Stories matter. Many stories matter.
Ceramic work by Samuel Sarmiento
Verse by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie [The Danger of a Single Story]
Artist text:
Who defines an artist’s success in the Caribbean?
In their most immediate local context, when we look through the islands’ tourism magazines, we often encounter prominent figures whose work is said to shape or define cultural practices within a particular territory. Yet the people featured in these publications are not always those who genuinely belong to a region’s cultural world. More often, that selection is determined by the magazine’s editors or by the journalist assigned to the story.
At times, especially when developing projects beyond the islands and seeking additional financial support, we have to persuade people with no connection to the cultural field that our work—and the often extended periods of time it requires—has an impact on our communities or on the fields in which we specialize: music, theatre, visual arts, literature, and so on.
Recently, I have been thinking about the idea of the “Living National Treasure.”
In Japan, the expression Living National Treasure is an informal term for an individual holder of an Important Intangible Cultural Property. It does not simply celebrate personal prestige: it recognizes exceptional mastery in a traditional performing art or craft technique whose transmission is considered culturally vital. The designation connects the artist’s skill to a public responsibility—the preservation and teaching of knowledge that might otherwise disappear. Japan also recognizes collective and group holders, but the title “Living National Treasure” is used specifically for individually recognized masters. This raises a question for the Caribbean: beyond visibility, market recognition, or institutional approval, how might we identify and support the people whose practices sustain cultural knowledge across generations?
In the Caribbean, we also often encounter many parachutists: people who arrive from other latitudes in search of inspiration, much as Gauguin did when he travelled to Tahiti. The point is that making the value of our practice understood remains a constant task—one we must carry out in order to achieve our goals.
Sometimes I think about the myth of Sisyphus and how, in building a practice from the Caribbean, certain obstacles remain constant. In this case, they are closely tied to mobility. As artists, we often find ourselves having to begin again from zero: to make the work visible, to explain its value, and to convince others of its importance. This daily effort is not separate from the practice itself; it is what allows us to keep it alive.