’s own aspirations, tensions, and contradictions.

2. The Secret in Her Eyes

“Sikán is Belkis with her big eyes,” observed Sandra Ramos, Cuban artist, friend, and colleague of Ayón’s. Almond-shaped, entirely white – or sometimes black – these eyes carry an undeniable tension in every piece, one of the hallmarks of Ayón’s visual poetics. The absence of other facial features – ears, nose, mouth – intensifies these silent yet expressive gazes, evoking the hermetic secrecy of the Abakuá brotherhood.

Between the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, thousands of Africans were forcibly brought to the Caribbean as a result of slavery. With little more than their traditions, they planted beliefs and languages across new lands, igniting a process of profound cultural and religious hybridisation. Among them were people from the Calabar region (present-day Nigeria and Cameroon), whose ritual associations took root in Cuba under the name Sociedad Secreta Abakuá. Colonial documents record that by 1836 the first ñáñigos⁵ had formalised their structure in Havana, defining the fraternity’s secret rites and codes.

The furtive, confidential nature of Abakuá hermeneutics ensured its survival in a transplanted context. Consequently, its visual repertoire is almost entirely aniconic, limited to a few identifiable elements. Ayón translated this icon-averse system into a visual language scarcely explored in Cuban art history.

“I discovered that at the time no one was addressing this theme – only Santería, voodoo, spiritism, and Palo Monte. There was no figurative iconography, except for the firmas [anaforuanas, ritual signatures]. I saw an opportunity to create an entire world based on stories I already knew.”⁶

In the foundational Abakuá myth, other figures – besides Sikán and Tanze – appear in Ayón’s scenes. In one concise version, Sikán, terrified by Tanze’s roar within the jar she carries, drops the jar and flees to her village, breaking a sacred silence. 

Elders convene and decree that the secret must not pass through profane lips – least of all a woman’s – and that such a transgression will be punished by death. At dawn beneath a ceiba⁷ tree, Sikán is sacrificed to establish a new law: spiritual power is exclusively male. Tanze too perishes, despite rituals to keep him alive. In desperation, the men slaughter a goat (Mbori in ñáñigo), and fashion its hide into a drum called Ekwé, thus inheriting the fish’s divine voice.⁸ From that moment, the ceremonial drum bears the secret, speaking only within Abakuá’s controlled frame, forever barring women’s access.

Ayón’s work reimagines every character and element of the myth. She especially explored the symbiosis of Sikán–Tanze–Mbori in the pieces like La sentencia [The Sentence], 1993, Sin título (Sikán con chivo) [Untitled (Sikán with Goat], 1993, and ¡¡¡Déjame salir!!! [Let me out!!!], 1997. Princess Sikán’s scaly skin – achieved through painstaking paper cutouts – evokes the metamorphosis of woman and fish, while the goat stands as the vehicle of their union.

In the late ’80s and early ’90s, her narrative is more literal. Works like Nasakó inició [Nasakó Initiated], 1986, prominently feature the firmas – ritual pictograms unique to Abakuá, called anaforuanas. Later, these signs appear throughout her oeuvre as pattern and texture. Equally recurrent is the image of Tanze’s jar: a vessel almost always cradled in Sikán’s lap or set at the foot of the sacred ceiba tree. This motif appears powerfully in Sincretismo I [Synchretism I], 1986, and again in the Sikán of 1988 – revisited in 1991 – whose haunting, compassionate gaze continues to move me deeply.

The snake also recurs across her practice. Ayón explained:

“In Abakuá mythology, the snake is sent by the tribe’s sorcerer to discover what happened when the fish Tanze vanished. Nasakó dispatches two snakes, which surprise Sikán along the way, causing her to drop the gourd on her head. Thus, the snake is always her companion – sometimes a threat, sometimes a protector, sometimes mere company. Depending on the idea, I also use it as a phallic element.”⁹

This is exemplified by Mokongo, 1991, a large scale collograph in which the figure is portrayed enthroned upon a seat of authority. The itón or rod of justice he holds becomes a snake slithering down his left leg. In this dark composition, four focal points crystallise the character: the sceptre of power; the cross linking to Abasí; the judging, flaming eyes; and the serpent-phallic symbol of patriarchal dominion.

Two other 1991 works – La familia [The Family] and Sikán – share this compositional gravity. Together with Mokongo, they form a core trilogy in Ayón’s production, majestically presenting the foundational myth’s figures and essences, which she would continue to unravel until her final days. Clearly, she early established a formal system and representational solutions with which to construct every scene. 

Though we persist in analysing her motives – the defiant gestures of her figures, her iconographic repertoire – we know there is something beyond the myth in Ayón’s work that allows it to transcend times and geographies.Yet we return once again to the myth, rereading every version transcribed by Lydia Cabrera; hoping to master each detail, only to be astonished when we spot its echo in Ayón’s prints. As researcher Lázara Menéndez warns, “we fall into the trap”. We yearn to speak of Sikán, the fish, the palm tree, the snakes… but one need not know the Abakuá myth to be struck by the power of her images. To confirm this, one need only observe viewers’ reactions: fear or fascination, but never indifference.

From 1997 to 1998 Ayón produced a series devoid of direct mythic references or invented icons. Acoso [Harassment], 1998, for instance, depicts a woman shielding herself from imminent aggression – those same judging eyes seeking to seize the secret? Perhaps this series marked the start of a new vein in her career, enabled by her mastery of form and theme to address other existential, human concerns. Only her eyes would know.

3. Collography as Ritual

Printmaking, as a medium, carries a kind of liturgy – or at least that is how Ayón understood it, given the commitment with which she devoted herself to collography, probing its limits and technical possibilities. Recent analyses link this choice to the material precarity of 1990s in Cuba – the very decade of her development as a printmaker. Because collography is an additive technique in which nearly any object can be inked and pressed onto paper, many have assumed she adopted it to exploit found or recycled materials. While this may be true to an extent, Ayón’s own testimony makes her deliberate choice evident:

“I use collography because it’s the most suitable technique to say what I want. That’s first and foremost. Moreover, it allows me to work in any large format I choose, and I’m fascinated by the labor of producing the plate. I thoroughly enjoy the entire process.”¹⁰

Creating a collograph involves multiple stages – from constructing the plate to the final impression. Confronted with her meticulously crafted matrices, one grasps the extraordinary command she achieved: no element left to chance. To give corporeality to her figures she developed a repertoire of textures from a handful of materials – papers and cardstocks of varying weights and finishes, sandpaper, carborundum, and gesso.

Then there was her solution for scale. Ayón printed most of her works on the standard presses of printmaking workshops, which imposed format limits. She overcame this by composing large-scale images in panels, demanding exacting precision to align figures seamlessly across sheets – a feat especially notable in her multi-panel works.

Her deliberate renunciation of colour is another salient aspect of her practice. This decision reinforced the tension and drama of her scenes, which speak from uncertainty, pain, and unrest. On more than one occasion, she explained that black—and its tonal values – best conveyed the hermetic mystery and force of her subject. Her two versions of La cena [The Supper] 1988 and 1991 – first in colour, then perfected in black and white for her ISA graduation exhibition – bear witness to this choice.

Alex Rosenberg, noted graphic art collector and specialist who knew Ayón well, stated in 2005 that no one had matched her achievements in collography up to that time. As for me, I cannot imagine her work in any other medium or by any other method. In her hands, collography claimed its place in the contemporary art of her era. Alongside her generation’s artists, she spearheaded a renewal of Cuban graphic arts, all while being invited to showcase the pulse of her times irrespective of medium.

Asked whether she might venture into painting, Ayón replied: “I can’t conceive of this work as painting...But above all, I consider myself a printmaker – and I don’t intend to stop
being one, for the time being.”¹¹

To the surprise of many, Belkis Ayón professed her atheism more than once. Yet the way she conceived her work, career, and role as educator¹² could well be considered a religion: her own intimate ritual of creation.

4. Veneration

Through Ayón’s eyes, Sikán is more than a victim. The artist’s critical, symbolic reading of the ancestral myth elevates the African princess into a deity to be revered. Her reinterpretation imagines men invoking Sikán in repentance for the cruelty of her sacrifice. In Mi alma y yo te queremos [My Soul and I Love You], 1993, the male figure appears diminutive before the first Abakuá’s magnitude. This vindication recurs across many works, in which Ayón subverts the original narrative, bestowing it with a post-modern re-signification.

Belkis, like Sikán, inhabits another plane. From her graphic universe she brought to the present an ancestral myth that invites us to examine our own “shadows” (in a Jungian sense).
In that gesture, a reciprocity seems to have emerged: Belkis restored a voice to Sikán, and Sikán – through art – granted Belkis a way of permanence, a means to transcend. Their shared legacy lives on in her work: a visual testament that continues to challenge us with urgency and depth, opening paths towards memory, critical thought, and contemporary sensibility.

Notes

^1. She experimented with all the traditional printmaking techniques: lithography, woodcut, linocut, intaglio, and screen printing. She ultimately chose collography, a technique she would go on to use throughout her entire career.

^2. Corina Matamoros, Belkis Ayón: Illuminations of Sikán, exhibition catalogue, Modern Art Oxford, November 2024.

^3. Los ñáñigos (1982) by Enrique Sosa, and La sociedad secreta Abakuá: narrada por viejos adeptos (1953) by Lydia Cabrera.

^4. Adelaida de Juan: “Belkis Ayón. Origin of a Myth,” in La Jiribilla Digital, Year VIII, October 31–November 6, 2009.

^5. Adjective used to refer to the initiated members of the Abakuá Secret Society.

^6. Jaime Sarusky: “Talking about myths and art. Interview with Belkis Ayón”, in Revolución y Cultura Magazine, Havana, No. 2-3, 1999.

^7. In African-origin ritual practices, the ceiba is considered a sacred tree, a point of connection between the earthly and the spiritual worlds.

^8. There is a drum for each ’game’ or ’power.’ It is not publicly displayed; its percussion is reserved for initiates and consecrated individuals with certain spiritual authority. A game or power is the name given to the independent Abakuá lodges.

^9. Jaime Sarusky. Op. Cit.

^10. Jaime Sarusky. Op. Cit.

^11. Jaime Sarusky. Op. Cit.

^12. Belkis Ayón was a professor of Printmaking at the two schools where she had studied: the San Alejandro National Academy of Fine Arts and the Higher Institute of Art, both in Havana.