CUBA

By the good fortune of having dear friends with a little pull on the inside, I found myself spending seven days wandering the streets of Old Havana. Every morning at 10:00 a.m. I’d start shooting in summer days at ninety-five degrees and humidity so thick you could cut it with a razor blade. 

One afternoon, I climbed a rickety grand staircase and stumbled upon a young man in a hammock. His wavy pompadour was piled up on his head and was as impressive as a 1950s Little Richard. 

Combing through the sea salt-sprayed alleyways and neighborhoods, I drove up and down the Malecón watching waves crashing onto the streets and above the heads of people playing in an urban surf.

The interiors were equally as majestic—a most magnificent chessboard, patinaed walls, retro radios and television sets—items frozen from a different time that suggest a decadent La Dolce Vita.  — MS