MEMOIRS of a SEVILLIAN MASTER Javier De Winthuysen

MEMOIRS OF A SEVILLIAN MASTER

Javier de Winthuysen

Editors: María Héctor Vázquez Enrique Lafuente Ferrari Teresa Winthuysen Alexander Publisher: Winthuysen Foundation, Inc.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the United State Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the Winthuysen Foundation, Inc.

Library of Congress: 7006 2150 0000 9073 3186

The Winthuysen Foundation, Inc.

PO Box 595 Greenbelt, MD 20768

Printed by Signature Book Printing, www.sbpbooks.com

I dedicate this translation of the memoirs to the memory of my sister María Salud Winthuysen Sánchez without whose funds this book would have never been possible.

Teresa Winthuysen Alexander

iii

Javier de Winthuysen—terracotta likeness, circa 1919 was done by his friend, the sculptor Jacinto Higueras Fuentes (1977-1956)

Javier de Winthuysen dedicated his self-portrait which appears on the front book cover to his good friends Lolita Palatin and Jacinto Higueras.

iv “Portraits and sentimental caricatures from assorted Spaniards” Juan Ramón Jimenez

Javier de Winthuysen 1920

New wild bear variety, he is a bear-gardener (blond, sentimental, with a sense of humor); he is a drinker of fountains and eater of jasmine flowers soaked in anise liqueur. Eternally learning to speak cub bear language at the cavern woods’ school, perdurable child and still (like the even-now impacted wisdom teeth) has not grown his second eyes. With these paradise-like primary eyes entangled like light violets among the green eyelashes, I say he looks and looks again at our eloquent, fine, true Andalusian countryside, and finally, foretelling its color, he renders it. His hand is, as always, the left. You know the saying, one that is terrible for the comfort loving: “Once you have mastered your task with your right hand, do it with your left.” But he never knew how to make anything with his right hand. The reason why his feelings, so difficult to break through (so easy they are!), are so right, I say are so wrong, and I say, are so natural. His fields and gardens hide deeply architectural science, gracious, sensuous beings and they do not qualify as mere decorations but render thanks to the God of Seville! They are fields, gardens. In them, leaves Winthuysen his covetous eyes, dreamy, like a signature of wild blue stars and his simple translations are a caress that returns affection to the body amorous of life. It is a lover’s sight returned by golden pink Andalusia (to those who want to remember her in the eyes of its overgrown-child landscaper, of its gardener wild bear) the gratitude for having looked at her, for having given her his heart and having evoked her as so prudent, so modest, with so much filial sentiment. Españoles de Tres Mundos, 1942, Buenos Aires

v PROLOGUE

To write one’s memoirs imply belief in one’s self importance but to me it is not exactly like that; I know my character’s exact significance, if I have any. Nonetheless, I should not be so obstinate as to think myself better than others but rather follow the classic saying “Know thyself,” if that is knowledge, and say no more. What happened on several occasions is that, people listening to my anecdotes told me that I should write them and since I like to write, I then began this task and continued intermittently as my mood decided. Although I like to write and I have done so extensively for journalistic articles of a technical nature, I had never employed myself in writing an extensive personal account. Therefore, at first, I was not focused because I was thinking about sparse anecdotes in my life when suddenly I decided to tell my entire life story and sort of relive it as I told it to allow my memories to flow easily. From the very beginning, I have confronted a quandary. I love biographies! It is so enticing to get to know the way followed by great men who have left an incredible amount of works or who were innovators in their fields; but coming from a person as insignificant as myself, the story results in a ridiculous pretension. With this thought in mind, I advise my readers to see my writings not as a pretentious literary work but as an account of what I saw and heard during my lifetime. I do not say this having false modesty but because I think I tried to look at myself in a detached way, if that is possible.

vi FOREWORD

Eyewitness depositions contain certain amounts of truth. The guarantee of truth to facts depends not only on the fidelity of the account, but also on the discounting of falsity, the difficulty in observing physical facts perhaps caused by ineffectual senses, the observer’s social position and wealth at the moment of reportage, and most importantly, the personal prejudices in the spectator’s personality that weigh down his intellect at the interval of time in which the facts are accounted for. Our senses are far from being able to account for what is in front of our eyes; they are far from constituting the only mechanism of perception even if they are unique in their acuity. And so, it would not be wise to trust them completely to translate the intellectual sensation into an account of facts. For instance, if we take a snapshot of a horse jumping from below, the developed picture would make us think that the horse is up in the sky when in reality it only jumped a meter high. When we draw a foreshortened figure, its feet will appear enormous and its head reduced, or vice versa. The results will be different if we rely mainly on our vision; and this is not because from the angle of vision, perspective ceases to operate but because we have the prejudice of learned proportions that accommodate the figure to conform to a pre- established reality. This same prejudice can offer the opposite effect especially when we perceive in real life something out of the ordinary. What I mean is that veracity from an eyewitness account should not be fully trusted; neither should we rely on our seen experience and even less should we trust an account of it. Intellectual prejudice easily directs the mind to fantasies. Could we be so vain as to believe that our thoughts are even- minded for having been the subject of living and suffering? Could we say that we took into account the deforming power on our impressions from material circumstances, feelings of well-being or depression or beliefs and social political opinions? My purpose is not to judge, neither is it to present what I lived in relation to seeking sympathy or disagreement, nor to silence some or exalt others. It is simply to give an account of what I saw, in case that my relating this could contribute to further exploration.

vii Even so, I am not free from putting the jumping horse in the clouds or rendering a figure with deformed head and feet. I can only say that I will try to be an impartial raconteur of my reality.

viii INTRODUCTION

Equanimity in reading books belongs to a special breed of readers who try to reconcile content with personal inclinations. It is out of the ordinary to find in a single literary output, like Winthuysen’s memoirs, blending the minds of two personalities born thirty years apart. On one side, we find Javier de Winthuysen y Losada and on the other, Maria Hector Vazquez, in dialogue to present the story judiciously. The figure of the Art History teacher, writer and review critic, Enrique Lafuente Ferrari, is an addition found in the manuscript as a product of circumstances within the memoirs but outside the story. All this and more appear in the Memoirs of a Sevillian Master. This is the first time that the complete narration of the memoirs appears in print. I patiently revised the digitized text, written originally in Spanish and collected basic documentation that was needed. For historical sources I sought help from those who admire the works by Winthuysen. The reader may ask why the memoirs were kept in obscurity for such a long time; when over and over, the text was quoted to signal how the introduction of the Landscape Architecture as a grand modality in twentieth- century Spain took place. It was a modality that was neither understood nor accepted by the Spanish architects up until the first half of the twentieth century. This account notes how the academy of San Fernando honored the non-religious technical interpretations presented in the story for Greco and Murillo works. It also introduces how the landscape analysis that Winthuysen proposed in Spain depended on a harsh geography diverse from the Northern France Impressionist modality that is recognizable in the great Spanish masters. The demoniac character of the author has no sympathy with those opposing what he knows to be true. The political scene governed by Spanish Catholic social norms were a hard enough imposition, as Julian Marias says in “Understanding Spain,” 1990. Perhaps if we take into account all the reality factors involved in such a difficult personality, I say “so easy,” of Javier de Winthuysen, we will find that he was not too far from the existential truth of his life. From each of the editors I mentioned, any critical writer could gather the editors’ personal data. My task concerns not the editors

ix but content and existence of the memoirs. No doubt Javier de Winthuysen and Maria Hector must have had discussions as time progressed about the inconvenience or denial that could produce a published account of Winthuysen’s life. The Memoirs of a Sevillian Master pays homage to Winthuysen’s parents, his ancestors at El Puerto de Santa Maria, the City of Seville and Maria Hector Vazquez. The memoirs are a monument to be read for posterity’ sake. They are proof of love from a heartfelt Sevillian honoring his father’s memory in the city where he sought light and where, in his youth, he spent the best moments of his life. The ambers of the Montpensier court in Seville were still glowing at Winthuysen’s birth; the deposed Isabel II was a customary resident in Seville. The circumstances surrounding the exotic family name seem to get to a conclusion but not entirely. With his self-acquired profession of landscape architect, Winthuysen reinitiates the family tradition of enterprising spirit as a conservation pioneer of the environment. Winthuysen continues the tradition started by his grandfather, Pedro Winthuysen y Bustillo, who retired from his position, in Madrid, in his early twenties to live tending his properties near Cadiz. Winthuysen acquires the spirit of an eighteenth- century gentleman by reading what was left of his grandfather’s library at home and at the family property in Cuatro Caminos. Winthuysen recognizes that the reason without reason for the existence of art is a misnomer; it is a product of our need for pleasure and to fuel our imagination. In Seville, the popular is more attractive than the classy. The working classes accepted his painting better than the moneyed. To make a living by painting was out of the question; he writes conservation and urban development articles in Madrid newspapers and magazines. He is recognized publicly but the Spanish Civil War destroys his labors and he is forced to begin again, relocate to Barcelona when he was past the age of sixty, and live in poverty. In the last part of his career he paints large canvasses on which he manifests assimilated principles from his historical gardens designs in what he calls “eternal classicism.” Teresa Winthuysen Alexander

x CONTENTS

MEMOIRS OF A SEVILLIAN MASTER

JAVIER DE WINTHUYSEN Javier de Winthuysen 1920 (“Portraits and sentimental caricatures from assorted Spaniards”), by Juan Ramón Jimenez Prologue Preface Origin of an exotic name….

[Note: For additional historical documentation related to the Winthuysen Family, see the Spanish language edition of this text, Memorias de un Señorito Sevillano, Javier de Winthuysen, Greenbelt, MD: Winthuysen Foundation, Inc., 2005.]

CHAPTER I Early years-The Cantonalito-The inner court at home-The Old Promenade-Isabel, my nurse-The flood of 1876-A new home- Parents and sisters-Spoiled child-Don Bernardo-My first school- Inventions-Disposition towards art and love of bullfighting.

CHAPTER II Life and colorful characters-The Sevillian School-My first communion-Drawing class-My middle school entrance exam- Poetry and Don Arturo-My father-The happenings at El Puerto- Puerto de Santa Maria political movement-Walks with my father- The roof terrace-Juana, the maid-My sister-Family difficulties.

CHAPTER III From ages 12 to 14-The gang-Bullhorns and heifers-My brother Manuel-Horseback riding and fencing-My naval vocation-Don Francisco’s school-Sevillian sense of humor-Tauromachy.

CHAPTER IV From ages 15 to 20-I give up the idea of joining the Navy-The house of Urdaiz-The School of Beaux Arts-Arpa’s studio-Student

xi to Gonzalo Bilbao-Classics and scientific life readings-Intellectual life-Freelance school art academy, the Athenaeum-Pretty girlfriend-Travel to Madrid-My father’s death.

CHAPTER V From ages 20 to 25-My masters-Count of Bagaes-My new home- Ceperos’ house-Zuloaga-Iturrino-Canals-Mille Sandeau-The court of the Anguitas’-Regoyos-Jimenez Aranda

CHAPTER VI From ages 25 to 29-To Paris-Lozano and Durrio-Doctor Carvallo- Manolo Huguet-The Marquis of the Vega Inclan-The Salons-The Impressionists-Louvre Museum-Paris 1900-Twentieth-Century Paris, 1903-The Post Impressionist Movement-Impressionist Concept-Academics and bohemians-Montmartre and Montparnasse-The Valley of Arratia-Experiments with Dutch painting becoming a modern painter-Travel to Madrid, Toledo, and Escorial-Copy of Greco.

CHAPTER VII Juana’s death-Rota and Morocco-My reaction to French Impressionism-My sister Manuela leaves the convent-Sorry consequences-Move to Castilleja de la Cuesta-Terra-cotta studies-Self-portrait-View of Seville from the highway-Success as artist painter-Back and forth to Seville-Again in Seville- Experiments with ceramics-General considerations-Portrait of A. Lozano, 1905.

CHAPTER VIII My life in Paris in 1911-The War of 1914-Return to Madrid- Aranjuez in 1915-Rusiñol-The art of Anglada-1916-Home in Madrid-Broke-Chance meeting with Juan Ramón Jimenez-Exhibit at Vilches in 1916-Scholarship for continuing education, 1919-The Art of Painting.

CHAPTER IX How I became a landscape architect-Botany class-Scholarship to study Historic Gardens-My lecture at the Athenaeum in 1922-Job assignment: garden of the Minor Palace of the Moncloa-Open Spaces-Trips to the Sierra and collection of small sketches-1924 Exhibit-Recognition-Private gardens-Becoming known-Boecillo y

xii Tablada-Family life-1926-Alone with my little boy-A miracle-The kitsch artist-Seville-Letter to Maria-Endorsed article.

CHAPTER X “Classic Gardens of Spain,” and how it became a book in 1930- Creation of the department of Historic Gardens and Picturesque Landscapes of Spain,1934-Board of Trustees for the Spanish Gardens-Tourism-Ciudad Rodrigo-General Inspector of Gardens- Lectures in Paris and London-The Revolution of 1936- Gardens of El Viso- Minor Protection Office-To Valencia-My son Javier’s death.

CHAPTER XI Sojourn in Valencia from 1937 to 1939-To Brihuega, as Inspector in the middle of a civil war-El Grao-Valencian landscape, Sorolla- End of the civil war-To Madrid-Barcelona 1940-Becoming an artist painter again-New Department of Historic Gardens and Picturesque Landscapes, 1941-The Lakes of Bañolas and Sanabria-Paintings exhibited at Syra Gallery, in 1948-Other exhibits in Barcelona-Art- Eugenio D’Ors, October 1954, “The Golden Clover”- Ministry of Education and Fine Arts.

CHRONOLOGY, by Christina Aymerich Archival Sources Interviews Bibliography Bibliographical Notes Editors’ Data: María Héctor Vázquez,1906-1979 Enrique Ferrari, 1898-1985 Teresa Winthuysen Alexander, 1935-

EXHIBITS:1916-1924-1948-1949-1951-1955-1972-1973-1974 national recognition, Birth centennial.

xiii ORIGIN OF AN EXOTIC NAME

Johannes Bex, descendent of Henricus Bex, was noble escutcheon to the Elector of Cologne.1 In the 15th century, Johannes Bex2 moved to the diocesan jurisdiction of Liege, Flanders State, and he established his family name Winthuysen, in a way that was similar to the Eithuysen and Uythuysen, which were powerful, enterprising families of that time whose members were portrayed by Franz Hall. Master Roberto de Winthuysen y Van de Mortel and his brother Master Gervasio proceeded from Maiscicem,3 Flanders, to Spain to establish a trading house in the Andalusian town of Puerto de Santa Maria. There, in 1672, Master Roberto married a Spanish lady, Bautistina Gallo. From then on, the members of the Winthuysen family married within the Spanish community. Francisco Javier de Winthuysen, born on the 18 of August 1747, was son to a schooner captain by the same name and Petronila Pineda. At the age of ten, he shipped aboard as midshipman for the first time in the Dichoso, part of the armory fleet of Marques de la Victoria. With this armory, he went to Naples to give escort to the future Spanish King Carlos III, from Naples to Barcelona, who was elected king after the death of his father, Fernando VI. From a very early age, Francisco Javier de Winthuysen y Pineda served commendably on the Navy ships the Oriente, Hector, Fenix, Gallardo, España, Santa Isabel, Santo Domingo, Palas, Industria, Venus, San Agustin, San Miguel, the Santa Leocadia (which had thirty-four guns of six and twelve inches armored), and the San Pasqual. Finally he served on the forty cannons-armored San Jose. Francisco Javier de Winthuysen y Pineda had many important and diverse assignments during his career. He was in charge of

1 The city of Cologne, or Kohl, is located in West Germany. 2 Robert van Beek, also spelled Beeck, is listed in the Benelux Index at the Bibliotheque Nationale of Paris, France. The detailed family information appears on the family tree which was dated 1816 and initialed P. de W. B. (Pedro de Winthuysen y Bustillo). The family tree may have been a copy of an older document which could be part of the Navy Historical Archive, in Spain. 3 The Spanish spelling of the town’s name does not correspond to any town in South Flanders. It could be any of the towns near the border south to France or to Germany. The preferred residence of the Elector in the southern Low Countries, in the 1550s, was Maastricht, which is not too far from Aachem, Germany.

xiv leading the school for marine cadets. He organized and supervised the mines at Villanueva; and he patrolled the coasts from Bayona, France, to Galicia on the Cantabric coast. While serving aboard the Santa Leocadia, he sustained combat experience with the English fleet that cost him the loss of his right arm. He was captured and set free to return to Spain under word of honor. Early in 1792, he was insolvent. He had spent his patrimony in the Royal service, and now he requested commiseration from the king, asking for a Royal grace. As part of his request, he referred to how his maternal grandfather, first in assaulting Gibraltar in 1742, was gravely wounded. His father, of the same name, who died at his fiftieth year of service, took part in the bombardment of Syracuse, and the combat of Cape Sicie4 and also performed administrative services. Finally, he recounted how he himself, after thirty-two years of service, had unsealed the dike of his silence because the postulant and his family had used their own patrimony serving the Crown. For all of these reasons, he implored from his Majesty the honor of being considered for a Royal grace and to be included in his gracious liberality so as to be able to sustain himself with a pension, assignment or promotion. He said that receiving this recognition would enable him to declare publicly that the said services were of the King’s liking, and the recognition would also serve as stimulus to the militia to expect an earned reward. Consequently, King Carlos IV arranged the immediate grant of a concession of a military order grade. In 1795. Francisco’s first assignment was second in command. He hoisted his banner on the three-bridged San Jose that remained on the Mediterranean, under King Carlos IV’s flag, until the peace of Basel was reached and the declaration of war was made to Great Britain. On the February 14, 1797, the battle of Cape San Vicente took place. The naval officer General Winthuysen placed the ship under his flag on the bloodiest spot where the battle was raging. There, with his innate impetuousness and daring, he was

4 th Cape Sicie is located in Toulon, France. Naval shipyards and a fortress built in the 17 century were part of the defenses of the city of Toulon. Information found in the Encyclopedia Britannica, 1994-1998. Mural painting executed during the 1950s depicted Sicie’s naval battle scenes. Information appears in Casas y Cosas de la Isla de San Fernando, page 163.

xv sustaining his battle station when a cannonball shattered his legs, causing his death. “Fire to the gunpowder arsenal!” This was the order that came from his lips at the moment of receiving the mortal wound. If the San Jose’s crew had obeyed Winthuysen’s last command, the curse of history would have changed. Nelson and his crew were in the act of boarding the vessel. Nelson, Commodore Nelson at the time, took the saber from my ancestor’s wrenched hand and sent it with a letter to Norfolk, his native town, as a memento of his first victory. In memory of Vice Admiral Winthuysen’s5 bravery, the Spanish government bequeathed the title of count to his descendants to perpetuity, which was lost over time for lack of renewing it. My grandfather was Pedro de Winthuysen y Bustillo. He was a knight in service to Carlos IV. He requested separation at the age of twenty. My father, Javier de Winthuysen y Martinez de Baños,6 retired from the naval service, at the age of fifty, with the grade of captain. The male direct line of the Winthuysen family ends with me.7

5 On one of the walls of the Pantheon for Illustrious Marines of the Spanish Navy, we can see the names of its heroes, among them Francisco Javier de Winthuysen y Pineda. For information about the Pantheon de los Ilustres, consult the volume Casas y Cosas de la Isla de San Fernando, pages 159-163. 6 The service record retrieved from the central archive of the Ministry of the Navy—Don Alvaro de Bazan—notes that Francisco Javier de Winthuysen y Martinez de Banos retired from active service in the Navy on the 20 of February 1862, with a pension. He remained in the reserve, as captain, until 1893. His widow, Dona Luisa Pastor, received his pension on the 12 of December 1900. Located at: Archive-Museum Don Alvaro de Bazan, El Viso del Marques [Ciudad Real], Seccion Cuerpo General, Leg. N. 620/1294. 7 Handwritten by the Spanish version editor:” …that continues with my three daughters and my five grandchildren.”

xvi Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 1

CHAPTER I – THE EARLY YEARS

The Cantonalito-The inner court at home-The old Promenade- Isabel, my nurse-The flood of 1876-The new home-Parents and sisters-Spoiled child-My first school-Don Bernardo-Inventions- Disposition towards art and love of bullfighting. I had the fortune, or maybe misfortune, of being born with a “silver spoon” in my mouth. The times in which we live are such that we should apologize to confess it. Many people come into this world in penury without knowing who their fathers were. What is worse, not being able to honor their fathers, they become infuriated when they consider those that are born with a shoot from a luxuriant family tree that has long roots of immemorial nobility and one that has never tarnished in its growth. If we add to this the fact that I was born already an inheritor of a small fortune, the summation of facts becomes unforgivable. Nevertheless, I had no art or part in creating those facts of life. I infer from all this that my infant napkins were of superior quality because I was told that for my christening, I wore an extraordinarily rich lace gown, a present from the Count of Bagaes, my godfather and my mother’s brother. Among other details from my time of birth, I learned that the family called me the cantonalito. I was conceived during the revolution of 1873. My mouth was big, a defect corrected with age, and I licked the christening salt. The priest who baptized me was sent to prison. These entries are experiences that my father and Juana of Rota told me about later. My family was originally from the Puerto de Santa Maria, where my Flemish ancestors established their trading house in 1672. My brothers grew up there. Shortly before my birth, for particular circumstances, my parents luckily moved to Seville, to my good fortune; I said “luckily” because to be born in Seville gives one a certain elevated level in society. Talking about origins, some time ago, a group of gentlemen traveling in the same train with me profusely talked about their town of origin except one of the men. Upon arrival at the terminal, the silent passenger said that he had remained silent because he did not want to appear conspicuously overly proud to be from Seville.

2 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master

I was the Benjamin of the house, besides my nickname, which as I said before was the cantonalito.8 I remember, like in a dream, the patio of our house and how I used to piggyback ride on Pepillo’s back, and how, with my incredible recall, I said my first word: babucha! How hard that was to say! I was already two years old and I had not said any of the monosyllabic words that toddlers usually say: mama, papa, and dada. Every afternoon the Moor street peddler chanted on the streets the kinds of merchandise that he had for sale— leather sleepers: babuchas! The sound fascinated me so much that I tried repeatedly to imitate it. Finally, one day, while holding to the entrance’s iron grill— I can remember it vividly— I said with great effort: “ba-bu-cha!” What a feat! The whole family was after me. The baby said “babucha!” What a bore they were! My sisters, the servants, all the females of the house were holding me, kissing, yelling, something that I have always detested. They used to take me for walks to the old promenade around neighboring homes. In those times, the promenade still retained some of the structure given by the Count of Barajas in the 16th century. It was the first public garden of Spain for some time— and I think it was also the first in Europe. Two lordly monolithic columns, still standing, presided over the entrance crowned with the statues of Hercules and Julius Caesar. The terraced gardens with fountains extended from there to the door of the Barqueta.9 There, I was able to see these old walls and crenellated

8 In between 1868-1874, Spain undertook yet one more constitutional change. The republican leaders of 1873 were not able to install a federal republican government. Consequently, the revolt of the extremist cantonalists was but an example of the weakness of the federal government. General Serrano supported the return of a monarchy with Alfonso XII. After the popular failure, the Spanish government became a constitutional monarchy. The nickname cantonalito was a political pun that referred to a popular revolt against a purely republican government and support of a representative monarchy. See: Raymond Carr. 9 The author’s description corresponds to the new Puerta de la Barqueta, a project, undertaken in 1825, by the Department of Urbanism of Seville that was represented, in the middle 1800s, by Arjona, Assistant to the Mayor, and that was part of the reformulation of the Alameda de Hercules. Information found in: Visque Cubero, IM, Vera Rodriguez, N. Lopez-Lopez, Las Plazas del Casco Historico de Sevilla, Junta de Andalucia, 1987. The walls of the city of Sevilla remained partly extant ever since its Moor construction in the 10th century. In many instances, the remaining sectors of the wall corresponded to the city gates like the Barqueta. The project, completed in the early 19th century, was in disuse in the late 19th century. New urban development opened avenues and a park was built along the river as a more fashionable site for the promenade of the wealthy. Given time, the land of the Barqueta development was parceled and sold to private owners.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 3 brickworks and ramps that descended to the river, where the river formed an island that was used to moor yachts and small pleasure boats. The place also had flower beds that my father, who was City Marshal in charge of parks, squares, and gardens, looked after and sometimes even donated plants to from his overgrown terrace-garden.10 In the old Alameda, there was also a space called Recreo,11 which I think still exists, with ramps and walls decorated with two bronze sphinxes with lions’ bodies and female torsos and heads. I remember how I enjoyed being lifted on top of one of the sphinxes and sucking its bronze teats. One evening, my nurse, Isabel, who was a superb woman (I warrant this, since I was on good terms with her later on in my youth and I remember her very well), took me to the store to buy arrurruz12 for my dinner. When she reached home, she was panicky, saying that the streets were in torrents and that she had to carry me and walk with water to her ankles. They did not want to believe her but it was true. The river had broken a dike13 and the water rushed into Seville. I can still see it like in a dream, looking down from balconies on top of the inner court and seeing how the city had become a pool of red muddy water. During the night, we could hear screams and pistol shots. Two houses across

10 Don Francisco Javier de Winthuysen y Martinez de Banos moved to Seville after the Septembristas Revolution of 1868. The city structure was remodeled by the first generation of architects from the School of Architecture recently segregated from the Academy of San Fernando. The urban transformation was a social affair. Railroad installations changed the topography of the city for a rich society as a result of the disentitlements of church property early in the century. It was a never-ended city; the property question and the aseptic city never combined its efforts to produce the new Seville of the Restoration. The city marshland was prone to intermittent fevers and all the diseases caused by the overflow of its rivers: malaria, cholera, and typhoid fever all were endemic. See: Vivienda y Ciudad Sevillana 1849-1929, Antonio Gonzalez Cordon, Ayuntamiento de Sevilla, 1985. 11 The old city street name that designates the Alameda de Hercules, before 1856, was known as the front of the Alameda de Hercules. It resulted from the development of the Project Balbino Marron which extended the old Alameda. Information found in: Diccionario Historico de las Calles de Sevilla, Ayuntamiento de Sevilla, 1993. 12 It is a sort of semolina to make porridge for young children. 13 Note from the editor of the Spanish typed version of the handwritten original: “During the flood of 1876, the water took a boat all the way to the Plaza Nueva.” The two local newspapers of Seville listed the news of the river’s flooding. “El Porvenir,” informed the public of the Guadalquivir flood on the 8 of December 1876, under the title “Gacetillas” the ‘La Andalucia’ printed an extensive supplement on the 11 of December 1876. The flood was caused by a back up on the Tagarete, a small tributary to the Guadalquivir, recently piped underground, that meets the Guadalquivir on the northeast section of the town of Sevilla and caused most of the floods experienced there during the last three hundred years.

4 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master the street crumbled. I remember vaguely how they tied a rope- rung to the balcony rail of our house and we climbed down to a boat. After that we bought our own house in Seville where I spent my youth. Our new house was of modern Sevillian style, and situated on the corner of Catalanes and Tetuan. The first floor resulted from the crossing of the crujias14 that ran parallel to the external wall of the side streets. The name Catalanes was later changed to Albareda, after a famous politician from El Puerto de Santa Maria, who was also a great friend of my father in his youth. The façade of Albareda Street had five street openings: one was the door; and the Tetuan side had four. The rooms were spacious with high ceilings. On the ground floor, the corner angle of the central patio opposed the spacious summer dining room and the main stairwell. Behind it were the service stairs, kitchen and laundry room. The three floors of the house had the same disposition and number of rooms with openings to the street on the upper floors and ample inner terraces overlooking the inner court. It was a commodious house. The top terrace ran along both streets and a lookout topped the stairwell. My father built a garden on the low terrace with small trees in wooden kegs on top of the support walls, ramblers on pergolas, potted flowers, and even an aviary15 in the middle. This hanging garden was my father’s favorite place. My parents, my four sisters and I occupied the first floor. The parlor, family room, and dining room were also on the first floor. The servants used the top floor along with Juana, the faithful servant from Puerto de Santa Maria. Ever since the happenings at Puerto Santa Maria, she had become the most trusted servant of the family. Juana was of popular origin. She had a fierce temperament and had never learned how to talk properly but she had natural talent and an extraordinary affection for me. Tetuan Street was the necessary way to reach the Paseo de las Delicias, a fanciful promenade where the cavalcade of the well-to- do in Seville used to go merry go round in the afternoon. Our

14 This is an Andalusian and Spanish architectural term. It designates a supportive structure and functional passage running along the side of the rooms that allows communication between the rooms but preserves the privacy of each room. 15 The aviary or chicken house on the top terrace was common to Mediterranean households. Keeping it there was a practice at the time that is still in use.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 5 street balconies were any spectators’ best place to observe this calvalcade. Automobiles had not yet been invented, and the families used open-horse carriages, landaus or victorias. It was a daily show to see the luxuriously dressed ladies and the beautiful horses pass by from our balconies like from a theater box. During Carnival, however, the spectacle was on the streets of Seville, not on the Delicias. The people on the passing carriages and walkers threw each other confetti and serpentines with great excitement. In those days, my house was filled with elegantly dressed señoritas. Their waists, sensitively stayed compressed, and gave them a wasp-like appearance. They paraded in huge hats covered with ribbons and stuffed birds. I could not tolerate any of these señoritas ever since my childhood. My father always managed to be absent for these occasions, because he could not tolerate such festivities. He had a special phobia for the feathered feminine hats. He used to say that they looked like the hats used by the Cuban blacks for Epiphany celebrations. He could not tolerate not only the hats but also even less the high-heeled shoes that made the ladies walk like tiptoed birds. I remember one day with one of his extravagant irritations that he often used to have: he chopped off my sisters’ high heels with a machete. On another occasion, a lady visitor left her luxurious hat in the hall. My father broke into the parlor with the hat in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other, garrulously screaming: “To whom belongs this darned cock!” It is easy to imagine the shock of the owner; and it was difficult to dissuade my father of his intent. Among other things, my father had a greatly perverse sense of humor. I was then the only male child in the family. My oldest brother died, shortly after my birth, while a Navy cadet, in Havana. My other brother, an artillery officer, was at his station. I had four sisters. My youngest sister was six years older than I was; and so I was growing up among women. I used to sleep on my mother’s lap, the sweetest lady on earth, to my sisters’ displeasure, until a considerable age. My father was the gentleman with a bad temper in front of whom all of them trembled.

6 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master

Children act more intentionally than it seems. When one of my sisters beat me or contradicted my wishes, I screamed with all my strength. My father was very irritable, and with his select, old marine vocabulary, he always responded with a yell: “Leave the boy alone!” That startled my sisters; and I was proud to be in control. I was the personification of a spoiled, irascible child. One of the most irritating things that could happen to me was to be seen without my trunks and to hear the mode sung my younger sister: Salgan las arañas negras Let the black spiders Que estan metias en sus nios Out of their nests Y que me saquen los ojos And let them remove my eyes Si es verdad que te he querio If it is true I ever loved you

Those darn spiders and the sad tone of the mode wore heavily on my mind. To my extreme mental anguish, I can add the sad tingling of a refectory bell, announcing the meals at a nearby pension. Both were beyond my endurance. Accordingly, my reaction was to yell and charge madly at whoever was in front of me. I hit one of my sisters with a hammer in one of my paroxysms of mental distress. Outside, whenever my nurse Juana took me for walks to the New Square, I used to fight not only with the other children but also with their nurses if they happened to defend them. I remember tearing from top to bottom a foam shawl with the perverse intent to hurt one of them. The fact is, that cursed bell sound, the black spiders, or similar things, have always followed me for the rest of my life. They pop up amid my entertainment and work. In my old age I am annoyed by the sound of the human voice through the radio and amplifiers. I only like the sound of a toned voice and properly modulated music. Natural music— not the canned kind produced by the radio. A confounded machine! When I travel on a miles-devouring train, in the beautiful landscape, all the passengers talk, sleep, or read until the train stops at any station, and most are the same. Then they hang out of the windows in stupid contemplation of

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 7 people they have never seen before in their lives and they chat, and what a horror these conversations are! The sound is worse than the content! What I enjoy most in life is silence, the divine silence of the country fields, the silent music, the sonorous loneliness mentioned by the mystic.16 Perhaps, my mind related the collation time bell sound of the nearby fonda to the bell announcing the Viaticum on the streets. The sound of the two bells smelled like something dead to me; anyway, they had the same sound. Sometimes, my father railed at me but that was his usual way of relating to people. Nevertheless, he never used physical punishment toward me. One time, though, was different. I had learned a lot of curse words that I used to say in a row, rosary like. One day, I let go my profanity-filled rosary repertoire in front of my father. Without a moment’s doubt, he lifted me by my feet and plunged me upside down inside the back patio tank that was very deep and had huge black fish in it. One of the fish in the patio’s pond was very big; and it used to scare me a lot. Well, I thought I was going to be asphyxiated! But, besides this one time, I do not remember him imposing any other punishment. My sisters had a private tutor that I thought very unpleasant. She used to stick her finger in her nostrils and then stick the buggers underneath her chair. She tried to teach me some letters but I did not pay any attention to her. There was also a music teacher. My sister learned theory and piano. They used to bang the piano keys to my annoyance. I had another predisposition and that was the ability to catch all childhood diseases: measles, convulsive cough, and so on, especially during the spring, when the young ladies were supposed to go out to be seen in her finery and to have fun. As soon as I was ill, my mother would not abandon my side for a moment. I was the cause of my sisters’ spoiled fun. It was out of the question for them to go out without a chaperon. My mother was so zealous a keeper of my health that in winter, she made me wear three undershirts, and that provoked other afflictions. I remember one day she made me put on a velour suit with lace

16 Here the author makes reference to the lyric poetry of Fray Luis de Leon, a 16th-century Spanish poet who contributed greatly to the ideas of the Renaissance in Spain.

8 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master collar; underneath the suit, I had two undershirts and the sun was hot. Consequently, I developed a bad case of sunstroke. My parents decided to hire a private tutor to teach me the alphabet. As I was told later, Don Bernardo was an old ex- cloistered monk. He also tutored my younger sister. One day, he gave her a very complicated division problem that she could not solve. Don Bernardo decided to help her but was not able to produce an answer. After scuffling for a while with the division, he declared: “When the arithmetic operations become unruly, it is better to leave them!” To teach me was a long sweat.17 I could not stand to spell words. It bored me to death. And so, I adopted several ways to deliver myself from that torture. One was to close my eyes; the other was to slide myself under the table. When I did that, Don Bernardo used to tap me, discretely, with his ever- present cane. I am sure his wish was to beat me hard but he did not dare to do it in my parents’ home. At this point in the lesson, he used to call my mother but to no avail. Besides writing alphabet letters, I had to do pencil strokes. I was a spoiled brat, and I could do whatever I wanted. With all systems failing, my best entertainment was using a piece of paper and a pencil to draw little boats when everyone’s patience had grown thin. In this way, I spent hours without end. Since home instruction was not producing any results, my parents decided to enroll me in a private school on our street near to our home. To me, the idea was tenebrous. I went there one morning with an anguished heart as if I was walking towards my hanging because, besides being irascible, I was short-tempered and reacted aggressively in most circumstances. Besides, anything new scared me to death. On my arrival, I was conducted to a room full of disorderly children. The teacher was absent at the moment, and the boys profited by making an infernal noise, running up and down and yelling. I was like a new chicken in the chickenhouse. Suddenly, the instructor appeared and I thought him to be an ogre. I remember him as a corpulent man dressed in a black priestly cassock with a dark red, sausage-like face. With a commanding voice, he said: “Go back to your places!” Then, “Let’s

17 The Spanish expression “sudar tinta” literally means “sweat ink,” and is perhaps better rephrased as “long sweat.”

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 9 see! You come here and lower your trousers!” The poor boy obeyed and the barbarian beat his bottom with a stick. I could not bear that sight for anything in the world. I never showed my rear in public! I broke into crying with an anguished heart. The friar came to soothe me but he did not succeed. Afraid I may become ill, he ordered an assistant teacher to take me home. After this failure, my parents decided to take me to Don Bernardo’s school. I consented because Don Bernardo was my old acquaintance. It was an old, poor school, run in a small, old house with a room for the older children with disjoined desks, a table on a wooden platform and an armchair for Don Bernardo. Next to it, there was another room for the younger children run by Dona Pepita, the ex-friar’s governess since Don Bernardo was still under celibacy and had no consort to run the lower grade class. There was a urinal in the corner of this room. I was put with the older children and I did fine. Don Bernardo was not a great mathematician but he was a great quill maker. He showed me how to cut bird feathers on top of an ivory plaque, and how to do calligraphy in the old Castillian style. The only punishments were eventful face slaps to correct disrespectful behavior or public sitting on the two-inch, dust- covered wooden platform under the desk. Don Bernardo also used to punish us by forcing us to kneel down holding up our arms horizontally, cross like. I became interested in my work and I was doing fine cursive writing and calligraphy. The instruction also included reading, religious doctrine and arithmetic. I was already a respectful little man of eight but I represented more for my physical development. I was doing fine with my comrades and I have great memories of those times. The rickety desks had protruding head nails that could easily snatch our clothes. I remember how I returned home, on more than one occasion, with torn pants. My mother, who used to pick me up from school sometimes, complained and Don Bernardo hammered down the protruding nail heads. Being the way children are, I commented on the fact with a school peer and he suggested that I have my pants ripped again so that my mother would scold the master. This seemed like a good proposition. Since there were no protruding nail heads, I found a tiny hole on my pants, introduced my little finger to promote a tear and rushed to Don

10 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master

Bernardo, who came with his hammer to hit down the rebel nail. He never found it because there was none to find. And so, he lifted the hammer with the intention of breaking my head but it was only for coercion to get me to behave. Children’s imaginations never stop; and I began to develop ideas at a young age. Certain days, I imagined looking at the wood beams on the ceiling, thinking that with a little inventiveness, I could hang a paper doll from them. I told my schoolmates that the next day we would have a merry time with the little hanging paper doll that I intended to stick to the ceiling beams. They thought it impossible but as soon as I arrived home, I looked for a needle and strong thread that I inserted in the needle. Next, I encased a ball of wax near the needle’s point, leaving it free. Then, I attached a paper doll at the end of the thread. I folded the invention and stored it in one of my notebooks to take to school. Next day I took advantage of one of Don Bernardo’s sudden disappearances; and I announced my intention to the class. Holding the paper doll next to the thread, leaving the needle hanging with the weight of the wax, I swung the whole contraption and threw it with force towards the ceiling. As I had imagined, the paper acted as a rudder and the needle that traveled point-wise stuck its sharp end on the wooden beam. I had a complete success, and produced considerable turmoil; when all of the sudden, Don Bernardo came back. It became a sort of competition to see who was going to be the first to tell, or better to accuse me more than celebrate the act. Surrounded by a racket of yelling children, Don Bernardo realized that it was my doing and instead of getting angry with me, ordered silence to the class and asked me how I came to do it. I explained the logical steps of my invention. Although Don Bernardo admired the originality of the invention, he asked Dona Pepita to remove the contraption. She placed herself right underneath to knock it off with a broom. To this, I dissuaded her, saying that it was a bad idea since the needle would travel down point first and could hit her face. Again I caused great admiration for my suggestion from my preceptor. My invention was completely intuitive, done without suggestion or previous experience. If I had been an engineer, this event would

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 11 have been of importance not only for the ingenuity but also for the intuitive and deductive thinking processes that it demonstrated. I put in practice another invention at home. From the upper terrace to the lower, I attached cans with articulated movable tops attaching these by ropes. The game was to sit on a chair and make all the tops open and close at the same time by pulling and releasing the ropes that made an infernal noise. Later, when the submarine Peralta came was designed and launched, I sort of imagined a silly submarine safety exit device to return the men to the surface in case the submarine could not move upward. The idea was so clear and simple that I could not imagine how a marine engineer had not imagined it before then since so many lives had already been lost. In brief, the safety exit consisted of a chamber with an entrance through a lower valve that closed while inundating the cavity. The user had to wear a floater. It was necessary to extract the water and fill up the chamber each time to send submerged men to the surface. This invention was coarse but effective. Don Bernardo’s school was too parochial for me and my family. My mother decided to transfer me to a Jesuit School18 at that time in Seville. I had seen the uniformed kids on their promenades in the city with their gold ribbed flat caps and rimmed pants, and I who already had notions of esthetics, at the age of nine, decided that I would rather die than wear a doorman’s uniform. With my opposition compounded with the anti-clerical feelings of my father, I soon found myself free of that idea. The solution to my problem came with the religious-civic parade, organized to commemorate Murillo’s centennial, in 1882.19 The parade was disbanded by a

18 The school was the Academia Hispalense de Santo Tomas de Aquino, located in the bishop’s palace; it was founded in 1881. See: Historia de la Iglesia Sevillana, Directed by Carlos Ros, Editorial Castillejo, 1992. 19 The Neo-Catholic organization, sort of subsidiary to the Carlistas, followers of Don Carlos th early in the 19 century, was responsible for the organization of the Christian Jubilee festivities, from the 18 to the 22 of May 1882, that included a pseudo-religious parade to commemorate Murillo’s bicentennial. Students from the Free School of Art and Medical students protested against the inclusion of the great master in a civic-religious demonstration. Papal dispensation of the Immaculate Conception produced a series of celebrations. The parade was one of them. The demonstrators that gathered at the Plaza del Museo were armed with umbrellas and sticks. They proceeded to boo and then attacked the standard bearers. The newspapers of the time had diverse opinions. "El Porvenir,” which had a conservative commentary, disapproved of the attack without further explanation. “La Tribuna” accused the Neocatholics and the Jesuits of serving the Carlistas’

12 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master group of anti-canonical demonstrators who decided to throw rocks at the passing procession. Consequently, the Jesuit school in Seville closed its doors shortly after, to my great satisfaction. What I really liked was the art of bullfighting. For an evening spent in a corrida, the public gave the matador a public ovation. According to custom, they threw hats and cigars into the arena. I was in the mayor’s box with my father and I removed my sailor’s cap. My father saw the gesture, and told his neighbor, “This confounded kid is going to throw his cap,”— and turning towards me, he said, “Wait and see if you throw it!” But I could not control myself and I threw it anyway. By the age of six or seven, I had my parents buy me a leather cigar box to offer cigars to the matadors. I met Carrancha, who lived nearby and used to walk with me, arm in arm, when I visited him. I also met Gallito, another matador. My father used to take me to the corridas. Those were the times when the bulls broke the barriers and knocked down horses and picadors. This was when the arena got full of entrails and blood. I remember how my father took me to the infirmary where the medic was sewing a horn gash on a bullfighter. The bullfighter’s name was Bocanegra. He was lying down there without a wail; only when the needle penetrated the skin did he clench the cigar without a moan. In those times, they used to sew toreros like rugs. I loved bullfighting with a passion. I met toreros that few people, still alive, may have met. I met Tato when he was already lame and was then working at the slaughterhouse. I also met Chicorro, who could do the “leap of the halberd,”20 and who was afraid of black bulls because one time when he was ready for the alternative, a bull of that color hair said, cause. “La Andalucia” protested in the name of the general public for involving a great master in factitious rioting. Idem Carlos Ross. Bartolome Esteban Murillo, 1617-1682, was a Sevillian master, famous for the precious images of the Immaculate Conception that were modeled upon the features of twelve-year- old Sevillian girls, according to tradition. The cult of the Immaculate Conception is the product of a syncretism between different expressions of female deities through time. The Roman Venus, Phoenician Astarte and the Egyptian Isis are derivatives of an ancient Neolithic fecundity goddess all present in the land of Andalusia throughout the ages. 20 Expression used in bullfighting lingo at the time, consisting of jumping over the charging bull by making use of the long-handled spear to bridge over the bull. Juan Apanani was the bullfighter who used it for the first time. Francisco Lucientes y de Goya immortalized it in one of his aguafuertes. Found in: Luis Nieto Manjon, Diccionario Ilustrado de Terminos Taurinos, Espasa Calpe, 1987.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 13

“Do not kill me!” I also met Gordito, who was capable of placing banderillas21 upon the bull’s charge, while sitting on a chair or with his feet in a hat. In addition, I met Gallo, who used to requite the bulls on his knees, in the middle of the arena in front of the toril if his first bull was not killed accordingly. I also met Carrancha, Currito, Frascuelo, and Mazantini, who I saw taking the alternative, while dressed in white and gold, bare footed under a deluge and fighting the bull. I do not know how many matadors and bullfighting techniques I saw. All were familiar to me. I saw the half moon scythes that were used to finish the bulls when the matador was not able to kill them. In those times, the fighting bulls had horns as long as arms and there was no way to penetrate the cervical notch; and so it was easy for them to brake at the fences, throw the picadors down and string the horses’ bellies, thus producing a gush of blood and intestines on the arena. My passion for bullfighting was so powerful that I requested that my parents cut my young sister’s hair to make a matador braid for me.22 Later on, for entertainment, I formed a make-believe gang of toreros of whom I was the leader. We used to play bullfighting with file-sharpened horns. Later in life, I fought heifers but never to do or expand seriously into the art of bullfight for the rest of my life. When I was about twelve years old, I took my gang to a produce farm in Gelves23 to charge-fight a heifer. Confronted with the animal, none of us could make up his mind to be first. Since I was the sole instigator of the adventure, I had to volunteer to be first. I remember how my scalp twitched while provoking the beast; in fact, my fear provoked a hair-standing scalp reaction. As soon as the beast charged, my arm lifted the cape graciously. At this point, my fear vanished and I gave a good performance. In addition, for my entertainment, I had a model schooner rigged with the necessary cordage: mainsail, jib and top, bow and tack, and tackle block that I could maneuver on dry land, to receive the

21 Short spear used in bullfighting to bleed the bull and facilitate the task of the matador. 22 The strong passion for bullfighting during his childhood was, supposedly, supported by his father and male relatives to a certain point, I believe. The popular culture of Sevilla produced the rest. Perhaps the girl had expressed a wish to have her hair cut. Part of this hair could have been used to make a toreador braid. This is the only reasonable explanation. 23 This is a small town in the province of Sevilla. See: Espasa Calpe Encyclopedia Espasa Calpe, S. A., 1988.

14 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master wind from different angles. Cats were another object of amuse- ment. I loved them. Failing all else, I could pass my time breaking the glass covering of my neighbor’s hothouse, throwing pebbles from the top terrace at home. To find entertainment, I could find solace in a good fight. I was extremely aggressive.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 15

CHAPTER II

Life and colorful characters-The Sevillian School-My first Communion-Drawing class-My middle school entrance Exam-Don Arturo and Poetry-My father-The happenings at El Puerto-Puerto de Santa Maria political movement-Walks with my father-The roof terrace-Juana, the maid-My sister-Family difficulties. After some pondering, I refused to go to the Jesuit school, for I always did what pleased me. Instead, I went to the Sevillian School. That was a different proposition. Don Arturo, the director, was a very intelligent and respectable man. The school consisted of a spacious room divided into six echelons. The boys gradually advanced on each section to complete the title of assistant and finally instructor, the one controlling the groups. At the entrance of the room, there was a wooden platform upon which was the teacher’s desk, a rotating globe of Earth hanging from the ceiling, a model of the solar system with a lit sun, the Earth and the moon, an armillary sphere, and boxes with illuminated Bible stories. The instruction included doctrine, reading, dictation, and recitation of arithmetic operations, gymnastics, drawing from printed models, and reading of moral maxims that were hung around the classroom. For instance, one of them said, “Whoever mistreats an animal shows an unkind nature.” One day, I was on the patio at home. Next to me, my father read the newspaper. Meanwhile, I was consciously plucking the legs and wings off of a grasshopper that I had caught, repeating the already-said moral maxim. When my father realized the sadism, he reacted coarsely. His exasperation produced greater impact on me than the morality of the saying. The director of the school, Don Arturo, was a great teacher. He had long whiskers that he took care of proudly. He loved poetry. The class was always attentive; geography was especially understandable and entertaining. The religious illustrations were in a display box under glass. The students could learn Christian history graphically, from Adam and Eve to the great personalities of the Old Testament, with a written explanation provided by winding a handle of a rolled-up text in a box. We did calligraphy and drawing in a separate room. The school also had a glass- covered inner court for gymnastics. It had parallel bars and the

16 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master hanging rings that were used at that time. Don Antonio, brother to Don Arturo, was the assistant teacher. Don Arturo, with his inclination towards poetry, used to read selected passages of poetry from Trozos Escogidos, by Zapata, in a high pitch. These were emotionally loaded passages that I memorized and can still recall with pleasure. “Fabio: Las esperanzas cortesanas, Prisiones son do el ambicioso muere Y donde al mas astuto salen canas. El que no las limare o las rompiere, Ni el nombre de varon ha merecido, Ni subir al honor que pretendiere.”24

I was a bad student. At home, I never read a book nor looked at my lessons. The school had a learning competition with prizes— a watch and medals. A jury placed the questions. Most of the participants went blank but I had all the answers that I fed to my neighbor in a whisper. Finally, my friend stood up and said, “Don Arturo! This one next to me knows all the answers.” “Why didn’t he stand up!” demanded the teacher. I was not his preferred student. He could only see an indomitable boy in me. Even so, he was a good psychologist and pedagogue. I remember he gave me exemplary justice on two occasions. One day a bully dared to insult me in class; and I slapped his face right there and then. Unfortunately, the full-faced slap sounded so blatant in the silent class that Don Arturo rapidly approached our places. I trembled but instead of punishing me, he administered a good dose of blows to my offender. On another occasion, Don Arturo was absent. He left the class in charge of an assistant that we used to call Don Lapiz. This unfortunate man had no control over the class. We used to tease him in the most disgraceful way by calling him from an extreme end of the room to another, to attend to situations that were beyond his ability to get to.

24 th The fragment may be part of one of the dramatic comedies by Melchor Zapata, 18 - century Spanish writer of “El Galanteo al Reves” and “Nada Entre Dos Platos.” Idem Espasa Calve.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 17

Suddenly, Don Arturo returned and the class became silent. Upon request from Don Arturo, Don Lapiz pointed out the culprits. There were about twelve guys lined up on Don Arturo’s platform. Finally, Don Lapiz pointed to me and I had to join the guilty party. Then, Don Arturo, with the leather belt secured on his hand, questioned each one of us. My companions tried to excuse their behavior. They refused to be guilty of insubordination. Consequently, they were whipped one by one. When Don Arturo arrived to me, I confessed to have been part of the tumult. “Well!” he said. “Finally, someone is guilty!” He spared me, using my confession as an example to cowards and persons behaving insincerely. Before registering in Don Arturo’s school, my mother took me to confession for the first time.25 I went obtrusively shy when kneeling by the priest. I do not know what kind of oddities I told the man. By the time I completed my declaration of truth, the two button rows that formed part of my marine overcoat were twisted; and they were plucked off from my coat, so that when I received the benediction, I had none left. Exercising religious principle was under my mother’s control. Although she was not excessively devoted, she followed strict religious precepts and made me follow them. My father only went to church on Glorious Saturday, at the end of Easter Week, when he used to take me with him to see the veil torn from the sanctuary.26 At the sound of bells and gunshots commemorating the event, he used to say, with great emotion, “Pray for you brother.”27 He had anticlerical feelings and showed it. I remember one time during Easter celebration a priest spinkled him excessively with holy water, to which he swore a profanity and called the priest an animal while we were still attending church. He kept commenting about the incident afterwards. He called the priest uneducated, gross, and ignorant of the meaning of a symbolic act!

25 Seven years old is considered the age of reason, the traditional age for the first confession among the Christian Catholic, of which the writer makes reference. 26 Glory Saturday is the traditional day when according to Catholic Church canon Jesus was resurrected. 27 Refers here to his older brother who died in Havana, of the dengue, before his birth.

18 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master

I had my first communion in that school, without ostentation or special dress.28 We were instructed how to proceed in a group. In church, when my turn arrived, I approached the confessional, where there was an old priest. He asked me to confess my sins, to which, in a trance of compunction, I recited the Ten Commandments and accused myself of transgressing all of them. When I told the attending confessor that I had finished, the clergyman, half-asleep, acquitted me. The poor gentleman had had to listen to the nonsensical declarations of guilt by twenty guys like me! At home, religion had no great transcendence. The members of the family used to pray the Rosary. I never had feelings for it. For me, the repetitiousness of the Hail Marys was only worth a passing thought; the poetry of the litanies sounded like a list of nonsensical names. The ritual of Resurrection that my father used to attend still evokes emotion. Whenever I hear the glory bells, I imagine seeing him. How pure and noble he was, even with his careless, ungovernable attitude and temperamental character. Outside the shrine, the world was a wonderful place to be. Seville was a splendid city with the spring growth, covered with acacia flowered trees and orange blossoms. Life was grand. My mother, like in every other thing, was the opposite temperament of my father. She was uncomplicated, simple like a young girl but with a passivity like I have never seen after and an incredible spirit of goodness and self-sacrifice. She used to take my sisters and me to a distant church for the Catholic precept of confession and communion. If her preferred minister happened to be at another church, we went to it, no matter how far. In summary, I used to return home, me that never went out without my breakfast, with a growling stomach, cursing the church. Even though, I was a sort of mystic by nature. I never tolerated fanatic religious women and priests. The Baroque frontispieces of the church altars bothered me; I even thought they stank. At the Escuela Sevillana, I was also instructed in physical education and drawing. The students practiced weight lifting, use of the parallel bars and rings. Everything was done in a regular

28 Spanish costume for the occasion still is a special white or dark suit, sort of a sailor uniform, for the boys, and a long white robe for the girls. Some of the Spanish families lavish in ostentation for the first communion of their children.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 19 closed space without special ventilation or change of clothes. Don Tomas de Araburu was the drawing instructor. The class copied from printed illustrations eyes, noses, half faces, full faces, feet and hands with charcoal on newsprint paper transferring these to good quality paper and retouching the lines with pencil or graphite, adding and diffusing the shades. The first day I was told to do an eye profile. I thought the exercise was easy. I did a fast sketch and took it to the instructor. “Well!” he said. “You finished already! That is not good! Go back to your seat and wait for me to pass by and correct it!” I left with my tail between legs and full of fury, I filled a whole sheet with eyes. The teacher saw them and said that was nonsense, and that I should do only one eye looking at it carefully and correcting it. I thought the evaluating procedure was unfair. I, who could draw little boats so well! Turning towards my companion, I said, “You will see what I can do!” With four energetic lines, I sketched an eye. Against the prohibition, I stood up and took it to him. He stayed for a second looking at me and then asked, “Who did it for you!” My schoolmates assured the instructor that I had done it all by myself; to which he instructed me to work on the next exercise. All this happened the first day of class. Sixty years later, it still happens to me. I either stain my canvass or work with furor. After my second eye drawing, I continued advancing and sketched eyes and noses to satiation, and even ears, feet, hands, half faces, full faces, and shaded faces, for two years, until I took my exam to middle school. At that time, the normal thing would have been to enter high school but my father decided that I only needed to study French and math. In this fashion, I lost a school year. My parents thought about enrolling me in an English school, and that may have been a good idea but it never took place. During my school years, my mother used to learn about my advancements from the teacher. He usually said that I was average, but that I was gifted and could do better work. However, he said, I did not because I had low self-esteem29 and there was no way to set me to a different tune. I do not think it was a question of low self-esteem but instead a question of being me without it making any difference whether others are more or less

29 Undoubtedly, the author refers here to his individuality that he cultivated, during the rest of his life, due to his family descent and his peer position at home.

20 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master than me. This is a handicap in life’s competitive situations although this view is very gratifying for the mind and soul of intellectually independent individuals. I have had feelings of jealousy and envy only very moderately. I always received more satisfaction from giving up my position rather than fight to keep it.30 My father, Don Francisco Javier de Winthuysen, Martinez de Baños, revered his father, Don Pedro Winthuysen y Bustillo, who was nephew to a one-armed Finisterre ancestor. My grandfather was a knight page in service to King Carlos IV; and at the age of twenty, he was promoted to Captain. Immediately afterward, he retired from service, at an early age, to El Puerto de Santa Maria. His was a deserved affection, since, according to my father, who was the eldest son, his father was a man of great talent. The Quixote was his breviary. As Major to El Puerto de Santa Maria, he canceled consumers’ taxes. He had his five children serve in the Royal Navy. My father, his oldest child, and one of his brothers reached the grade of Navy Captain. The others perished as Navy officers or cadets at sea. About Don Pedro Winthuysen y Bustillo’s personality, I heard that the family gave a ball in Madrid, where they resided, to celebrate the flaming Captain title but the newly promoted captain was declared to be indisposed, got in bed, and next day, he resigned his position. This was the consequence of his sojourn in court,31 at the imposition of his father. The resignation most probably came as a reaction to what he saw around him— that is, buying titles, instead of following the Navy tradition of the family that he made his children follow. Later in life, I regretted not to having asked my father for an explanation of these suppositions. My father, who loved me dearly, almost never talked to me about family affairs; and it was with the great respect, close to fright, that I conversed with him, but I never dared to ask him anything. Only in very

30 Independent character defined the entire life of the writer. From his early years to the rest of his life, he was a self-taught personality. 31 The author here reflects the derelict system of buying titles and positions that was commonly done at Carlos IV Madrid’s Royal Court. The Bustillo side of the family was from Vera Cruz, Mexico. The mother of Pedro Winthuysen y Bustillo, Isabel Bustillo, was the granddaughter to the Governor of Mexico during the era of Colonial Spain. The Bustillo family had kept important connections with the monarchy in Madrid that were not well received by Pedro Winthuysen, and therefore he presented his resignation from service.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 21 special circumstances, he deemed to include passages about marine life in our conversations, though not in direct connection with his own life. He told me these as if he were trying to dissuade me from entering the Navy. One time, I heard Admiral Pinzon say that my father was a good seaman; and although he was not too keen to serve, he served well as an officer. The fact is that my father belonged to a transitional time in the Navy. He was born in 1815 and died in 1900. He served on the sailing ship Feliz as an officer. The few times that I talked with him about seafaring affairs, he always said that everything had changed and that neither he nor any of his marine mates knew anything about modern machinery. When I got to know him, I learned that he was a man dedicated to public service as he demonstrated with his civility. He had reached the age of sixty when I was born. By the time he requested separation from the Navy, from pure tiredness, he was a frigate captain. He established himself in El Puerto de Santa Maria where he could tend the vineyards and even more, care for trees. He had a passion for trees and for urban planning using tree cover. It was there, in El Puerto de Santa Maria that, already retired, with seven children,32 the political events on the year 1868 enveloped him.33 This was the time when his companion, Admiral Juan Bautista Topete, rose to revolt on the fleet in Cadiz that determined the deposition of Queen Isabel II. During the revolution, there were arms distributed to civilian militants to avoid public disturbances. Powerfully armed, the militant patrols broke out of control. The anarchic behavior caused panic among the authorities, who fled for their lives, thereby leaving the population at the mercy of the unruly militants. Admiral Topete and Cadiz’s civilian governor went to El Puerto to offer my father, an energetic man, interim control of the city. My

32 As far as I know, the family had a total of seven children. The younger sister in the family, Manuela, was born in 1868. Information verified with the baptism certificate part of documentation in file. 33 The 1868 revolution was supported by the philosophic ideas of the Krausismo, from Carl Kraus who was an obscure German philosopher of the early 19th century advocating the individuality of the human being in modern society. The Spanish trendy interpretation of his philosophy was very much in consonance with the Spanish anarchistic way of thinking, which also was conveniently applied to the Neo-Catholicism that did not remedy the chaotic economic situation, but only justified continuation of a very ineffective economic policy. Idem: Raymond Carr, Editorial Ariel.

22 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master father excused himself saying that he had nothing to do with the out-of-hand situation. Topete insisted, arguing that it was my father’s civic obligation for my father to take over the abandoned position of mayor. My mother told me that he accepted the request on the condition that he be able to rule and to enforce his command. The situation was desperate. My father passed a command ordering disarmament of the civilian militias. Upon posting the order, the armed militias fired and killed the sergeant of the Guardia Civil that, with four regulars, constituted the only force that my father had. Meanwhile, the militias were calling for the mayor’s head. My father’s worries were directed toward my mother and my brothers, all of them young. The faithful Juana, dressed them as paupers, and made them jump to the adjacent house from the top terrace to freedom. No family or friends kept them company when they left, all by themselves, in a third-class compartment mixed with commoners, as they traveled to Jerez by train. The militia attacked and detained the train. They climbed down, with Juana behind yelling to the insurgent militias, “Get the ones in first class wagon, my children!” The subterfuge proved to be useful for my family’s safety. In Jerez, they took asylum at the English consulate. My father sustained his position, which was a stronghold in the abandoned open-air mine of Canteras de Puerto Real, with a small force of four guards and twelve sailors, until the arrival of a battalion of Cazadores34 arrived from Madrid. Upon the arrival of the force, my father, wearing his uniform, offered his service to direct the column towards the city, where he took part in the maneuver to beat and dispersed the insurgents. The official news of the insurrection in El Puerto de Santa Maria appeared in La Gazeta de Madrid, on the front page of the issue of Sunday, December 20, 1868. The army commanders, my father’s peers, congratulated him. He limited himself to visiting the casualties in the hospital and attended to the needs of the derelict families. General Prim commented that if the authorities had acted as my father did, the insurrection would have been under control in no time. After the events, my father developed an aversion towards

34 Assault-trained forces in the army of the time.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 23 his fellow citizens who had behaved so poorly towards him and his family. He abandoned El Puerto and established himself in Sevilla. It was there, unexpectedly, that I arrived six years after my youngest sister. Many years later, I met an old man who, upon hearing my name, asked if I was the son of Don Javier. He told me enthusiastically, “I, a lifelong republican, fought against your father in El Puerto. What a mayor was he with a saber in hand!” A one-handed fellow, pointed to his arm and said: “This happened in El Puerto.” Nobody had sore feelings towards this great gentleman, such was his noblesse. My father, at the age of forty, when he was a frigate captain, married my mother, Luisa Losada Pastor, who was twenty years younger. When I came around to know her, she was already worn out after raising so many children. I remember from an old daguerreotype-already-lost her precious, girlish face. Rodriguez Losada, an artist painter at the time, who charged a gold ounce for portraits, did my father’s portrait.35 His correct features and great distinction were very clear. To my father’s stormy character, my mother’s character was quite the opposite—hers was the best and sweetest nature that I have ever known. Her strength consisted in a nearly invincible, passive resistance. From the age of reason, I considered him like fire and her like water. There could not be greater differences between the two. On my mother’s side, my mother’s ancestry and background are as follows. The name Losada is of Galician origin, my maternal grandfather, Don Tomas Losada y Sufredo, was a native of Malaga, where his family were established. The only document related to him was a report of “cleanness of origin” that he presented to enter the Navy School of San Telmo, in Sevilla.36 He was a captain in the merchant navy. He married a lady by the name of Pastor y Fuentes who had a brilliant brother, Captain of Engineers, Manuel Pastor. My mother and her brothers were born in La Havana, where her uncle directed the urban reforms that were approved by General Tacon, then in command. The water supply, the avenue and the Theater Tacon were some of the

35 This portrait is now part of the art collection of the Naval Museum in Madrid, on loan to the Museo de La Torre Del Oro. 36 The naval and army forces in Spain retained the custom of documenting proof that their candidates were not descended from Jewish or Muslim parentage, until the early 20th century.

24 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master public works that he directed. With that and other business that he had, he made several millions of reales,37 a fortune in those times. With his capital, he bought two sugar plantations. Later on, when my mother was six years old, he freighted his own frigate and transported the entire family to Cadiz. Don Manuel, who had married a local lady by the name Retortillo, was given the title of Count of Bagaes,38 the name of one of his sugar plantations. In those times, Cadiz was an extremely rich town and one of the most cultured cities in Europe. The Count of Bagaes had no direct descendants; my mother was his favorite niece. She was known as Luisa Pastor, instead of Losada, to the members of the distinguished society of that time. My mother used to tell about the luxury of their way of life; for instance, how on Saint Thursdays, when they went out in procession they had young black pages carrying velvet cushions to kneel on in churches.39 My mother was a pretty young girl with a sweet round face. She had a gracious figure and a sweet, exquisite quality. She must have had many suitors in her youth but my father, with his family- name prestige and virile, handsome looks, was the only one to reach her heart. He had no patrimony left since it had been divided among the nine brothers and he was over twenty years older than my mother. Nevertheless, the wedding took place to everyone’s contentment and they had the Count’s blessings. The bad thing about my father’s relation to the Count was the differences of opinion that they had. While the Count was prone to opulence, my father was the opposite. He was distinctly open- minded, liberal and aristocratic and always placed his interests above worldly possessions. It was in such a way, that when the Count of Bagaes told him to choose his post in the Navy through his recommendation, my father chose a position below his rank

37 The real is worth a fourth of a peseta. Counting in reales was still in use in the middle of the twentieth century. 38 The enriched Spaniards, returning home from the colonies, bought nobility titles and land seized properties confiscated from the Catholic Church then in the hands of the Spanish Crown during the 19th century. The disentitlement of land properties from the rich religious orders proved to be a source of revenue for several administrations, to replenish the empty coffers of the Spanish monarchy. 39 The custom of holy processions in Spain is still in use; now the ostentation of riches is not so blatant but the expenditure to appear well decked in religious procession is still considerable among the Spanish families.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 25 and Count Bagaes had to upgrade the position in the Navy, in order for him to secure a realistic retirement pay. I do not know whether my father’s poor relations with the Count was a consequence of his pride (from which I also suffer), for he was as proud as he was natural. All I know is that Count Bagaes rewrote his will, and changed it from leaving my mother the inheritance he had assigned to her in his first will, and reduced it to few buildings in usufruct that had to remit totally upon her death to her children. This later will from the Count, from which my brothers and I inherited, was the admiration of the experts taking care of my personal property. Count Bagaes, in his holograph will, divided his property in two: one part for his natural nephews and the other for his wife’s, the Retortillo family. To his congenital inheritors, he left the fortune already transferred in Spain; to the others, the properties in Cuba. He legated the same amount of money to both of my uncles, Enrique and Bernardo Losada, brothers to my mother. There was one exception: he left the title of Count and the annuity attached to it to Bernardo, who was an artillery officer and had more rank and distinction than his brother. To my mother, he left the already mentioned usufruct and the same to his sister. To the other two brothers who had attained nothing through personal effort, he left nothing. Other dispositions in the will determined that the partition of the goods arriving from Cuba at the time of his death should be allocated to one branch of the family or the other, depending upon the distance of the ship from Spain or Cuba. He also gave freedom to the slaves in the will and left things legally disposed so that it was not possible to contest it. My grandfather Tomas, still alive on Bagaes’ death, resented the disparity of the treatment given to his sons. He had Enrique assign a pension of twenty thousand duros40 to Manuel and the same from Bernardo to Emilio. I assume that my grandfather was well off because when I met him, he used a long tail of white horse hair to chase the flies. It was made from tail hair of one the mares serving his coach. Although he owned a horse-driven carriage, he did not leave anything to his children on his death, not even good memories— as far as I could discern.

40 Duro: Nomenclature proceeds from the German Thaler, 1519, that became the standard monetary unit for many countries during the sixteen century. Webster’s definition.

26 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master

How remarkable my father was! He had nothing in common with other gentlemen of Sevilla. He had been retired from the Navy for a long time. From his past life, all that I knew was through the uniforms, stored in a coffer. Or the sabers, boarding battle-ax that were lying in a corner, a marine field-glass, a sextant, one marine and one geographic dictionary that I abhorred because every morning he had the great idea of asking me to look up and read something on geography. We had separate rooms. Mine looked onto the street his to the court. The wash-stand was in my room. He usually woke up early. He dressed up, and he left his room and came to mine, strolling around and talking to himself, or he called my mother who also woke up early and was already after the servants. If he did not call my mother, he called Juana, the old maid. He always talked to them in a high, scolding pitch. When the hot water arrived, he proceeded to wash his feet in a bidet. He soaped, washed and dried one foot carefully and asked for the corresponding boot, yelling for it. Juana, who was somewhat backward, usually brought him the boot for the wrong foot and as a matter of fact, he could not get it on but he tried. His reaction was to curse Juana and she usually went to fetch the other boot, murmuring criticisms about the old age of my father. Poor Juana— if he happened to hear her, then insults and blasphemies will come out of his mouth on the double. Then he proceeded to brush his teeth meticulously. He had never lost a tooth and was very proud of that. His neck and head were next on his washing agenda; and he continued to do all this, now and then, while he walked up and down from his room to mine, frequently bringing the hateful dictionary. Meanwhile, I was still lying down, pretending to sleep. To that, he used to wake me up with high voices and, putting the dictionary in front of me, command me to look for a forlorn river or city that I, with eyes still full of sleep, used to take a long time to find. Then, I sluggishly read the passage to his further exasperation. Finally, he departed to meet Juana, who was waiting for him at the market. When I was by myself, my mother brought me milk with coffee and a fresh roll with butter. God help us if he had forgotten something! He was very austere in his needs. My breakfast was a scandal and he used to tell my mother that she was fattening me.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 27

Sometimes, when I was a young boy, he used to take me to the Delicias, Cristina, or the Alameda, and other gardens where he was superintendent.41 There, he used his cane to threaten the caretakers as soon as he could see any evidence of damage to his beloved trees and plants, accompanying his gesture with a substantial dose of verbal desecration. As a publicly elected employee, he was constantly walking the city streets, the avenues, gardens, and abattoirs. He had nothing else to do. The city was his life and pride. He had great authority and prestige. Even though he had a tempestuous character, people loved him. He commanded everything as if from a ship’s bridge and he did not spare strong words or even action to make the municipal employees obey his orders (and even others that were not). Once in a while, we used to go to the public market of the Encarnacion where a certain lady attending by the name of Rocio had a stand.42 There, we used to sit to see the exotic plumage of the roosters, the plump hens and the round-chested pigeons, and other birds that my father used to buy for the pleasure of keeping them at the aviary, on the top roof terrace of our house. This chicken-house also housed unusual animals like a royal eagle and a fox. The terrace had large planting pots and it was covered with a trellis with hanging plants. It comprised a suspended garden that my father took care of, grafting and pruning the plants and making the entire family water it on summer eves with water from the infamous black fish reservoir, with the pump drawn from the lower court. It was an idyllic spot that was mentioned by Juan Ramón Jiménez in his writings.43

41 Javier the Winthuysen y Martinez de Baños worked for the Department of Parks and Gardens of the city of Seville. He was already over sixty when he had the elected occupation of city councilman as seen on the minutes and meetings of dates signed by him on the margin (part of my documentation). Some of the leisure places mentioned in the text are either nonexistent or have not kept their original features. 42 The market of La Encarnacion has been standing on a provisional site for many years, ever since the eclectic government of the city discovered ancient ruins under the original site while it was being refurbished. According to local people, historians have not been able to decide whether it was more important to leave extant the ruins or continue with the planned remodeling of the market. Even now, the makeshift place that functions as the Market of the Encarnacion is an extremely colorful place for its conspicuous display of ways and customs in language, social mores, local products, and gastronomic preferences among the Sevillians. 43 Juan Ramón Jimenez was a Spanish poet, a member of the Generation of 1927.

28 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master

One day the visit to the market had unprecedented consequences. My father became entranced with a splendid rooster. He asked me if I liked it and I said yes. Then he told me to take it home. Faced with a perspective of crossing half the town with the rooster, I shied away. My father, being as he was, was naturally gifted in communicating with half the world without social restrictions. Consequently, he reacted violently, scolding and calling me conceited; and he ordered me to pick up the rooster and carry it home. I, trodden down, reached home full of rage; and rang the bell at the iron-gate. Such was the day that they were taking a long time to open the gate. And so, I took the rooster by its legs and threw it with all my might against the iron-gate. Death was instantaneous. It had no time to pip. My father remained silent. In the marketplace, he was a terror on the loose. Whether for filthiness, use of improper language, or cheating about the freshness of the fruits, the vendors were sure to get it verbally or by his cane. He exerted his authority as well as he liked and people respected him and they even liked him. When the abuse was not in the market, it was on the street because the workmen were sweeping without wetting it first or because somebody had painted the front of the house in aberrant colors. This happened one day when we saw that the owner of a bar had painted the lower level of the house bright blue and the top red. My father became entranced, entered the store and berated the owner, who responded by saying that it was his house and he could choose any colors he liked to paint it. “No problem,” said my father, and he placed a municipal guard in front of the store with instructions to note every infraction of the statutes that the owner made. The owner of the bar collected tickets galore. In those times, merchants were not very strict about following urban rules. Finally, the bar owner came to my father to ask him to leave him alone and to tell him which color he should use to paint the front of the house. Public ornament was his obsession. I remember there was a mansion that had a private abandoned garden next to it. The front of the property was well cared for and painted but the corner wall was stained, abandoned and old. My father used to stop to look at the villa and say to me, “How miserable can this Don such and

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 29 such as rich as he is— to have a beautiful house so well cared for next to such an indecent wall.” He had gone through official and private investigation to find that the next door house and the garden were under litigation, and that nobody was responsible for keeping up the property. There was no way to correct the situation. We were standing on the street examining the buildings, when the occupant happened to leave his house. “Now we can do something about it,” said my father, and approaching the man, he asked him if he intended to repair the ugly wall. “Don Javier,” the man said, “Don’t you know that this is the median wall and that the property is under legal action?” “Of course, but to passersby, this is your house and the wall is a shame. Would you like to contribute money to paint it? We could split the expense.” The man laughed to hear such an ingenious suggestion and this prompted him to order and pay for whitewashing the wall. But the most famous of my father’s talented happenings occurred when he decided to paint the front of our house. Deliberately, he went across the street to ask the neighbor which color he preferred. The owner was flabbergasted and answered that the house was his to paint in the color that he saw fit. “On the contrary,” my father replied, “Because I am inside and I am the one who sees it the less while you are outside and you can either enjoy or abhor it.” His civic concern made him famous. He always acted in the same way. His enthusiasm was toward care for trees. Any time somebody happened to break a branch or damage the trunk of a tree, he had an angry reaction, yelling and brandishing his cane. The poor caretakers of boulevards and gardens trembled before him. When it was time to plant or prune trees, he was there directing the operation like from a ship’s gangplank. He even used to give away his own plants from the terrace garden when they were too big to keep on top of the house. As town councilor, he could have requested the assistance of public guards. He seldom did, however. His commander’s rod was the old age cane that he would wave in cases of insubordination, although it was not always necessary since he was liked by the people for his chivalric bravery and his amiable nature. Other times, he used to take me to the abattoir and the carnage house. I liked the abattoir because it had to do with bulls. At the sound of a bell, the workers had to lasso the animals and brig its

30 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master forehead against a metal post where they were finished off. This was easy at the beginning but as time went by, some of the beasts would resist and those that were wilder would charge and it was hard to rope and sedate them. It was a brutal and emotion- ridden spectacle; quartering was done as soon as they were killed. The place was a sea of blood. The carnage house was something else. The fat pigs screamed horribly when the butcher caught and slit their dewlap plunging the knife to the handle in their necks. The first time I saw it done made me ill. To take a six- to eight-year-old child to those horrors only had a logical explanation of trying to toughen me against maternal pampering and make me bold. On one certain occasion, I was caught and thrown by a heifer without further consequences but still suffered a tremendous fright. With that, my father succeeded in damaging my nervous stability. We also used to go visit a perfume-shop where two jolly ladies welcomed me with demonstrations of affection and attention. On those occasions, I was surprised to see my father, usually so stern and given to anger fits, practically slobbering and blabbering sweet nonsensical epithets in front of the two ladies. As a matter of fact, my father kept his integrity of character to old age. He was also an ardent admirer of women. My sisters had attractive girlfriends dressed with the incredibly adjusted stays, women’s fancy of the time, that resulted in protruded, immense hips and that my father used to tap in a friendly way, asking them if they were faked. One time, we had a young girl servant from Triana at home. I remember that we were at the bakery,44 on the first floor of our house, in conversation with our tenant, the owner of the bakery, and other friends, when our maid came into the shop to buy something.45 My father told of the occurrence, when he said,

44 The family had to sublet the ground floor to Gayango Dairy, that later became Confiteria Gayango, a coffee shop and bakery, to help with the household expenses. Deprived of the comfort of moving to the cool ground floor in the hot summer months, the children complained of excessive heat. The ingenious father tricked them by exposing himself, and rolled himself up in a woolen blanket, to direct sun rays on the terrace of the house in the summer, and then came to the second floor, removing the blanket and exclaiming that the place was indeed very cool. My sister Salud, oldest surviving child of my father, recalled the anecdote for me. 45 Confiteria Gayango is listed, as Café Gayango by the Dictionary of the Streets of Seville, previously mentioned, was a social gathering place and part of the cultural entertainment th present on Tetuan Street in the1880s. In a personal interview conducted on the 5 of March, 1999, with Mr. Carlos Hernandez, grandson to the founder of the pastry and coffee

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 31

“Look what a pretty maid we have!” Since all the gentlemen present had directed some nice epithet to the girl and the clergyman present had not, he proceeded to interrogate the priest on the shine of his gaze. The priest scolded my father sternly— to which my father responded with a round of profanity and an explanation on the difference between virtue, healthy desire in front of a beautiful girl, and the frigidity of a homosexual for the opposite sex. Although my father never used titles or honors and was even careless about his dress, he was very proud of his lineage. He was authoritarian and conservative. In the evening, he went to his club. His friends were prestigious members of the Republican Party. Who would have thought! He socialized mostly with distinct republicans, not with the aristocrats, although he prized himself as being one, and conducted his life with extreme chivalry and perfect manliness. He had a straight mind without prejudices. On one occasion, a beggar that he had admonished, jumped on him and seized him by the neck and was about to strangle him. Two municipal guards rescued my father from the mendicant and were about to take the aggressor to jail but my father made them release the man. Instead of the indignation that would have been felt by any proud gentleman, he only extolled the strength of the man and remarked how he would have succeeded in choking him to death if the guards had not removed the hands from my father’s neck. He had a scar on one of his hands that had resulted from his own interventions to separate fighting men. He was not too keen with the liberties taken by the press. Nevertheless, one day he told me, “Do you see this depravity? It was even worse before!” Both Isabel II and her father had a cove shop La Campana, I learned that it opened circa 1865 and was located approximately five hundred yards from the corner of Tetuan and Albareda. He remembered the coffee shop and that it was on the corner today across from Banco of Sabadell, that it was a small establishment, and was later converted into a refreshment place that remained opened until the 1940s or 50s. Otherwise, 9 Albareda, the street address that appears on the city census of 1880, corresponds to the southwest corner of the intersection. The address does not appear on the following years’ census for reasons of commercial site contributor and, most likely, for reasons of the household contributor exception as town councilor. The brief interview with Mr. La Manga Borrero, the oldest employee of the Barclay Bank, confirms that the street corner was opposite to the Banco de Santander. Today, externally, the appearance of the house corresponds to the writer’s description on the first and second floors. The ground floor was totally remodeled to accommodate first the coffee-dairy shop and later the Banco de Valladolid that preceded the Barclay Bank.

32 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master of derelicts at their service, who were capable of crushing the noblest souls— something that cannot be done with the public press.46 He never accepted favors or gratuities. One day, I told him, with satisfaction, that a certain gentleman had offered me a job, one of those jobs that were invented for the children of well- to-do families. He reacted coarsely, saying that this was done for families that had degraded fathers and he communicated the same thing, and with the same tone, to my benefactor. Even so, he was far from being moralistic and autocratic. On the contrary, he was a humanitarian, free loving, happy and love-prone. However, he could not stand ugly women. The sight of one produced a sort of a nervous shock; he used to say, on his left thumb that was really painful. Salty food was another thing to enervate him. One day, one of the dishes served in a meal was very salty and he called the cook. The cook was an ugly woman. Instantly, my father forgot about the salt and holding his left thumb with his right-hand cursed repeatedly, saying how ugly she was. The poor woman rushed out of the house firmly believing that my father was insane. He detested excessive piety but at the same time, I saw him thrash a blasphemer.47 I was still attending La Escuela Sevillana, preparing for my entrance exam to high school but one day they told me that I did not have to go to school. That was fine with me. I was not exactly aware of what was going on. The exasperated ways of my father had become worse; and my mother’s taciturn passivity had increased. I did not see anything special in the increased demonstrations of their usual ways; however, it was a delicate predicament. My father, with his arbitrariness and carelessness, and my mother, always living in an unreal world, one with a fiery character and the other with her passive immutability, had arrived with their dissimilarity to a critical economical situation that was not easy to remedy. Nothing had been paid for months. Everything was in debt. The accounts of

46 No doubt, the author refers here to an incident that happened while his father read the newspaper with some political events of the time. The depravity of the royal rule during the terms of Isabel II and her father is commented on in many textbooks, as mentioned by Carr. 47 The “blasphemy” here refers to the Spanish custom, among the popular class of using religious sacred names in their profanities. In this case, the father’s cursing repertoire was marine language and therefore apart from disrespectful connotations.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 33 groceries, clothing, and monthly payments of my school were overdue and my father was not informed— that is, until the creditors, tired of waiting, decided to enter a demand. The reality was that we had no means to pay them and had until now used a pathetic administration of our finances. My father’s criterion was to live as simply as possible; and my mother’s was to take everything we needed on credit. She had no idea of how to shop! At the stores, she used to take everything offered and never say no. The bills were climbing to the skies! The culprit to our situation was my oldest sister who was a beauty and a socialite in Sevillian society.48 She had a bird’s head and did not miss any gatherings or diversions in town to show her gracefulness and elegance. We had sufficient means to live in abundance but we were not rich. The solution to our self- indulgence-created problems was to sell the jewels of the house to the gypsies. I used to play with the precious stones that sat around in a drawer. We gave a collection of English engravings to a house cook as wedding present. My father could not care less about jewels. The members of my family did not respect even his badge that was sewn to his uniform. The unpaid accounts grew to require judicial intervention, and then some more surfaced. It was an atrocious circumstance! My sister, from among all her gallants that went head over heels for her, chose a rich man, a young gentleman of ill repute for delving in unclear business that my father could not tolerate. My mother kept the situation rolling behind his back. I was not old enough to fully appreciate the situation and neither did I have interest. The solution was to send the capricious girl to our relatives in Barcelona where she immediately acquired another suitor, this time an officer of the Hussars who was a love rival to the general. As it happened, the Hussar was assistant to the mentioned general. Ultimately, she came back to Sevilla, married the Hussar officer, and settled down in Madrid. Mine was a mad home but very orderly. My mother got up at dawn, and called on the servants that did the housekeeping under her supervision. My sisters woke afterwards, cleaned their rooms

48 The sister in question was Lola. In the census of 1880, Lola appears to be 16, listed after her older sister, Luisa, who was 21.

34 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master and left totally decked and ready for their stylish life. I never saw my sisters wearing mean clothes or robes. The treatment from the servants was extremely respectful and original. They did not call my mother “madam” or my father “sir” but instead “el Señorito papá” and “la señorita mamá.”49 My sisters had the title of señorita before their baptismal names and even I passed from plain Javierito to el Señorito Javier when I became of age. The staff consisted of Juana la Roteña, who was an institution in our home; she was always fighting with my father, who tried to fire her but she neither left, nor was she fired. She never learned how to talk correctly: she called the thermometer temetometo and diarrhea despeño.50 She used old denominations to count money, such as: Maravedis, and napoleons by eight or quarts or maximum by real.51 The rest of the staff was more modern although they had been our servants for years. The staff was: Dolores, the cook; Concha, the seamstress; Carmen, the washer, and a maid for general house service that used to be replaced with another every so often.52 Besides their salary, the servants had a bread allocation: the washer got five buns, the cook four, and the others three. Old Juana collected the dinner table bread; and had the baker deliver two buns less to the house and refunded to her in cash— three small coins— that she passed on to me for tidbits. She even used to buy me tickets to the corridas when I had been punished by my parents or to buy “La Lidia,” a very interesting Tauromachy magazine. From time to time, she had visits from her relatives from Rota that she used to entertain in the kitchen. They were old sailors that manned a launch loaded with fresh eggs and fruit. She used to take them to the café where I was invited sometimes. Not

49 Literally means the “young gentleman father,” and the “young miss mother.” This was an th inter-colonial custom left over from the 18 century, and understandable usage since Sevilla was the center of trade and a cultural model to the Spanish colonies for a long time and at the same time was influenced by her colonies. 50 The correct terms in Spanish are termometro and diarrea. The distinct adaptations of the terms are related—one to the use, since the thermometer is inserted or placed in convenient places of the human body; and second, to the body and to the act itself, when the sick intestine is not capable of holding the stools, causing a physical cascade of fecal material. The adaptations were in accord with the rusticity of the people she came from, for whom survival was more important than intellectual sophistication. 51 th Old Spanish coin denominations from the 16 and 17th centuries, now in disuse, but still in popular language use at the time. 52 The names, ages and origin of the servants, along with the female members of the family, appear on page two of the 1880 Census at 9 Albareda Street, Sevilla.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 35 only had she occasional visitors but she even had long-term ones, too, like her sister and even her sister’s son who was a young guy that was neither good for sea life nor for peasant life. He really was a beachcomber who had been in jail. Surprisingly, after completing his turn, he was allowed to return to visiting his aunt in our home. He was aunt’s Juana right eye. The old Juana always used to say that she did not have a house or home because the sea had taken it.53 Dolores, the cook, had the visit from her godparents who were caretakers in a vegetable garden in Gelves where I used to go to fight steers with my brush friends, as I already related, and to hunt larks with an old shotgun. Carmen, the washer, lived in Triana. She had been married to a sailor that disappeared on one of his trips. She had two daughters: Pepilla, the younger one, could dance the tanto54 with great grace, like a subtle and lean female cat. The other daughter, Encarnacion, was a handsome Trianera. Sometimes, they stayed at our home to help with the service. I befriended the two girls. Our friendship was very private! Our debts were paid off without detriment to our capital that fortunately nobody could touch since it was attached. Besides that, we had a house in El Puerto, and we inherited money, too, from some relatives. I remember one time my father came home with a heavy handbag that he opened on the dining room table. It contained five thousand gold duros that he had inherited from I do not know which relative. The sisters of mine that remained at home were very different from Lola. Luisa, the oldest, was very beautiful, earnest and pious. She kept her fasting during the whole Lent, wore a hair shirt, and I never saw her talking to my father. Concha was different, very original, with talent and energy. She was the only that had an understanding with my father. She took over the administration of our house and leveled our finances. The youngest, Manuela, was a pretty girl. She had a modest social life and went to balls and other diversions. The girls had suitors. Luisa had several beaux—

53 The relation of young Javier de Winthuysen to Juana and the particulars of her life have interesting Dickensian connotations that we find in Great Expectations. 54 The tanto was a popular dance most likely of American-Cuban origin.

36 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master handsome guys with thick beards but she never connected with any of them. The ones she liked were not convenient and the convenient ones she did not like. Manuela, the kid sister, had the same problem. She was always choosing the inopportune ones. Concha used to say that her ideal state would be widowhood. It went without saying, in those times widowhood was the only state in which women had independence. From time to time, I played a chaperon role on social occasions although I had a certain aversion for convivial social gatherings with señoritas. I preferred to go to the bullfights, play billiards and go to the café. My father strongly supported the same opinion. After his early morning walks, he sat by himself to eat one egg and a fried fish lunch. Afterwards, he sat and read the newspaper. The cat and he were always together— not because they were congenial but because they always looked for the coolest place in the house.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 37

CHAPTER III

From the ages of 12 to 14-The gang-Bullhorns and steers-My brother Manuel’s horseback riding and fencing-My naval vocation- Don Francisco’s school-Sevillian sense of humor-Tauromachy. After the high school admission exam, my father decided that I should study geography, mathematics, and French instead of becoming a registered student in the school. Fortunately, his friend, the director of the Teacher’s College, convinced him to enroll me there. One good day, he ordered me to come to his school from where he would take me to the other school. This gentleman was a very peculiar person that the guys my age and younger used to tease. Sevilla was then a city where out-of-the- ordinary people would be subjected to all kinds of tormenting including practical jokes done in poor taste. Don Simon Font was his name. He was tall and corpulent. He always wore a tall hat under which appeared his combed long hair. His waxed moustache had long sticky ends. He was cross-eyed. Lads would call him from the street corner. “Simon! Simon!”—to which he would continue on his way without bothering about the calling or losing his composure. The others, people of his own age, used to tease him in a most disgraceful way. Some jokes cannot be related. He had beautiful daughters that became professional singers, one in vaudeville and the other in the opera. His wife also was good looking but hard-natured. Don Simon was not partial to bullfighting. One of his tormentors, who could hardly be called a friend, and who dealt with bullfighters, always recommended that the matadors call Don Simon about the results of the corrida because he was a great enthusiast for corridas and had influence with the press. Therefore, late at night on Sundays and holidays, someone or other would knock at his door, delivering telegrams to him that used to say, more or less: “Bulls were all right! So much for the horses! I had an ovation on the first and did well on the fourth.” To that, his quarrelsome wife would react exclaiming that he was this and that for letting people take advantage of his good nature. This and other terrible jokes done in bad taste were suffered by the gentleman who I went to see and who recommended me highly in the new school. It was there, as per my father’s desire,

38 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master that I was kept back one year, although I had passed the exam. Therefore, I spent my time taking geography there, waiting for the new school year to begin high school. This is how I enrolled in Don Francisco’s school. It was a modest institution with a good teacher who appreciated me and who I regarded with great affection. Around this time, I used to be the organizer of a make-believe bullfight with bullhorns in front of my house street door.55 Somebody introduced Torerete to the gang. He was a pimp from the Alameda, nephew to Bari, banderillero to Mazantini. His face was graceful but he was part of a vicious rabble of characters. It was a heterogeneous group. Some kids came from nice families, others were undesirables. I still do not understand how I kept my integrity among all the vagrants and rascals without principles that I invited to my house. I have no explanation for why my parents consented to it. I enjoyed prank and knavery but always kept some sort of distance. Beside bullfighting, we had other games, like rock throwing. For that, we made our own slings out of hemp. It was delightful to shatter street-lamps. It was also fun to buy ripe tomatoes and prickly-pears and throw them at the poor women sitting in front of the prostitution houses on summer nights on side streets. It was fun tightening the iron grates of the houses with wire and insult whoever came to open them. In our desire for entertainment, we devised a new bullfighting game, fighting the Galician porters. In Seville, they were called “Gallegos” because they came from Galicia. It was a cruel game. To play it, some of us, the ones that appeared more formal, looked for a strong, young porter that we commandeered to a solitary square where the others were waiting. Then, one of the more aggressive guys would give the porter a blow on the neck from behind saying: “Charge Gallego!” The others followed until the furious porter was really headlong charging into our merry making. Of course this entertainment had its dangers, as would be the case if the furious, strong porter caught any of us, but that never happened. I, with another youth of

55 The colorful play on a semi-commercial street where the residence was located must have been quite a sight to see. Torerete means little torero. The bullfighting professionals that he talks about are recorded in the history of toreo. Diccionario Ilustrado de Terminos Taurinos, 1987.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 39 good family, stood to the side in cases of games involving morals but we still had considerable exposure to corruption. On a certain occasion, I had a fight with a fellow because I did not find him companionable. He was strong. We had a singularly hard fight. We rolled on the ground like two wild cats fastening our claws into each other until two men cut us apart. A few days later, we accidentally met, but instead of fighting again, we greeted each other as friends and from then on he was admitted as one of the fellows in our gang. He was the son of an art restorer. I visited his house regularly. He had his home in an apartment of an old palace that had a large interior courtyard.56 The courtyard was at the back of a barrack. I cannot recall how the skirmish started but I remember that the soldiers proceeded to aggravate us by throwing bricks from the windows of their dormitories. We responded with sling-shot rocks. In this way, we had very intense combats until the day when the sergeant put an end to our sport. I had not practiced drawing on a regular basis—only occasionally, and without discipline or constancy. My father enrolled me, as entertainment in the evenings, at the Public Institute in the class taught by his friend, Don Joaquin Guichot, a cultured, elderly gentleman. He was very convivial and received me very well. He made me pencil copy delightful landscapes. That amused me and when I gave him one or another to correct, he returned them with certain accentuated traits that made them look very pretty. But what really determined my interest in Art was my friendship with Paco Bertendona, the fellow with whom I had had the big fight. His father, Don Trinidad Bertendona,57 was a famous art conservator,

56 Mr. Joaquin Agudelo Hernandez, native Sevillian, specialist writer on Andalusian and particularly Sevillian themes, and author of Noticias Historicas de las Hermandades de Sevilla, told me recently that, according to the description, the buildings were the Palace of the Conde Duque de Olivares and the Convent of the Jesuits. The religious order lost its properties with the disenfranchisement of religious properties early in the century besides losing their political and social influence later on the century as result of the suppression of their order in the city. The palaces were then heavily in disrepair and became an easy acquisition for El Corte Ingles, a multimillion supermarket that bought and demolished them to open a branch, part of the space today occupied by the Plaza del Duque de la Victoria in the old town. The portal of the Palace of Duque de Olivares, neoclassic style with the family coat of arms, is today entrance to one of the departments of the store, situated on one of the sides of the plaza. 57 Information about Trinidad Bertendona provided by Chairman: Gerardo Perez Calero, Sevilla University, Spain: Trinidad Bertendona, Art Restorer, C/ Spronceda, 1, Sevilla, Spain, 1881. The note arrived without source information; I assume by the date to be census records found at the archives of the city of Seville.

40 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master as handsome as he was kind. Sometimes, he let me in his studio, where he commented about the works of art he was working on and made me notice their particular features. The memory of a pure Venetian school work of art representing “Susanna Surprised in her Bath” has never faded from my memory. It was a nude figure drawn with a singularly delicate palette, blushed by modesty that contrasted to the wrinkled hands and heads of the old men energetically painted. Don Trinidad always had paintings under his care from different times and schools that he used to explain to us with great enthusiasm. There was no more profitable way of learning. Besides the practical examples, we had the benefit of his personal fervor and veneration for art that our youthful enthusiasm received like wax in a mold. In addition to his work, Don Trinidad cared passionately for singing birds. On holy days and weekends, he left the house with his son, carrying nets and decoys to the plane of Tablada.58 He had to place the decoys and nets before sunrise to catch flying bands of birds from which he would restock his own collection. His house was full of goldfinches and greenfinches, the two varieties that he preferred. His home, an art sanctuary, was always immersed in sublime music. It was inconceivable that urchins like us— I may have been twelve years old—could be in love with art. This extreme preference had us continuously visiting churches and museums where paintings were hung. In such a way, from a very young age, I was familiar with the old paintings of the city of Seville, one of the richest cities in painted art in Spain. Works by Zurbaran, Valdes Leal, Murillo, and Herrera were part of the dowry of Sevillian churches and hung in the Museum and private collections. The Cepero’s art collection had an incredible richness and variety of artwork. It had one of the four Espolios painted by El Greco, the most important apart from the one in Toledo.59 It also had late medieval European works, works by Velazquez and Goya. Our illustration in ancient art was quite comprehensive.

58 The location of Tablada is north to the city of Seville, a one-hour or less train ride, and is part of the province of the same name. 59 Espolio: The Spanish term refers to the act of disposing of mortal remains in a ritual involving participation of saints and nobles very much in use, representatively, during the 17th century.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 41

I had the perfect initiation to art. But, apart from a few connoisseurs of artwork, the cultural life of the city of Seville was in complete decadence. The only thing extant was the universal admiration for Murillo, who was considered the best artist in the world and was extremely popular. Even so, I remember that the civic-religious procession,60 concerning the Immaculate Conception, Murillo’s preferred theme, was dissolved violently in public manifestation, not because of the transcendental beauty and purity of Murillo’s context but because of the organizers’ intention of using the artist’s work as a fetish by the general public. The reaction was so strong that I have talked with pseudo- intellectuals that consider themselves revolutionaries who would like to present Murillo as a mediocre painter only for this reason. In the city of Sevilla, beside its traditions, there were few people really inclined to love art. Most of them, more than lovers, were low traders that exerted their commercial abilities to dispossess the city from its old patrimony, trading it to the foreigners. On the other hand, among high society of which my family was part, the trade of artist was contemptible. It was only acceptable as a beautiful hobby. Artistic, professional painting was good for menials, for people of modest means. In general, most of my companions, with rare exceptions, were from humble extraction and most were illiterate. With all this, I was already in high school. I did well in Geography. It was one of my interests and my grade was excellent. Latin was a bore, the reason being that a dead language can hardly interest a child. It is matter for a mature person. I was not inclined to learn by repetition like a parrot. I liked History although I had some problems in the exam. The examination question was: Who was Sancho el Craso? I told the examination tribunal that he went to Cordoba for obesity treatment and with troops borrowed from the Caliph, returned to take back his throne. Here the tribunal stopped me and asked whether he went to Cordoba with or without a crown. I, in my confusion, thought that it was a prank and answered that I did not know whether he had it on or not, referring to the crown. They lowered my grade; and I was lucky to pass.

60 See footnote 19.

42 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master

Paco Bertendona was a great reinforcement to the gang. He had an extraordinary imagination. We shared many things in common, such as our interest for adventure and our inclination to the art of painting, of which he was quite knowledgeable. Besides, he was a great slingshot user. He could make blanks travel to distances that I never beat, and that meant being able to break glass panes from long distances undetected. Our bestialities culminated when we shattered the sphere of a public tower clock. We had contests to see who would have the oddest idea. One day, we spread some sort of thick tallow on soles of the shoes of a cord boy who was taking a siesta on his hand carriage, to see him slip and fall on his face when he woke up and tried to push his carriage. On a certain day, the situation became extremely complicated. A few men were sleeping on the floor. One of them had an extended arm with an open hand. The poor fellow was snoring in his deep slumber. Paco, very carefully, put a brick in his hand, and then with a stick, he tickled his forehead until the man woke up and hit his face with the brick. We had many cruel, tasteless inventions of this sort. Another time, we mingled with an overly pious man who was kneeling inside the church with a lit candle on his hand while some women prayed before joining the procession. Paco said that he was going to transform him into a Mexican. He knelt behind the man and with a pair of scissors that he had in his pocket, he cut the side of the man’s trousers to near the knees. To our merry making, the legs of his trousers flipped around as soon as the man started walking in the procession. Among these inventions, some were real, others fantastic, or imagined and that we used to relate with pride. My friend used to put me forward as a witness, in case there was doubt from the listener, and I did the same when I was telling them. The extraordinary thing about it was that the more we related them, the more we believed they were true. Between this and parody-singing known operas with words of our own invention, we spent our time in merry making, if not in other things that could have been worse. Paco was not in school but he knew mythology like a pagan from antiquity. What is more, he believed in it. I had my own furious knightly fervor attacks. Sometimes, I brandished a heavy saber, milled it around and knifed doors and walls like a variety of Don Quixote. I could not tolerate the señorito and señorita world that I

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 43 had to live in. Elegant society, social visiting, and promenades were so vapid and silly. I had to attend some of them without excuse but I used to disappear as soon as possible. I had two older brothers. Felipe was nineteen years older than me. He graduated as a petty officer from the Naval Academy, in El Ferrol, when I was born. His first destination was Santiago, Cuba, where he died of dengue, or yellow fever, shortly after his arrival. My other brother Manuel was at the Artillery School of Segovia, where he was remembered for his tricks and pranks. They told me that he was one of the cadets involved in dressing-up the roman statue on the aqueduct that was located so high from the ground that they had to construct a special scaffolding to remove the coverage. Manuel came to Seville destined to become an Artillery Lieutenant, and the visit changed my life. The regiment’s riding teacher taught me horseback riding with my brother’s horse since he only used it for his service. He gave me fencing lessons and made me draw cannon parts that he had modified. He loved me deeply and never lost the opportunity to correct my spoiled child fancies. My brother’s assistant attended to some of our adventure exercises to reinforce my behavior and he used to treat me to wine in a local tavern. My clique of friends and I used to go to steer corridas. To that end, we bought a surreptitious Manzanilla bottle, although, most of the time it was paid for by one of the guys who had money because he used to take it from home. His father, an honorable tradesman, had a small textile industry and an office at home. He had five sons. My friend was the youngest, and put himself in charge to ransack the cash register. This situation prevailed until the maneuver was discovered and the father punished him by ordering him to work in the factory. We never saw him again. Another special friend, one day, told his parents that he did not want to go to school. Against the wish of the family, he entered a shop as a clerk. When I met him at thirty, he had managed to become rich. My closest friend was Paco Bertendona to whom I am indebted for becoming an artist painter. With time, I acquired other friendships through my participation in student café meetings, and billiard games. I looked older than I was. I started shaving when I was fourteen. Some of my friends were university students studying literature. I became associated to the

44 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master

Ateneum,61 where my new friends and I formed the Society of the Scandal. We were young but though our activities, we had certain political influence in some local elections. I benefited from my brother’s assignment in Sevilla. He took me visiting to the barracks. I befriended other officers who lent me their horses out of their liking for my youth. I also participated in shooting human silhouetted blank target sessions where my brother and I had to shoot on command. Either that or we went to the roof and shot neighborhood cats. My brother was a nice looking young man. He was not excessively tall but had martial air. He was elegant, physically strong, and convivial, with a sense of humor. At the same time, he had a hard character and extraordinary daring; his companions nicknamed him Iron Guy. He was out of sorts with the service and as soon as he arrived from barracks, he removed his uniform and had his assistant take it away because he said it smelled horsy. He used to dress elegantly in civilian clothes and go to his amusements and love exploits until he got to the end of his money. He used to spend splendidly— all his pay— and then remain home for the rest of the month. Aristocratic by nature, he did not tolerate the plebeian, the pretentious, or the presumptuous; he could withstand very few people, especially his colonel and captain. He hated them. He was fight-prone and they said that he hit so hard that nobody ever had the chance to respond. He had a duel with an infantry captain during which both contestants were shot. My dream was to become a marine. The glorious history of my family was my incentive for creating this illusion. I wanted to emulate the illustrious generals, and their extraordinarily heroic doings. My imagination was aflame with the dead of one of them with his legs shot by Nelson’s cannon. My mind quivered with the names of Syracuse, Scies, Finisterre, Dardanelles, Gibraltar, San Vincent; by the swords, the human remains buried in the

61 This association was located until recently on Tetuan Street not too far from the family residence. The social activities of the institution were exclusively for males of well-off families. My inquiry with the directory of the Ateneum did not bring any light on the actions of a group of young people that were considered unimportant at the time. When I paid a visit to the new headquarters in a beautifully renovated palace in the neighborhood, the director informed me that their records were not meant for the social activities of the young generation at Winthuysen’s time, only for their activities in exhibits.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 45

Pantheon of Illustrious Marines,62 the beauty of the ships with broken rigging surrounded with smoke that I knew through engravings. The dues to title of Count Winthuysen were about to need renewal; and my father talked to me about it. The family had never used the title and to me it was almost embarrassing that somebody could call me Count. We never talked about it again. What I really would have loved is if my father had used the Santiago emblem, like my forefathers did. That would have filled me with pride but he did not care about this kind of vanity. My brother wanted to take over my education, and take me to Madrid, his new destiny, where he had a preparatory academy. He was a great mathematician but in every other respect, he had a short, unhappy life. He did not want me to have a naval or military career. His idea was that I should become an engineer. Meanwhile, my father never missed opportunity to put down my idea of joining the Navy, saying that it was not only the mechanics that had changed, its people had, too. One day he called me on the street and pointing to a marine officer he said, “Do you know him? He is the son of the tavern owner. Would you not be ashamed to be commanded by rabble?” When I was taking riding lessons, the orderly from the barracks brought the horse home in the afternoon. Then the riding teacher picked me up and with other disciples, we went in squadron formation to the river promenade where the well to-do people of Seville used to carriage ride. In this way, the circulating society went from the Palace of San Telmo to Las Delicias and from there to La Palmera. The dethroned Queen Isabel II used to parade there. We uncovered our heads as we crossed by and on more than one occasion, she had the youthful squadron stop to chat with one or other of us. In this manner, I went in a surreptitious way from scamp squadron to high society, on more than one occasion, within the flinch of an eye. I became a good horseback rider. My brother used to take me to the barracks; and sometimes

62 The Pantheon of the Illustrious Marines is located on the grounds of the Academy of San Fernando, near Cadiz. It was founded in 1792, but not completed until 1890. On my recent visit-in early spring 1999,I was able to see the commemorative slab on the wall of the hero of Saint Vincent, among many others from the long history of naval heroic deeds of the Spanish Navy. The building is a late neoclassic temple in limestone that time has toned to golden brown, and it is part of the barrack area of the school.

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I kept him company at his guard duties. In this way, I met all the officers of the squadron. For certain reasons, I attended a different school. My antipathy towards my Latin professor, who did not care for me either, added little to my inclination to study. To my misfortune, however, the new school had the same Latin teacher. One day, close to examination time, while reading a certain passage in a text, I made a mistake. The instructor ordered me to read it again, which I did in such a way that I committed the same mistake. I realized the error and corrected myself but the teacher made me read the entire passage from the beginning. To that, I responded, repeating slyly the same mistake. He made me read the text once more, only this time I purposefully made a mistake on every word. The enervated teacher called the director of the school so as to embarrass me for my sluggishness. At this point, both instructor and director asked me to reread the passage. I closed the book and recited the text from memory. The director only made a slight gesture with his eyebrows and said that I was the person with the worse intentions that he had ever seen! I was proud of myself! Fencing was another pastime that my brother taught me. In those times, it was needed aside from providing physical exercise, for passing time by a certain class of people, especially those serving in the military. My brother suffered a gash on his cheek in the duel that he had with a certain captain. Duel encounters were mere exchanges of pistol shots or superficial wounds that alleviated the conflicts between the two opponents, even though the duels cost some lives. My life was full of contradictions: I was a scamp, amateur student, sportsman, rogue and gentleman. My brother had a new appointment away from Sevilla. In his new assignment, he did not have to ride horses, and so he left all of his riding equipment with me and arranged providing horse services among his comrades but that plan proved to be too inconvenient and did not work. I was still going strong in my Navy vocation. Although my father went through wind and tide to dissuade me, I decided to cut out my high school classes, leaving only one that I needed to enter Naval School and at the same time attend a private academy to prepare for the entrance exam. Then, I began to understand that with such a diversity of activities, I was not getting ahead in my

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 47 purpose and I asked my father to send me to one of the boarding Academies of San Fernando. My brother came back to Sevilla. He was going to Madrid as captain and already had his preparatory academy running. He was a great mathematician and could teach. He told me that he would take me to Madrid to prepare me for the entrance exam though not for the military but for Road Engineer school. I did not care too much about it but privately thought it could serve my purpose of entering the Naval Academy and I said yes. He left for Madrid, disclosing that he would come home for Christmas, when his academy would be functioning to take me with him. The moment came, with the leave permit in his pocket, that he fell ill from the influenza epidemic that was so gory—and he died.63 This was a terrible blow for my father to lose his second son and who was already professionally proficient. My father talked to me with tears in his eyes, saying, “You can see what happened to your brothers; I was deprived of them when they attained their careers. I would not like the idea of losing you, too.” Recently, I had asked him to take me to a boarding school to formalize my entrance to the Naval Academy. “Do as you wish!” he said. That was definitive for me. Meanwhile, I had moved back to the Escuela Sevillana, where I was received with open arms. I was losing my time. Sometimes, I followed the high school curricula, other times I sat in mercantile classes that I had no intention of completing. I was simply enjoying my life as a young gentleman. At the time, I had no horses. My inclination towards water activities had not left me, however; and I entertained myself by rowing with a crew on the Guadalquivir River, a river that is difficult to master. I became a skilled sweet water patron. Despite a certain interval’s passing, I had not completely stopped drawing, nor stopped admiring painting. My friendship with the son of the great conservator Bertendona was my means for knowing and appreciating classic art. As I said before, I was familiar with the works of Herrera and Zurbaran which were present in the Museum and churches of Sevilla. I still remember each

63 Page one on the census of 1880, listed Manuel as 24 years old and Javier as 6. Manuel died eight years later, in 1894, when Javier was fourteen.

48 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master brushstroke of the Greco portrait that I copied. I was proficiently knowledgeable about Murillo, Alonso Cano, and Valdes Leal. I combined my life of disorderly scholarly activities with my life of a young gentleman’s obligation as acting as chaperon to promenades, visits and social reunions for my sisters, although not always willingly. The good Sevillian society of my time was a bunch of unlearned individuals. I had more fun attending the café’s reunions with cultivated, ingenious people. Literature and art were idiosyncrasies to the young dandy of Sevilla. The Museum of Sevilla was totally ignored by the well-to-do of the city. They were totally ignorant of esthetics, and if they appreciated Murillo or Martinez Montanes, it was for their religious understanding. I preferred the grace of the flamencas64 to the braced señoritas of the time. Sevilla had a substantial group of intellectuals, some talented, others with the lion mane over their ass skins, and others, young presumptuous guys, who pretended that their show of knowledge in archeology and sociology had a taste of modernity. However, this group in Sevilla was not typical. Sevillian society constituted the remains of a decadent aristocracy that Fernan Caballero depicted in his novels. It was the new aristocracy of the rich businessman and landowner classes partly mixed with the old. The middle class was considered vulgar. The rest of the people were divided according to their trade and knowledge. The commoners constituted a merry mixture of people from the picaresque novel of Cervantes— procurers, witches, and toughs that used switchblade knives instead of swords but with the same results as those achieved in the urban settings of the 17th century. I was drawn to this combination: it was most curious and attractive to me. I befriended people from the highest sphere to the lowest. Palacio Valdes has a vivid description of the pseudo-refined in El Patio de las Anguita,65 La Hermana San Sulpicio. Los Quintero‘s fictional characters are examples of flashy commoners. I savored many details of that society that have remained untold.

64 Flamencas: Collins definition: Andalusian gypsy. 65 th The works mentioned are part of the literary movement of early 19 century when Spain was experiencing social unrest that culminated in the creation of the first republic.

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Sevillian society is like the ground it occupies, an alluvial community. Its natural richness and river navigation created it as a city that receives migrants. The traditional Sevillian is more contemplative than active. The environment of grace and loveliness that prevailed plus the easiness of life supported by abundance did not help to mold Sevillians into characters ready to action. Besides its Moorish past, Sevilla has a long literary tradition that explains how Genovese, German, French and Flemish came to its shore.66 When we dig into the genealogy of many of those young landlords and socialites, we see that their grandfather was a Gallegan who came to work as a porter, a highlander who opened a tavern, a Catalan who had a cork business, an Englishman or a German who had an industry and so forth. In this way the Sevillian society has renewed itself. Sevilla is a melting pot— in two generations nobody recognizes the foreign origin. For this reason, the city has a democratic spirit; high and low societies are connubial. This personal mannerism produces extraordinary characters.

TAUROMAQUIAS Those who do not know the art of bullfight, TAUROMAQIA, believe that the bullfighter is more or less as bestial as the bull. This is common to picadors but not to matadors, who necessarily have to be very intelligent. The matador needs to be sharp in order to bring in the bull’s neck with his right hand while he teases the bull’s encounter with his left to avoid being impaled by the horns and ultimately killing the beast right frontal-wise as he should. The matador needs to have a level head, cold blood and elegance to appear graceful while standing at the edge of death. I enjoy the anecdotes of retired bullfighters. The torero is a young noble, an ambitious young man who from poverty will play his life to become millionaire or at least to create easy means.

66 “Vienen de San Lucar surcando el agua, “They come from San Lucar fending the water, A la Torre del Oro barcos de plata…” to the Tower of Gold ships of silver…”

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Valle Inclan67 used to tell Belmonte, “You should die from a horn thrust to the heart.” In response, the brave matador said, “Well Don Ramón! We will do the best we can.” Without ceremony, he retired rich from the lead. A friend of Curro Cuchares blamed him for running from the bull, to which Currito told him not to mix up prudence and fear.68 “Yes,” said the other, “although in this case they look the same.” To tell the truth, Curro Cuchares had a beautiful wife that used to say farewell to her husband with these words: “See how you manage! You will not enter my home as a wounded man!” One time he was engaged to bullfight in a small village in Aragón. The mayor visited him on the eve of the corrida and told him: “I have to warn you that the people of this place are very primitive. If the matador is not caught by the bull, they will not be satisfied with the spectacle.” Currito answered that he should have had written the details and instead of a new traje de luces,69 he would have brought an old one, because with this one no bull would wipe the floor. Seeing the crestfallen mayor, he added that this was not a real problem since: “I have a young brave who would agree to be run over by the bull.” In reality, he was a niggard. The village did not have a horse carriage. Customarily, the bullfighter’s team will leave the fonda on parade at the sound of the music. Two young guys marched along keeping time with the clacking sound of conspicuous rocks held in their hands. Currito asked them: ”Suppose you will leave the rocks before you enter the arena!” “Well, no!” they said, “These rocks are for you!” Fortunately, a cowardly banderillero lost his footing and was caught. Juan Leon was a matador who went to Paris to run in the corrida during the International Exhibit, during the reign of Napoleon III. The Imperial family attended the corrida. When he finished the lead and killing the bull, he was called to the imperial box. The crown prince studied the torero’s costume and declared it beautiful. Juan Leon offered to send the suit to him and that he did. The following evening, when the torero returned to his hotel, a

67 Don Ramón Valle Inclan was a literary figure of the generation of 1898, to which the writer is a member. Belmonte was a famous matador at the time. 68 Sevillian people are very easygoing and affectionate in their language. “Currito” is the diminutive of Curro, a more palatable name to Sevillian taste. 69 Literally means suit of lights. Special dress of the toreros was made of silk, embroidered with silver or gold.

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Chamberlain approached him and offered him a check of considerable value to thank him for the gift. To that, Juan Leon retrieved two cigars from his leather cigar box and offered one to the Chamberlain, and crushing the check length-wise, he lit it on a gas jet, giving it to the Frenchman to light his cigar. Later, somebody asked him how he did in Paris. To that he replied that he did not like it. “They have,” he said, “Olivares [instead of “boulevards,” a similar sounding word for olive growths in Spanish] on the streets. On top of that,” he said, “They cook with ointment,”— the name he gave to the yellowish paste known as butter the use of which he did not know. He was ignorant but he did not want to recognize it. He was traveling one day on the coach seat of a coupe and some friend told him: ”You travel well in that nest.” To that he said: “In the calyx, like god himself!” (Cáliz is a word closely related to cup, or cupé, as Juan Leon understood it; it is one of the implements used in the religious ceremony in Spain’s Catholic mass). Juan Leon was as conceited as he was self-confident; he traveled by post coach, talking to all of the passengers, taking the lead, and always had to be the first. On a certain occasion, when they were sitting around the table to eat the fare, an envious passenger of callous character reacted in violent manner when Juan Leon took the chicken, ready to cut it and serve himself. The man had a knife in his hand and told the torero: ”Whatever you do to the chicken, I will do to you!” The occurrence paralyzed the onlookers with terror but not Juan Leon who, without losing his composure, inserted his index finger in the chicken’s rear and then put the finger in his mouth. Then he turned to the aggressor and said:” I am ready!” Don Pedro got the idea into his head to become a raiser of ferocious bulls. Without luck, all of the bulls were tame. He and his stock lost credit and to make sure that his bulls would be played, he became corrida manager. He had several means to toughen his bulls but even so, one time one of the bulls turned around and the public shouted: ”Fire! Fire!” Don Pedro lost his composure and running to the presidential box, he threatened the president with a gun, telling him: ”I will shoot you if you order fire!” “Why? For something like that you would shoot me?” “Yes, sir,” said Don Pedro, “before leaving the corral, I gave the bull several lance

52 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master thrusts and a good spray with gas-oil. If it’s the case that you order fire, then the bull will go up in flames!”70 On another occasion, Don Pedro attended the penning with other people from vantage platforms. He called the bull expert and told him as soon as the Guardia Civil showed up, to push him in the corral with the bull. The man told him that the bull would certainly kill the Guardia Civil. To that, Don Pedro answered that it was exactly what he wanted since all Cadiz would want to see the bull that killed the Guardia Civil on next day’s corrida. Neri was a pretentious bullock matador but so niggardly that he seldom had working contracts. A contractor needed a cheap matador and told Neri that if he dared to kill, he will pay him thirty duros. Neri, who was starving, told him that he would do it but that he had to advance him ten duros to retrieve his suit from the pawn shop. The corrida was played and Neri was so bad that they returned the bull to the corral. The manager was furious because it would result in discrediting the other runs. He went to see Neri and found him eating a beefsteak. He told him that he was a coward and a rascal that he should retire from bullfighting. Neri pointed to the beef, tough and tainted, with his knife and said, “You mean now!” Espartero was more hasty than handy so he was caught many times. To a friend who complained that he was going to die on a bull’s horns, he said that hunger gives more thrusts than horns. Guerrita was the opposite. He used to play with the bulls and he was never caught! He made a fortune and became landowner. He was clairvoyant and had a court of friends that considered him to be an oracle. One day, somebody asked him who the best matador was. To that, he answered that first himself, then…nobody and afterwards Fuentes!71 The low people of Sevilla, with whom I connived, acted like a savage lot. The urchins in the street made fun of the straw hats that were the fancy among the young. Their vicious verbal attacks were not far removed from factual rock throwing. The cigar

70 According to custom, the spectators had the right to ask to call carabineros to shut tame bulls in the arena. 71 Fuentes must have been another torero for whom Guerrita had great admiration.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 53 makers were famously shameless young women who used to leave the Tobacco Factory in bands in the evening.72 I remember their colored shawls flapping graciously in the evening breeze and their feet with pretty shoes. Fragile and swift butterflies, happy like the sound of a pair of castanets, they went to their neighborhoods, making fun of all they encountered on their way. There was, in my time, a famous Moorish businessman who waited, seated on a comfortable armchair, to see them go by every evening, in front of his shop. Frequently, one of the girls would leave the group and posting herself in front of the Moor, would say: ”Moor Cislan, I crap on Mohammed!” To that the Moor Cislan usually answered: ”And me, too! Son of a Bitch!” One of the immodest girls approached a certain aristocrat who one day was crossing the Plaza Nueva, in Seville,73 holding his thin and ugly wife’s arm, and told him, “Grab her tightly! She may escape and climb a palm tree.” I used to pass by the Cigarreras74 when I was strolling with my attractive brunette. Instead of using trashy words, the girls used to compliment us. The Sevillian has a keen sense of the esthetic and the ugly and cannot look at exotics without expressing protest. I was a young gentleman, the Señorito Javier; I was the pampered child of the female staff of my house. I had lost the integrity of my inborn character and now I was made of a strange mixture of minor vices and weaknesses, viciousness, mysticism, and a chivalric sense of the Round Table. Besides this, I was prone to falling in love, and I loved women. But I had no taste for meretricious women— I thought it repugnant to use shared sex. I had the impression that I was using somebody else’s dirty socks. At the same time, I had no feeling for the chaperoned, whale- boned-stay-tight señoritas of the time.

72 This famous building of late 18th century architecture, of French influence, is now the University of Seville. 73 The Plaza Nueva in Sevilla still has tall palm trees. The bold woman compared the lack of grace of the lady in question to a simian when she suggested that she could escape and climb a palm tree. 74 Cigarreras were young girls and women who came to work at the Tobacco Factory from Triana, and who crossed the bridge of Isabel II over the Guadalquivir channel from Triana, a popular suburb that was and is a residence to seafarers of all kinds for the last three hundred or more years.

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In my time, ladies of good society were always chaperoned by their ever-vigilant mothers. Extremely formally attired, rigid in their stays with minuscule waists, their chests looked like amphorae sitting on the platform of their hips. One could only talk to them on social visits over vapid, insipid conversations of no substance. Some I liked but I preferred to observe. My taste was more for the popular, unmannered girls of the barrios, the servants of the snobbish señoritas, or daughters of penniless public functionaries who tried to mimic the ways of high society. Some of them were real good looking, and with them I dared to have conversations. I was shy. I did not know how to socially court a lady. Though I was so free to express myself in wine-shops and bordellos, in social functions I was rigid like a post. I did not know how to dance. I never wore formal attire. My jacket was good enough for the society I frequented. It was even elegant. As I said, I liked the popular and middle-class society much better. Sevillians are fun loving and good natured with a keen sense of humor.75 They make fun of the saddest situations, tragedies or even death. Short anecdotes and popular sayings demonstrate their character. Young women laugh at a well-dressed gentleman sitting in the mud who has lost his footing when climbing down from a streetcar. One yells to the other: ”Turn off the light, the Señorito went to bed.” To a portly man that walks on the street with his lady who happens to be short and fat, they comment: “Pity such a good looking man for a water tank stopper woman.” Brothers with short noses are irremediably tagged as “dog barks.” Tall, dark, thin ladies go along with the name “hunger in India.” “Crazy god” was the name given to a man who liked to talk about religion in exalted terms; it was a good name until the day he reacted in violent terms, when his name tag was then changed to “blessed pole.” A certain neighborhood church sent word to a man whose father had passed away, and to ask whether they were to fold (the bells of course). His answer was that no that he, his deceased father, was as turgid as a stick and could not fold. Another character, on his deathbed, sent word to his friend, the son of a rich, famous, and deceased moneylender who came to

75 The following anecdotes are as close to the original as possible. The intentional, almost th literal, translation attempts to recreate the atmosphere of the late 19 century in Seville.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 55 tend to his friend last wishes. “I called you,” he said, “because I am dying and I wanted to ask you if you want something for your father.” From a child’s voice “at home we don’t have much to eat but we laugh plenty.”

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CHAPTER IV

From ages 15 to 29-I give up the Navy-The house of Urbaiz-The School of Beaux Arts-Arpa’s studio-Student to Gonzalo Bilbao- Classics and scientific readings-Intellectual life-Freelance school art academy-Pretty girlfriend-Travel to Madrid- My father’s death. At the end of a long and laborious life, there are moments when one has to sit and rest. It is then, after resting that meditation takes place even before our body is able to carry us any further. We consider all that we have seen and that we missed and then we wish to go back in search of what we lost or forgot. When we choose our vocation, the first thing we perceive is a vague illusion of the ignored choices. We walk without knowing what we will encounter; the answer is to walk and see what we will find. There is not a single way but many. The road branches out continuously in such a way that if we do not have a good guide, many times we do not know which road to choose. This does not constitute a problem for a submissive character. The question is: where is our guide taking us? Could it be where we do not want to be? In this time of disorientation and decadence at the onset of the road, our only protection could be mistrust and rebelliousness.76 On my side, I wanted to be an artist painter by myself because I liked paintings and I wanted to make them. Nobody was pushing me to do it. Painting is, normally, considered a trade and also decoration. I felt no attraction to either definition; I had the intuition that the essence of painting was something more ethereal. The city of Sevilla, its museum and churches were full of magnificent pictures, besides the existence of a tradition of admiration of art. Murillo! Not even the most ignorant Sevillian was unfamiliar with this great master, the greatest, in popular view. I was lucky, as I have said many times, to be friend to the famous art conservator, Bertendona, who used to have a variety of works in repair at his studio. I was then fourteen years old and seeing my ecstasy and perhaps forgetting that I was a poor, ignorant boy, he had the

76 Javier de Winthuysen lived in a country that had a continuous social political unrest or a dictatorship. To every tentative attempt of democratization by the masses, the political representatives responded with harsher control. Instead of opening, the system closed. His position of last male descendent in the family jeopardized his life and pushed him into becoming his own master.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 57 patience for showing them to me in a very dignified and scholastic manner to assist with my own illumination about painting. But it was not only the ancient paintings that captivated me but the relation of them to the modern effects of our own city landscape: the blue of the sky, and the flash of the sunlight on the whitewashed walls. These were contemporary effects that could be found on observation of nature. About all this I had begun to have my thoughts, and develop my criticisms. There was a certain foreign artist painter who worked on a very detailed picture of the Cathedral of Sevilla and its tower, the Giralda; every morning, on my way to my Arithmetic class I stopped behind him to observe with emotion the fidelity of his rendering to all of its qualities and details. In those moments, the Arithmetic did not exist. It was so much more interesting to see how the painter touched the canvas with the brush, how he rubbed the color obtaining an effect that I considered unsurpassable. How serene was this young artist! He presented himself so pleasantly with his overcoat and his cap. He had established a silent relationship with me; sometimes, he smiled. It was almost like we were painting the picture together. Day after day the work came about while I withstood the cold in those winter mornings. One day, however, my artist was no longer there and I had to continue sadly to my Arithmetic class. I told a friend of mine about my admiration for the artist painter. My friend’s brother liked to paint and he informed him that the foreign artist that I had enjoyed so much was very famous. And so, I was a good art connoisseur ever since early youth! Circumstances favored me. The same thing happened to me with my readings. At home we had an assorted book collection from Navy and Artillery Schools’ texts to romantic French literature and many others whose origins I ignored. Perhaps the volumes were from my grandfather’s library, I do not know. From the library in my home, I chose, without distinction, as I reached them; books that I flipped the pages and left others that I liked to read. Sometimes it was the handling of ships, others Horatio’s Odes and Satires, Lamartine, Shakespeare, The Iliad, El Quijote, La Rochefoucault, Schiller, Philosophy of Legislation, The Bible, and I do not know what else. All of them went through my hands, some in detail. For instance, The Philosophy of Legislation I studied as if I were to

58 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master take an exam on it. El Quijote, I read several times. Horatio’s Satires, some of them I even learned by heart. I also read Climate Influence on Men, and Erasmus’s Praise of Madness. Supposedly, I had enough brains to digest such an amount and mixture of information. Besides, I can add to this mix readings of contemporary authors, such as Tolstoy, Schopenhauer, Zola, Maupassant, Ganivet, and Galdos. I became familiar with all of these subjects and did so with relish; although, my friends, students of law and liberal arts, used to say that that was heavy stuff. I became proficient in making sailor’s knots and was an expert in cannon locking devices. I learned to discern moral principles in my readings, like the passage of The Iliad when Hector picked up his infant son in his arms without removing his helmet and scared the child. Immediately, he recognized his error and removed the helmet and the kid smiled, recognizing his father. This description remained in my mind because on a certain occasion, I was witness to a similar reaction. A lancer’s regiment arrived in town covered with carapace-flying horsehair tops. The regiment halted for refreshment. One of the soldiers, disengaged from the group, advanced towards some gathered peasant women. One of them was holding a child. The soldier, who was, perhaps, the father of the young one, made motion to pick him up. The child reacted in terror at the sight of the black flying mane. The lancer removed the casket and the child recognized his father at once. The fact that such a scene could repeat itself through the centuries resulted in a marvelous experience. I kept the realistic picture of the scene in my mind as an example of an eternal value in which art copies nature. It is a value so simple, that it overcomes the imagination.77 How I managed to assimilate the variety of readings to which I submitted myself, I do not know. I do know that instead of having monstrous indigestion, I digested everything, or most of it. The knowledge acquired through my readings settled and ordered

77 Without realizing it, the author expressed the principles of Romanticism in his description. The Romantic Movement in Spain was of long duration and incredible proportion in part due to the unstable nature of its political constituency. This fact was recognized then by some of the intellectuals of the time like Miguel de Unamuno and others. Today, this phenomenon is fully known but little understood.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 59 itself in my head. I acquired a taste in literature like I did with painting that made me abhor mediocrity. Given the circumstances, it would seem possible to conclude that I was an overly learned, pedantic child since my only reading was the classics. Far from it, I was not. In fact, I was a poor student. More than anything, I was undisciplined. I was totally independent, and when a teacher did not convince me, I would stop following or tolerating his tutoring. Besides, I had little interest for subjects taught in class, and this predisposition added to my own lassitude and solace. I preferred to be among the many than to shine on the first rank. I could not care less about being last; I had always been self-sufficient. My teachers used to say that I was talented but that I was so deprived of self-esteem that they could not induce me to do anything. In respect to drawing or painting, I worked very little. Sometimes I decided to work at home, copying engravings, but that was boring and soon I was tired. Other times I attended a drawing class at the Institute given by a kind, very cultivated teacher who gave me engravings to copy by pencil and that I did diligently. Then, he corrected them by adding values and strong penciled lines that I thought very congenial to the drawings and made my work look finished.78 My self-directed intellectualism was mingled with play; horsing around, urchin life, and bulls. Corridas and flamenco entranced me. I would not miss a corrida. I already related how I witnessed the culminating point of Mazantini’s career when it rained so hard that he had to manage the bulls barefooted and the public on the grades withstood the rainfall to see him. How Mazantini and the Espartero competed. How I met Frascuelo, who, hard on his feet, would let the bulky bulls come so close that their horns would chafe the embroidery of his suit. How I saw picadors like Chuchi, Agujeta, Badila, and Chato.

78 Don Joaquin Guichot, as mentioned by Juan Fernandez Lacomba, was one of the artists involved in depicting the old monuments in the Province of Seville. Young Javier de Winthuysen must have experienced the technique of chiaro-escuro used by Guichot which was the product of his long experience.

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I decided that if I could not be a Navy officer, then I would be artist painter. I registered at Bellas Artes,79 where my friend Bertendona attended classes already. The first year consisted of Classic Drawing, Landscape, History, Perspective, and Anatomy.80 I attended landscape and perspective. However, I did not even step in the other classes. The landscape teacher was a kind gentleman but a nullity as a painter and even worse as a teacher. He belonged to the old school where the landscapes were made out of sketches and the colors added as feelings or by recipe— all with a certain Flemish flavor and Romantic style. Some of the paintings by this and other teachers of the School were cause of merriment among the students. This particular teacher asked me to do a color copy of a painting that had an awful coloration. Patiently, he used to correct my work saying: “It is all right! But make it hotter, hotter!” Hell no! I preferred a cool color range. Although Seville was still uninformed about the Impressionist movement, the artists were already working from nature in accordance with the influence of Fortuny. This was exactly what attracted me, especially because I already appreciated landscape in nature. In such a way, when I finished copying the coal yard that he gave me,81 I left the School, never to set my feet in it again. My class companions were children of artisans. They worked hard on their projects, thinking about the prizes in the competition. When the time approached, they asked me if I was presenting. As a matter of fact, I told them no. How could I! Me, a Señorito Sevillano, taking away ten duros from one of the unhappy fellows! Some of my fellow friends took me to Don Jose Arpa’s studio, a great colorist who was very popular among them. I entered as a disciple. He put me to drawing from gypsum models. He made me

79 The Art Academy of Seville is now a very dynamic organization that covers the intellectual and technical aspects of artistic education in Sevilla. The elevation to a proficient intellectual establishment from a school of arts and trades took place many years ago. This change of status exacerbated the discord between the Art History Department of the University of Seville and the Art Academy. Although the milieu of the Art Academy is very dynamic and has good standing in terms of its intellectual level, the University of Seville still thinks that the Art Academy is made up of a bunch of artisans. 80 Although, the author does not specify which kind of anatomy, it must be, according to school curriculum, human anatomy. 81 Evidently the color of the copy became darker and darker with the additions of the so- called hotter tones. This was the reason why the author compares it to a coal-yard.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 61 draw the model and its surroundings material, fabric, dry leaves, or other things. I used to make a swank bird’s nest that he qualified as having some color. Arpa was young and congenial. He had a good eye for painting and a lot of practice because he had been a pintor de batalla.82 Battle paintings— pintura de batalla,83 in my time, were something very curious. I still had the opportunity of seeing them. Even before Murillo, Sevilla had great painting ateliers from which entire shipments of painted works were sent abroad to the new churches in South America.84 The light, prosaic kind of painting produced in this way was comparable to the modern technique of superficial decoration that in part caused the careless degeneration from which paintings suffered.85 Later on, color prints of images substituted paintings, but that process was still in its infancy. I met a humorist who worked on both virgins and saints using the pintura de batalla technique and he made a lot of money in this fashion. I never saw him painting, but according to references about him, he had all of the canvases on the floor against the wall, and on these he would draw and paint the faces and hands, and his mother would fill in the rest of the background. Some of them were really funny: a torero flying in the air broken in two by a bull’s horn—he was red inside with black dots like watermelon seeds. Another was an Englishman looking through a magnifying lens at a piece of broken pottery. One more represented a mustachioed serviceman hauling his saber against the unaware lover sitting on a sofa with a lady. Still another represented “The sacrifice of Abraham” with Isaac kneeling on a pile of tree trunks and Abraham aiming at him with a gunshot while from a cloud a little angel urinated in the gun’s magazine, making the gunpowder wet,

82 Historical painting was the most important category of painting from the Neoclassicism to the second part of the nineteenth century. The commission of a battle scene to an artist of renown required him to take assistants to fill in the picture. In this way, the young apprentice had long hours of practice painting canvas. Therefore, the name pintor de batalla, or battle painter, was justly applied to artists with a lot of practice in the execution of a painted work. 83 Here the author explains the term pintor de batalla in reference to local art history— facts that have to do exclusively with the city of Sevilla. 84 The author uses the term America. For lexical purposes, it should be translated as the Americas where Spanish colonies existed. 85 Today these kinds of paintings are part of an art tradition already considered within the context of art under the denomination of popular art, and are in great demand by experts and the general public for their humorous outlook.

62 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master and so arresting the sacrifice. Of the miracle kind of painting, there were curious things: a crucified figure with a loose arm making a pass to the bull for a fallen, unprotected picador and so much more. The important thing about this kind of painting, besides the subject matter, is that it kept the interest in painting alive and, thanks to it, that the tradition of picture making is still active in the School of Sevilla. The preparation of the canvass and the use of colors were, as Pacheco says in his Art of Painting, part of a familiar technique called kitchen painting.86 Many of the trappings in those old paintings correspond to an older tradition of painting present in the old School. Rodriguez Losada was, perhaps, the last artist to follow the old tradition. He resided in El Puerto de Santa Maria. It was a pity that his unstable economic situation never allowed him to leave a continuous, more important work. Even though he was resident of a city other than Sevilla, the artist had a certain impact on the panoramic painting of what Sevilla was absorbed with when I began painting. As I said before, Arpa started as a batalla painter. He had acquired the necessary practice of fluidity of work that allows an artist under pressure to consider a painting finished. With this ability and his light palette, he attained the golden dream of all the new debutante artist painters in Sevilla of my days. He went to Rome. Besides Ancient Art, Fortuny87 was there, and after whose luminosity and preciousness all the artists of the time sought after. Jose Villegas, a great colorist, son to a barber in Sevilla also lived in Rome at that time. Villegas was a very successful artist painter. His watercolors were for sale on the spot. His historical paintings commanded a very high price in the market. Arpa returned to Sevilla enriched by his continuous practice in the Spanish Academy in Rome, and his contact with the works of

86 Pintura en Pucheros was interpreted with a “turned expression” that informs how the painters used the technique and kept the tradition. 87 Mariano Fortuny, 1838-1874, was a very successful artist who promoted his own work. His technique was widely copied and authenticity is sometimes at stake. He lived most of his short life away from Catalonia, his origin, but he kept serving the requests for portrait paintings from his Catalan clients, and also depicted a Romantic exotic world of North of Africa in consonance with the taste of the time. Fortuny is also known among the Catalans for his pictures of close views of intimate gardens of which the Catalan people are admirers.

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Fortuny and Villegas. Flamenquismo picture making88 was practiced by a group of commercialized artists that catered to the taste of the English tourists, their best customers at the time, because in Sevilla, besides portraits, the general public neither had the desire to acquire nor order paintings except those focused on popular themes. Don Jose Garcia Ramos was a successful graphic artist whose work was beyond these mediocre painters. He was a sharp drawing master. He captured the certain special grace present in the Andalusian people in his sketches and paintings. The Count of Aguiar, Andres Parlade, was an artist devoted to classical work that could be genial sometimes but he was very uneven in art production. His work was more that of a dilettante artist than a professional. Gonzalo Bilbao was already part of the modern art movement at the time. Jose Jimenez Aranda had returned from Paris after a long sojourn. He was a virtuoso of the line— the straight academic artist. Three or four more artists, among them Mattoni and others that I do not recall, were cultured and especially knowledgeable about ancient art. The great variety was further enriched by visits from foreign artists. All in all, there was sufficient variety to provide a young artist, like me, with material to develop his personality. Arpa, apart from his intuition in color and liveliness, was an empirical artist and practically illiterate. His art concepts and practical work reflected his limitations because of his lack of academic practice; and the students copied his work without exactly knowing what the end of it was. It was realism on the dot. The same principle was used to sketch outside with our portable boxes. My master was extremely proficient at it and I began to get the knack of it after a while. Therefore, I continued with my charcoal drawings, sketches, and eventual field canvas painting of sunlight effects. I was doing well from the beginning. My apprenticeship was more fun than hardship. Although Arpa was fifteen years my senior, he was young enough to enjoy life. I had a great friendship with my master. We used to invite friends to the studio after work. We always had some lady model to enliven the

88 The expression refers to a general term applied to the art of Flamenco— in this particular instance, to the depiction of scenes of flamenco expression in dance, singing, religious ceremonies, dress and customs of the people from Andalucia.

64 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master reunion and had some drinks, ending many times by going to dine out and continue our merry making. My friendships had changed, too. Now I frequented reunions at the Café del Ateneo. Most of the frequenters were Law and Literature students. My relations were more among intellectuals than painters, just because the profession was considered too low in the Sevillian society of the time— almost like a craftsperson. It was something to hear when somebody of good intention asked me what was I studying for and I answered to be an artist painter. The immediate reply was: this would be as a pastime, for how could a distinguished gentleman have such profession. As I mentioned before, I alternated the practice of art with intellectual readings and sports. My preferred sports were to play billiards and skiff rowing. I had quit horseback riding and fencing when my brother died. Fluvial sports were attractive to me for their resemblance to marine life for which I had great inclinations. A river like the Guadalquivir is not as easy to manage as it looks. I was a good rower and pilot. I could handle the sails. I navigated the river in time of a flood and when there was a cyclone— even that did not make me go under, thanks to my marine intuition. I would have been a great marine like my ancestors had I lived during the times when they lived. Even though, and I can declare it now! My best office, the one that surpassed reading, painting and sports, was love. In those times, I got a girlfriend to court through the window grill.89 I was eighteen years old and she was fourteen. I was a fully bearded man and she was a graceful brunette. She had the walk of a bird and her voice was like song. Her eyes were languid, bluish and bright. When my father met her, he told me that she was like a bird. She was so pretty that even the sharp-tongued cigarreras who teased all the young gentlemen in Seville found grace in us when we passed them on the street, making public comments like: “Murillo’s Brush!” or other sort of praising remarks. She was a

89 It was customary at the time to have a preliminary courtship through the grilled windows of the ground floor. In this fashion the young lady was satisfactorily supervised by a matron from the inside of the house until it was advisable to let the young gallant visit on a regular basis in the parlor.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 65 graceful lady of Seville and I was a sandy-hair Waloon Sevillian guy as the Cervantine sonnet says!90 A girlfriend in Sevilla, in that Sevilla of my youth was something special! The art of courting becomes even a greater luxury when it is done through the iron gratings of a ground floor window; the scene is perfumed with the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle on the summer nights and the guy is cloaked and bundled in the cold winter. Always, spring, summer, fall and winter, the lover’s court in a never-ending kiss! Five years! My love lasted five years, during which time I hugged her graceful body without bothering with the iron bars that my illusion made disappear! Atrocious love! Pity I had to leave her! In my position, marriage was not the best choice. My family opposed it and they moved heavens and earth and decided to send me to Madrid. It did not help for as soon as I arrived back in Seville, I went back to my love affair. Now it was not only the window visits but also night rowing excursions on the river in the summer when the moon was full and the diamond-like fish jumped over the water like living silver strikes— beautiful excursions on my skiff. Her mother, procurer, with a leathery face, contemplated the future while she waited at the river club for the girl. Meanwhile, we navigated down the current under the willows and rushes and arrived to satiation of so much lived poetry. However, I was bitterly criticized because she was an affected parson’s niece of modest means. Criticism, loathing and a new boyfriend that she acquired during my absence in Madrid ended our relationship. My attendance to Arpa’s studio came to an end when he left the city for a long period of time. Then I decided to enter as a student at Gonzalo Bilbao’s studio. In those days, the Ateneo offered an academic live model class attended by artists like Jimenez Aranda, who used to say that he needed practice, Gonzalo Bilbao, and some other young guys

90 The author here makes reference to his ancestry. Miguel de Cervantes, 1547-1616, wrote La Gitanilla, one of his picaresque novels. The sonnet mentioned in the text is part of it: Por un Sevillano Rufo a lo Valón. For a Waloon blond Sevillian Tengo socarrado todo el Corazon. I have my heart fire consumed. Détente maldito no me pegues mas Stop whipping me deprived condemned Que si bien lo miras en tus carnes das. Ponder, my flesh is yours.

66 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master attended the sessions.91 I joined the Ateneo. We worked hard. It was a serious place. I advanced much. Leon Tolstoi and Taine were in fashion among a select minority. It almost felt like an awakening from uncultured past. Among the participants, Gonzalez Agreda, from Jerez, was an original artist; the Count of Casa Chavez was an attendant. It was there that I met and befriended Juan Ramón Jiménez who did not use charcoal like everybody else but instead used a very neat pencil and paper block. Only years later, when he published his book Ninfeas that he fondly inscribed to me and sent me from Madrid with a letter to answer my congratulations, did he explain that he quit drawing because of its limitations. He wrote: “What could be asked from a line representing mortal flesh.”92 It surely was a pity that Juan Ramón was not inclined to be a painter! He left the most ineffable Andalusian impressions in Platero y Yo that I have been reading over and over for the last fifty years of my life. In a different way, my friend Antonio Lozano became successful. With him, I had the most heated polemics about art, where our screams reached the heavens but we could not pass without each other. He was the hardest-headed, talented man that I had ever met. Along with Paco Bertendona, Lozano and others, we founded the Free School of Beaux Arts of Sevilla. I was the president. There we worked with live models. The instructors used to come and correct our work. We paid the rent and were the owners of the studio. The Center of Beaux-Arts had a permanent art exhibit and Sevilla City Hall had prizes assigned by universal vote among us. We had a joint committee; we voted and proceeded to assign the prizes. Spain was then at war with the United States.93 The president of the assembly, Don Jose Jimenez Aranda, in his opening speech, encouraged us to donate the prize funds to the war cause. The money was better employed, he said, in buying dynamite than in prizes. It was better to give it to the national subscription that he

91 Artists still chose to attend open studios to practice a few hours in connubial artistic surroundings. 92 Juan Ramón Jiménez, a Nobel Prize laureate poet, expressed his spiritual dimension giving preference to the highest form in art: Poetry. 93 The Cuban predicament and the war with the United States came to a crisis in 1898. It was one of the most controversial historical times plagued by ideas without facts, in the history of modern Spain.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 67 was heading. The winners were crestfallen. Nobody dared to contradict him except me. I took the floor and said that the patriotic action was very commendable but that the prizes had already been assigned and the money belonged to the winners. The Center, I continued, should open a collection. He could be the first to contribute, and the rest would follow with what they wanted or could give. My intervention created a scandal! Some cheered. Others, indignantly, screamed in high voices that the question had to be approved by public consent. The time was passing and I was afraid my companions would give up. I stood up and said: “Let us go!” and removed myself from the assembly followed by a contingent of young men. The least important issue was patriotic fervor. What really mattered were the facts that we had been able to organize an art competition successfully that ran without the interference of an outside jury, and that the results had been just. All in all, the winners received their prizes. What I cannot understand today is how I dared to do it: I, who, was so respectful and timid. I did it because I always felt indignation towards subjugation and injustice, and because I was not enrolled, I had no part on the leveraging. Time went by; and my masters did not have hard feelings towards me. I continued to socialize with Don Jose Jimenez Aranda until he died. The Free School of Beaux-Arts died of its own unnatural causes, like the Rosario de la Aurora.94 Gonzalo Bilbao’s teaching method was totally different than Arpa’s. Here I had to draw and paint seriously. Bilbao was an intellectual of a certain social class. He studied first in Rome and later he had been influenced by the Parisian Impressionism in his own restricted way. He never went into it deeply. He stayed on a middle ground. In a way, he did so because he was afraid of being too advanced; but he also did so because he cultivated more of his own success than the essence of art. That was a shame because he had a superb artistic vision, but he could not control

94 The expression used here rosario de la aurora literally means rosary of dawn— a long series of paternosters, Hail Marys and litanies whose cadence may induce sleep at certain time of the day— although the litanies have great poetic beauty when the words are analyzed by themselves. Although there is a rosary of dawn for special religious celebrations, such as the religious processions on the streets of Seville, the expression is used as a term of dissension among the participants that could end the reunion in a violent manner by their attacking each other.

68 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master his desire to compete with whoever was on the rise. In Rome, somebody told me, he used to place himself behind Villegas, who was extremely dexterous with watercolor. Bilbao imitated Villegas to such a point that Villegas forbade him to sit next to him. In my time it was Sorolla’s success that bothered him. However, he could do an excellent job when his mind was free of emulative desires. My new master, to whom I took my drawings and landscape sketches, restrained me from painting. I had to draw from gypsum figures in a more rational way than before. He was working then on his picture “The Reaping.” He worked impetuously to obtain a full sunlit effect. He had a private studio next to the backyard garden of the house where he would take the picture to capture some of the natural sunlight effects, then returned with it to the studio to adjust his work. He used to repeat the same operation nervously over and over during the day. He could work steadily in this fashion. I occupied a room next to the studio where I could concentrate on my drawings without distractions. Sometimes he called me to ask my opinion on the progress of his recent additions. Except on rare occasions, he used to maintain himself aloofly. We had a respectful teacher-student relationship; it was different with his brothers with whom I had good friendships. Although I had been forbidden from painting, one evening that he had not come to the studio, when I crossed over the backyard garden, I saw a wagon with a pair of unyoked bullocks chewing their greens in the sun. The effect had an unprecedented attractiveness; and I went up to the studio, picked up my painting paraphernalia, and full of zest, I sketched the scene on a board. I skipped studio attendance for the next few days. When I came back my board was not where I had left it. I looked for it in vain. I had nobody to ask. My master was locked in his private studio and I never disturbed him. I began my drawing work. All of the sudden, he opened his door and said, “Come in, we need to talk.” I saw my sketched board on an easel. Then he told me that a certain group of gentlemen visited his studio and congratulated him on account of my work, believing it was his. “You must finish it!” He also added that he envied my vision of color, and that embarrassed me.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 69

Following this, I went down to the backyard garden and had the bullocks and wagon placed in the original position, and began to work on the picture. The sun was not as bright; and this, added to my lack of practice, led me to spoiling what I had done before. Full of uncontrolled passion I attacked and destroyed my work with the palette knife. My uncontrolled temper has always caused situations that are not easily manageable. For this reason, I have always preferred not to show my work and even less to receive laudatory opinions. With time, I have come to realize that my creations come to be the way they are by themselves. I do not function properly near outlandish influences. My master’s remarks were commendable but I still missed having an understanding of my professional purpose. I felt as if I did not have the smallest inkling about the underpinning to my activities, and what was worse, I did not think this understanding important. I left Sevilla to spend sometime in the country by myself. My destination was a country house, Hacienda de Buenavista, near Sevilla, in the Cuesta of Castilleja. There I dedicated my time to painting and reading Spanish history and details about the Voyages of Fray Gerundio, in the books I found in the house. On my own, without being familiar with the work of the Impressionists, I painted several landscapes, in virtual Impressionism— nature’s best when it comes to capturing natural situations, without using preconceived knowledge, but only doing so for the sake of plastering away what you see. Back in Sevilla, I took my work to the studio. Casually, a foreign art expert saw it and thought that one of the paintings was the work of a Norwegian artist whose work was fashionable in the Europe of the time. He said the name was Zor or Soor, better Zorn.95 I did not know. Had I decided to complete my studies in Paris, chances are that my understanding of modern art would have been better, but in the city of Sevilla of my time even my mentor had eyes and ears only for naturalness and exact copy. With this, I was left blank on the esthetic value of

95 Anders Zorn, 1860-1920, Swedish painter and edger, left the Swedish Academy because of its restrictive, out-dated ideas in 1881. He lived in Paris and London, and he visited Spain, the Balkans, North Africa, and several times, the United States, where he painted three presidents. Besides portraits, he worked in watercolor and edging. Zorn often depicted genre scenes in the areas he visited. He also worked with the female human figure, often depicting it in natural surroundings. Information extracted from The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Art and Artists.

70 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master painting; neither reading Que es el Arte by Tolstoi nor the Filosofia del Arte by Taine was enough to explain that value. The visit in Sevilla of two artists recently arrived from Paris who considered themselves Impressionists— Zuloaga and Regollos, among others— awakened curiosity among the young artists. We went to visit their rented private house pavilion. My friend Lozano and I thought it formidable. Our instructors proceeded ipso facto to excommunicate us. They thought the situation was pernicious— that we were ignorant and had been seduced by the novelty. Canals came to Seville later; he was sponsored by an art dealer in Paris. According to somebody’s opinion, he was imitating Renoir. I was not taken by Canal’s personality, and perhaps that hampered my appreciation of his art. I continued painting as it came. I arranged a studio at home. I worked to my own content. I had enough means and so daily seeking and sustaining did not disturb me. My father allowed me to convert one of the upper terrace rooms into a studio. It was a beautiful studio that opened up to the blooming terrace garden with jasmine and rose-bush pergolas, ivy-covered walls, orange and medlar fruit trees and potted carnations. My father’s work had pruned and watered the ideal garden. My bedroom was next to the studio. In such a way, I had independent quarters at home. My only interest was to paint and row race boats. I was a Guadalquivir worshiper. There I exercised, painted, and had my poetic moonlit glide trips on my slick skiff with my girlfriend. I could care less about being the first or the last landscape painter. Besides, I still had my bullfighting inclinations, but on a different level. Although I was young, I befriended a bullfighting impresario who took over the city of Sevilla, organizing some beautiful bullfights with the quadrilles of Faico and Minuto, two young, brilliant bullfighters. After dinner, on Sunday afternoons, I used to go to the hotel where the impresario lived; and there, with some other friends, we had coffee and played al “monte”96 until corrida time that we attended from the reserved barrier, soothed with a large carafe of sangria. In the evening we went together to the torero’s café.

96 A stack card game that was in use at the time.

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Another facet of my life was to play escort to my sisters. They had me chaperon them to certain distinguished reunions where there was social dancing. I even danced the Brigadoon.97 I was never able to waltz. As I said before, I could care less about the señoritas. To tell the truth, the ladies of my time, with their ham sleeves, long skirts, hats full of bows, feathers and even birds and fruits, and with their chests compressed in whale-bone stays were not very attractive to me. I was used to the saucy and free girls. I liked the flamencas. I preferred the barrio girls with light skirts and foam shawls with their wiggle, impudence and gracefulness. The house we used to go to for our reunions98 was the residence of Don Manuel of Ordaiz, one of the most notable gentlemen in Sevilla. He was not a family- oriented person. He never showed up at those reunions or visits. I frequented the house at different times of the day and that is when I met him. He was an aristocratic gentleman, rich, good looking, with exquisite courtesy. He used to get up at two or three in the afternoon; eat a legume porridge for lunch and then go downstairs, where he had his valuable painting collection that he would contemplate, sitting in an armchair, the masterpieces being worked by a restorer in his employ. He was an Art worshiper. He had assembled a collection that included works by Velazquez, Greco, Murillo, Ribera, Rubens and others. Among these works, one of unsurpassed beauty never became classified. It was a Madonna and Child with a still life with fruits on a corner. Without doubt, it was of sixteenth-century Italian origin. Somebody even said that it was a Leonardo that seemed out of proportion. The picture had the impasto and correctness of a Rafael on the light side. The minute background landscape could have been the work of a German master. I still remember the valuable picture. In my opinion, it was the work of a northern artist with strengths similar to a Durer and who painted it in Italy, influenced by the Italian masters of the time. The result was a marvelous work of art that Don Manuel had fallen for and contemplated for hours. Even so, this gentleman had a double life. When evening came, he went to the wine stores with

97 Country-dance of English origin, adapted locally with a Cuban flavor, called contradanza th criolla Habanera. It was very popular in the 19 century among all of the social classes in Sevilla. Definition found in the Larousse dictionary. 98 The author refers here to the social reunions to which he played escort for his sisters.

72 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master other friends of the same token, all of highly social consideration, admitting among them toreros of high standard or famous artists. Fabulous Manzanilla drinkers, the parties ended at Don Manuel’s country house, a residence to a bunch of beautiful and convivial young ladies, kind of private seraglio for his own use. There converged the most bizarre population of low extraction— flamenco dancers, guitar players, singers, merry makers, gypsies. All of them gathered in the middle of the most extravagant orgies, paying homage to Don Manuel and his friends and pitying the ones who did not. Don Manuel, already in his maturity, was strong and nimble and he could not care less about hurting any member of the habitual rabble. To tell the truth, he was an extraordinary person: at home he was the perfect gentleman, outside a mad- hatter. They told me that during his youth he had been a good administrator of his immense fortune, putting in energy and ingenuity to increase it. During the alienation of the church property, a very large pasture field that was now part of his estate, was put to auction and he took hold of it in the following manner. Don Manuel had, at the time, a gorgeous mare that was the envy of all the country horsemen. The mayor of the town where the field was located was a rich bourgeois who was in love with the mare and had already proposed a deal to Don Manuel to buy it. Our Mayor was the official notary to deal with the act of possession of the lands. When the moment came, Don Manuel appeared riding the mare and the mayor told Don Manuel that he enticed him purposely by riding his desired mare. Don Manuel replied, in the most refined manner, that he had brought the mare to present it as a gift to the mayor. The official representative was flabbergasted and extended his generosity even more at the expense of the Spanish State. Upon doing so, the demarcation of the limits of the field was done based on the ground that the mare would cover on a day’s walk. This arrangement sounds fantastic to anybody unaware of the Andalusian spirit but is absolutely true. Don Manuel’s wife, a member of Spain’s and Italy’s oldest nobility, was the recipient of an inheritance of millions in lira. Don Manuel went to Italy to retrieve it. There he went out of his mind in a Renaissance evocation. They say that he gave banquets served by nude ladies, rose petals’ showers, orchestras— the works. At

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 73 the end of three years, he had to send for money, after having consumed of all of his wife’s inheritance. The best of it is that his wife found all this connubial activity appropriate.. After this incident, he never totally recovered his mind. Money left his pocket without counting. There was no excess that he did not attempt. The anecdotes of his madness would be without end. During one of his travels, he was alone in a train compartment with a very social lady who carried a canary in a cage. The lady praised the canary in many words. Don Manuel, attentively and very bored, listened to her. Finally, she took the canary out of the cage and had it perch on one of Don Manuel’s fingers. Then Don Manuel put the bird in his mouth and with feathers and everything else, he chewed and swallowed it. Following that, he had to restrain the old lady who wanted to jump out of the window to escape the sight of the madman. Don Manuel had splendid natural teeth. He could break a crystal wine glass with his teeth without harming himself. Once, a mastiff confronted him when he stepped out of the car. Don Manuel answered the dog’s growling with his own until both man and dog came to terms and rolled on the ground. The mastiff was the one to leave with blood dripping from Don Manuel’s bites. On a certain dawn, he organized a procession. He presided over it totally nude with the mantle of Santiago over his shoulders. Behind him, his friends and bacchanalian companions followed on their naturals carrying burning torches. He jumped on the stage of a wax figure show and gashed and devoured the figures. He had an imposing social dominance. I was at his home when the judge’s officials came to possess the property. He attended to them in a private room while I was with the family that was going through a bad moment with the incertitude of the happenings. The bell rang and the servant came back saying that the master of the house was asking for some sherry wine bottles. The same thing happened; a while later, we could hear loud laughter. At the end, all came out stumbling and hugging Don Manuel, saying: “Anything you want, Don Manuel. We are here to serve you.” Once he had the brilliant idea of fording the river with his car but it sank and two of the women inside were drowned. It cannot be conceived that he could get away with so many atrocities and

74 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master madness. His male children, with the wretched example they had for a father, came out more or less the same way. The oldest, a lieutenant from the Cavalry academy, was destined to serve in the regiment of the Hussars. He quit when he saw his reflection in the mirror, in uniform with short jacket that accentuated his big bottom. He found himself ridiculous and asked for retirement. Another son was a lieutenant in the Artillery. One day he did not want to attend class and he sent word that he was sick. They did not believe him and sent the doctor to check on him. The doctor found him rolled up in bed half asleep, with no symptoms of illness. “I hardly dare to say what I am thinking, mister student,” said the doctor. The other one jumped out of bed and said, “If you dared to say what you think chances are that you would fly out of the window.” Two other male descendents were torero dilettantes and similar to their father in their life-style. Conversely, the ladies of the house were very distinguished and highly moral. My friendship with the ladies and the gentlemen was almost familiar; the same is true about my other social relations of the same level. At that time, I could had been, if I had wanted, a cavalier a la mode and could have married a moneyed lady for convenience sake but I did not even think about it. Moreover, I became partner to a sort of friend. I had never met an individual as odd and somewhat bestial as him. The business was to supply stowing lumber to a mine. I had a cordial relation with the manager of the mine and my friend wanted a recommendation, and that was the initiation of my interest in the business. I could have simply invested some money in it but for my own enlightenment, I wanted to see how the cuttings were done and contemplate the landscape of the area. I went there; and the sight of the gorgeous pine trees being felled produced such pain that, although it was a profitable business, I had to give it up. My father’s death It was then that a certain Jesuit arrived in Sevilla. He looked like a walking dead man. His skull was modeled under the dry skin. He was blind in one eye. Along with this peculiar physical aspect, he had a connate, slimy way in his social manners that allowed him

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 75 to capture the minds of many Sevillian young ladies and that turned them into nuns, among them one of my sisters who was really talented. The first of my sisters who entered the convent engaged the second, who was an attractive lady with many gallants. The third was just a question of opinion: She followed her sister. Such a Jesuit became my confessor at that time; and all this took place when my father was over the age of eighty, and at the end of his life. My mother, a niece, and I remained at home. Even in his old age my father had kept a groomed physical aspect but now he was losing strength. I had never stopped thinking about the slyness of the departure of my sisters’ going to the convent and that left my father in such poor condition, with my mother being his sole sustenance. Religious precepts are very handy. “Abandon your father and your mother. Get your cross and follow me.” You could make anything you want out of it but the biggest cross for them would have been to tend to their father instead of joining the Reparadoras. At the time I did not give too much importance to the facts. My father— yes, his male children were gone and now his daughters abandoned him. On a certain day of Corpus Christi, while I was getting ready to go out, my mother, distressed, came rushing in my room to tell me that my father was hemorrhaging. I went to his room. He was lying in bed with his livid face, head on the pillow. The blood was running in rivulets through his beard. I ran to the streets looking for a doctor and sent the servants to look, too, but to no avail. The procession had brought in an agglomeration of people; but it was impossible to obtain a doctor. Some ice was used to stop the bleeding. In view of his gravity, he received the extreme unction sitting in an armchair. When the deacon proceeded to anoint one of his feet, he called me to remind him to apply some sweet almond oil to a skin abrasion. Somebody said that he was delirious. I said, “Not at all. He feels better and he takes care of the little things.” As a matter of fact, he was up the next morning, shaving in front of the mirror with his shaving blade. He was magnificent! He kept himself in good shape until he was eighty-three; so well, that on a certain day when I entered the terrace, I found him on top of the railing fixing some of the climbing plants. He scared me so much that I left without him noticing me— in case my speaking to him

76 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master may cause him to lose his footing. The truth is that he had never ceased to practice aerial exercises because he had the peculiar habit of locking his room, although it contained nothing particularly valuable. He had a padlock and since he was absent-minded, he frequently left the key inside the room. The balcony of his room was always open and he used to go across from the next balcony, calling attention from the pedestrians to see an elderly man in such exercises. Sometimes he called me to do it; and of course, I did it; with some trepidation, with my heart on my mouth. This was not a problem for him. He had not forgotten his cadet practices, climbing the maintop and the yard. By the time he was eighty-five, he had the idea of climbing on a chair to fix a bird’s cage. He fell down and broke the femur’s head and never got up again. He was prostrate for a long time, and had the illusion that the leg was not broken. He had the service of a masseur. Some days he even received visits. Other days, he closed his eyes and spent his time half asleep. On one of those days, he called me and said, ”I think I am going to die; leave a glass of wine on the table in case I am scared.” This was the practice of the old marines before entering combat. Next day, he had me bring paper and writing pen, as he dictated his will that he started by saying: “In the name of our all powerful God,” followed by the disposition of leaving some money in equal shares that he had in the bank. To me, he also left the silverware of the house. He added that he forgave the fault committed by the nuns. He signed what I wrote, but that had no legal force whatsoever. I did not want to bother him with any kind of remarks about this since it did not matter. My home had survived spending capital money and revenue from several inheritances. The only thing left were the two properties on escrow that were my mother’s and some money in the bank that only needed a blank signed check to be retrieved. I was on the terrace one day sketching when they called me to tell me that my father was becoming worse. I found him unconscious, and with a high fever. I took his pulse. His heart started a crazy race, then it slowed down like a train that arrives at its destination, and then it stopped. In such a way, he died a noble cavalier.

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The anguish of the agony that I endured to the last minute diminished. We dressed the body with an old Franciscan habit that the monk had brought. I closed his eyes and crossed his hands over his chest where we put a crucifix. We placed him in a clean bed with the hood over his head and I left for a gulp of fresh air. Then I came back. He was like an ivory statue of remarkable beauty with consummate delicate features. From all the bravery, nobility and authority, nothing was left except an expression of peace, sanctity, and beauty of what always constituted his essence. I never forgot him.

78 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master

CHAPTER V

From ages 20 to 25-My masters-Count of Bagaes-Ceperos’ house-The new home-Zuloaga-Iturrino-Canals-Mille Sandeau-The court of the Anguitas’-Regoyos-Jimenez Aranda. Teachers must be listened to attentively, then one must think about what they said and abstain to follow their precepts until one is totally convinced by them. This is a method totally different from the Jesuit’s obedience vow. The only method is to know thyself. Jiménez Aranda used to say, “Whenever you sketch a model, do not find out about it. You should see only the lines that define a space; if correctly placed, it will define what you saw. When drawing separate figures, you have to attend not only to the silhouette but also to the spaces in between them.” These norms differ from the classical way that studies the measurement of the human body, anatomy or constitution, projections in space, and possibilities of movement. Through knowledge and reasoning, the artist reproduces what can be imagined, making use of the model to study, but not to transfer it to the surface of the canvas. Don Eduardo Cano used to say that the model destroys the inspiration of the artist. Jiménez Aranda was a naturalist, and what he used to say would lead us to undertake photographic drawing. To him, drawing was fundamental. He added that color was feeling. In other words, it would be useless to draw from the eye when it could be done with a machine. His procedures digress from Art since it is to do Art without rules, inspiration or feeling. Why distinguish between drawing and color? In Art, both drawing and color can express feeling. Take, for instance, two drawings by Durer and Rubens. Even if they represented the same, we would be compelled to notice the enormous difference expressed by each artist’s way of sensing. On the other hand, we could analyze Goya’s contradictory saying, “Always line, never form.”99

99 El Paisaje en el Arte y en La Literatura, 1944, XI Interpretación: Goya aunque nacido en una época decadente hace igual, incluso eliminando aquello que originó la decadencia. ‘Siempre línea nunca forma’, decía del David tan en boga. Javier de Winthuysen.

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Although we could obtain the form through direct empirical observation; I have my doubts about getting the form to pass as scientific. Primeval art is flat. The same principles apply to the use of dark light contrasts and color. They can be reached empirically but are only known through science. Proceed in a classical way in form and color, and in the flashes of color that are present in Titian, Greco, Velazquez and Murillo, it is clear that they were not produced by a scientific conclusion. These artists did not prevail for want of a method. Only much later, with the knowledge of the solar spectrum, and through direct observation, the complementary colors were detected. The Impressionist movement contributed to other sciences with the use of color and use of a sort of scientific method. Color became one more science along with space, projection, perspective and others. Such a drawing procedure is not classical nor academic: it is realistic or naturalistic. The Impressionists proceeded more or less in that fashion, although in a slightly different way. Jiménez Aranda had an analysis of patience. You must be patient to make a “Messonier” picture. Once, he had one of his paintings on display. A group of gentlemen was commenting and looking at the work. Jiménez Aranda approached them to hear their comments. “He was so patient, truly patient, really, really patient!” The artist had to ask them: “But nothing else other than patience?” Of course there was something else but its most relevant virtue was patience. In his last years, he became, or he wanted to be, luminous. He painted detailed landscapes in which you could count the leaves with purple shades that looked like red wine blotches. He used to say that color was feeling but he had no feeling for color or for mechanical drawing, either. Throughout my life, I have dealt with mediocre Impressionist painters; and they gave me the opportunity to observe that what is true for color is also true for drawing. I remember that Santiago Rusiñol showed me a painting to which, he said, the yellows needed to be added. Anglada, during the time of chromatic qualities in his career, used exceedingly expensive cobalt paint. Art is prone to many extravagances. Naturally, Jiménez Aranda

80 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master did not like Goya. When he talked about the royal family portrait, he said that the legs looked stuffed with cotton fiber. He was ignorant of the fact that the king used to stuff them, and the courtiers did the same to imitate him. No doubt Goya could draw legs! The proof is the many copper-engraved legs done with burin that he did. Jiménez Aranda was an exceedingly good draftsman. He could trace the contour of a figure without lifting the pencil. He used to say: “What I do does not have merit because I look at the model and then at the paper where I can see it reproduced. The only thing I have to do is trace it with the pencil.” To tell the truth, his drawings looked like they were made through a still camera. Although they were the result of a mechanical mind, his drawings were not without character; but they usually resulted in dry and angular figures. Gonzalo Bilbao was different. He had talent. He was in love with his trade. He had great restlessness for advancement and modernity without losing contact with classics and even with academics. He was a truly Señorito Liberal-Conservative— that was the fancy way to be in his time, but he was short- changed in talent. He did have it but not enough. Nor was he cultured enough. He was an artist painter of what sold well at the moment, a parti- pris. He used to go to Paris every year, like the couturier to bring in the new fashion. He was at one time or another colorist, genre painter, luminous painter, even Impressionist, Rayonist and Pointillist. He went through all the faces of modernism that were prevalent in his time; and he was always in a competitive fury to one-up others, and always envious of the other artists— Villegas, Sorolla, Zuloaga and even Velazquez. He left an important legate of works that was in part marred by his desire to be better than anybody else. Without realizing it, he managed to acquire bad habits from the others in his desperate struggle to compete, thus depriving himself of what was best in his personality. Without encumbrance, he was my teacher, and initiator in the Modernist movement, to the point where he could understand it. He favored me, but at the same time caused quite a bit of umbrage. After his yearly travels to Paris, he never talked about the Impressionists, only about the Official Salon, where he collected a medal, but still nothing about Impressionism. I do not

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 81 know whether he was ignorant of it or found it anarchical or by calculated purpose he remained at the middle point. When I saw his work for the first time in 1892, he was getting canvases ready for an official exhibit in Madrid. There were five beautiful paintings full of light and color, painted in natural settings that I do not dare to judge but none of these have I seen again. I entered his studio in 1893. He was then working on the painting “The Reaping.” As I mentioned previously, it was a full sun effect very well done, different from the Sorolla’s style that he had used before; these had more substance, and were more solid and showed more work. While it was in the Salon, the French Government made an offer to Bilbao. I do not know why Bilbao never accepted it. Later, the painting was at the national exhibit in Madrid and was widely discussed. The critics said that light did not constitute a theme by itself. Since he did not make the first medal, as a consolation prize, the exhibit commission offered him a consolation medal that he well deserved. This marvelous luminous work was well above the quality paintings generally produced at the time. From that time comes his strife with Sorolla. Bilbao furthered the subject of the first work. He painted “Harvest Time” an anecdotal piece, much more complicated in subject matter and composition details. Later, Bilbao abandoned the theme to enter more into figure painting. From that time, dates his “Sad Waiting Room,” which was exhibited and acquired in Berlin; an even better second version is in the Museum of Modern Art in Madrid. “The Dance of the Six” was a work requisitioned by Lord Rosbery, and is a historical theme with interior light in the Cathedral of Sevilla, with well-defined color, composition and environment that was considered extraordinary. Once he filled this order, he went back to work in Sorolla’s style, producing “Las Cigarreras por el Puente de Triana,” full of light and grace. Ricardo Canals, who was then in Sevilla, visited Bilbao’s studio several times. He came away with the impression that Bilbao had a deep knowledge of the art of painting. I think that there was more to what Canals voiced. The only defect I find in Bilbao is his over-zealousness, and his refusal to openly follow advanced

82 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master revolutionary ideas. He sacrificed everything to be a member of the good society. Conservative, and at the same time, restless, his character fluctuated and often astray from his esthetics, mixing in subjects like “The Slave,” a chip philosophy that took him away from the essence of painting, as had happened before with “Sad Waiting Room.” He could not get away from genre painting, as happened with his famous “Las Cigarreras,” although from our point of view, the preparatory studies based on “The Hilanderas,” a work by Velazquez, are of better quality. He used in this work color division that caused the mocking society of Sevilla to say that he had used herb soup as media. To me, what causes flaws in this work is the maternal theme, which is one that I consider to be a sensibility away from the character of the work and the academic treatment of the figures. He went even further down the tube in other works where he tried to avoid character, although he could not stop himself from being a revolutionary, luminous worker as in the extensive canvas of the procession of Rocio. Bilbao never wanted to openly follow the Impressionist movement.100 To avoid doing so, going against the institution, he ended in a pretended advance without significance. This is a sad case of truncated talent that, with different set of values that are needed for artistic ideas to flourish, could have resulted in a universal artist. He could have left a school backed up by his prestige and social situation as a control barrier to the popular Sevillian tambourine art. Bilbao was a virtuoso. He worked like a galley convict. I say “like a galley convict” because he worked always in a rage. He had the mania of using thick impasto and long brush strokes. He always used to tell me: “We must work! We must work!” However, this was not consonant with me since painting is not real work to me. He also used to say absurd things that denied his principles such as, for instance: “Make this tree trunk to look like a photograph.”

100 Maria Del Carmen Pena in Pintura Del Paisaje e Ideologia discusses how Spain’s literary movement was Impressionist in nature while the artistic movement never went further than luminism. The establishment controlled by the remainder ideal of Krausismo and the pervading influence of Counter Reformation made the advance almost impossible.

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On a certain occasion, when I was working on a Sevillian patio covered with a canvas, he told me not to suppress the strings to pull the canvas because that signified that the house was lived in— a matter that I could care less about. In summary, what I received from my masters was hardly enough of what I needed. I learned more from museums and libraries and from the interchange with my comrades, but even more in the solitude of the fields. The remarks by the conservator, Bertendona, in regards to the ancient works of art, made during my adolescence affected me very vividly. The savage behavior of Iturrino, and El Greco’s studies in the Museum of Sevilla, from which I learned how to use the yellow ocher, ivory tones, red ocher, and lacquer101 which were present in the portrait’s palette, had more effect upon my soul than all of the arduous jobs and other knick knacks that I learned within Bilbao’s studio. Of my companions, I can say that Soro worked night and day but he was getting worse not better. I met another one who painted a graceful gypsy and he was ordered to do more of the same sort. He was so bored, at the end, that he painted the last one upside down and It came out alright. I mean, as silly as the first one. The Count of Bagaes My uncle Bernardo was already in Sevilla when we moved in after the happenings at the Puerto. Upon receiving his inheritance of title and fortune, he had retired from the Artillery and married Dona Carmen Arjona Cabeza de Vaca, daughter to the counts of Alamo. Her family was rich and was part of the noble heads of the aristocracy in Sevilla. My father’s funeral was an ostentatious social display, as funerals usually are in Sevilla. My uncle grieved with me at the funeral. He had the aristocracy of Sevilla parade in front of me, then he found himself obliged to guide and protect me. I did not have too much

101 Found in the original Spanish text as: laca de garance. Information obtained through the Art Conservator, in Spain, Ida Benitez Cruz, reads as follows: Pacheco, in his treaty, mentions the lacquer as being used by El Greco and other artists up to 1920. It is known as “Laca de Garance o Laca Rubia”. Today it is considered a variant of the synthetic lacquer alizarin which is extracted from the root of “Rubia Tictorium.” This natural lacquer does not infuse color. Many times it was used in conjunction with cinnabar (vermillion) and mercury sulfate, to protect the pigment against the degenerative effect of light.

84 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master inclination towards this sort of situation. My uncle, castled in his millions, was a good man. His wife, an aristocrat from Extremadura, was also a good person, and had the prejudices of the highly born hiding under modesty. She behaved with a refined courtesy towards me. The dues to the title of Count of Winthuysen had been published. In case I had obtained certain economic stability with a position that could have been arranged through influence, then it would have been a simply a matter of renewing the title; nevertheless, I was not attracted to grandeur. My father’s example prevailed. I was drawn more to a life of comfort and beauty. With my father gone, I became the head of the household, trying to avoid as much as possible the influence of my uncle, the Count, that was slightly boring to me. The people that surrounded me considered my paintings as a nice entertainment. With some exceptions in Sevilla, there was a deadly lack of culture. Painters were considered humble persons with recognized abilities; that was true for a majority. Some did not know how to read or write. My obsession was to paint. My plan was to leave my mother’s house in good order; and, in particular, go to Paris. I certainly organized our house very well. My longstanding wish of living in an old house became a possible solution. I rented our former residence for a good price. Lopez Cepero, the owners of the most extensive art collection in Sevilla, offered me a house next to theirs in the barrio of Santa Cruz that still retained its original flavor.102 It was a baroque 17th-century mansion with the elegance of the Mudejar style103 of Sevilla. It had a wide-arched

102 The city of Sevilla thrived for four hundred years, and depended on the revenue brought from America and the extraordinarily inadequate distribution of its agricultural richness. Once Cuba and Puerto Rico became independent, the mass of people were suffering extraordinarily rigorous conditions that became more and more alleviated by the revenue of the European foreigners’ investing in factories and by a thriving tourism industry. The Sevillian was and still is focused on pleasing the tourist and sort of consciously denying themselves the true flavor of Sevilla’s neighborhoods; and what is more, Sevillians need to focus on a healthy evolution of traditions. Paseo por la Sevilla Del 98: Julio Martinez Velasco; Jose Almuedo Palma. 103 The term refers to the product of mixing the Christian renaissance style of building with the Muslim style prevalent in the different geographic countries of Spain at the time of the Reconquest. The Mudejar style also demonstrates the particular, decorative trends of each town that are reflected mostly in vitrified, colored tiles and that are unique to each locality.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 85 entrance with massive oak doors with brass protruding head nails, an arched portico, and a columned patio with a white marble floor. I decorated the main stairway of red marble with a large painting in Titian style, chosen thanks to my know-how and purchased at a very good price. A low wall separated the small gardens from a bigger garden with tall trees. The dining-room opened into the interior garden, letting in floods of sunlight. The parlor was decorated with antique, Isabel-style mahogany furniture, and the other rooms and services were spacious and comfortable, and all of them were decorated and furnished by me. In fact, my home looked like a miniature palace. When I invited the owner over, he could not believe his eyes. My uncle, back in town from his travels, admired our almost luxurious installation. In addition, I took care of my accounting and contracts and made sure to have a surplus rent. An additional good feature for me was the proximity of the Ceperos’ home, who were my great friends. The Ceperos were three particular, single men. Their house had a large brick, paved and tile-decorated patio and a jet marble-carved fountain in the middle that let the water cascade into a star- shaped basin of vitrified tiles enclosed by plant tubs containing boxwood and palm trees. The patio corridors had its walls covered by so many paintings that only windows and doors were visible. The large, ground-floor rooms adjacent to the patio had their walls also totally covered by hanging paintings. On the main floor, it was the same. A renaissance-style garden, at the back of the house, complemented the stately look. This was a large, family home. The rest of the family’s members, children of the house, had either married or left. The oldest brother had lost his reason. Another brother, vulgar in taste, hated the old house and the paintings. Of the three brothers left in the house, the oldest only went out to go to mass. The rest of his time was taken by the care of plants and flowers. Apart from the friends that used to frequent his place, nobody knew whether he had loves or friendships. The youngest was not too intelligent. Only the middle brother had great knowledge, good common sense and sociability. They were the once-removed nephews of the dean Lopez Cepero, who lived during the French Invasion. He was a rich church dean with an eighteenth-century education, making him versed in the

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Arts and Sciences. He was aware of the atrocious pilfering of the French troops. For this reason, he collected works of art that had been saved from the Frenchmen’s sacking and destruction, thereby forming not only the important collection deposited in the house but also another one that was just as large. Since he had two nephews, he divided his fortune among them. Within this huge amount of artworks, there were many bad and mediocre works but also paintings by El Greco, Velazquez, Zurbaran, Murillo, Herrera, Pacheco, and more. Among the foreign artists could be counted Rubens, and a great deal of Flemish, German and Italian masters. My friend’s father had gone to Paris several times to exchange Spanish paintings for foreign works of art and he had them well classified and assessed. Although some of the most valued works of art had been depreciated owing to a change in taste in recent times, the collection still represented a huge selection of painted art. The second brother that, as I said, was sharper than his other brothers, could have developed a system to turn the house into a real museum. I suggested this idea to him but he was too apathetic to do anything about it. I loved many of the works of art in the house but I loved even more the idea of the place always being visited by foreigners buying the best paintings and leaving the bad. To me, the most important was the whole— the regal outlook of the house, its patio, and its garden where I could come and go as I pleased; and where I always had a canvas that I was in the process of working on. In 1901, Iturrino came to Sevilla with his disorderly and brutal style of painting but also with a vision that seduced me. Perhaps the result of his visit was the origin of a public-priced canvas full of light that I painted at the Ceperos’ garden. Still, my obsession was to go to Paris. Spain was then living through times of profound desire to become an active part of Europe.104 My mother left me freedom of action. My uncle did not want to contain me. In my case, perhaps, it would have been wise to go away temporarily, and still keep in contact with the ways of Sevillian life. However, I

104 Self educated in the Humanities, the artist was already and active member, in thought, of the Generation of 98. Donald Shaw, La Generacion del 98.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 87 had greater aspirations; I wanted to be outside the country and learn a new way. Bohemian life was in fashion, I guess that was the only explanation. After all, my life in Sevilla could not have been easier. My mother and I were in the house, my sisters in convents, my niece still in school, and our existence was orderly and peaceful. I was painting as I saw fit and had fun at my pleasure. Even so, I decided to go to Paris. But instead of paying for my trip, my uncle decided otherwise. He tried to talk me out of it by saying that Velazquez never went to Italy until he became a great artist. He insisted so much with his argument that one day I counter-argued him, perhaps with a little inconsideration, saying that by then Velazquez had been a semi-god and that I had no intention of being a mediocre painter. I argued that his continuous nagging about Velazquez was not a valid base to our argument. This situation, I continued, could be compared to my regularly recalling Napoleon’s life and comparing it to yours; as you know, you retired as a cavalry officer, while Napoleon reached the status of Emperor. Finally, my attitude towards my uncle deflected me from a social career but I went to Paris. ZULOAGA – Written in 1945 after the artist’s death. In 1902, some Impressionist artists came to Sevilla. They established their studios in a pavilion of the gardens of the famous House of Pilatos.105 The news opened the curiosity of those that were art dilettantes at the moment. Getting to know Paris, its famous Salons, modernism, and bohemian life in Montmartre and Montparnasse was our golden dream. Sevilla counted among its excellent artists Garcia Ramos, Jiménez Aranda, and Gonzalo Bilbao. Ours was an academic learning. We had only slight ideas about the existence of Manet, Degas, and Renoir from magazines that came to our hands. Full of curiosity we went to the studio at La Casa de Pilatos. One of the artists was Zuloaga, an athletic, hefty Vasco, who painted gypsies, cigarreras, and toreros on large canvases. Extended, synthetic paintings were somehow disconcerting to us, who were used to detailed paintings done on easels. These were not the

105 As a result of patrimony in the city, the house is still under control of the descendants of the original owner. The house is opened to the public as a curio of the peculiarities of the historic time.

88 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master flamencas and toreros that we were used to seeing painted. One in our group tried to open a discussion with Zuloaga: “Because, you, the Impressionist…” Zuloaga, brusquely and detestably, cut him short: “Impressionists? To me there are only good or bad painters!” Zuloaga fell in love with Sevilla. The anecdotes of his apprenticeship to a toreador have to be left aside to concern ourselves more with his art of painting. Although, in Paris, he had experimented with the more advanced art trends, he now had greater inclination for the classicism of Manet. His precedents to the new Art were El Greco and Velazquez that can be found in Impressionism. Here, in Sevilla, El Greco was an eccentric and Goya’s geniality was forgivable. Only Velazquez, the painter of truth, was given credit for what he produced instead of entering into his subject’s essence. After Goya’s time, Spanish Art alienated itself from its own values. Although many excellent works of art had disappeared from Sevilla; we still had El Greco and Goya works in private collections and in the Museum and temples. These were works by artists like Zurbaran, Valdes Leal, and Murillo— by far the most popular Sevillian, although not within modern art painting. The entries in Pacheco’s book of formulas could be verified on his paintings. The classic technique of painting subsisted with the work of the “battle painters,” who still primed their own canvas, made their own brushes and ground the colors in the same way Velazquez did when he was an apprentice. Zuloaga examined all of these while he worked on his fluid, simple, settled paintings of his early years that, given time, became stronger with distinct matter and modalities that are familiar to us. I may be wrong, although I try not to be biased, or perhaps it was the enthusiasm of youth. I cannot help but have certain preferences. I cannot forget certain works done by Zuloaga— one of them was the portrait of Carmona, a master of toreo, and the other the exceedingly beautiful parade after the corrida. From that long-gone time, I followed Zuloaga’s labors. He was an accomplished artist! I saw him working sometimes. He used no

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 89 preparatory work of drawings or sketches.106 I saw how he faced a clean canvas and with four energetic brush strokes, gave the preliminary traces of what he had in front of him to be followed by extended composition. This is like building without plan or scaffolding to painters that know about the traditional way of painting. I had never seen a more talented artist! He told me that he never sketched because all the spontaneity and freshness was gone once he did it. The member artists of the older generation had a discriminated envy toward Zuloaga and were merciless in their treatment of him. When he sent his paintings to the National Exhibit in Madrid, they were placed in the “crime room.” He was plainly rejected from another competition. Unanimously, the juries wanted to eliminate from Spain the only artist of the time who had gained fame outside of the country. His portrait of his Uncle Daniel’s family is today in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, and the one with the crystal ball is hanging in the Luxembourg Museum next to the Olympia by Manet. Here they said that his success was rigged. In 1903, he exhibited at the Paris Salon an extraordinarily beautiful work of ladies covered with lace shawls in front of the dressing table. The public squeezed in front to contemplate it. Zuloaga, with his big man simplicity, told me that they offered him a commemorative banquet for three hundred guests and another three hundred newspaper reporters occupied themselves with his work. Zuloaga savored his success as he did his dinners in Madrid’s pubs until shortly before his death. He was a great taster and a good man for his whole life; and he was life wise. He knew how to savor and administer his life; in fact, he could not conceive of anybody desiring to spoil it. For this reason, he had nothing but contempt for the injustices committed against him that he pretended to ignore. On one of my last visits, he told me that he was going to write a will to ask to be forgiven for his triumphs and for making money out of it. After his sojourn in Sevilla, I never failed to follow his work. I saw him from time to time either in Sevilla or his Paris studio in Montmartre. From the 1914 war onward, I saw him in Madrid,

106 There is a strong link between the a la prima technique and the philosophy of Azorin, who introduced a variant on image perception and time relation. Images exist only in the mind; once seen what comes back is never the same: Shaw.

90 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master where he was not the chaste artist painter anymore but instead the illustrious master for whose work kings and princes vied for. He always kept his original friendship inclinations, dining habits at the taverns, sincere affection for his gypsy and torero models without cheekiness for the sake of being what he was, and his infinite love for the racially diverse. Nothing can be added about his later work, past the time of our first encounter, since the scope of this writing is not art criticism. On the contrary, it is a tribute paid with my remembrances to a great man who legated to Spain and the rest of the world the richness of his work and to his friends the sadness of his demise. • J. Winthuysen, 1945

I mentioned before that Canals painted in Sevilla. He worked fast, perhaps too fast. The artist Canals gave me the impression, when I had a personal contact with him, of being the sort of full-of-self- importance individual who looked scornfully at other people’s work. He saw a classical portrait that I was painting of Lozano and he disapproved of it. He was right. It was overworked, black, and ugly. I turned the canvas over against the wall. Previously ignored on the back surface, he saw a plein air portrait of a child which was worked in variations of green, and that left him speechless. It was an Impressionist sketch superior to his work. Mille Sandeau was a Briton graphic artist, interesting and shy. He came to Spain from Northern France worried about the Inquisition and bandits. He told me that two priests in the hotel were watching him, making fun of him and calling him the dolls’ painter. He showed me a very stiff design of a gypsy that was in sharp contrast to his active figure style with which I was familiar. I asked him why he had not imparted movement to the figure. He said that the model used to pose as she saw fit. On top of that, she charged five duros, when the usual was two pesetas. He was under the impression of being life threatened by priests and gypsies. He had also a couple of canvas imitating Iturrino. I counseled him to return to France and that he did. Later I met him casually in Paris, where he was at ease.

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Another visitor from Paris was Doctor Carvallo; in Seville, he purchased an antique painting collection. I was, in this way, getting acquainted with people that were familiar with Paris. I even asked Zuloaga, who he used to see when he was over there. He answered me emphatically, in his style, that in Paris, he did not socialize with Spanish artists. I thought his answer somewhat rude since we had received him so well in Seville. However, I think he treated me with a sort of deference when he worked in front of me in his studio—something he did not do with other artists. On a previous sojourn in Sevilla and Alcalá, Zuloaga painted his best works; “La Corrida de Toros” was from that time. In this particular work, he used the fluidity and distinction of Manet’s Impressionism, keeping in mind the deeply held Spanish traditional feature of the pure race— known as castizo. During his visit to Seville, he studied Pacheco attentively, the Spanish method of painting. Zuloaga was able to deeply understand Velazquez, El Greco and Goya. During his visit, he had a sensible Sevillian model who even counseled him on questions of good taste. To become even more like Goya, he practiced toreo. When I arrived in Paris, his work of two lace veil-covered ladies in front of a dresser was a resounding success in the Salon with all the public agglomerated around it. It was a definite winner. Early upon my arrival to the city of Paris, we crossed each other in a narrow passage near the Luxembourg. I was walking and he was riding in an open carriage. Because he had told me that in Paris he did not socialize with Spanish painters, I limited myself to a passerby salutation. He ordered the carriage to stop, stepped down and was extremely courteous with me. I left Sevilla in the spring of 1903, before the opening of the Exhibition, where my painting of “The Garden of Cepero” triumphed. ITURRINO To talk about how I met Iturrino is one of my wishes. When he arrived in Sevilla, he came to see us. He then had a long beard. On his sun-tanned face, his penetrating light eyes shined. He was tall and lanky, exactly like the portrait by a Belgian painter artist,

92 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master which is part of the collection of the Museum of Brussels.107 Since his image was familiar to us, we did not have to ask Iturrino who was he. He was anxious to see the sights. He told us that he had to first pick up his wife, who had remained sitting on a bench of the Plaza Nueva while he looked for us. We went to fetch her. I was expecting to find myself in front of a foreigner. I knew she was Belgian. Instead, I found a woman with a Spanish shawl over her shoulders, hatless with a flower in her hair. She said she had adapted the country style. Iturrino had an extremely good time in Sevilla. Words about his productivity in Sevilla do him no justice, however: he painted a large number of huge canvases; and he was enthusiastic for all of the popular manifestations of art. One day while we walked on the streets of Triana, we heard music and hand clapping behind the shut door of a corral. Iturrino peaked through the keyhole and said: “This is superb!” He opened his portable sketch box and with brushes and color tubes that he extracted from different pockets of his coat, he painted a fine sketch. I took him for a walk to the outskirts of the city. A party of horseback riders was drinking wine in a tavern. Iturrino had a passion for horses. He came near one of them because he liked to check them out. The proud horseman asked him whether he liked it; and he invited him to ride it when he perceived his excitement. It was a rare spectacle to see this extravagant guy ride among the typical Andalusian riders. Iturrino was crazy for the city of Sevilla and the extreme kindness of its people. Even the señoritas offered to pose for him. Perhaps his best work is from that time. Many years later, I tried to negotiate, through Victorio Macho, the acquisition of some of his works for the Museum of Madrid. The idea was not well received nor supported by Juan de la Encina. Iturrino took me to see one of his large pieces and asked for my criticism. It was a composition with many female figures wearing Manila shawls. My first impression was that it was quite savage. When I tried to criticize the drawing, he said he was not interested in drawing; he did the same in regards to color. Then I asked him: What was I supposed to criticize so I could refer to it. “I want” he

107 The text here reads, handwritten by the editor-typist: Evenepoct; crossed out: “whose name I cannot remember.”

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 93 said, ”to transmit the sensation of grandeur.” Big it was, perhaps out of proportion. Petty, he was, too, and unruly, like a wild horse! He was a pensioner; he did not even have to care about administration; he spent most his revenue in painting. He was a sincere partisan to his art, and when a client wanted to buy two of his works, Iturrino said, “All right, I will sell you this one. Do not buy the other one; it is bad.” Iturrino was always in disagreement with Zuloaga. In the evening we used to meet at a café where Zuloaga spent his time explaining grandness with his usual Bilbao’s emphasis. Iturrino used tell Zuloaga: “Be quiet, and stop telling lies. You cannot say that Amber’s Museum bought the picture from you when you gave it away.” I had never seen so distant temperaments as these two artists had. The court of the Anguitas’ At the end of the century, I befriended a certain individual that over time resulted in bad consequences for me. He was a distinguished, modest person, provincial, overly-proud of his ancestry, with near elegance, cultured, and talented. He lived with modest revenue and maintained himself by means of virtue and abstinence. He embroiled me in his correct and skeptical way of thinking; and passed the passion of youth being abstemious for good or bad, in odorless mediocrity, colorless and insipid. He was a lawyer that did not exert himself and I was a painter that seldom painted. In summary, we were two middle-class señoritos of Sevilla without two pesetas but with a penchant for boat rowing, on my side, and for kitsch ladies’ society on his. The kitsch, señoritas cursis, was an institution of the times. The middle-class young women then had only two ways in life— to marry or enter a convent. Otherwise, they could end as ludicrous, starving old maids. Are you familiar with Sister San Sulpicio, by Armando Palacio Valdes? Do you remember the Patio of the Anguitas’? That was the kind of reunion that my friend used to attend to which he finally took me. Funny! Really lots of fun! It was the family of an old rural doctor that practiced gynecology while he administrated his lands. He enjoyed his double life. He was never present at the reunions. The gathering was for the lady

94 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master of the house, the four young females, and another four young male country doctors or in land business to take pleasure from them. It was a really notorious family that later became even more prominent with a toreador. Don José, was his name, and he was short and chubby. He had a white beard; his body rolled by his feet-dragging way of a walk as if he were carrying a heavy load. He usually came home at nine in the evening. He had supper with his children, changed into his rural outfit, and went horseback riding to his fields. There, the superintendent rendered him an account of the day’s tasks. He visited cow barns and pigsties. Then he sat side by side with the caretaker, and emptied two bottle of wine, snoozed until two in the morning, when he supervised the feeding of the cattle, and at dawn, the milking of the cows, and the activities of the rural laborers. Later in the morning, he went back home on his horse. Then he got into bed and read some magazines. He usually got up around midday, changed his clothes and went on his daily rounds. For supper, he went to the Luca de Tena, his good friends. Then, he reposed on an armchair. Once wide-awake, he went back to his medical rounds that he completed with an evening consultation at his home office. Later at night he went out to take care of a diversity of business, including lawsuits for which he had a special predilection. He was usually the winner. His lawyer used to say that his sweet-talk made him win the law cases. Then, he used to go back home in time for a late dinner, closing in this way the tireless, tiresome life cycle of his day. For the social reunions, he had only scornful snorts. He had so many occupations and duties that he let the reunion go as it was and even took it with certain amount of humor. No less particular than the husband was the wife. She partook of the Spanish traditional Catholic faith. As they said in Spain, she practiced her religious obligations obstinately; daily mass, without counting novenas, Jesuit confession, all the trappings, for herself and the adjacent without concessions. Hers was Catholicism on the double, in the middle of her beatitude, always happy and not compromising, always flattering, making people work without looking at expenses. She was splendid and modest, meddling in all her friends’ problems, without being called for, guiding,

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 95 counseling, even paying for their upkeep. She was also a matchmaker. She had eight live children from twenty-three deliveries. Life and death were not encumbrances. Her healthy and optimistic life, totally dedicated to the will of God radiated to her family and the friends who peopled the famous reunions on her patio in summer and parlor in winter, where all the guests could consider themselves at home with all freedom and confidence. Anything I could add about the lady would certainly remain under her profile and that included, as a matter of fact, her vulgarity and ignorance. She had bomb-proof health. The twenty-three deliveries had not affected her even with the arbitrary hygiene she practiced. Her preferred conversational subject matter was her pregnancies and deliveries. She mingled in everybody’s business from relatives and acquaintances— none of this being her concern. For each problem, she had procedures and an expeditious solution. Once she made majos108 dresses for two of the children and took them to some friends’ home for them to dance in. They refused to dance in front of the audience. She left the parlor and came back with a broom and beat the hell out of them. The dear darlings had to dance in tears. At pig slaughtering season, she generously gave away pork products to friends. One year she killed up to fourteen pigs. On one occasion, the death of the father ruined a family of her friends. Immediately, she told them not to worry and prompted herself to send them a well-supplied cauldron of food every day. Until one day, the family found remedy to their distress and returned the pot, saying it was badly cooked. When the problem was out of proportion, she would not lose her composure. The seven sleepers,109 saints of her devotion, were always ready to make the most formidable miracles.

108 This term refers to young males and females from Aragon. Goya depicted Majos and Majas on his tapestry cartoons now at the Museum of Prado, in Madrid. The Jota is a traditional vigorous dance from Aragon, where the dancers wear the costume of the region. 109 The Sevillian lore of superstitious beliefs has been widely explored and commented on by Jose Maria de Mena, Luis Montoto and Julio Martinez Velasco in a diversity of works. The character of religious beliefs, art, and superstitions link the Sevillians to the late Roman Empire, the Byzantines, and the Jewish-Christian tradition that was ever so slightly th modified by the presence of Islam in the city until the Reconquest in the 13 century.

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One of her children became a famous matador years later. On a certain occasion, he had to go into the lead, still suffering from the consequences of a previous gore he had had. The bull was so powerful, he scared everybody. The lady commended herself to the Saint Virgin. When the bull left the pen, it charged against the barrier and broke its neck. A large assortment of people lived in the house: the grandmother, two aunts and many times visitors besides the married couple and the eight children. Of the children, the oldest was in medical school. He thought himself a dandy and had friends among those that were considered elegant. He was presumptuous. His boldness had no limit, even in the exertion of his profession. The next brother was a typical rural Andalusian, a campero, a great horseman and garrocha user.110 The third brother was a famous bullfighter who died of an atrocious horn gore in 1932. Of the last two brothers, one lost his reason and the other became a half horseman, half banderillero. The daughters were fun, amusing and likable, gracious, very attractive and, plainly, ugly. One died very young, another became a nun. The most attractive daughter died of illness in her mature age. The oldest is the one that for good or bad I must talk about. It is understandable to commit a nonsensical mistake for love because love sometimes constitutes an obsession, a sickness that the patient does not know how to avoid by himself. However, to arrive at the point of sacrificing one’s own life without being in love is the greatest, incomprehensible stupidity.111 I plunged into the Patio of the Anguitas’. It was picturesque and very comfortable. I felt like I was at home there. When we moved out of town to a village house a year later, I spent quite a deal of time in Sevilla. I was always invited by that family (of which I have been speaking) in such a way that, with time, I found myself taken in by the kitschy, daft environment, be it as gracious as it may be, it was also totally alien to what I represented. Nevertheless, my mishap came for other reasons: First, to let the happenings run ahead without my thinking; second, my own commodious

110 Bullfighting term previously explained: Long spear used to subdue the bulls in the fields and corridas. 111 Here the typed text was scratched off and replaced by a handwritten note: Failures without measure in my artistic life and an implacable persecution when I finally left her.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 97 tendencies in life, and third, my own prejudice against unseemly chivalry. My fateful friend, that I just alluded to, led me into that engaging house that I entered, like in a mousetrap. I have paid for it dearly. I paid the highest price that anybody can pay in society— an uneven marriage. I lost the social significance that offers the quality of the engagements and its economic rewards…112 But I could not have envisioned such results when I entered that house. Besides the ordinary reunions in the patio or parlor, the family had special celebrations, Carnivals, outposts at the Feria, and you name it, a constant cascade of happiness. Many girls attended these celebrations— some were pretty girls, others charming. The entire family constituted a society foreign to high class, distinguished people, and they were without any cultural interests whatsoever. The rigid aristocratic society of my time was cold, detached, and unbearable, with the girls encased in whale-bone stays. To take one of them by the waist was the same as taking hold of the waist of an armored knight. Always chaperoned by the inseparable mother and the Jesuit influence…This kind of social life was insipid. I felt no attraction for the distinguished ladies. The kitsch people were something else. They mimic the elegant. All in all, they moved with greater freedom and ease. The parties where familiar cajolery and wine flew easily were very entertaining. My shy character wrongly indicated my preference for one of the girls. The girl in question told me that if I had to distinguish her from among the others, I had better talk to her mother to consider a closer relation. I answered her that I was not in a position of compromising her or myself. Truly, I had reached the point where I was virtually poking my head into a mousetrap. I should have cut short my visits then. The subject matter was forgotten for the moment. I was so commodiously amused in that environment that I could not care less about the girl who considered herself the preferred. Therefore, I let the situation roll until the circumstances pushed me towards what I had never wanted to become— engaged. That is, a ridiculously engaged guy, affianced to a woman for whom I

112 Handwritten line, with comment corresponded to one of the editor’s, Maria Hector Vazquez’s, and reads: and many years of my life.

98 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master had friendly affection but was not moved by passion, love or convenience. Even so, other particulars pushed me into it. One of them was my penchant towards commonplace. I thought that the woman could fit into a mediocre life; therefore, she was convenient to my purpose. My total lack of social and professional ambitions made me conceive of a modest peaceful life. Inwardly, however, I reasoned about the foolishness of it all. My economic situation was scarcely sufficient to face my inclinations. I was tempted to live exploiting a simple garden business that I was readily familiar with. Such activity related to my love for gardening and inclination to landscape painting. I had sufficient means to establish myself. Alas! I had the great idea to consult with my future father-in law- whose life was so tremendously complicated with attending to the family expenses and was at the moment under duress. He convinced me with his habitual, manipulative craftiness that instead of opening a new business, I should invest in his that was already rolling. His business was already in decline and after a few years of drought went to kingdom come. Along went my few emoluments that, although not much, this became the beginning of my economical downfall. To think that marriage to a socially inferior person contributes to a desire for modesty is a complete error. The modest looks out attentively in her/his aspiration to superiority while our desire is totally waffled and there is no comprehension among the pair. Total loss due to a lack of thinking, aggravated with the poor state of affairs, made the situation go out of control. My family and relations had bad predictions about it. But contradicting me was like throwing more wood onto the fire, much of that due to my way of being! I needed someone to make me reflect and I had nobody. I was a Sevillian Señorito of good family, in the Sevilla of bygone times, who could live as a family son and even figure in social life; my physical and moral attributions placed me in a position to be able to have aspirations. I had a small patrimony and for profession, it could be said that I had none. Young men of my upbringing ended as lawyers, army officers, or engineers but I was not any of these; I was only an artist painter. A good painter living in the uncultured Sevilla; who could care!

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Artist painter, excepting Gonzalo Bilbao, any son of an artisan qualified. Although I had quite a few attractive and rich ladies that had more than a penchant for me, it was not in my calculations to be taken as a dowry hunter. Embroiled in my prejudices, I sacrificed my freedom of many years, to my apparent convenience. Who knows best! After all, in my youth, I have had a jolly good time. I proceeded as I saw fit; I never had someone to command me. Even in my penury time, I retained my social consideration— social status I never sought nor looked into. I was always a cultivator of being what I was for what I was: Ego sum qui sum. I abstained from competitions but I took part in them mentally, conscious that I could win if I wanted. I was not attracted to fame; my idealism sufficed for maintaining my self-esteem. To tell the truth, I never went totally without food. Nevertheless, nobody is free from temptation. At my mature age, I found a nice looking young lady. I had met others before, but this one was out of the ordinary. Then I saw within my reach all that had been denied to me in love, convenience, and comfort on the double. Why should I let it go? I had only to accept the fact. Mefisto did the rest. It was in such a way, that I who had sacrificed all my conveniences to good behavior sent to kingdom come all the divine and human rules that I had used to tie me up. So it was! The same way I had sacrificed myself before knowingly. I broke consciously with all agreements. I said like the knight- errant, “My law is my strength, my saying is my will.” Young people imagine their own novel according to their wishes and aspirations. In times past, I imagined that I was going to become a great Navy hero like my ancestors; I used to get so excited that I attacked, in imaginary battle, doors and walls. Later, I had mystic, bucolic inclinations. In my frenzy, my artistic temperament allowed me to go from the mystic to the bucolic behavior; in my imagination, I went from battleship combat boarding to planting myself an idyllic garden, like Fray Luis.113 What I had never idealized before was to become a Don Juan although I did like girls very much.

113 th Frai Luis de León was a 16 century Spanish poet who had an exceedingly clear prose totally devoid of convoluted Baroque style, unlike the poet Gongora. Frai Luis de Leon’s style influenced 18th century writers for its directness: Abstract from the Encyclopedia Britannica.

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Tenorio, yes, I liked the idea. Faust and his entanglements with Mefisto were repugnant to me. Even so, destiny forced me to become a Faust and I was not too far off from imitating him. But there was a difference: I had never had an agreement with him to have my youth back because, although I was fifty years old, I had not lost my good looking features and neither did I have to use obscure ways to kill someone, as Faust did. Such desires were not in my mind. I was self-sufficient. Faust was despicable to me. I did not seduce my Margaret. What I did was to give way to her charms. If I was on the brink of exposing my life, it was not to dishonor her but to honor. To revere her, I jumped over law and society; and I had enough presence of mind to make my own rules that were respected by me and were the keen and kind. My life could be a theme for a romance or a play, although I do not care about either one or even less to be an actor. In such a way, it is better to leave the subject untouched. What really counts in a man’s life is the result of his work. To my own satisfaction or perhaps glory, I lost my time. Although, I think it did not matter. What would it have meant to be a famous artist painter? There are so many, that nobody is going to miss one more or less. I took my lesson from a mayor who answered in rude and skeptic terms when I was introduced to him as a great painter: “Let’s say, average,” was his answer. The question is that I think the mayor was right. I am only average, whatever they say. The mayor was ignorant of judging premises but he intuitively chose right. In my time, and perhaps to this day, vapid exaltation of epithets114 describe the artist’s work: the noteworthy, illustrious, inspired. Bombastic enlargement is not used when referring to works of other professions. I do not know why. I feel embarrassed by adulation. Like the mayor of the story, I was a skeptic. Whatever may be my cast in life, it has been to love without transcendence of love for love itself. I have never been interested in action because the action always comes up short for the actor and for the author, if real talent exists. The desired result is never attained in full.

114 th The author’s opinion about the vocabulary used by art critics of the late 19 century sets him apart from the normal trend of the time, when over-inflated art criticism was the norm in Spain.

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I remember that once my master complained, while he painted the portrait a canonical poet, that he was not attaining the desired perfection. The sitting poet answered his plea by saying that it was natural to man not to be able to reach his full desire, that conformity to one’s abilities was the best way to operate in this life. “Once you reach glory in the other life,” the canonical poet continued, “you will be able to paint to your heart’s content and I to write poems to mine. What disturbs us,” he continued,” is material substance, is it not?” Distinction among the spiritual and the material world forms the base of the mystic philosophers who penned heavily towards the spiritual. Spiritual thought can only derive from pure ideas. Artist painters and poets can only produce art for the satisfaction of art’s sake. Transferred to matter, what was felt to be beauty becomes fecund transformation of thought into form; it is a sort of engendered action caused by the artist’s love for the world.115 My idyllic idea of love was, and is in my mind; I never consciously conceived any love but for the Virgin Mary. Now that my life is coming to term, I see a world of beauty parading in front of my tired eyes, and I still love the display in secret. How could I dare to tarnish such beauties with my decadent breath? I am not a romantic; do not give me ancient ruins, old stories, malarial ponds reflecting weeping willows. I am a realist, a pantheist; give me nature but only nature in bloom or the freshly ripe fruit.

115 The definition of an end-of-existence world is displayed in a short paragraph that corresponds to the quality of beauty created during the last facet of his career. Luminism, a seldom-used term for a restricted art production of work by a few contemporary artists that was not well understood during his lifetime, took the artist away from what could have ended as a career in Orphism or any other of the pantheistic tendencies of the early 20th century in the western tradition.

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CHAPTER VI

From ages 25-29-To Paris 1903-Lozano and Durrio-Doctor Carvallo-Manolo Huguet-The Marquis of the Vega Inclan-The Salons-The Impressionists-Louvre Museum-Paris 1900-Twentieth- century Paris, 1903-The Post-Impressionist Movement- Impressionist Concept-Academics and bohemians-Montmartre and Montparnasse-The Valley of Arratia-Studying Dutch painting- How to be a modern painter-Travel to Madrid, Toledo and El Escorial-Copy of El Greco. I mentioned previously what was the “Sevillian ambiance” at the beginning of the century, in which all of the sudden, Zuloaga with Regoyos, and some other artists whose name I do not remember, installed an art studio where they proceeded to work. I can only superficially express the degree of commentaries among the local artists of Sevilla, not only about the mentioned artists but also about the Impressionist movement of which nobody had the least idea. They though that some aliens from an unknown island had suddenly descended on us. Some went to visit the rare animals in that studio; others chose to talk to the models posing in it. All agreed that the art being produced in the studio was not art or anything definable except stupid, foreign craziness. The few Sevillians who traveled on a regular basis to Paris confirmed the general opinion; to disagree was to expose oneself to excommunication. When I went to visit the studio, the artists had left on an excursion. I missed the opportunity of meeting Regoyos personally. I did see his later out-of-the- ordinary, interesting art works; he had seen and valued some of mine, I was told. Zuloaga returned to Sevilla, where he painted some of the works of his early career. They were similar in conception, as I could discern later on, to the early works of Manet, based on Spanish classical tradition, I could not understand why the Spanish painters thought this kind of painting strange since it was not. It was because they had separated themselves from what was Spanish in nature to such an extent that they had lost the notion of it. They had a dreadful grudge against Zuloaga. His Bilbao-like manners were also a barrier to acceptance. He behaved in a

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 103 contemptuous, disruptive, and infantile manner common to the inhabitants of that region and that had nothing to do with his painted work. I associated with him every so often, and I visited his studio, where he began some of his painted canvas in front of me. It was an exceptional sight. He never worked from sketches. Instead, he materially attacked a large canvas where, with energetic gestures, he would sketch the figures with a masterful ability. He was a rough man to most of the people he treated although not to me in Sevilla or, later on in Paris, where I happened to be when he had one of his spectacular victories. Still, he was considered as terrible among certain classes of artists in Sevilla. Vazquez-Diaz and Arismendi, young and talented artists at the time, used to visit his studio. When they did, Zuloaga turned the canvas he was working against the wall and told them that he had been told that they were emulating his work— something that should not be thought commendable. Zuloaga became a major obsession to all of us. He had the idea of sending one of his works to the National Exhibit in Madrid and it was hung in the “crime room” where Regoyos’ work was relegated; the commissioner of the exhibit even invented a pun out of Regoyos’ name: “Regoyos Que malo es esto! They used it as an epithet to tag a work that was not to their taste. This is the way we acted when the nauseating, saturated onlookers of art turned their hope towards Europeanization. As I mentioned before, other artists arrived in Sevilla at the time. Canals who had followed in the steps of the early Impressionists masters. An art dealer subsidized him. I was convivial with his art but not with him. He became very close to Lozano, who introduced him to Gonzalo Bilbao. In his studio, which was an ex- convent of Los Remedios of Triana, Gonzalo Bilbao was working on a series of large, popular custom scenes depicting the typically gracious cigarreras of Sevilla. Such subject matter attracted Canals and Iturrino. The former became an assiduous visitor to Los Remedios. With this small sample of different painting techniques, I was getting an idea of what comprised the Impressionist movement and this fueled my desire to know more about its origin. Lozano, Vazquez-Diaz and Arismendi had left for Paris while I continued

104 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master tied down by family affairs in Sevilla. The impressions that I got from Zuloaga, Canals and Iturrino were beneficial but I could not share my ideas with other artists since all of my companions had departed. I could not even count on my master’s support because he still resented their criticism— although I think it was greatly exaggerated since he was then working on some beautiful canvas full of environmental light vibrations. Shortly after my father’s death, in 1900, I moved with my mother and a niece who was living with us, to a house on the Barrio of Santa Cruz that was next to the house of the Lopez-Cepero. I was leading a detached existence that was confined to my intellectual inclinations. We were in a good economical situation and my only worry was to produce art. I used the next door patio landscapes, and at home I worked from live models. From time to time, for a change of scenery, I went to Alcalá de Guadaira. A few kilometers from Sevilla, Alcalá de Guadaira is located on a plain that breaks into a series of calcareous terraces that give the landscape its originality. The river116 offers spectacular views, with its pools, the falling waters from the dams, and the old Muslim time mills. On its banks appear a diversity of plants— oleander growths and silvery poplars, gardens of orange growths among the natural vegetation, the hills covered with pomegranates, almond, olive and nopal growths, pine woods, green ground with lilies and a multitude of flowers all for the enjoyment of the eye. The village’s houses had whitewashed walls, where the sunlight reflected and played variegated color vibrations at twilight. The patios of the simple whitewashed houses were full of flowers and macetas,117 with lemon trees, jasmine and other creeping plants covering the walls. At night, the bread bakeries118 filled the air with

116 The Guadaira River is one of the tributaries to the Guadalquivir. Although not properly tended, the landscape description still corresponds mostly to the author’s description. When I visited the location, I noticed that the beauty of the place had not been marred by over construction and although poorly kept, still retained some of the original flavor. 117 The word macetas, meaning flowerpots, applies well to the image since by custom, flowerpots are placed hanging on the wall of Andalusian patios. 118 Alcalá de Guadaira was supplying Sevilla with bread at the time. A narrow-gauge rail train connected both cities as it did with many other towns of the Guadalquivir valley. The bakers and general public used this means of public transport, which has long since disappeared. The local rail trains were a commodious way of traveling that fell from common use for the sake of modernity, with the onset of the auto road transport. Its only remains are lonely train platforms and stations converted into public utility building.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 105 the aroma of baked bread mixed with the perfume of broom and resinous pine wood burning in its fires for the complete delight of the senses. I roomed in one of those unpretentious houses119 that for many years had been home to many foreign and Sevillian painters who came and went. The tenants— peasant people— had learned how to demonstrate admiration for paintings, as did the rest of the village and its surrounding residents. I happened, sometimes, to leave a canvas that I had begun painting tied to a tree trunk in the middle of the woods with the certainty that nobody will touch it. About the rooming house: I was by myself most of the time or at the most, I shared it with a very original painter, Nicolas Alperiz, who was a fervent admirer of Jiménez Aranda. He was a genre painter. Most of the time, he painted dark figures of old peasant women and children. Our style differed so greatly that I had no fear of being influenced by his work.120 Leaving imaginary problems aside, he was an affectionate friend who was famous in the village, in contrast to his paintings, that were cute and infantile. He was strongly built with short legs— so short that he looked almost like a midget. He had blue eyes and a big blonde beard and great long hair. He looked like a personification of Moses. Besides painting, he loved hunting. He had a shotgun that he used to clean and lubricate all the time. Together, we went blank shooting or aimed at birds or other aquatic fowl. One day, and I still regret it, I aimed and shot at the shoulder of a dog that used to get in my way every time it saw me carrying my painting implements. I still have conscience pangs about it. Our tenant’s fare was good and simple— some beef, pork, eggs from their henhouse, and wild asparagus that grew on the fields.

Sometimes, the visitor sees spare pieces of rails where a lone train wagon sits, left to show to the new generations that the town had a public transportation service 120 years ago that had to be replaced by a more efficient but less kind system to the environment. 119 The inn and artist village society parallels Pont-Avent in Normandy, France, in the late 19th century. The artistic colony formed an art movement of avant-garde individuals that was recorded by Juan Fernandez Lacomba in: La Escuela de Alcalá de Guadaira y el Paisajismo Sevillano-1800-1936. 120 Typed text was scratched out and replaced, as before, by the handwritten sentence of the editor: I think he was not influencing me. The significance of the unreadable text could be elucidated through this sentence. Perhaps one of the reasons that pushed him to leave town for the country may have been his desire to be alone in front of nature without any possible “influence” from teachers or other artist friends.

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Sometimes we enjoyed freshly delivered whiting or sardines or wild game rice stew— a product of our hunting, migas and poleadas.121 When we had guests, the patron made her specialty— roasted stuffed hen baked in our neighbor’s oven and for dessert, the famous layered cakes, the confectioners’ pride at Alcalá of Guadaira. While I was there I painted many landscapes that looked totally different from the ones that the many artists that passed through the area used to do. I considered them impressions. Although I worked persistently on some, I did not consider them finished. Another of my passions was boat rowing; but I did not practice row-boating for races but for the sport exertion and to contemplate the beauty of the solitary places along the Guadalquivir River. From my small skiff, the river sunset unfolded sights for my sketches. Letting the current carry it, I could delight myself in the moonlit summer nights. It was spawn time for the albures.122 and the diamond arches of the school of fish jumping over the terse water produced an infinity of silver waves with its wake splashing close to the silent music of the spheres. What I considered then my best work consisted of a garden view of the Ceperos’ garden next to my house in Sevilla. The shiny foliage of the trimmed box plants partly allowed the view of mature trees, incandescent white walls, and intensely blue sky that were permeated by direct sunlight. In this work so gallantly achieved, I cut off all unnecessary information in what was a study of a typical Sevillian subject. To attain the desired point of an ideal in painting is sometimes impossible. The level I reached with a successful completion of a work of art was the same I had tried in vain to reach before this time. There are so many premises affecting the successful completion of a work of art. Once the practical aspect of how to handle the media is overcome, the artist faces a world of problems that multiply when he works in nature. The artist confronted with

121 Migas is a typical Spanish dish of Muslim origin made out of stale bread, olive oil and garlic. Poleadas, of Muslim origin, was typical mostly in southern Spain, and made out of wheat flour, olive oil and anise seeds. Both dishes present local varieties, and Poleadas is always restricted to the south of the country. 122 Small-sized sardine that swam up the current, seasonally, to spawn.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 107 nature’s vibrations, may proceed either to equalize with the creator and make himself a unique, divine gifted being, the only one capable of capturing nature; or, inflamed with vanity, he may turn into a Lucifer and reinvent nature. I cannot paint except by using the direct vision of nature. All I can do is try to imitate nature, and what fascinated me were not the possibilities that I can transcribe onto the canvas but the act of capturing the vibrations. I was lucky with “El Jardin de los Ceperos.” Sevilla had then a group of art lovers, detached from the old incongruities, who supported my victory; nobody had to tell me anymore other than myself, at that point, whether I was good or not. I had learned to evaluate my own work. It was then when my life ruled in such a way that I could plan my so-long desired travel to Paris that had been my illusion as an Art Mecca for a long time. I confess Paris’s life shocked me. The contrast between its bohemian style and my neat Sevillian existence was more that I could take. This came to have unprecedented consequences that were reflected on the rest of my life. My decision taken, I planned to go by train and stop in Madrid for a few days. Then, I decided against it because I was already familiar with Velazquez, El Greco and Goya, the three idols of the moment. What I was anxiously seeking was to erase the vision of Spanish painting from my mind. I wanted to be face to face with Impressionism. However, I did not want to face it all of the sudden but leave a margin to my desires. I decided to do it through a maritime way from Seville to Marseilles. Using stop-over ferry travel, the situation provided the opportunity to travel by boat that I so desired. Once the ferryboat, with me in it, reached high seas with its deep blue color, I felt an immense regret for having given up my dream to become a Navy officer like my ancestors. Crossing in front of the Gaditan coast,123 I was not any longer an artist painter. I dreamed awake that I was the commander of a battleship crossing over Trafalgar. When we left Malaga, I lay down on the bow facing the sea where I could see only sky and water; a flock of seagulls escorted us. I saw white-topped braked waves of a light-blue sea,

123 Originating in the city of Cadiz, the definition can be found in the Larousse dictionary.

108 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master and the dolphins playing catch-and-miss with the steamer’s cutwater jumped playfully. I thought that the Gulf of Darien might have been dressed up with the same finery at Venus’s birth.124 We, the ferryboat and I, stopped125 in Cadiz; then at Algeciras, where two English gentlemen embarked. One was short and tubby with white hair. The other was tall and hardy. He might have been the private valet or the secretary. They came from Gibraltar, and could not speak Spanish. Neither of the officers knew English. I was in the same predicament. We communicated by signs or single words from a vocabulary guidebook. The old fellow drank like a sponge. He took gin with his meals. At the end of the meal, we were served a whole round cheese that nobody dared to cut. The Englishman introduced his knife on the upper top of the cheese. He cut a circle and lifted it and served himself cheese from the inside, putting the cut portion back like a stopper. I thought that was a great idea but the marine officers did not. Most of the officers were tough northern folks known for their hatred of the English. I have the opposite feeling towards them. Once we were alone in the mess room, he consulted his vocabulary manual and said, “Hot!” I signaled to him to wait and asked the board steward to open the glass-covered hatchway. He looked up again and said, “Thank you!” I continued to Malaga. We arrived in Barcelona, where I landed with the intention of spending a few days visiting my friend Paco Bertendona who had moved there and to meet some of my relatives. After few days, I embarked to Marseilles. The captain of the steamer was the oldest in his rank in the Merchant Marine. In his youth, he had served in the Army Marine. I met him on the bridge at my entrance to the ship. He looked at me, and exclaimed: “Winthuysen! You are like your father!”— and with great emotion, he continued, “I still can see him do his guard duty by the battery of Feliz. Next to the captain, a smiling officer turned out to be one of my school companions. In such a way, the last part of my seafaring experience turned out to be very congenial.

124 Venus’s birth at Darien— is a transferred image from a poem written by a Central American poet that evidently the artist uses as a comparison to the scene he describes. 125 The original text’s use of the first person indicates that the author was still savoring his marine dream when the two Englishmen arrived on board.

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The precious steamboat was my personal possession, from cabins to commander’s bridge. Friendship with an English traveler of my own age completed the fairness of the passage. We stopped at San Feliu and Palamos.126 The sea was turbulent when we sighted Marseilles; the great armored ships of the French Navy that escorted President Loubet crossed near us. The huge steamers navigated serenely while we skipped the surf as best as we could until we reached the port that looked like a forest with so many ship masts moored there. The Englishman and I landed; and he invited me to continue my trip with him to England. However, Paris was still looming in my mind; I could not agree to this. He insisted, saying that he was going to Nice to spend few days with friends, and left me his address and told me that if I decided to join him, I could write to him from Paris. I would be very lucky, he said, if I did it because he had one more month of leave that we could spend together traveling through England. After that he would install me at the Island of Jersey, where I could paint and learn English. I never lamented more not having accepted what seemed like a providential solution to my life. We met again in Paris during the few hours he spent before leaving early the next morning. He suggested that we could have dinner together. Afterwards, we went to the Moulin Rouge and other cabarets. He persisted about the possibility of my travel to England; I refused and we parted. Upon my arrival in Paris, I went to the Rue de Rochefoucauld, the studio that belonged to Iturrino, where Lozano worked. Iturrino was still in Sevilla with his enthusiasm for exerting his art there. His studio in Paris was well situated. It was convenient for him that Lozano kept it and for me to be able to lodge in it. Lozano opened the door dressed in a deplorable state. He was dirty and disheveled. He wore an old, filthy coat. He was the figure of the “Esopo” of Velazquez. It was April, and the weather was still cold. A coal stove burning in the room with a hip of ashes and charcoal on the parquet contributed to the general untidiness. To complete his repulsive aspect, my friend had a considerably-sized abscess on his cheek.

126 Both locations are small ports along the Costa Brava, Catalonia, where the merchant steamers had to stop to unload and load.

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On an easel was a work featuring the head of a gypsy, done in a firm line in gray, ocher and black. Well, his portraits had quality, strength, originality, and sadness, with subdued colors like everything else he did. It was the portrait of two gypsies, particularly the kind that go to Paris to earn a living by playing guitar. This was “Fabian and Perico el Sillero,” two picturesque Tabarnarios or Tanarnarios127 —Sevillians from low extraction.128 Here, in Paris, the gypsies wore ties and starched collars. They did not wear typical costumes. They had been pictured in this way, candidly, with all their racial vigor on their sallow, solemn features with Egyptian angularity. With his usual emotion, Lozano told me how the Egyptian sculptures aroused a new trend for him. He said that the important thing was to purify the line— that the Impressionist paintings were soft and decadent. He told me how Durrio, his friend and a sculptor, guided him to purify his style. Durrio, singularly, showed up precisely at that moment. Quite a character! He was short, really short, almost a midget. Unlike other abnormally short people, however, his body was well-proportioned, without any deformity. He had an expressive, intelligent face, with an arrogant and serious countenance that would have been admirable if it had not been contained in a miniature man dressed so peculiarly. His hat’s band was threadbare. The drooping hat brim resembled a down-turned basket more than a hat. His coat matched the hat, worn badly, and buttoned to the neck because he had no shirt on underneath. Proud mendicant, he stayed a few minutes and left as solemnly as seriously as he had come. Left alone with Lozano, we talked about my lodgings in the place. Priority was to clean the pig’s sty. We arranged that someone would come to do it, that I would pay for it, and meanwhile stay in a hotel. In the middle of our conversation, Doctor Carvallo, his protector, arrived. He looked attentively at the gypsies’ heads and told Lozano that he would acquire the work once it was finished. He medically examined Lozano’s sore and told me in private that

127 Tabarnarios is a derivative from Tagarete (in the area of the River Tagarete), a corrupted term from tagarino. They were Muslims who lived among the Christians and spoke their language. Larousse. 128 Jose Almuedo Palma: Ciudad Industrial Sevilla 1850-1930 describes slums and unavoidable marginal living.

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Lozano should return to Sevilla because the climate did not agree with him. My reaction in front of extraordinary works of art like the aqueduct of Segovia, the Mosque of Cordoba, and the Museum of Prado has always been of surprise and then emotion, both charged with the same intensity, even when I had previous knowledge of what these works looked like. Velazquez, Greco and Goya— I understood them from the very beginning, disregarding ulterior contemplation of nuances of those not-exhaustible sources. The contemplative aspect of my approach to the Impressionist differed totally from my previous experience in the knowledge of Art. My arrival in Paris within the presence of down-to-earth Lozano was not well timed. Envy, or an incapacity to express what he had in mind, mixed with blatant ignorance linked to his strange mixture of intuitive imagination and talent he was the roughest, talented man that I had ever known. Of course, all I noticed was completely apart from my own personality and I not only refused involvement with him; I plainly rejected him. I have two faults in my character that have always taken a toll from me: excessive sensitivity and a lack of energy— the slowness of my reaction has always been compensated by the fierceness of it. The impression I received from my sight of the studio had little to do with the purpose of what took me to Paris. When I made a question about was suitable for my material comfort that would allow me to pursue my art, I did so with a delicate, intellectual, and perceptive reasoning. Coming from the environment that had been my creation in Sevilla, I could not conceive of living in a pile of dung. This negative sensation was increased even further when, after the visit to the Luxembourg, Lozano took me to eat in a tavern on the Place Pigalle near the studio. There I found the most coarse and unpleasant people. Among them were Andalusian guitar players, low-life people who came to Paris to be snobs. They were not gypsies per style or dress. They had adopted the trappings of civilization with the manners of their kind. One of them was the model Lozano was painting, inspired by Egyptian sculpture. Later he became an artist painter. His work was a reflection of the toughness and rudeness of his own existence.

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Some of the arrogant bohemians attending the tavern considered themselves genial. The women present were of the less commendable sort. The quality of food ran along in the same quality as the regular customers. In the evening, I went to a hotel nearby, where I found a room full of draperies, an ancient washstand with a small jar of water, petroleum lamps, and on the bed, stinky bedspreads and comforters of many colors. My stay in Montmartre did not last two days. Next day, I went to Montparnasse, where other friends lodged— Joaquin Bilbao, the sculptor, brother to my master, and Gonzalo Agreda, fellow student at the Academy of Sevilla. Lozano’s studio was cleaned. The parquet had been waxed but I left it for him to soil again. I moved to Montparnasse’s Boulevard Raspail, the same hotel as my friends, into a modest attic room that was ventilated and tidy. As the saying goes, I jumped from a hot plate to fall into the fire. Montmartre was physically disgusting. Montparnasse was mediocre. The filthy environment that I found in Montmartre was as unsavory as my Montparnasse friends’ academic standards. It was middling. Certainly, I had not come to Paris for that. Not only did they not like Impressionism, they hated it. They worked hard, that is the truth. They regularly attended the Julian Academy. In this order of thought, I gave preference not only to Durrio and Manolo, a bright gentleman who I made friends with, but even to Lozano. The situation was such that I did not socialize any longer with either group. I followed my own impulses and life intent during my Parisian travel. Twentieth-century Paris, 1903 The exhibit rooms of the Museum— so much to be seen: oil paintings and academic paintings, technically careful, some with a sense of poetry, others photographic or even literary. Each tendency offers an aspect that has little to do with pictorial esthetic and the fundamental values that we aim toward. Amidst so many works of art, we feel attracted to “Pauvre Pecheur,” by Purvis de Chavannes, or a woman’s bust by Rodin, one so subtly done that we begin to doubt whether the stone is really stone— all miracles

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 113 of French ingenuity. This happened in 1903 when the “The Archer” by Bourdelle was not there; it had not yet been created.129 In a small exhibit room, there was a modest installation of modern art not yet appreciated by the larger public that was exactly what we were looking for. Manet, with the austerity of the gray tones— Velazquian in nature, the high- pitched musical colors of his “Olympia”— contrasted to the rich surface matter and the color division of the tones used by Renoir. The ethereal dancers by Degas, the constructed landscapes by Pizarro, the sfumatto environment of “Gare Saint Lazare” by Monet, the luminosity of Sisley, all were there. Among them, in a place of honor, we found the works that Zuloaga was in the process of making when I was in Sevilla. These were “The Family of My Uncle Daniel,” 1898, now in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, and “The Midget Girl with a Ball” that has the quality of a Carreño.130 The public filling up the room, differed from the normal, walking, curious person who strolled through that museum. With several exceptions, the museum was overburdened by 19th-century literary works that were done within the most correct French academic style and that was even more detestable to me than the Spanish academic style. It was never clear to me why, after thirty years of Impressionism, the movement had had so little significance in the city of Paris. Nor could I see why it was not understood how the Impressionist tendency continued, from Jean Paul Lawrence, and the imitators of Velazquez— Bonnat, Leon Bonnat (1833-1922) Oxford dictionary and Benjamin Constant, who were only superficially similar to Velazquez. How the summation of the environment and light represented by the Impressionist could only delight cultivated spirits was beyond me. Indeed, the nuances of a painting are lost to the ignorant. Putting aside missed interpretations, we may consider that it took centuries to appreciate the subtle nuances that we find in El Greco, Velazquez and Goya. It was a considerable feast of impressions that ended when we came outside for a breath of fresh air. Nature had never been

129 Emile Antoine Bourdelle, 1861-1929, French sculptor born at Montalban, Rodin’s chief assistant, developed an independent style with energetic rippling surfaces— simplifications that recall Romanesque art: The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Art and Artists. 130 Seventeenth-century Spanish portrait and religious painter who was second, at the time, to Velazquez: Dictionary of Art and Artists.

114 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master more verdant and juicy. The joyous spring environment of the blooming gardens with an absurdly still, smooth, and inclined sheet of water was the result of French ingenuity: it substituted nature by optical illusion or, as the dressmakers do, made a woman into a doll. I was convinced that the Parisian perception of nature is done through a glass of absinthe. From the gardens of the Luxembourg Museum, where sparrows and children compete in play, departs the immense avenue of the Observatory. This was a new Art impression to me at this time: Landscape Art. I recall here what Morelle said about Le Notre: “Unique usurper that substituted nature taking its place.”131 From this point, the park of the Luxembourg spreads to the confines of a perspective vision that disappears, in a mist over a broad green carpet flanked by parallel sandy avenues among the perspective of corpulent chestnut trees bursting with white flowers. We do not know what else to do after the magnitude of our impressions— poor provincial guys that we are— the only thing left to do is either pray or cry. I do not want to overstate my sensations for the mere fact that I was there; I thought it was a question of temperament. My inclination towards Impressionism was partial; my reactions were a result of an eclectic taste. They were closed in by my desire to belong to a Modern Art movement. I was an assiduous visitor to the Louvre, where I found my classics devoid of the importance that I had attached to them in Sevilla and Madrid. Instead, I entered, in depth, into the ancient Italian, Flemish, and Dutch Schools that I scarcely knew or was ignorant about.132 I studied them side by side with Impressionism. Sculpture in the Louvre was one more attraction to my thirst for knowledge. In Sevilla, all we knew was gained through religious works by Martinez

131 Or, in other words, when Art takes the place of Nature. The writer was confronted with the incredible discovery of Impressionism: its existence in the mental process of image formation and transcription, and the fact that Impressionism is not a style per se but a way of thinking. Through a selective mental process, he had arrived at a point where he could open new possibilities to the Art of Landscape that had to do with natural settings and the intervention of man. 132 Without knowing, the artist followed the route taken by Velazquez, and the Impressionists studying Northern European and Italian painting. Spanish museums are rich in Flemish and Dutch works of art that evidently had influence on Velazquez’s work. Without knowing it, his mental process led him to suspect that what he had learned in Sevilla was biased, which is the reason why he considered himself to be eclectic.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 115

Montañés and his school that we considered supreme. The novelty of the Egyptian, Classical Greek, and 13th- century French sculpture woke my passion. It did not take me too long to accommodate my way of being with the rhythm of life in Paris. I felt as if I were in Sevilla. Paris of the time made you welcomed, like living in heavens; I felt like a citizen of the world. I loved the city for itself. I took the route tour boats of the Seine from Charenton to Saint Cloud, stopping on each point along the way a number of times. On other occasions, I walked from the Louvre to the Bois de Boulogne, to the Avenue and Gardens of Luxembourg to the Opera, the Madeleine and the Place Vandome. I went to the Opera to see the “Valkyrie.” The foyer of the opera displayed the elegance of the chic Parisian ladies and a rare oriental richness. I also attended a performance of a Comic Opera.133 I did not go to other public functions because I could have understood little.134 I did go to certain cabarets, most of the time by myself. My daily visits were to Museums and Exhibits. I attended the opening of the Salon of the Independents and the Gallery Lafitte, where I was fortunate enough to contemplate the series of the “Nenuphars” by Monet. Mealtime was entertaining; to eat with friends at the Boulevard Raspail was a tranquil experience, as I did many times with the Catalan graphic artist Gosse and his girlfriend, who was a model to Rodin, and both of them very convivial people. The restaurant was located on the corner of the Leopold Roux Street, nicknamed Red Skin, after the bands of young American women who came in a constant, daily stream. They were women who went through the world like the ones mentioned by Don Quixote of ulterior centuries— they went from hill to valley and to their tomb as wholesome as the mothers that put them on this earth did. I met one of the girls who I had known previously in Sevilla, where she went every spring. I went to visit her in her studio. She told me that she lived there alone. The place had no furniture. She said that she slept on the floor with a pillow. In Paris, many people who were devoted with passion to Art led this kind of austere life. When they had to substitute a piece of clothing, they bought it and

133 What the author means is the “Beaudeville,” a musical comedy. 134 He had little knowledge of French.

116 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master abandoned the old at the public baths. The same was true when the need arose for a hat. The person only needed to go to Bon Marche, or other similar secondhand clothing stores, catch one off the baskets from the pile, from a different shelf add a few ribbons or crumbled artificial flowers that were then safety-pinned to the hat and they went onto the street as elegant as ever. Bohemians from the five continents of the world worked intensively in Paris. The Salon inauguration was at hand. The academicians schemed to get a medal or simply to avoid from being refused. Formal dress was mandatory. Top hats had to be borrowed or bought at the secondhand store. Half of Paris attended the Champs Elysees to assist the vernissage. It was the day for the Parisian elegant to wear their spring outfits for the first time. There were multitudes of paintings and sculptures in thousands of crowded salons, and no way to be able to see all of the works. The Official Salon of the Champs Elysees had an admission jury and medal prizes were granted. Next to it, the National French Artists had none; titles of membership, associate member or secretaries were handed out instead. My master, Gonzalo Bilbao, had one of his works at the Official Salon. As obsessed as he was for recognition, his painting had a sign: “Medal winner at previous competition.” Zuloaga’s “Models with Shawls before Mirror” that I saw him paint in Sevilla, attracted a throng; he was complimented with a public banquet that sat three hundred. Manolo attended the banquet to honor Zuloaga. After elocutions from many important people, with his particular free style, he took out a few sheets of paper from his pocket and sang in Andalusian flamenco style, sanga-sang-a, to laud Zuloaga, and that ended in the following refrain: “And he is painting works of art that others did better than him.” Besides the two mentioned salons, there was a crowded installation in a large stand at the Quay d’Orsay, the Salon of the Independents, which was not regulated by jury or prize. For a small amount, any person could participate in the display of works that went from the Fauves to the extreme tendencies. Not all were appealing, many were vulgar but well ordered by tendencies. The

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 117 truth is that the new standing artists were coming from that mass of work. Looking at the artistic milieu from a distance in time, it can not be conceived that anybody could take care, only in the spring, of the ten thousand works of art that were on exhibit. Necessarily, only artists with defined personalities could stand out; the rest had to remain in the obscure pile. Even then, what kind of extraordinary circumstances were needed to attain a name? How many sacrifices and tragedies represented that! Poor hungry bohemians that spent their energies in the struggle! I sympathized with them, but not with those that practiced Art for vanity’s sake to experience the vainglory of being admitted to the Salon at least to win a medal. I, personally, did not care about rotten recognition prizes; neither did I have the intention of immolating myself for glory. I did not even wish for monetary reward. My motto in life had not changed. I followed Fray Luis de Leon philosophy reflected in his rhyme: “What adds to my happiness when the futile finger of fortune points at me?” To contemplate nature and be able to partake in it as a lover was one thing; another was to compete to see who would be the best under a jury’s or art critic’s eyes. Let them apply talent meter rules to their own mothers! Art expression, to me, is unbiased and effortless. Speech, song, design and all art’s derivatives are givens that the gifted use to elevate the spirit of others. Sumptuous Art works, expressions of culprit civilizations, would not exist if my predicaments were true. Do we need luxurious works? Cultural manifestations always presuppose huge-set installations. Paris’ Salons, and other cities’ as well, were in the same predicament. Consider the thousand of meters of material, tons of wood, cubic meters of colors used for the canvass; they constituted a farce to the public and martyrdom for the artist. Was there anybody who really believed that the public attended cardboard grandiosity for intellectual and spiritual benefit? The percentage of the public able to enjoy the beauty of the works of art-provided beauty— on the works exhibited— was so small that it was minimal; it was a manifest aberration to sacrifice one’s own life to a mirage in order to serve public fashion’s taste to show and take pride. The final consequence of my speculation was that civilizations are mostly for the benefit of few. In fact they are

118 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master regularly, summarily crashed by the masses in our history. When proven too tough to demolish, the art that remains stay, like the Pyramids of Egypt, as historical tokens. I have no pretension about transcendence of thought. I probably would suppress many of my sayings, in case I wanted to purge my ideas. I only want to express my spiritual state, at the moment, immersed as I was in the middle of ostentation. When surrounded by ostentation, I cannot enjoy it. It weighs heavily on me. I am more at ease with myself when alone and in a simple environment. The uneasiness that Paris awoke in me, even the wish to leave, had its origin in a fundamentally earthly question. For a family life-style, my economic situation could provide easily; however, for Parisian life, it was totally insufficient. To make money out of my art was not within my scope. It was even less to find a Maecenas— I was too much of a Señorito for that. I met the Marquis of la Vega Inclan, the future organizer of tourism in Spain, while socializing with my friends at the Boulevard Raspail. I developed a certain friendship with him; we had similar artistic taste. He was traveling through Europe to make contacts with European museums that procured works of art.135 On this particular occasion, he had the portrait of the “Cardinal Infant of Guevara” by El Greco. We went to his hotel to see the painting and I told him about Doctor Carvallo and the art acquisitions that he made in Sevilla. Since the Marquis of la Vega Inclan demonstrated interest in meeting Carvallo, I told him what I knew about him. He had gone to Paris for additional medical studies where he met a rich American lady whom he had married. He developed his artistic inclinations in Paris, where she preferred to live. They had a moderate fortune that allowed them to satisfy their inclinations. With time, Carvallo became French citizen and bought a chateau in Normandy. On his visit to Sevilla, he purchased a collection of antique paintings for one hundred thousand pesetas that was then a fortune. This was all I knew about him. Although he was about to take the Greco to Berlin, the Marquis had interest in letting Carvallo see it before he did so. He trusted

135 The Marquis of la Vega Inclan art collection is now part of the Romantic Museum of Art in Madrid.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 119 me to take it to him. Because I had never visited Carvallo at home, I did not want to get involved in a transaction without the help of Lozano. Besides, I was sure that Lozano would love to see the Greco. Subsequently, I asked Carvallo to tell Lozano about the meeting. We decided when we would visit the Marques of la Vega Inclan and they came to pick me up at my hotel. We went together. Mille Sandeau joined us. On the way, Carvallo asked me some references about the painting and its owner. He suggested, in a newly rich tone, that the owner was questionable. He might not even be a Marquis. He could be, he said, an acolyte from Toledo that stole the painting. I answered that I trusted the person I had met, that the work was his and he would see for himself. I introduced Carvallo. When he saw the painting, he used the same derogatory tone that he had used before— as if he had no interest. “I think” he said, “This painting went through extensive conservation. Do you have a magnifying glass?” The Marquis offered him two to choose from and told him that the work had not gone through any preservation. Carvallo said that he had enough with one glass. “One to look at it closely, and the other from a distance,” said the Marquis. Carvallo examined the painting attentively and asked the Marquis how much he wanted for it. “It is not for sale!” he said; Carvallo turned towards me, questioningly: “I thought…” On my guard, I replied, my intention had never being to act as an art dealer, I had brought him there to see a work of art that might interest him in exchange for letting us see his own collection. In friendly terms, the Marquis told Carvallo that the market for the works of El Greco was increasing, and that he did not know for sure what was convenient, but that he felt it more convenient to show the painting to chosen persons, and that it was not the appropriate time to undertake business dealings. Carvallo finally demonstrated his admiration for the painting. Cordially, we said good-bye. Once outside, Carvallo talked to me affably, and invited me to his chateau in Normandy. Under the pretext of business, he wished us farewell while he talked to Mille Sandeau. I looked at Lozano’s livid features. He said that I had spoiled his friendship with Carvallo. “Don’t worry,” I replied, “I have no intention of accepting his invitation.” Then the color returned to his face. Mille Sandeau told us how Carvallo had had the intention of inviting us for lunch

120 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master but could not because he was late for his business engagement but that he had left a Luis to treat us in his name. Lozano’s shined: ”With a Luis we can have a banquet!” Mille Sandeau replied: “We will eat normal fare and return the change to him.” I do not know what was worse— the unmannerly way of one or the servility of the other. At that moment, I wished to be excused but had not the heart to do it. This was the panorama of the bohemia and Maecenas in Paris; and I wanted to get away from it. Before leaving Paris, I went to visit Manolo Huguet, with whom I had a certain friendship. Manolo was then an original person. He used to have his hair long and he wore a broad-rimmed Cordovan hat. His black mane framed his tanned, delicate, and intelligent- looking features. At the moment he was not producing any works; his behavior caused consternation among his compatriots and fellow sculptors: Catalans, serious, hard workers of median talent, they had a way to find industrial work or create other knick-knacks to make a living. Manolo’s refusal to prostitute his art weighed heavily on them. He ate only when he could, and if the saying “the end justifies the means” is true, in good time Manolo acted as he did. I never saw him again but I encountered his art and his writings— if he was amoral, the line of aesthetic thought and the purity of his art was sufficient. When I told him I was leaving, he said, “I have nothing but commiseration for people with a little money.” The Catalans were not partial to Manolo. They were a hard-working bunch of academicians, and Manolo seldom worked. He just waited to be treated. Or he did tricks like pocketing the money he collected in a church congregation, saying that he only took what had being given to him. He was very ingenious and convivial. Zuloaga acquired a unique candle stand from him. The shade was the intertwined hands of a man and a woman. Manolo liked me. He was talented. He was the only person with whom I could talk about Art. The reason for my departure could not be attributed only to my economical calculations. Besides the impressions I already stated, I had taken to term the labor that I had intended to do in reference to my knowledge of Art which had always been my first intention. While in Paris, I became versant in the Modern Art Movement. I

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 121 updated and completed my knowledge of Art with my frequent visits to the Louvre. As I mentioned before, I studied in detail the different Renaissance schools in Europe; and I complemented my knowledge of the Venetian painting and studied Botticelli and Ghirlandaio and Leonardo da Vinci. I became familiar with the works of Durero, Cranach, Rembrandt and Franz Hals; and with the landscape artists like Van Goyen and others. I enjoyed Ancient sculpture and Medieval French. I paid attention to Claude Loraine, Chardin and Fragonard. In general, I followed a pleasure principle136 instead of erudition that I did not intend to have. I attended to what I liked and ignored what had no meaning for my intent. All in all, I considered that my Parisian visit had been successful. Now, I pondered whether I should go and paint at the French countryside or go back to Spain. Being all by myself on French soil meant that I had to pay my way with francs that were very much more expensive than the peseta. I considered that it really did not matter whether it was one country or the other, what mattered was to be in a natural landscape. I continued to be attracted to French Impressionism. My experience proved me wrong; landscape for landscape I did not take in consideration that French Impressionism was a child to the environment where it was created. The incidental meteorology that it depicts is quite different from the dry climate of Spain. Monet and Sisley working in Spain would have gone through paths that were very more diverse than the ones they went through in France. For me, to follow their steps outside of their environment was out of the question.137 Where could I find the luminous vibrations that I had appreciated in their works? They could be found only in the foliage of their forests, the far-off views of the Seine River, and the urban landscapes of Paris, where in

136 He followed a self-designed curriculum that is considered today to be the academic knowledge necessary and unique for the understanding of the evolution of Art in the Western world during the last six hundred years. In this respect, he was well beyond his generation in Spain. His learning method today still remains above most Spanish Art History tutoring institutions because he was aware of the need to focus on art from a Pan European point of view, without regional or faith restrictions of any sort. 137 Pena: Pintura Del Paisaje e Ideologia.

122 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master the evening the Sacre Coeur stands out in the gray haze like a smooth rose petal. Defiant to my own predicament, I moved to the Biscay countryside because it was the nearest Spanish region and because I had never been there.

Impressionist Concept138 Early in my career, I arrived at the Impressionist Concept by intuitive deduction; from my own experience, it served my temperament and I used it for my pleasure. Two things were definitive in my concept: light and environment. Through experience, I discovered that light translates into color when applied to a canvass, not colors. In this way, light and environment might be transferred to a surface by means of form. The essence of form existed, in my mind, independently of light and environment. My purpose in painting using plein air139 was to transfer the impression of the moment in nature without detriment to the form; it was the capture and transmission of ephemeral impressions in Nature that I considered as unfinished works. My desire was to depict the moment in its transformation. It was difficult work trying to represent a constructed moment on a canvass surface. The simplest way, using my own theory of methods, was to paint by a recipe applying complementary colors, and dividing each color by brush stroke. Early enough, I recognized how the users of this method misplace all the variety of nuances present in nature when they transfer them to canvas. For those artists doing their work in the studio, we must also assume a mental retention of facts that are capable of being recalled; and this is quite a difficult proposition since there is an infinite variety of values and

138 Instead of working literally with the text, under this particular title, I used a free interpretation that better explains the meaning of Winthuysen’s thoughts about Impressionism and Art in contemporary terms. —T.Winthuysen Alexander, Editor 139 The use of the terminology “plein air” has been part of art history literature for some time. In the United States, the phenomena of painting directly from nature was part of the activities of art colonies in New England, Pennsylvania, and Texas, and it thrived in the late 1800s, when Winthuysen had his debut with the participants of the Alcalá de Guadaira colony in the province of Seville, Spain.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 123 corresponding rhythms. To make up these values is like competing with universal creation;140 I did not consider myself capable of doing that. Sustained by my reasoning I concluded that to produce an Impressionist landscape of top quality was much more difficult than to construct an academic work. Throughout the history of western art, landscape painting was a minor art for a long time and it was academically justified to put green paint on the bottom and blue on the top of the canvass and call it a landscape.141 I do not mean to restrict the meaning of the term “academic” either but recipe painting was easier for the artists in Seville. More than once, I had contemplated landscapes in nature without deciding to paint them. Then, some have come spontaneously; others, most of the time, with a great battling effort. More than once, when I insisted on proceeding with works, I lost the originality and overworked them to the point that I had to get rid of them. In front of nature, I let down all control and forget all I know. I am more of a dumb artist than a gifted one. When I paint, I work intensively. I have never cared much about originality; to do something nobody else had done did not appeal to me. On the contrary, I always kept in mind an anecdote from an artist painter in antiquity that I read somewhere: That particular artist was working on a painting that his visitors found magnificent. They prized it much because it did not look like any other previous work that they had

140 Fundamentally belonging to the Generation of 98, Winthuysen did not speculate on spiritual philosophy; he simply accepted the religious faith tradition of his own volition. Neither did he suffer any sort of spiritual transformation that took place in other literary members of his generation. Shaw classifies the literary members of the generation under a general label of spiritual renaissance. Winthuysen, like Valle Inclan, in his specialty is an autodidactic that attends to concrete facts. For the most part, such behavior was learned from his father, who had an extraordinary mentality that was closer to the encyclopedic way of thinking of the 18th century than the Romantic era in which he happened to be born. In addition, also from the classic background of his self-imposed readings, one can infer Winthuysen’s adherence to a bucolic Christian philosophy that was in tune with Frai Luis de Leon. 141 The author gives a vivid example by way of a popular song: El pintar un paisaje no tiene pierde, se pone azul arriba y abajo verde.

124 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master seen. Finally, the anecdote said, the master called a servant and ordered him to erase the painting since, according to the master, it had to be very bad not to look like the works done by other great artists of his time. To work with color is complex; one particular color is never pure by itself, but instead it has all the reverberations of the colors adjacent to it. Besides, it has all the gradations of the air interposed between it and the viewer plus the color of the light that hits it. The combination of all our perceptions upon the form are even more complicated if we add to it the variables of the environment and perspective. Human existence is fickle; from the standpoint in my time, lack of uniform human development was an obstacle on the path of knowledge about how to read nature. Then history has to account for cataclysms that decimated humanity many times; circumstances and decadence have played with humanity. Sometimes these events bring man closer to nature, others make him feel like a god, while others denigrate him to the most abject forms of imitation and make him forget to follow nature, thereby making him despise preexisting values. Virtue is necessarily attached to virtuosity; without virtuosity, virtue has no meaning. By the same token, concepts cannot stand up for long without confronting nature. The structure degenerates when we ignore the origin. Art History is full of contradictory examples of Art recipes that were not particularly successful like Mengs’—a Neo-Classic artist; through his study of the Renaissance, Mengs came to the conclusion that an artist should follow Rafael on line, Titian on color, and Corregio on chiaro-escuro. He said that they were the best in the field. Mengs was a correct artist. He followed this recipe on his large canvass at the Prado representing the adoration of the kings. Although he intended to bring together the principles of the Renaissance masters, the result became too heavy and distorted for my taste. We admired Mengs’ portraits for what they are— that is, in no way superior to the ones produced by the masters he followed, by any means, but better, indeed, than his “The Adoration of the Kings.” In fact, his portraits imitate nature while in “The Adoration,” he

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 125 used a secondhand print; and the result of his applied formula produced a piece of decadent art. On the other hand, to follow Mengs’ way may degrade an artist. It could take us to “False imitations of a false art” as suggested in Tolstoi’s “Academy, Decadence.”142 Goya, who was a contemporary to Mengs, had a more diverse cultural background than Mengs. Even so, Goya used the antecedents of his professional life with the intention of constructing scaffolding to reach Nature; this was another way to demonstrate Goya’s geniality in contrast to Mengs’ erudition. . I crossed the frontier with Spain and went to Bilbao, where I had some friends who were not in the art profession. On one of my excursions, I reached the Valley of Arratia, where I found convenient personal accommodation.143 The landscape attracted me and I decided to stay. It rained constantly. The location’s saving grace was that the house that I occupied almost singly, had a roof eaves’- protected balcony from which I could contemplate a landscape that I liked, and that was where I started painting anew. The sparse houses protected by single leafy trees, the farm fields, the narrow footpaths spread like gray ribbons, and the background of stiff mountains wrapped in fog assembled a well-defined aerial perspective where the foreground appeared in neutral light. My art saturated my mind, and I related the view’s light and perspective to Dutch art. I set to work on it, to capture the scene and construct the details. I worked on it for a whole month. The result was

142 Winthuysen is not partial in an art theory that proved him correct. He is simply stating the facts and giving his preferences. Contemporary Art History has accepted copying as a form of art. 143 The valley is located approximately at 35 miles north to Victoria and 40 South to Bilbao, in between the mountain system of the Gorbea and Mount Askorrigan. To travel to the area, he probably used the narrow-gauge rail train that still connected small communities, according to Mr. Armando Hierro, a business landowner, and long-time resident of the area of Victoria, as was attested during a conversation on my trip back from Victoria. The abandonment of the narrow rail trains was also attested to at Gelves, in Andalusia. A tourist guidebook’s description of the valley corresponds to the viewing experience: narrow valleys encased in pasture-covered, stiff elevations with sparse growth of leafy trees and isolated houses. The typical alpine construction of the houses gives shelter from the rain to overhanging balconies.

126 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master

Impressionistic. Although I had never met Regoyos144 or was familiar with his paintings, my work resulted like a Regoyos. My painting was palpable proof of my Impressionism theory, suggesting that Impressionism fundamentally is not reduced to a simple transfer of fleeting nature impressions on a canvass. In my case, it was the consequence of the Cantabrian environment and spontaneity combined with my knowledge of Impressionist and Netherlandish Art. The causes produced the same effect. I had little else to do about it. I had no luck with the painting that represented so much to me because it was a new modality in my style. The painting turned dark because of the paint quality145 that I used. Moving around so much, I lost track of it. It was part of the same exhibit with Regoyos in Madrid. By reference, I know that Regoyos commented on the work favorably. During my stay at the Valley of Arratia, my only social relations were the school’s teacher and a mine engineer from France. The teacher was from Rioja. He was poorly paid in this outpost position. The village priest made him teach catechism in Euskara, the Basque language.146 The school inspector penalized him, with suspended pay, if somebody informed him about the teacher doing something out of the ordinary. Consequently, the poor teacher was always fishing at the river; on some days, the little fishes and crabs that he could catch constituted his only repast. As a conversational resource, the French engineer told me the story of one of his schoolteachers. Although it is not related to my writing, I want to pass it on to you for its exoticism. This teacher of his, he said, was surly, and without family. One night, a prostitute approached him on the street and told him her sad story; she had no choice to survive, and she had to exert herself through

144 Miguel de Unamuno, participant in the Generation of 98 literary figures, wrote essays connecting the plastic forms of Dario de Regoyos, along with the works of the great figures of Spanish painting from the 17th century to his day, leading to a possible ideal spiritual identity of Spain and its landscape. Azorin, another participant of the same generation, did literary descriptions, this time with the landscapes of Castilla, for the same purpose: Pena. Winthuysen, instead, used a self- retrospective criticism to demonstrate in a concrete way the facts that led him to paint as he did. 145 The asphalt base on some paints often used by the School of Barbizon and followers like Auguste Corot, was still in use at the time. 146 Euskara is the term meaning language of the Euskadi or Basque Country.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 127 prostitution. The teacher was moved by her destitution, and decided to take the woman home to protect her. A little time afterwards, the protected woman told him that she had a friend in the same condition. The teacher gave shelter to the second woman. In this sort of way, he collected from the streets four corrected women from the worse sort of society that had an outlandish old and ugly look and got into public scandals. The story came to be known by the authorities that the gentleman was living with four women of the worse sort. He was reprimanded. He closed himself up and refused to give an explanation for his behavior; he would live his private life as he saw fit. Finally, he was taken to court but there was no precedent of a legal formula to indict him. Moreover, he was sent to the Martinique because such behavior was not socially acceptable. There he went with the four women, where they all died in the earthquake.147 If it had been case that the man had religious inclinations, he could have been considered the founder of a religious sect. It was a pity that he was not religious but secular. The Arratian country was delightful, as long as you knew and followed the prescribed religious creed.148 The food was lavish: substantial stews with chickpeas, good quality bone steaks, excellent milk, and roast chicken. During a pilgrimage to a local shrine, I talked to a local young woman. Later, every time I crossed with her on the street, where she went with her good- looking posture, hands on her hips, caldron on her head. I only said good-bye and she always replied: “Good-bye! Winsome!” One day after a party, I found a good-looking lass waiting for me at home who told me, without circumlocution, that she was waiting for the master painter to be taken to his room to see his work and eat dinner. They served lunch for us in my room. The servant was some sort of a procurer. She told me that the poor girl was married to an old man, and on top of this, he was a drunkard. All this was very comprehensible. In the evening, she used to tell me, “Now we will close the window shutters to prevent light from being seen from my uncle’s, the priest’s house. and we will dance and have a good time.” There was a world of difference between this

147 The earthquake in question must have taken place on the last part of the nineteenth century. 148 When in Rome, do as the Romans do.

128 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master enchanting pristine lifestyle compared to my Andalusia and Paris, the city that I had just left. Meanwhile the weather had turned too variable to allow me to work. I was getting bored and decided to travel on the Cantabric coast all the way to Galicia. I was waiting for news from Madrid that had been delayed. Instead, I decided to turn towards Madrid. I was homesick for the Prado Museum; and I was anxiously waiting to confront the works of Velazquez, Goya and Greco. I wrote and send my Parisian impressions on Impressionism to Sevilla. Iturrino read the letter and commented that he had thought that Winthuysen had talent. The problem was that Iturrino’s aim was to paint right and left; had he had control over his art production, he might have been a first-rate artist. He did not have the quality that Lozano had in excess: penetration. Excesses of fluctuation rendered his ability to penetrate null. Instead of concentrating on one thing, he was always moving from one thing to another. Carvallo took Lozano around the museums in Europe. Lozano understood and captured Titian’s coloration, half taint and dark- light contrast of Rubens, and the fundamental geometry of Michelangelo. When it came to translating the learned principles on a canvass, he failed. We liked each other; his lack of tact served my purpose. His was a sincere, brutish critic; my criticism of his work was too much without prejudice. Sometimes for fun, I picked up his ideas and applied them to my work, then showed the result to him. Unmistakably, he had a furious reaction; many times he could not recognize the fact that I was using one of his discoveries, and then I would point out the fact to him which became another apparent cause for an angry spell at his free- given gratuities. I had spent six month in continuous emotional somersaults. In order to contain and discipline my emotions, I turned to a study/copy of Greco’s “Knight with a Hand on his Chest” at the Prado Museum in Madrid. Greco’s paintings exerted a distinct emotional influence on me, and in particular his portraits affected me as such. Although, I admired all of his works, I did not take them as a guide for the production of my own. I considered it totally vain to follow any inspiration on such a rare, singular vision.

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His science and Art in his Trinity constituted ideal concepts of classic art for those that wanted to take advantage of it. Well- balanced composition, stylized color and form all were there. Even so, I thought that his portraits had an exceptional insight into a world of psychology that had never been matched before. While in Sevilla, I did, as I mentioned before, a study of the qualities of the portrait of Greco at the Museum, matching tone by tone the palette he used on that particular portrait. I thought that the series of portraits at the Prado were even better than the work in Sevilla. They are full of an infinite variation of vibration modalities reduced to a limited canvass surface. I chose “Knight with a Hand on his Chest” for his transparencies. Leaving aside the elegance and the spirit, I determined to concentrate on the study of the transparency superimposition technique used by Greco to reach the different qualities that were watercolor-like. I worked on it to the same point as I had done with the Sevillian copy matched to avoid, thank God, damaging the internal image that I had of the original, perpetuating a clumsily copied image by finishing it. While I was working on the copy at el Prado, an Englishman friend artist who happened to be in the museum stopped by to see me working and then he conversed with me, calling to my attention the transparency-like qualities of the work. To reach the form constituted a problem with the Knight. The form is an essential part of copying in order to be able to savor so much of the delicacy and insistence of the qualities. I was there working with all my heart, to the point of derangement, clumsily smearing paint while my friend, the painter, called to my attention the fluidity of the paint. “It is painted like a watercolor,” he said. “The surface of paint is not more than one-millimeter thick.” To that, mine was already thicker. Slovenly, I worked on it till I reached the point of boredom. This and the one done in Sevilla are the only two copies that I ever attempted. All in all, I hold in great esteem the remembrance of the experience of my failures and successes in life. After that experience, always seeking Greco’s works, I went to Toledo, like the stupid tourists, to see his works. With a cab I went from place to place, visiting from the “Burial of the Count of Orgaz” to the hospital outside the city walls, without forgetting to

130 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master contemplate the strange landscape that later in life I lived in but never painted. The urban landscape of Toledo is in essence the opposite of an Impressionist interpretation. I had never before seen something similar in color and environment. The sun hit Toledo’s streets like a charcoal drawing of greatly exaggerated light-dark contrast with black shades. These contrasts are good models for Zuloaga’s paintings. All that they miss in luminosity, they have in expression. Toledo was one of those labyrinthine cities that I abhorred. The view from outside was fine, but inside the maze of tortuous streets with an infinity of vile patchworks created throughout the centuries with the modern additions, are tedious to me. I only saw the paintings of El Greco with their unique dynamism. The spiral figures in the air are helix-like. Others, like running sparks crossing the sky with heads way-way up and feet way-way down are like spurts of fire. What a divine madness and unique talent! I went to visit the Monastery of the Escorial. The immensity of the mass borne as if from the austere landscape produced great emotion in me. It was an emotion that I felt before only when I contemplated the Aqueduct of Segovia and the Mosque of Cordoba. The humanistic view of the vineyard lands where the monastery erupted as if from the Earth’s entrails had a deep, somber effect on me; to the point that when I went inside the Escorial, the gardens and the architectural solutions seemed of less importance than the powerful architectural mass. I recalled, at that moment, all the petty literary liberal criticisms that were written about the Escorial149 and its author Felipe II that were produced by vain, foolish, and insincere writers that only talked nonsense! Back in Madrid, I entangled myself in a detailed study of Velazquez and Goya. I had a feast of Velazquez! How many

149 The mass sensation produced on the artist was transcribed to several painted studies and a large impasto work where he captures the somber heavy aspect of the Monastery of Escorial. Previous to this experience, Winthuysen must have had a similar mass sensation that he does not recall, in Alcalá de Guadaira when he painted a large work impasto of the castle hill. The work, in considerable disrepair, may be already repaired, and is still in existence, part of the collection of a landscape museum, perhaps in Extremadura. This extensive work has the spiritual quality and refulgence of a Thomas Cole. Thomas Cole, 1801-1848, American Romantic, founder of the Hudson School, painted the Catskills, and was a passionate lover of nature; Dictionary of Art and Artists.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 131 generations of painters have only been able to scratch the surface of his work! Concerning Goya, I wondered if there was a formula to reach the interpretation for his sturdy and at the same time subtle,watercolor-like transparencies.150 From Madrid, I went to Sevilla, stopping at Cordoba. From the train, after dawn, I visualized the truculent landscape of Despeñaperros: broken rock picks and lichen-covered formations extending to the bottom of a ravine where gaff oleander growths of blatant colors sprang from the sandy soil of the dry runnel beds. Then, oak and olive trees with growths that extended all the way to the top of the hill and looked like conic silver bells on an ocher reddish background like an ink-pen Chinese line drawing. After that, more and more olive growths on intensely blue sky, the farthest views as distinct as closer, cottony clouds as close to the viewer as everything else, solid sky and earth, dense living matter, resilient without anything to foretell, pure positivism was the summation of the landscape view from the train. In Cordoba, I had the same sensation. Who could be so bold to construct a dream- forest out of yellow stones and reddish bricks?151 The citizens were the same as the city matched healthy, amicable, and with dumb wit. The town adjusted to a greenish light. While I was in Paris, I used to stop at the flower shop windows to admire the loose arms-full, long-stemmed roses floating on their lengthy stalks; here in Cordoba, I suddenly bumped into a very old lady, with her hair neatly done in a bun on top of her head; she had a cardboard tray on her hand with single flowers placed on it, in symmetrical arrangement. In Cordoba, everything was strongly masculine and rural, like a sherry wine from Montilla, capable of resuscitating the dead. I did not see any modern art exhibits in Madrid.152 Although the work by Beruete was painted on the entourage, it had yet to be discovered!

150 Goya’s work is indeed as strong as the Aragonese Jota and at the same time, his work presents a variety of subtle colors worked in an accumulated fashion of transparencies. 151 He compares the city of Cordoba to a magic forest. 152 Abstract description of a positivist Cordoba is most probably the cause for this flashback of the image of Madrid and what it did not contain on his recent visit to the Prado Museum.

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While I revisited the Prado, I realized that to this moment, there had not been any landscape studies done on works by Velazquez and Goya. This ambitious task has to be left to the Spanish people when they begin to understand their own natural surroundings.153 Once he finished his formative period in Paris, Zuloaga turned his gaze towards the tradition of the Spanish school. What he did was much more than a technical imitation. About Renoir, we can say that he followed the steps of Goya but only on the surface. Someone asked him where had he learned to paint and he said: ”Parbleu! Dans les Musées!” From the work of the classics, you can learn not only painting but also esthetics. It is the torpid evisceration of the esthetic concept154 that overtook some particular artist that we try to follow, not his end. Regoyos, another northern Spanish artist trained in Paris, summarizes what he learned of Impressionism in his Basque country landscapes. How difficult it was for the general public to see Nature and even harder to see Art as Regoyos said it! When Regoyos presented his works at the Exhibit in Madrid, the public and the critics were not ready. His name was used as an exclamation, an interjection,155 a pun on dubious taste. The truth is that Zuloaga, at the time when he was doing his best work, was not accepted, either. Even the proven quality of landscape painting156 by Gonzalo Bilbao, especially his work “The Reaping,” was bitterly criticized. The most opinionated art critic at the time said that light was not theme for a painting. The same thing happened to Bilbao when he presented “Return to the Herd.” This particular composition had a lavender sky at dusk. The critics said that it was not true. True to what? What they called the academic truth was a legacy from France, just as Impressionism had been. It referred to a photographic truth; another way to see art that some people thought it was to follow Velazquez. Here in Spain,

153 At this point in time, Winthuysen began to express what would be his pioneer work, his vision of the environment and the impact of man in nature. 154 Conceptual Art theories originate on painted images translated into words. This is true today, as it was true in 1903. With the new approach to Art, refined outside Spain at a critical time, the author is rapidly defining his modus operandi for the rest of his life. 155 “! Regoyos que malo es esto!” Means literally double…how bad that is! 156 Fifty or more years later, after Winthuysen wrote his life memoirs, Carmen Pena, in her chapter about luminism, discussed the situation in terms that are reflective of Winthuysen’s way of thinking in 1903.

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Velazquez was appreciated. In France, he was known as the painter of the truth. As if we were able to stand near. Velazquez’s dwarfs and court jesters— if they had not been translated into Art by a spiritually elevated explanation of the esthetic concept otherwise far removed from us. Spain had reached a point of decadence in which the senses were unable to capture high esthetic sensations that had never being meant for the lower animal kingdom— truly. The desire to follow European integration was in the making!157 For its sake, nationalism and traditionalism had been vanquished. The result was that the most marvelous monuments became military quarters. It was difficult to find a statue with a nose and a tree without a blemished bark; the ancient monuments became filthy relics, priests and noblemen pulled out canvasses from churches and palaces to sell to the foreign markets and not only paintings but sculptures, moldings, and coffer-made ceilings had to go. Even the rocks were for sale!

157 One of the characteristics of the Spanish people is their thirst for novelties and their over- developed avidity for self profit that takes them to compete and adapt their acquisitions without understanding the dimension of what they attempt and the virtual denaturalization that they cause to their historic legacy and their environment.

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CHAPTER VII

Juana’s death-Rota and Morocco-My reaction to French Impressionism-My sister Manuela leaves the convent-Sorry consequences-Move to Castilleja de la Cuesta-Terra-cotta studies-Self-portrait-View of Sevilla from the highway-Success as artist painter-Back and forth to Sevilla-Again in Sevilla- Experiments with ceramic-General considerations-Portrait of A. Lozano 1905. When I arrived in Sevilla, Juana had passed away; it was the time of her funeral. My poor nurse! I did not want to see her face which was covered by a handkerchief. I only saw her deformed hands, and earthy toned skin with the greenish tint of death that filled me with horror. Poor soul! She used to say that she would never die because the only thing she had to do was to keep her eyes wide open! We even played to see who could keep them open longer!158 I arrived in time for the memorial service and burial. I would gladly have buried the sacristan who made arrangements for a ridiculous funeral, extorted money, and interred her in a third- rate pit with two other bodies when my wish would have been for her to rest in a single tomb to which I would have added a headstone. My indignation reached its maximum when the loathsome sexton excused himself, saying that, after all, she had only been a servant. For her savings, Juana had designated inheritors that lived in Rota. Facing Cadiz, on the other side of the bay, Rota was a fisherman’s and beachcombers’ village.159 I went there to deliver her savings in the company of my mother and niece. Juana had four nephews. Her preferred nephew and his mother used to visit in Sevilla to extract money from her. Juanito was his name. Juanito had been in prison for his derelict, pimp life-style. He was

158 This, along the tenebrous sound of the bell and the sad song of the sister about the black spiders, had a profound impact on the sensitive mind which had to fight so many obstacles to develop into a normal, happy being. Culturally speaking, a tenebrous mind is part of the philosophy of life in Sevilla, integrated into popular religious beliefs and practices that are mostly based on suffering, passion and martyrdom and now and then, with a curious mixture of Galician and Netherlandish-German ancestry without forgetting the Saxon, with roots in the Celtic traditions and remembrances from a very sadistic Phoenician past. 159 The family of the writer used to spend part of the summer at the sea resort in Rota. Salud Winthuysen, oldest daughter, volunteered the information.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 135 a typical beach scoundrel. In other times, he would have ended as a galley or Navy conscript climbing the rigging. He was a vagabond, a cowardly sailor. On the other hand, his brother, a serious rig-launch overseer was not too trusting about him; he suspected that Juanito might end up with all the money. The other two inheritors were two little old ladies who made a living begging. I thought we would end up with delays and extra expenditures if we requested legal intervention. Juana’s savings were not registered; and I had some knowledge of how to proceed in a case like that. To make certain, I got somebody’s opinion of how a judge would have acted and I did the same. I made four parts of the savings: one for the manager of the launch, another for Juanito’s mother, and the two parts left for the little old ladies. In front of a witness, I delivered the money as if it came from my pocket. What a farrago! It was not too much money but when I gave the bills and duros coins to the raggedy old ladies, they acted crazily. They hugged me and kissed my hands. They made such a hubbub that, in short time, we had an audience in front of the seaside resort where we had met. Among the audience there was a fine, sensible writer from Madrid, a poet and unconditional supporter of Art, and other people from Sevilla who were known to us. In Rota, our existence was that of the tourists’ boring routine of a seaside bath on the beach of Costilla, a clean and beautiful beach across from the coast of America, defended from the ocean by a marine reef that had predators and forests of sea weeds. What a radiantly lit ocean, with golden sands was in front of me! I sketched and even stained some canvass. On one of my walks on the wharf, I encountered the manager of the launch who asked me if I would like to go with him to see the Moors on the other side of the Strait of Gibraltar. “At what time do you leave,” I asked. “Midnight,” he said. To that, he asked me, “Do you really trust traveling on this launch?” “If you do it, I can do it too,” was my reply. I went back to the resort, packed a suitcase, ordered some cold meats, a bottle of rum and told everybody that I was leaving. They thought it was out of the ordinary, the idea of crossing the Strait on a small boat.

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My only navigational experience was skiff excursions on the Guadalquivir River. I had no knowledge of sea navigation but I had a natural inclination and besides, nothing worried me. Therefore, I was at the wharf at eleven o’clock with friends. It was a night of absolute stillness. The tidewater on the rise splashed noiselessly about the moored sailboats that hardly floated. The launch-hands made ready for departure; their patron acted surprised when he saw me coming with a suitcase. “Are you really coming with us? I would let you use my bunk bed, the only one on board. I have nothing else to offer!” Finally we were afloat, we pole-pushed the launch out of the shallow to deeper water. On the shore, my friends acted up, some pretending to cry, heaving pitifully. Under the quayside lights, they repeated their farewell with their flapping handkerchiefs. It was time to hoist the sail. They asked me to make myself scarce and go to the cabin. All the sails were heaved, main, top and brig sail. The skipper ordered the steersman to take course by a certain star. “There we go with our Lady of Carmen blessing!” which the captain evoked. The boat hardly steered. I went down to the cabin. The bunk bed was a board with a blanket and pillow. I stretched out and fell asleep with the splashing sound of the water in my ear. Early in the morning, a cadence sound woke me up. I loomed out of the hatchway; at each silent boat roll, the loose end of a sail was making a grazing sound over the piled boxes on deck. Only the helmsman was on deck; the rest slept I do not know where. The novel perception was a sky that looked like a gray dome over a sea of embossed silver disk. The horizon had a break of yellowish light and cut over it the image of boats with unfolded sails that, seen from the bow side, looked like a line of wee, tiny penitents. I asked the patrons for our position; they said Santi Petri, a little way south to Cadiz and that was all we had traveled over night. I took the rum bottle out of my bag and passed it around to the five hands on board; the cabin boy messed alone. To the east we could see a distant line of land that gradually became elevated on the southeast. That must be Trafalgar; I asked one of the sailors. “Yes it is! How do you know if you have never been in these waters before?” “By the chart,” I said, “if we are level with Santi Petri, that promontory must be Trafalgar,” and I showed them a small sketched chart that I took out of my wallet.

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My mini chart went from hand to hand. It was examined closely. I tried to explain it to them but they did not understand. The cabin boy brought us some weak coffee. As time went by through a glorious morning, a dark blue line advanced on our western side. We maneuvered. In no time, wind filled the sails and the boat departed airily with white foam mustache bow leaving a wake on the stern side. On the board side at water level, a four-fish hook line hung in case some fish bit. The sea was choppy. White foam over marine dark blue waves, the felucca boat advanced with the long wind. Lunch was a potato fish stew served in a deep ceramic bowl at which, first the skipper said the name of “Jesus,” and then with wooden spoons wiped his left hand holding a piece of bread and all of us partook. The potatoes were still tough and the fish petty. From my suitcase, I added my cold cuts to the general welfare. Coffee came and I took my cigar case out with the intention of distributing its contents after offering to the master. He stopped me from doing it. Then I understood the indelicacy of treating everybody as equals aboard. Past Trafalgar, we sighted Cape Espartel. The wind was increasing and we turned towards the cape. We kept the speed and shortly afterwards, we sighted Tangier on the mountain slope of the African range. We turned and with the sail at half-mast we headed in at five o’clock in the evening, happily ending our travel. The Tangier I saw was not the city with the long historic past, neither was it what it is today. It was the Moorish Tangier with embassy legations and European quarters. The porter took me through narrow, hilly, and dirty streets to an English hotel that looked decent. My room had a window with a sea view; from it, on a clear day I could see Tariff on the north, and the Anghera range on the east. I went for a walk on the busy streets. Loaded with goods, small donkeys, helped by the pushing carriers, were everywhere. There were also many drinking troughs for the beasts, minarets, and water carriers with goatskin bag containers with a metal opening finger-stopper and metal bowls hanging from a chain. When someone asked for water, the carrier removed his finger from the outlet, and he dexterously collected the pressured water in the bowl. That was a typical image of the town. The streets were full of richly dressed Moor and Jewish people, others

138 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master were ragged and filthy, and there were also veiled women, Franciscan friars and a lot of Spaniards. I noticed many Europeans horse racing on the dark-tanned sands of the beach. What a contrast to Cadiz Bay’s golden sands! After the midday meal— fine quality food— at the common table of the hotel with a few Europeanized Jews served by a mannered Moor waiter, I proceeded with my town tour without losing my way in the tortuous alleys. I spent some time at a European café. It was dusk when I left the café. I advanced almost by touch and reached my hotel where I supped and went to bed. Early in the morning, my room was flooded with sunlight. Under my window, I could hear the laments of a blind man begging for alms. I had breakfast in the dining room and studied the town plan. Dismissing the guide, I walked through town, and visited the large and small Moorish markets. A very attractive Jewish woman gave me a sign. I saw the squatting bread seller, and women covered with garish material. At a courthouse, I witnessed a law procedure. One of the judges closely examined a hen that he had in his hands. Then he swiftly broke its neck and threw the hen on the ground. Following that, he took a measure of milk out of a pail that he also threw it on the ground. I thought those must be self- explanatory procedures for the Tangier people. Among the passersby was a Franciscan monk in deep conversation with a Jew, which touched the sensible fibers of my heartfelt conviviality. I thought it great that there was so much brotherhood among creeds, as in the Middle Ages in Cordoba. There were many Spanish people selling and buying merchandise. Some Moor called out loud about his merchandise: “Tomatoes! Pound for a big coin!” I went into a Jewish-owned beer den to rest. I ordered a gin. Then I bought some tobacco and saw how the merchants went into the mosque across the street, dipping their feet beforehand into a stone water basin on the floor at the entrance. Dressed with a lavish tunic, a strange young fellow went by while another, dressed up with many rosaries hanging from his neck, stumbled like a drunk. Inquisitively, the Jewish owner came to chat with me. As we sat, he saw the young Jewish lady I’d seen from before now passing and again provocatively looking at me. The owner warned me that syphilis was rampant in the area.

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Back at the hotel dining room table, a good-looking, smiling young Englishman passed the platter with the hors d’oeuvres. He talked to me in English and I answered in Spanish. We laughed because we could not understand each other. The rest of the gathering at the table was an international bunch of Jewish merchants speaking many languages. We did not talk to any of them; instead we spent the rest of the evening talking in sign language to each other. We had walks together. Another time, he showed me a bunch of postcards. In general, we laughed at our own incomprehension. I was striding by myself when a handsome Moorish youth offered himself for a guide. On the other side of the vegetable fields, the walls of the Alcazaba palace loomed. It was convenient to have a guide to go through the gardens’ maze and I said yes. We went through the alleyways bordered with cactus and prickly pears. The little boy, always in front of me, gathered hedge flowers and offered them to me from time to time. Such a gesture! The boy always stayed in front, until we reached a clearing where there was a raised heap of rocks topped by a stick and some rags dangling from it that made it look like a scarecrow. I thought it was a convenient place to empty my bladder and proceeded when my guide turned his face and saw what I was doing. He threw away the flowers and ran away screaming: “A Saint! A Saint!” Then, I noticed that the hip of rocks where I had just gone was a burial place. I tried to excuse myself and appease the boy but he did not come back. Back in the hotel, I told the owner about my adventure. He lost his composure. In this land, you can say or do anything to a Moor, even throw rocks at him or beat him up without incurring consequences, but God forbid if you mingle with their religion! Most probably, nobody saw me. I was miraculously saved from the most unpleasant consequences. Afterwards, I climbed to the Alcazaba alone. I saw people in front of what looked like a dungeon’s window and I came closer to observe the scene. It was one extended basement room full of Moor prisoners that were engaged in conversation with the ones at the window who had brought them food and alms. In this way, Moorish authorities

140 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master used to hold debtors in custody until they paid.160 If they did not, they were kept in the nauseating jail until they did. I think public charity sustained them since the authorities had no other obligation but to keep them until they paid. In case a delinquent Moor was lucky to get to a consulate or gain the protection of one of the city’s private individuals before his arrest, he was considered religiously sacred and could not be arrested. Royal Guards, Sultan’s troops, lived off the money from denouncing civil crimes and religious transgressions. In this way, they compensated themselves for the arrears due to them by the official treasury. Next day, the skipper of the sailboat took me to a lodge owned by a Jew who was a distributor of chickens and eggs that the patron took to Sevilla. It was a huge patio flanked with storage rooms where the newly arrived horse-carried transports from the Kabala were stored. From there, the boxes had to be moved with pulleys, conveyed to the wharf and put on board. That was a very picturesque scene with many beasts and turbaned Moor workers— some actively engaged with the merchandise, others standing around. I began to sketch an old man who moved away when he perceived my intention. I did the same and continued my drawing. Then, he turned his back on me and I turned and did the same. In this game we spent some time, to the enjoyment of the rest of the company. The Jewish merchant was very kind to me. He provided me with a guide to go to Cape Espartel. We rented two mules with red gear and went past the foreign legations all the way to the open country on the slope of the mountain. Traveling up the mountain, we came to a sort of vegetable garden. We dismounted and had refreshing green tea. An old Moor spread out a rug on the ground, set a small stool-like table on it and served us tea. We continued the ascension with the mules. Mine was a vicious beast. It was difficult to make it advance. The Moor had given me a pencil to prick it but every time I did it, the mule turned around its head to bite my legs

160 The author explains that the Muslim way of penalizing debtors was indifferent to whether the debtors participated in their creed or not. He refers here, in an indirect way, to the Muslim custom of charging a fee to the participants of other religions when living among Muslims.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 141 and I had to defend myself by beating its snout with a stick. It was quite uncomfortable. While on top of my mule, I had the chance to see a saintly man on the other side of a fenced garden, sitting on a rug under a tree with his rosary. Further way up, I picked some flowers from a bush. Veiled women went by with loads on their heads; some uncovered their faces when they went by, and another talked to my guide. When I asked him what she said, he told me that the woman also liked that particular kind of flower. From the top of the mountain, Tangier was a white stain in the middle of the strong, vibrant, tanned tones of the landscape. The Strait, and the Spanish coast, and in the distance, whitish Tariff, were visible. The mules advanced reluctantly. It was getting late and I decided to go back without reaching the Cape. With homing instinct, the mules took on a fast trot and we were back in no time. I went again by the good-looking Jewish woman and we sighted each other. Further on, a big, crossed-eyed Moor with a repugnant aspect pulled at my coat and told me some gross indecency. I called him a procurer and took refuge in the bar den where I already knew the Jewish owner. When my matches fell on the floor, the disgusting Moor picked them up and gave them to me. The owner then asked me whether he was with me. I informed him to the contrary. He said, “Make him leave at once. Do not allow him to escort you and even less try to leave town in his company. Here we have more security than in the outskirts of Paris or London but this fellow is a hardened criminal. You should not take any chances.” I went outside and told him to leave but he did not even answer. The owner of the bar asked me why I had not sent the fellow away. I told him that I did but that he did not want to leave. “I see you do not know how to deal with those people,” he said; and he went outside and with punches and insults sent the annoying man away. My time was running short. My mother might have been worried about my whereabouts. And so, I had to skip my intended visit to Tetuan. To return, I took the post ferry as I had intended to do. The weather was poor during the passage and the devil ferry went back and forth all night making me sick. In this way, I reached Cadiz and from there, I crossed the bay by boat to Rota.

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My reaction to French Impressionism Landscape in nature is life. It can be smelled. It can be touched. It can be breathed. In practice, you can be contemplative without being an artist. Art is something else. Art is the innate desire that each individual has to imitate what he sees; to make art, we use a variety of means from the most natural: to sing it, to the most artificial: to paint it. This is exclusively a human trait. What we see on a picture is not what an animal of another species will see. To make art is a product of civilizations’ esthetics that has and will follow a diversity of trends throughout human history. My deepest wish would be to be able to transfer to a canvass what arouses my emotion, nothing else. Artist painters anxiously gather landscapes of the most diverse climatic regions on their canvas. In most of the cases, I cannot understand why they go from one climatic zone to another with no purpose. Sorolla rages before a Galician landscape, where it rains all the time, because there is no sun. Regoyos, when he wants to paint Andalusia or the Levant, misses nebulosity. They would have been better off staying home. After all, what would Zurbaran do without his monks, Murillo without his Virgins, and Velazquez without his Madrid sierra landscape? It does not really matter what we include in the picture. Who has common sense chooses from what he or she knows and can do best. The question is not the subject but how is painted. The landscape painter is not the guy who paints views for the department of Tourism; he is the specialist who paints for those that know esthetics or he paints them simply to hang on walls. The forethought to produce art is pernicious. Pure Art derives from perceptive emotion. Applied Art can only come from learning. When we need a suit, we go to the store and we order it to our size. The tailor would do it according to what is in fashion. To imagine something else would be ridiculous. By the time that I first attempted to paint, I was already familiar with the paintings that had been accumulated since the sixteenth century in the city of Sevilla. Zurbaran, Murillo and Greco were not the least of the work with which I had become familiar. From Modernism I only knew what my first master, Arpa, did through Fortuny’s influence, and later from Bilbao, who used to go to Paris. Armed with that knowledge, I sat in front of natural landscapes and produced

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 143 works confusedly attributed to a known Norwegian painter. Besides, I had visited the Prado. I had a fair understanding of Velazquez; and his work was a revelation to me. I do not say that I had seen all there was to be seen in Velazquez but for my twenty some years, I had come to solid conclusions that I have seldom had to rectify later. My eminent mentors disoriented me more than oriented. They were partial to academic standards that restricted the acceptance by pure bestial ignorance of artists like El Greco. One opinion of these mentors was to bypass El Greco’s art because the extravagance he represented was the shame of the Museum of Sevilla. At the age of twenty-eight, when I reached Paris in 1903, my erudition dumbfounded the young artist with whom I associated. To be honest, I was perplexed when I confronted the paintings in the small room at the Luxembourg. It was confusing for what they did not have more than for what they had. My classical training weighed heavily on me; I was looking through a lens of what I thought they missed. Different schools of art I certainly had known and studied at the Louvre as far as my interest took me. Therefore I became an assiduous student of the art displayed at the Luxembourg. My concerned attention paid me back when, during my stay in Biscay, I consistently worked on one small painting— the cloudy view of a hamlet with detailed houses, trees with contrasting tones on the leaves on sloping land with sprouting cornfields and towering ranges in the horizon. Regoyos commented on the work favorably. It was an Impressionistic style for which I had been searching. The so-called “Impressionism” is a term that lacks precision. What I understand of it is not the impression we put on the canvas but the cause of what impressed us that can be transferred to a canvas either in spontaneous or detailed fashion, depending on a convenient way to interpret environment and light on canvas. This modern, conscious development in painting, without detriment to other supposed advances, has been going on ever since painting was considered as such. When it is not present, we miss it. Perhaps a better word that the artists should be called is “environmentalists” instead of “Impressionists.” Classical paintings’ impressive works of art display important values of science and art and do so with so much technicality that

144 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master they become heavy as lead. Especially after we have experienced Impressionism, we cannot tolerate classical works. Many times, the esthetic intention of the artist becomes dull by an excess of technology. The Museum of Sevilla has works of Zurbaran— study of which provides an example of my argument. One of the paintings is “The Apotheosis of Saint Thomas,” an admirable work, quality-wise like any Italian Renaissance painting, and “The Friars Refectory,” a geometrically constructed work done on thick impasto that gives the impression that the artist had no technique whatsoever. Looking at it, you cannot see the difference between it and the paint applied to a door— but it is the simplest and most emotionally loaded painting that I have ever seen. Nobody could reach more with less. Of course Manet’s “Olympia” touched me but I still had in the image of my mind “The Friars Refectory” and that was in 1903. When I came back to Paris in 1911, I had learned how to appreciate it. I was aware of the trappings of classical painting; its conscientious contributions and fundamentals. We are indebted to the French ingenuity. People can say what they want, but the truth is that the Impressionist artists were able to catch the beauty that had only sporadically been captured before, thanks to their training in classic fundamentals. Concerning procedures in art, each school has a different way of using media and technique. The primary end of a work of art is to produce an esthetic emotion; and when it does not, such work is the product of a craft, not an art. The technique has to be so perfect that we cannot be aware of it. To say that one must paint in such and such a way using fluid paint and discarding certain toned coloration is childish. Passing over the trade aspect of art to impose a subject matter on an artist interested in the form, color, environment and gesture is futile. We can have our preferences but to say that art should be subjected to certain rules is to diminish it and make it fit into a narrow-minded spirit that is totally foreign to a critical aspect. Not to mention those masters that would like to determine whether nature should be taken directly or remembered and copied. In any circumstance, each one of us would do what he knows best or what he can do. For to paint an extended composition, the best way is to break it in fragments, and copying nature would be out of

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 145 the question. On the other hand, a composition like Las Meninas had to be the product of direct observation. After the Impressionism movement had passed, it would have made sense to think that the new advances in science had brought together Art and Form, aided by the new values in uses of light. It looked like one school or other could take advantage of these advances. Instead, they exposed each other, trying to decide whether the sun had to be painted or whether black should be used at all. I say, “Rubbish!” Leaving the decorative aspect aside, the purpose of a work of art is to produce an emotion, a recreation to the spirit. Some find it in a Ghirlandaio portrait, others in the water lilies by Monet. When contemplating the night sky over Toledo, we are convinced that El Greco took his glories from nature. Equally, any artist can perceive that Las Meninas can only be the result of direct transfer from the natural. The fact that Titian did not work in front of nature justifies that he had his models pose in a rotunda, where the cast shades became transparent with circular illumination. Another dispute commonly brought to order is the question of whether the artist should or should not sit in front of nature. I had the privilege of attending the teachings of a dear master that used to say that the model destroys the artist’s imagination. Taking into consideration certain artistic interpretations, it sounds as if he was on the right path. When confronting nature, the important thing is not what you see but how you see it. Several of my friends who are artist painters went on an excursion to paint at a picturesque village. One of them chose a heap of melons that had recently arrived by sailboat as his subject; the melons had been piled on the dock. His became a successful piece of art. Another artist, probably jealous of the other’s success, repeated the theme. We were looking for him when we asked an art critic who was part of the group if he had seen him. He said he had seen him busily making an inventory of the melons. Once upon a time, there was an old donkey that was very grateful to a rooster and a dog; the one because it told him the time of the day, the other because it spared him the annoyances of the teasing children. One day he saw a busy bee suck nectar from flower to flower. When the donkey asked the bee why, it told the

146 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master donkey that she made honey out of the juices that she collected. The poor ass that was always trying to devise a way to gratify his friends found a solution to his problem. Belly full with licorice flowers, the donkey went to his friends and told them to stand behind him to receive their reward, and then let the pandemonium loose. This is what happens in front of nature: some get honey, others get shit. My return to Sevilla was premature. Although my idea was to go back to Paris, circumstantial needs obliged me to remain in Sevilla for seven or eight years. I continued painting without consistency, following instead disparate ways. I have already mentioned how I react to the social environment and the influence that people exert over me. There is an old saying: “The second parts have never been good.” In other words, my early youth, with its dreams and ingenuity, was fading away; once lost, the only way was to build up a judicious and disciplined route. Somehow, I lost my judicious disciplined way as I was losing my youth and maturity, and only found it back in my senescent years. Then, I had to content myself with the spark born from the embers of my lost prime; only once, lost youth that never comes back! During my Neo-Sevillano time, how many projects I continued, how many I abandoned and reinitialized, how many activities related to painting, how many were marginal! Mine was a tortuous way. At times, I was able to surpass myself. Other times, I was lost in divagation. I went back to classicism161 to study form—not for model drawing but for the trigonometric and anatomic aspects. I consulted old manuals. I prepared my own canvas, milled my own colors and filtered my oil for painting. I used egg tempera. I experimented with varnish as glaze and many other things that could not logically be conducive towards Modern Art. Why did I do all of these things; I that had established my purpose operandi to be in front of nature? Those technicalities were things that I could not do well and I did not need but the need to be versed in them overcame me. It was an obsession. Even worse, I had not the analytic spirit nor the patience to deal with such ends.

161 Once more submerged into his old social-artistic milieu, the author explains, in an indirect way, how cut off he was from the incipient information that he was receiving in Paris, or even in Biscay or Madrid. He had no other way— according to his self-acting intellect-than to submit himself to provincial demagoguery.

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I continued living in the same house with my mother and niece. My younger sister who had not yet taken her vows decided to return home. This circumstance caused us to move into a new house in a village on the outskirts of Sevilla, Castilleja de la Cuesta. With such a decision, we lost our beautiful house. Going away from Sevilla to a place with uncertain travel ways and to move around regularly; and going away from my relations and the cultural centers that were convivial to me, affected my plans. I had no wish to be contrary to our move. My mind was set upon returning to Paris as soon as I could solve certain aspects of my household that demanded my attention. Besides, Castilleja was a perfect place to paint. I was familiar with the landscape; and the house sat on ample grounds to satisfy my garden and farming needs. I designed and planted my own garden. While my garden activities were of no transcendence at the moment, they actually became my rehearsal to undertaking later projects. Dionysius Pastor, a sculpture artist, lived in the same village. He was a teacher at the School of Arts and Crafts in Sevilla; and he taught on a daily basis until late in the evening, usually walking home. On the days that I went to Sevilla—almost everyday— I used to wait for him to finish his class at the School so we could walk together back home at night. Our continued relation was cause that he interested me in clay modeling and I decided to enter the School as his disciple. He was not a talented artist but he was well cultured. He had a good knowledge of his trade and he was truthful. I made a bas-relief under his guidance. I had no time to do anything else. Many years later, I made a small terra cotta lion for the fountain of the School of Engineers in Madrid and also a figure of a young girl that I never finished.162 I did not paint much in Castilleja. My business in Sevilla demanded most of my time. Even so, I concluded two good works— a self-portrait, which was exhibited in Barcelona, and a landscape, a view of Sevilla in the background at sun-down.163 These were works that I considered of good quality,

162 Handwritten comment by previous editor indicates the existence of photographs of this work. 163 Author’s or typist’s note: title of the painting “Sevilla desde la Trocha.” Hand-written comment: “Lost?”

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Impressionism-style. I did not waste my time. I even went to spend some time painting in Alcalá de Guadaira. Another incident also took me away again from my purpose to return to Paris. I had a small business that I had to foreclose on or else face a lawsuit, without incurring domestic problems. This combination164 was too irksome to be able to even think about leaving. My business clearance would provide me with liquid cash to buy a vegetable garden with a country house.165 I could sell the produce of the garden and have a studio and living quarters in the building attached to the property and live by myself. I began negotiations to that end. In my internal struggle, I had the senseless idea of asking counsel from a certain individual.166 Instead of giving me a fair opinion, he probably had placed a value on the transaction, and told me that it would be for my convenience to commercially operate with him. The proposed venture failed and he lost his and my money. He swindled me. Even so, the monetary loss was not that important. What really angered me was the discomposure of my plans and the prestige I lost as a result of being involved in his subterfuge. I was affected to the point that it drained my wish to paint. On top of it all, my master167— part of the jury— was in an indirect way responsible for a poor review of a group of five paintings that I had submitted to Jury Exhibit at the Academy of Beaux Arts in Madrid, where I was awarded a mere honorific mention. He had come to my studio and he personally chose the paintings to be submitted. My works

164 No doubt, the author felt responsible for the well being of his family. He was perhaps a little unwilling to leave them and spend a long time in Paris, due to a not-so-clear economic situation. 165 The true love he felt for the land can compare with the feeling expressed by the Netherlands artists of the 17th century, when the school of Amsterdam, Delft and other cities had a good number of artists that were actively recording all of the sights and living either from selling prints made out of their work, or were small land owners or, if economically successful, were living as rich estate owners. Peter Paul Rubens had a substantial retinue of artists, specialists in genre subjects that were included in works of art at the time. From that time and a little after, many examples can be seen at the Cerralbo Museum in Madrid. The Museum of Art in Sevilla is also rich in Netherlands art from exported paintings that continued for some time to come to the rich trading cities of Spain like Sevilla and perhaps Barcelona. Winthuysen’s early self-education in Art History, must have included study of the landscapes and still lifes from those artists that were palpable examples of how to see the land through the eyes of feeling. 166 The “individual” he mentions was well described in chapter five under the subtitle “Court of the Anguitas.” Perhaps the author was led to believe that he could increase his capital operating with him. 167 Gonzalo Bilbao.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 149 were appreciated by a group of intellectuals headed by Ramiro Maetzu as an expression of Impressionism that was then followed by Beruete and very few more artists. Regoyos complimented my work from the Valley of Arratia. Padilla, another member of the jury, proposed me for a medal. My illustrious master, who had convinced me to partake in the jury exhibit and had chosen the works to be submitted, had let me down.168 So, what was new? I was perfectly aware of jury members’ manipulation in Madrid— that was public knowledge. What I could not take is that my master, for whom I had professed respect and admiration, could not give me unlimited support. It was so painful, that when he tried to excuse himself at his arrival to Sevilla, I told him that I had publicly protested the jury members’ behavior and that I wanted him to learn that from me, not from references. Stylistically, for some time, I had been apart from my master, of whom I was not a follower. Ruses and artifices had done away with the affection and gratefulness that I had held for him. Further misfortunes happened to me during that time. I was ill. Four doctors could not find the nature of the digestive trouble and misery that caused an uncontrolled bloated stomach from which not even morphine was strong enough to diminish the pain. The prescribed diet made me weak. One day I decided to send the lactic diet I was on to kingdom come and I walked into a restaurant, and ordered and ate, among other things, a large serving of squid cooked with its natural ink to see if that would bring me to a sudden death. On the contrary, I had an innate reaction; and my discomforts were over. It was then that my family decided to end their segregated life in the village to go live in Sevilla again. Of course, our new home was not as beautiful as the previous one; even so, it was spacious and pretty. My landscape painting had been interrupted. I did not feel strong enough to roam the fields to paint; but I used my time to study. I read technical works on painting. I consulted Mengs on neoclassical concepts for his formulas on varnishes, tempera and many other things that were totally useless for the purpose of

168 The artistic milieu of the time was not partial to innovations in style but some of the jury members were aware of changes in style that the author knew had been over-passed already through his short stay in Paris.

150 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master direct nature transcription, where formulaic artifacts are a nuisance. Even so, I painted the head of a young gypsy girl using a fresco technique that ended up as a good piece of work. To my contentment, I used Pacheco’s description169 of how an Italian painter applied fresco painting; and I primed my canvas with a thin, even layer of purple and on top I painted the head of the girl in the fresco technique.170 I made another painting as well. On it, I used subtle layers of color on bold bright colored primer; although I had little patience for this kind of handiwork and it ended in nothing. At that time, with my youth and social position I could have continued in whatever direction I chose. Someone tried to convince me to become a teacher and I refused. I even could have married for financial convenience but that I passed over, too. I was happy with myself always doing whatever I wanted. I became more of an intellectual. Juan Ramón Jiménez171— then a very young writer— became one of my friends. I spent my time, as I said before, reading painting treatises, in particular Pacheco’s. Lozano came back from Paris full of ebullience about Doctor Carvallo’s engagement for the project of a garden for his Chateau de Villandry that he decided to decorate with ceramics jars with pedestals and obelisks. The project was well-imagined but he was incapable of taking it to term. For that reason, he summoned me; and I picked it up enthusiastically and consequently set painting aside. My knowledge of how to make ceramics and of architecture needed some further polishing. I decided to study chemistry— specifically, the basis of color development in ceramics—and to study architectural design, that I needed to project a garden. I already had some knowledge of planning and horticulture. We unearthed an old, witty, and lively ceramist who lived in a public retirement home in Sevilla. Francisquito el Plantao was his name;

169 Francisco Pacheco, a Spanish Baroque painter, was a native of Sevilla. He was part of the religious imagery painting trend that culminated with naturalism and his disciple, Velazquez. Pacheco was a better humanist than painter, and wrote a treaty: El Arte de la Pintura, part theoretical, part biographical, of which Winthuysen was familiar. 170 Note from the text: Head of “Merceditas la Gitana.” Handwritten note by the typist: In the collection-then scratched out —“of his daughter Salud.” It can be reproduced. 171 Juan Ramón Jiménez, a Noble Prize laureate lyrical poet, moved to Puerto Rico at the beginning of the Spanish civil war.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 151 he was eighty years old and had the salt of a true Sevillian—I will say something more about him later. With empiric reasoning beginning and a workshop and a kiln in Triana, Lozano and I managed the first stages of our project. At the same time, I continued with my studies in anatomy and figure foreshortening. Lozano was somewhat lax and without knowledge in all of these matters. I gave him a small anatomy lesson on the blackboard of his studio when I constructed the bone structure of a leg and covered it with its corresponding muscles. The drawing turned out so good that he was totally surprised but furious. He said that it was the best drawing I had done in my life but that I was going to stump his work with my talent and did not want me to work with him anymore in case I scuffled with his. I have never seen so much jealousy. More of the same tirade continued at the ceramic workshop. I made some ceramic stands that one glaze experts took for authentic eighteenth-century pieces. My experimentation with ceramics with metallic reflections resulted in works that were compared to antiques at the Museum of Cluny. Lozano could not tolerate my versatility. The firing of the kiln was at hand, but he did not want me to participate; and his lack of manners became unbearable, so I left without warning. The firing load turned defective; and he then came to me and proposed to let me operate alone. I sent him to hell! One more opportunity gone! Sevillian ceramic was then quoted in its weight in gold in America.172 Quality work, like mine, had great commercial possibilities. The crumbling of this particular possibility was the basis for my later pursuit of Garden Architecture.

172 José Almuedo Palma in: Ciudad e Industria Sevilla, 1850-1930 contains an extensive explanation on how the port of Sevilla was actively involved in export operations of all kinds until well into the 20th century. However, the loss of the Republican cause during the Civil War resulted in the considerable withdrawal of foreign capital, mainly English and German from the area of Sevilla. What had been for five centuries the rich agricultural and minor industrial hub of the valley of the Guadalquivir became little-by-little one more tourists’ center, where hundreds of passersby were told of the old glories of the Spanish Reconquest. Consequently, most of the population totally forgot about the 19th century development. In recent times, conservation procedures of the old Cartuja of Sevilla, where Pitman’s ceramic factory was located for many years, was done in accordance to the spirit of grandeur that had little to do with the true history of the city in the previous century, in my opinion. In 1903, the city of Sevilla and Triana on the right margin of the Guadalquivir had eight ceramic factories of one sort or another. Many of them operated on disenfranchised church properties.

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I said before how Francisquito el Plantao deserved some lines. He had a high standing in his short stature and he had an aquiline profile. In addition, he was very clean— as he said, he washed his “pinreles,” his feet, every day— and he used cologne. Such an old man living in a public alms-house was something remarkable. The truth of the matter is that the house itself, Pozo Santo, was no less extraordinary. I do not know if all the residents were there by acquired right, and paying a certain sum when they were able to do so. Its director was a humanitarian priest. The residents were allowed to move in and out freely. It was a hostel more than a hospice. When we decided on el Plantao to be our mentor, he felt proud of himself. He loved bullfights and Manzanilla drinking. He was enthralled. He could not stop telling us passages of his long life. He began to work at the age of fifty. What did he do before? “Women,” he said, “There is nothing like women in this world. You put me between a gentleman in his long coat and a disheveled woman, and I will tell the woman: ‘My poor darling, come here with me!’ To the gentleman: ‘Get lost!’173 When I was young,” he continued, ”I collected eight in this fashion without counting my own. I had this kind of inclination ever since I was a young boy. My aunt used to comment aloud: ‘From whom did this boy inherit this shameless disposition with women? Your grandfather never saw your grandmother’s legs in all the years of their marriage.’” Truth was that Francisquito’s aunt adored him. He was such a cute miniature ‘gracioso’ man. The grandfather had his own ceramic workshop and retail store in Triana. He was well-to-do; he loved to pay some money to this young guy— his own grandson— who used to decorate tiles from time to time. Not that he paid him a lot but more for him to keep a duro174 in his pocket, for him to sound on the bar counter to pay for drinks. The silver spin on the marble was the admiration of friends and foes and it gave him considerable credit.

173 “que le vayan dando morcilla” is a colloquialism. Morcilla is a sausage-like blood pudding. In the old days, poison-laced morcilla was used to get rid of unwanted roaming dogs and cats. So the expression means textually, “Let’s get rid of the gentleman in an expeditious way.” 174 Coin that was then equivalent to a silver dollar.

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Francisquito was a humorist. He told us the story of one of his love conquests. It was on Saint Ana’s eve when Betis Street175 was decked with Chinese lanterns, merry-go-rounds, stands selling nougat, macaroons, green hazelnuts, honeydew melons and watermelons, and doughnuts, with a throng of people milling around. When he saw this tall, thin, serious woman, he was with some friends. She looked very solemn, wrapped in her foam shawl with a bunch of jasmine flowers on her hair, and she was being chaperoned by an old lady. Francisquito approached the woman and courted her with grace. She did not even look at him and the old lady sent him away in sour terms. Francisquito was good at that; he followed them. After walking for a long time, they entered in an imposing mansion in Sevilla and he realized that she was a village servant with her mother. From the next day on, he put siege to the house; and he watched her at her daily tasks, until she became puzzled and he had the opportunity to confess his love to her. Francisquito was elegant with his watch chain and a wide-brimmed, well-pressed hat. He constituted the figure of the right candidate to a lady of any age. He approached her at the door and made his intention manifest. She said yes, on the condition that she first tell her patroness, to which Francisquito agreed. He was especially gifted with words; and the family in the mansion was not an ordinary sort of young couple. The husband was a colonel to the disabled force. His advanced-aged mother lived with them. Francisquito talked to the elderly lady, who was entranced by his grace and easiness of courteous language. His station in life was considered higher than usual for courting a servant girl. Patriarchal tradition was still in use in the old-time Sevilla. The girl’s mother had recommended the patroness to look after her daughter; and not let her walk alone or have inconvenient suitors. In the evening, the patroness and the servant spent their time sewing. The elderly lady agreed to let Francisquito enter the house to court the girl in her presence. The young couple who lived in the mansion had a busy social life, always attending functions or going to the theater. Time went by, until one day, Francisquito convinced the girl to let him in her room. She

175 The main street in Triana.

154 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master accepted and they saw to how it could be done. The young couple usually came back from the theater at midnight. After a light meal, they went to bed; then the servant girl could go down and open the street door for Francisquito. That evening he retired early, saying that his aunt was ill and that he needed to go home. Before twelve o’clock, he posted himself near the house, until the young couple arrived. Time went by and he saw the damsel open the street door and signal to him. Fully wrapped in his cloak and clinging to the wall’s darkness, he slithered off, making sure that nobody observed his entrance into the house. “Once the door was shut, I had the impression that a marble slab had fallen on my sepulcher,” Francisquito continued. “I was scared to my bones. I thought to myself, if the colonel wakes up and comes out of his room with his saber or pistol I would tell him not to harm me, that I am Francisquito el Plantao and had been angled by this woman.” He said he froze. “Next, the woman told me to remove my boots. I did it and when my feet touched the cold floor, I had to smother a huge sneeze on the folds of my cape that began to unfold and drag on the floor while I secured my boots with one hand and she held and pulled me by the other. We climbed the main stairs in the dark— I was full of apprehension— then we climbed up the stairs leading to the higher floor where she slept. “Once in her room, I thought I could catch my breath but then she told me that the room of the old lady was nearby, and there I was mentioning hell to find myself in such a stance. ‘Undress,’ she said. ‘Not me‘ I said. ‘Are you going to bed with your clothes on?’ ‘I am not going to bed,’ I replied. ‘In that case, sit down.’ ‘I am not going to sit,’ I said. ‘In that case, what are you going to do?’ ‘Nothing! I want to go home.’ ‘What are you saying?’ ‘I want to leave.’ She tried to convince me to the contrary but with no result. She then insulted me and called me names. Finally, she took my hand and guided me down the stairs to the street. When I found myself outside, I breathed like someone coming out of his death. “Next day I was at the tavern telling about my love adventure. The only thing is that I changed it a little. I made the colonel wake up; I threatened him with a pistol— a way for me to leave gloriously. My friends admired my determination and assured me that on some future adventure, I will pay physically for the amorous adventure

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 155 style of life that I I lived. Later on,” Francisquito el Plantao continued, “I made up with her and finally got to fulfill my desire,” which was probably one more of his lies but he was so entertaining that it really did not matter. He also told us what happened at the funeral of Cagancho’s daughter.176 Among the gypsy society that is rich, when a young girl dies, the corpse is dressed with the best clothes and her face is made up. Then the coffin with the body is placed almost upright and the most lavish demonstrations in the form of crying, lamenting, singing, and lauding take place. The singers improvise verses on the spot in the middle of a dense silence. The house’s street door remains closed to the general public. Only the participants of the brotherhood are let in. Outside, el Plantao recounted, the neighbors crammed the street, trying to see and listen to what was going on inside, until someone said that Francisco Garcia was coming. This particular gentleman was a democratic politician— very self- conscious, correct, middle-aged, good looking, on the robust side, a great Manzanilla drinker, and one of those persons that can drink without ever getting drunk. He was friend to toreadors and flamenco singers always from the stand of his responsible position. He was also a good singer. He was President to the County Council. Don Francisco Garcia was dressed in high hat and tails with an official escort. He was from Triana. Francisquito el Plantao, his relative, was in the middle of the throng. The people on the street opened a way respectfully for Don Francisco Garcia. He approached Cagancho’s door and one of the escorts knocked and announced him: “Don Francisco Garcia is here!” “I, as a relative, followed him inside,” continued el Plantao. “Without saying a word or looking at anybody, Don Francisco Garcia removed his top hat and sang a mode by seguidilla177 with a thick voice: I really feel it! My eyes have grown channels From so much crying!

176 Cagancho was a famous gypsy flamenco singer. 177 Lo siento en verdad. Canales Tengo yo en mis ojos. De tanto llorar.

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He sang it as a wail with all the rules of the art;178 and when the last note had faded, the audience took over with lamentations and tears. Instantaneously, the gypsies179 cheered Don Francisco Garcia. The door was opened and the commission took off down the street always followed by acclamations. Experiments with ceramics The city of Triana’s tradition in ceramic production goes back a long way. At the end of the Mudejar180 style, Niculoso, an Italian citizen, perfected the technique on glazing that still can be seen on few examples still extant.181 Although the ornamental aspect remains unchanged, the glazing colors indicate a profound change. The glaze tonalities become deeper. The yellows are purer and the orange tones vibrant. The red is not present. The manganese blues and purples have profound tonalities; the emerald green transparencies cover, like a gauze, the humblest clay pots. Well into the nineteenth century, with the new naturalist style, the glazes are especially effective. Some of the ceramic plates and vases decorated in this fashion have impressionistic qualities. The tile technique is different. Renaissance and baroque grotesques are still used for caricature like decadent figures. One of the tile painters that I met who happened to be a republican town councilor used to paint Murillo-style Immaculate Conceptions and bullfights to decorate his tiles. In his compositions, he always included a priest drinking from his wineskin to discredit the religious class in the eyes of future generations.

178 Cante Hondo is the term used to designate the gypsy way of singing in Andalusia. 179 The singular emotional character of the Triana gypsies is still considered an out-of-the- ordinary phenomena by the locals. The visitor is overwhelmed by the pompous nature of Sevillian festivities of a religious manner. Art, religion, and politics are fused into one— defined as such by Angel Ganivet in the 19th century in Idearium Espanol—El Porvenir de Espana. Not even a native of Sevilla dares to differentiate between them although educated minorities are very conscious of the fact that popular culture is not a political solution. As for the gypsies, they continue to have a separate culture, in a way similar to the American Blacks, already noticed by Ganivet. Translated into 21st-century terms, the theme has become a matter for exploitation by the tourism trade, which is perhaps the most important source of revenue to Spain. 180 The term is used to designate the harmonious synchronization of the local Iberian style with the Muslim design in the 16th century. 181 The Archeology Museum of Sevilla has good examples of the change in decorative and technique style in ceramics practiced by the Mozarabe to Mudejar influences and later further modified with the additions of Italian Renaissance decorative elements.

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Only the empirical was left when I frequented Triana.182 Some of the workshops worked independently with basic materials that they skillfully arranged. This is what Francisquito el Plantao facilitated for us and I tried to remedy the materials with additional chemical expertise to obtain purer products. Workshops with bulky ceramic production used only the commercially prepared oxides. Total decadence in the art of producing fine ceramic was felt in this way. I was not totally immersed in my experimentation; and so I continued on and off to work on landscape paintings. “Alcalá of Guadaira,” “The Gardens of Sevilla,” and some figure studies and compositions constituted part of my work. The general ambience of Sevilla was lousy. I did not abandon my work but I could only advance in slow motion. I was lacking interest and enthusiasm. My departure from Paris had proven to be a massive mistake. Over and over, I had the thought of returning to Paris but I could not come to terms with doing it. I was under the spell of the “it does not matter!” This apathy is an example of the Sevillian character where, with a few cents, you can buy a glass of wine and a portion of river shrimp, and you can sit in the orange trees’ shade, as bums do, and imagine whatever you wanted. A little time afterwards, my mother passed away. As result, my economic and social life conditions changed totally. Whether the escrow capital had been sufficient to sustain all of us during her life, now divided by six, the money was not enough for each of us to survive on. I was not alarmed by this prospect; my share was by no means enough to live on its interest but it was enough to give me some years to prepare myself. My desires and purposes were inclined towards this end; I could have brought them to work but to no avail. The religious community where my two nun sisters were residents gave me unlimited powers of action. In a short period of time, I could sell all of the property without inconvenience and be free to follow my inclinations. My sister’s husband, a very commendable man with a gentlemanly manner,

182 The gradual dissolution of the guild organization in Sevilla and specifically in Triana appears in the work Ciudad e Industria—Sevilla—1850-1930 as a phenomena resulting from the backwater economical development of Spain that went on ever since the 17th century. Here, the author regrets the loss of expertise of the ceramists: among those still practicing, they have forgotten the old formulas and resort to using manufactured chemicals.

158 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master was totally ignorant of business transactions. Although he thought the contrary, with his conflicting opinion, many times he managed to undo my transactions. To that, my younger sister’s and niece’s ignorance and inconstant support of my opinion sometimes paired my decisions, but other times they opposed me totally. What could have lasted one month went on for four or five years. I was the administrator of the real estate. I had to deal with lawyers and architects to remedy the disrepair of the properties that were crumbling away. I decided to live in Alcalá among my landscapes, going back and forth to Sevilla while my time and patience ran thin. In Alcalá of Guadaira, I found once more a desirable property to buy. It was a small vineyard sitting in the middle of the landscapes that I liked best. Its production was less important to me although it did produce something. What was really important was that with the construction material left over from the properties remodeling in Sevilla, I could build a studio at little cost in the midst of the most marvelous natural park. I would have my own house on the middle of my land that, little by little, I would transform with new plantings. All this in the middle of pine growths with the ground covered permanently with green, soft-cushioned for walking feet and that flowered almost all the year round. The river ran down below, where there were painterly Moorish mills framed by oleanders. Silvery fanning lanes of trees bordered its margins. My wish was to live and paint on the land, not to exploit it. I could be the owner of a land worth millions for little cost. This possibility made me alter my desire to move to Paris. I could instead go to Paris at appointed seasons to take the paintings that I could produce in my paradise life. The property was at some distance from the village. My sister, always sticking her nose in things that were not her concern, declared that this was a totally nonsensical decision. She even told my wife because once the estate was sold and shared, I married.183 I was living with my wife, then, in Alcalá de Guadaíra, in a little house in the village when I went back to paint. This time I produced small format impressions that were very delicate. Years

183 He married in 1911.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 159 later, Juan Ramón Jiménez bought one of them that he liked very much. I had to give up my dream vineyard. I felt a profound loss. Besides, I had had enough of familial and friendship misunderstandings. I was mortified by the low social standard that my marriage union signified. My new family’ standard of living was below the social class of the Sevillian society that I used to be part of. For all of these reasons,184 I decided that moving to Paris would be a good way to stay away from every other interference that had been always so pernicious in my life. I have always been a victim of my circumstances when members of my family and my friends have behaved basely towards me. However, I have always reversed my perverse reaction of crushing them up to a pulp to instead having feelings of intense self-chastisement. I heard once that the Chinese obtain revenge by hanging themselves at the door of their enemies. I was nauseated with family life and Spain itself. At my son’s birth, in Paris, in 1913, I decided not to register him in the consulate. In this way, he could be a French citizen. In time, I found a note written in my pocket agenda on this particular value that said: Today at dawn my first son was born. I have no desire to create a family in this way. My instinct proves to be superior to my rational thought. As I said, I went to Paris with my wife with whom I had nothing in common. This time, I was not a well-protected señorito traveling to

184 Several factors affected his matrimonial decision to make him become a member of a popular social class— below what he calls his family standards. One was his inclination for the popular culture, the easy life of eating cheaply, drinking good wine and being entertained by less constricted society. The other was his personal opinion of thinking that “popular” was inexpensive living, when in reality the popular class was regulated by patriarchal rules that were much more restrictive to individual freedom and therefore were much more expensive for him. A victim of constant scheming, or self- indulged manipulation from the family members of his household and friends’ opinions, he thinks that marriage is a way to solve the economic problem of his artistic life. From Abel Perianez, a Sevilla-city planner and antique dealer, and a great lover and expert of Winthuysen’s life and work,we learned that the situation must have been somehow different. Winthuysen went to Paris supported by capital offered by his wife’s brother, Sanchez Mejias, a great torero who made a fortune from his bullfights and protected, apparently, all of his large family with it. By taking the money, the author became an indentured servant to the capital. The constrained feeling that he had cultivated, first with the denial of his wish to become a naval officer, and second, the incredible insouciance of his not acquiring a lucrative profession proved to be of tragic consequences. What was worse, it affected what he cherished most: his art work.

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Paris. I had for all practical purposes burned my vessels.185 Her family came to stay with us. We were living the style of life that could be found in Alcorcón, one of the backward villages of Spain.186 There, I spent my small patrimony until 1914, when we had to head back without having advanced one inch in my purposes. All I did was visit museums and paint in the studio where I could not put things together to my own happiness. As result, I was derelict, taking in everything as if it was the end of times. My friends in Paris were mostly talented intellectuals with inquisitive minds that were not bohemian, and were sort of marginal to vulgarity. After going around for a while, they always found some girl or other to fall in love with. I did not go around, neither did I have the fortune of finding anything. In this life, I am more of a spectator than actor. I act when it is worthwhile to do so and in between times, I navigate unbound. Like I said, my friends ended finding their preference, generally ladies of good standing, with whom to build a nest. Nest more than a home— most of them had a child and ended marrying or, if they were not married, they exerted a semblance of married life. What a contrast between them and me! 1912 I was not a neophyte in my second visit to Paris. I arrived as initiated. Intentionally, I took the same walking tour that I did the first time. Nothing had changed. The Luxembourg Gardens, the immense Observatory Avenue, the extended lawn with parallel groves of blooming chestnut trees were the same. Now, I extended my excursions to the River Seine passenger boat fairs traveling from Charenton to Saint Germain. I landed frequently at Bas Meudon and walked through the park of Saint Cloud to the Coquette. On my second visit to Paris, I did not experience the cultural shock that represented the difference between the provincialism of Sevilla and the cosmopolitanism of Paris. I had basked of Madrid’s courtly style of its picturesque life. I came well informed of

185 Colloquial reference to Hernando Cortez’s historic burning of his ships at his arrival to the th Gulf of Mexico in the early 16 century. 186 The family visited and stayed to help at the birth of the child. The environmental transplant proved to be an economic burden, an extravagant cultural uprooting.

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Velazquez, Greco and Goya, and to now absorb French Classicism. The art scene had not changed. The Impressionist movement, of doubtful value before, now was consecrated. What is more, it had been superseded by Post-Impressionism, which was shown in the Salons of the Independents. The initial attempts of the Fauvists were received with sarcastic smiles. Things were still under control. The artists had not yet produced aberrations to shock the bourgeois. We were close to the time when the small- time art critic and the Jewish dealer were to appear on the art scene. Parisians were the same. The physiognomy of the city remained unchanged until 1914, when patriotism began to grow under the sound of the “Madelon;” later came the military parades in front of the Unknown Soldier monument, mimicking the Americans— political disasters that persisted until 1935, when I came back. Our life in Paris differed from the style of my previous visit. We rented out on the same building at the Boulevard Raspail that I had occupied eight years before. We found a good friend with the only acquaintance there from Sevilla, the governess of a French musical instrument manufacturer, who was a very formal and correct gentleman. The governess was a member of a known family of musicians in Sevilla, and that is how he came to meet her. Her niece played the violin. They were of assistance to us because they had been living in Paris for a long time. Vazquez- Diaz was also living in Paris at the time. He was married and had a small child. We were living among the affection of our friends. We were not isolated. I found a good studio across the one occupied by Zuloaga. I went to visit the studios of Clara187 and Bourdelle,188 Vazquez-Diaz’s friend. Nevertheless, I was feeling uneasy in Paris. My wife was trying to adapt herself to the new environment but she was by temperament and education miles from it. My furniture and paintings from Sevilla finally arrived. The room was cozy. From its high bay window, we had an immense panorama. I began to visit

187 Catalan sculptor whose work was displayed in the city of Barcelona in the nineteen- forties, and was probably in Paris studying the Impressionist works of Rodin. 188 He was also a follower of Rodin. Vazquez-Diaz’s friendship to sculpture artists evolved from his inclination for solidly constructing his painted figures as if they were sculptures on the round.

162 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master museums and exhibits without any predetermined idea. It was 1913; and the new tendencies of Art had not only pushed Impressionism aside but also Neo-Impressionism. Cubism was on the rise. I could care less about this mare-magnum of modernity. I felt good with my constant visits to the Louvre, where I concentrated on studying works by Rembrandt and the renaissance Florentine school. I also was partial to Egyptian art, the few Greek sculptures that the museum had, as well as the minor arts, and the 13th-century French sculpture. I was doing everything but paint! Digressions Painting, like everything else in life, is an activity that requires a purpose. Energy and persistency are required to substantiate it. I have painted throughout my life in a natural way for the pleasure of doing it, almost without preconceived notions. There is something about the art of painting that other disciplines do not share— the end product need never affect whether the work itself is entirely good or bad. While we paint, we are totally ignorant of the final product. Our judgment has to be always posterior to the thousand things we can do in a thousand different ways to good or bad end. My master, Gonzalo Bilbao, used to tell me that he envied my eye for color, and that I was ignorant of the importance of what I was doing. He was partially right about this. I have always done whatever I felt more convenient at the moment. The only thing I resent, today, is that the onlookers of my art have yet to discover my enviable perception of color that Bilbao prized. I write this because I could be sold out if the buying amateurs knew it. I have heard more than once that my painting is only for a restricted audience, and that the general public does not appreciate certain values. I doubt it. I remember that at my parents’ home, we once had a very ignorant cook who used to contemplate my landscapes with admiration, saying that she could eat them, they were so good! During my stay in Paris, a chimney sweep who came to my studio returned to it after few days, asking me to let him in to again see the still life with a silver jug that I had painted. Juan Ramón

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Jimenez189 gave this work to Mister Huntington and perhaps now it is in the art collection of the Hispanic Society in New York. In Madrid, one of my works was hanging at a charcoal monger. I had no idea how it came to that place. Vazquez-Diaz saw the painting hanging on the store wall and asked the owner if he would sell it to him. To which he answered that his wife liked it and he had no intention of selling it. That tells me why I cannot complain of being rejected by the so-called uneducated nor by the over-educated. The bad part of my story is that the moneyed people are the ones that do not show interest in my paintings. They belong to the class that my father, with his ultra- sensitive social perception, used to call the “rabble in frock coats.” Perhaps I can claim that my apparent lack of success was the result of my inconsistency and low-energy key. My eclectic life- style was an obstacle to my advance. Eclecticism is fatal to art. If we look back in time in architecture, for instance, we see that following a style corresponding to historic time was a natural way of building for the specialist on the subject. No good architect, in antiquity, would have dared to contaminate one style with another. Today, given the know-how of history, all the architects know from the pyramids to Le Corbusier, this passing over from one trend to another constitutes an ecumenical art among architects that many times leads to false imitations and silliness. To one kind of art or another, a successful formula for producing steady work is to define the style and keep to it steadily. Even so, I am an easily swayed person. I fall always victim to suggestions— if someone tells me it is night when it is full daylight, I will stop and wonder whether I may be dreaming or awake. Talking about art production, my worse time happened to be in 1915, in Aranjuez, where I spent an extended season painting. Santiago Rusiñol was there, too. He painted those topiary gardens with an extremely trimmed design. He had a suite of admirers that followed and praised him like a demigod wherever he went. Of me, they said that I was a dauber. They were right. I had never before painted so lousily. It was not because I had the intention to copy Rusiñol or had the purpose of demonstrating the academic

189 The author may have sold this and previously works to his friend Juan Ramón Jiménez at a later date. The work was among the collection owned by the late Salud Winthuysen Sanchez, in Madrid, until 2001.

164 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master cardboard stiffness of his work190 with my wild brushstrokes but it was some internal disquiet that pushed me into acting in such a disheveled way. On another occasion, I had the same reaction painting near a friend— a dangerous one— who adored Jiménez Aranda. He had a black palette. Black, of all colors, in a village like Alcalá de Guadaira, where the soil is orange color, the orange trees are emeralds, and the pine growths are covered with gold. The banks of the crystal water Guadaira are lined with silver poplars and crimson oleanders. This guy painted everything black. I was contrary to it but something remained in me of his influence. By all means I had retained the influence, or shall I say “contagion,” of Jiménez Aranda, who used to make me fill my drawings with color. Not to mention Gonzalo Bilbao’s thick impasto and energetic brush strokes. In Sevilla, at that time, a resident humorist artist used to divide paintings in two categories: clean and dirty painting.191 I experienced lessons in front of Velazquez’s works, where the teacher said exactly what Velazquez was not. This may sound absurd but it is not; French academicians who suffered from the same ills when it came to imitating my fellow countryman, Diego.192 Looking and perceiving are two different activities. I have to keep my distance from others or stay near to people with closely related ideas; otherwise, I develop feelings of insecurity— instantly. I have my reasons. One day, I went to the bank to change some gold coins, and while I waited, one of the coins fell, or I thought it did, on the floor. The person next to me bent down to get it. I thought it was an

190 Attraction-repulsion reaction was the natural way to react for an artist of the avant-garde, as he had worked all his life. He had placed himself in an individualistic position of landscape interpreter that was hard to understand to himself and to everybody else. 191 Here the author, unaware, summarizes his vision on the study of a particular trend of painting in Andalusia. The variety of nuances indicated a surging art movement in the area that was dismissed as unimportant. For many years, art historians in Spain evaluated artists’ efforts linked to the main academic masters of the time. By doing so, they discarded the possibility of analyzing an aspect of landscape painting in Spain that could have been echoed from past European movement. This difference in opinion imposed the critics’ own tainted vision of an academic- or avant-garde-protected movement at the beginning of the 20th century. 192 Born in the city of Sevilla three hundred years later than Diego de Velazquez, the author proudly proclaims that he is entitled to be honored by the city of Sevilla, as Diego Velazquez was.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 165 unnecessary kindness and expressed my gratitude. However, instead of returning the coin, as I expected, the person announced that the coin was his. I told him that in fact he was holding my coin; he answered, “No.” We discussed the matter in public until one of the persons who witnessed the incident told me to check inside the cuff of my trousers, where, believe it or not, the coin had lodged in falling. I had to excuse myself in front of the poor gentleman whose coin had fallen at the same time as mine without me being aware of it. It was indeed an enormous coincidence but it was not the first time in my life when a similar situation had arisen. Who in the world is capable of sustaining an opinion based on questionable premises?193

193 Contrary-wise again and again, Winthuysen keeps his opinion although he has come to the point where he knows that he is not understood and is even less loved for that.

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CHAPTER VIII

My life in Paris, 1911-The war of 1914-Return to Madrid-Aranjuez in 1915-Rusiñol-The art of Anglada-1916-Home in Madrid-Broke- Chance meeting with Juan Ramón Jiménez-Exhibit at Vilches in 1916-Scholarship for continuing education, 1919 studies-The Art of Painting. I took a Sevillian woman to Paris. Absurd! I was told on a certain occasion by someone; that is like taking a cod to Scotland. My studio was gold, shiny and clean. It made the parquet floor make cricket sounds when walked on and on the same clean spot, she managed to put my clothes. She even had an inclination to like the avant-garde Impressionism of the time and I had lost my inspiration. I was out of sync; I had lost the end of the thread. After my spontaneous work in Sevilla, the intuitive product of my Andalusian culture mixed with a certain dose of classicism and a solitary dissertation on the banks of the river and the fields, were followed by a want but do not know how to describe it. It was like a steam pressure had built up from my repeated visits to museums and exhibits. In fact, I created a rift between myself and the vast cauldron of fermenting ideas that was the artistic society of the time. There are no words to express what was going with me. I had a strong wish to surpass my foibles— to fight to win; to desire an ideal. I was bound with one hundred kilograms of vulgarity tied to my feet! Cleanliness, home cooking, clothes brushed and mended, I even thought that she might like El Greco. At my son’s birth, my wife, distressed by her alienation, had her mother come to visit. With the arrival of the ladies, mother and sister-in-law, my studio became an Andalusian country home. They deep-fried eggs with onions cooked over a full-flame gas burner, toasting up doors and ceilings. They gave enemas to the child in front of my paintings, not for lack of finding other places to do it. They screamed, bawled in high-pitched voices without end in such a way that all the neighbors thought that we were having colossal family calamities. “The poor darlings,” they said, “what a pity!” My nearest neighbors were left open-mouthed when I explained, in black humor, that our behavior was part of my land’s culture.

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Meanwhile, at other studios, development of intellectual ideas continued with their stable economies and marital relationships. The couples moved around. They visited the art dealers, took part in exhibits, and made themselves known to the art connoisseurs. All but me! I left, ran away far from Paris to paint in Cordoba! No more, no less Cordoba! Other lineages of women of less popular extraction, the women of my own family, drove me from Sevilla. I had to content myself with a place in Andalusia where I was trying to mend the broken thread of my mental life. My sojourn in Cordoba was really fruitful. I painted the urban landscapes and gardens which became part of my oeuvre. I went back to Paris, where I exhibited at the Fall Salon with the Independents, in 1912 and 1913. I was well received and pleased with the art critiques. In Paris, the family style of life had not changed a bit. The extended family decided to go back to Andalusia in the spring of 1914, leaving my immediate family and me to stay in Cordoba. I was so close to Sevilla that I did not see myself free of familiar inferences that reflected on my art production once again. Only during my short stay, when I was alone in Cordoba, had I succeeded in working satisfactorily. From Cordoba, we went back to Alcalá de Guadaira and Sevilla at the onset of the war in 1914. 1914 German popularity, among certain sectors of the population in Spain, made us believe that the gods like mighty Germans would be able to enter Paris in no time and that the disaster of the 1870 war would not be repeated. The striking advance of the German forces made us assume that; and to return to Paris was absurd and impossible. We moved to Madrid. Living the life of the well-to-do and with social distinction that I had been used to in Sevilla, now under the duress of current economical conditions was out of the question. The desire of adopting a make-believe life- style that could not be backed by money had not even passed through my mind. It was ridiculous. On top it of all, my wife’s family had managed to become bankrupt. The Battle of the Marne contained the German advance. Now we were in trench warfare that was going on and on. Friends and acquaintances convinced me to go to Paris— to

168 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master pack and save the household furnishings that I had left, which I did. Paris was a very exciting place during the war in 1915. War restrictions had yet to be noticed. The museums were closed but the life of spectacles was still there. I befriended the chief of the Royal Police whose mission consisted of observing the population and having a good time from which I profited, too. The Bohemian residents of Paris had almost disappeared. The Apaches were sent to the war front. There was a superabundance of military personnel. The girls continued the same. I was leading an existence of restaurants and amusements with my friend and lived in my studio where a cleaning lady attended to household needs. Several reasons convinced me to keep the studio. I had not given the advance- leave notice that was necessary; I felt marvelously well in it and I did not desire to leave it. I made new friends and had interesting visitors to see my paintings at the studio. I almost accepted a paying position that would have helped with my keeping. War accidents in Paris were almost nonexistent. True, we had the Bertha, airship bombing, and the enemy air raids but with the size of Paris, they were almost unnoticed. After a few months, I had to return to Madrid with most of my rolled-up painted canvases. It was then that I had a chance meeting with my friend Juan Ramón Jiménez, when he fell in love with the work that I mentioned before from Alcalá de Guadaira that he bought. He introduced me to Martinez Sierra, who acquired one of the paintings that I did in Cordoba. I also met an English lady, an artist painter, who owned two studios and let me use one, where we ran an art academy in the evenings for exiled artists who were French, German, Netherlandish, and Czech. In 1916, my work “The Nun’s Patio” was exhibited at Vilches. Rusiñol and the Gardens of Spain In 1900, I went on a journey194 from Sevilla to see the National Exposition that ran in the Hippodrome, where the public could see paintings that had been rejected by the academy in a special salon—similar to the French-created “Salon des Refuses.”

194 The author chooses to insert an article at this point as part of the mental process of his remembrance on the time spent abroad and his trips back and forth to Paris.

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Zuloaga had a hunter’s portrait, inspired in Spanish classical style; it was hanging in the room of the “crime paintings.” Regoyos was there; his work had just become accepted by the public. Regoyos’ painting— so full of light, free gesture and apparent Mediterranean disorder— brightened up the dark Spanish painted art. Also present was Gonzalo Bilbao, his competitor, and my master at the time. Among the large amount of painted works of art, one attracted my attention for its freshness and simplicity— it was vibrant with youthfulness, had spontaneous impression, and was different from the many works of Rusiñol that I saw later. I met him personally, years later, in Paris. His prophet-like profile contrasted considerably with the young bohemian, mostly Catalan artists leaving the Lorraine tavern at midnight. Among them was the sculptor artist Manolo Huguet with his Christ-like face, long hair, and wide-brimmed, flamenco-style hat. It was raining and we took refuge under the roofs’ eaves while we sang. The municipal guard arrived and told us to sing softly while the neighbors slept, and with the French “laissez faire” to foreign artists that characterized Parisians, he joined our chorus by marking time with his hands like a director. Santiago Rusiñol was in Aranjuez, where I spent an extended season in 1915. Then, his style had changed: his canvasses were precisely designed, precious decorations of topiary plants and trees. The vibrations of the Impressionism had given way to a linear architectural garden design; it was a cold, ordered composition with a centered fountain. The compositional theme had become fixed to serve his ideal of balanced rhythm. He was already suffering from arthritis but that made no difference to him. He used to spend the entire afternoons painting on the damp grounds. Then he reported to the local tavern, “Rano Verde,” to have a glass of red wine; from there he went to the town’s casino in the evening to have a whiskey, and after dinner to the café. He made visits to the local casino, where there was roulette and card games; other visits were made to the lower salon, playing piano and singing along with his admirers, and from time to time he made short escapes to a side table, where he would add a few lines to a vaudeville that he was composing. He had, indeed, a singularly optimistic, eternally youthful spirit and was always on good terms with everybody without reservations and with a

170 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master hundred percent respect. He was venerated. He had the constant smile on his face of those devoted to savor sybaritic-like nature, art, humanity and whiskey. He came to this world, he used to say, like to an endless party because he loved life. He had reached a point of maturity where he knew that life should not be taken totally seriously. Rusiñol could take advantage of anything, including his disheveled hair— so natural that the barber had to take care not to disrupt the naturalness. Cut this lock a bit and leave the other long! His instructions to the barber were a Roman monument of haircut fashion unique to Don Santiago. His unique attributes allowed him to possess nature without spiritual pain. His physical pains were attenuated by morphine. I never saw him worried or angry. Once when we met in the same village he used to visit, I asked him if he was staying at the same inn. He said he had moved because the previous owner submitted an abusive bill. That day was a local election and we were sitting on a terrace café when we saw the cheering electors with the winner candidate coming down the street. As a matter of coincidence, the winner was the abusive lodge owner. Rusiñol, without hesitation, waited for him in the middle of the road to give him a theatrical hug. The enthusiastic throng hailed their representative and Don Santiago Rusiñol and declared both honest fellows. Rusiñol returned to our table shining with satisfaction with his eternal satirical smile. Language in nature becomes domesticated in the garden; there are no hard-to- walk roads; the clean waters fall in carved marble containers; the single-petaled flower has become compounded, folding its beauty; what is rude beauty on the untrained nature, here is sparkling order; the pomp of the trees forms vaults; mythical personifications smile from their pedestals; blackbirds rehearse their ironical music. The green waters of the River Tajo are part of the pictorial composition; they glide between walls topped with flower vases. The painter artist offered the ancient abandoned gardens synthesized like decorations for contemplation to the public; he removed all the vibrations from them; and he reduced their nature to a formal delectation without passion, as complacency transformed life. There is a bower at the spur of the Island of Aranjuez where there used to be a running fountain, now long gone. The carved head of

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Rusiñol could be placed on a pedestal in the middle of a circular water basin always smiling in the middle of the serene watery ‘lymph’; it will be a new mythological personification to add to the long-existing series in Aranjuez. Embracing it there should be an eternal myrtle topiary enclosed by a hymen white rose garden dignified in homage to a singular man, representative of a life concept… “Crisol” 18-6-1931195 Javier de Winthuysen At the open studio in Madrid that I helped to organize the international group of artists behaved in splendid comradeship. We had live model sessions from which I profited with a charming model called Elvirita. I was painting intensively from the figure. The time I spent in Aranjuez where I met with Rusiñol was not a source of satisfactory production for me.196 I painted a series of garden views that I considered the worst work that I ever did in my life. In 1902, I painted in full sunlight a garden view that elevated my name. Don Francisco de Leon Troyano, a Sevillian writer, dedicated an article to me saying that where Rusiñol constructed his gardens, Winthuysen humanized them. It was then that I went deeply into painting in full light in Sevilla with youth and grace. In Madrid, the art criticism of my work was different. The art experts ignored what was obvious in my work; because it was about gardens, they had to bring in Rusiñol and more Rusiñol. I was saturated to the last strand of my hair with Rusiñol. I, that I had never seen his works but in engravings! His celebrated topiary gardens impressed me as cardboard constructions. His flowers were artificial. His ultra-correct linear design did not include form. The light was neutral, blind, mute and deaf. Still, our amateurish art critics continued to mention Rusiñol as a landscape painter. All this happened about 1903, and twelve years later, while in Paris, in 1915, during the European war, when I left Paris

195 Article appeared in “Crisol,” June 6, 1931. 196 Winthuysen was a spectator more than a participant on the twice-narrated events that took place with Rusiñol and his bohemian companions. Rusiñol was, in fact, at the heart of a Catalanism movement, greatly regarded today among the Catalans. The author’s critique was a just evaluation of the abstract quality of Rusiñol’s work that may have reflected on his train of thought during his garden design phase in a way that has yet to be proven.

172 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master temporarily, I met Rusiñol personally and saw his paintings in Aranjuez, where I spent several months. Don Santiago was extremely popular; he had a constant court of local admirers. I became his friend; and we worked together translating from the Catalan an article that he had written. He told me that he was incapable of writing in Spanish. I thought it was more a question of his personal opinion. The article was brief and he could have written it in a colloquial style in the same way that he talked to me. I had met the artist in Paris some time ago when, with a group of Catalan artists, we played at being the night bohemians on the streets of Paris. We drank beer, danced on top of the tables and broke glasses at the cafes that those that had money contributed to pay for; it was the time when the Parisian police had to silence our street singing in the middle of the night. Rusiñol was a partisan Catalan; he and his brother were deeply involved in the political separation movement along with others present in our group. That night, they booed a French drunk that had joined the party because he dared to hail Spain. I had not seen Rusiñol since then but I had read his work Mistico, and I appreciated him as writer. Life in Aranjuez was a simple matter to Rusiñol. He did not live in a hotel but in a boarding house, where the owner, a certain Grediana, a socialist, provided him with a good room that was heated with a wood-burning fireplace and meals cooked to his own taste and served at his discretion. Late in the afternoon, he used to go to the gardens, where he spent many hours sitting on a chair in the middle of that humidity with his gouty condition. I want to mention here how a mentally retarded boy used to spend hours watching him work. Don Santiago commented, on a certain occasion, that less mentally privileged people were under the spell of the arts, perhaps saying so in reference to that particular admirer. One time, Don Santiago left his pallet on his chair while he walked a few paces to reach for one object or other. Swift as a thunderbolt, the retarded devotee swiped the blob of yellow color off the pallet and ate it— nobody had time to stop him. Once we finished our daily work, we used to frequent a nearby tavern, on the edge of the River Tajo, where nice, attractive girls waited tables. One of the regulars was an artist painter from the Canary islands although I never saw him paint. His only pastime

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 173 was to admire Don Santiago. He was very convivial and extremely passive; and to that, he always responded by blaming his passivity on his African origin. At the tavern, we used to have several glasses of red wine to warm up our bodies after the long exposure to the damp air in the gardens; then in the evening, we had a drink before dinner at the Casino. Our nights were completed at the local café, where they had card games set up. Don Santiago used to play cards or write parts of a musical comedy of his own invention. In this way, we spent a few pesetas alongside the local peasants that came to bet their money, too, until past midnight. Our routine was broken one day when a pontoon engineer regiment commanded by a certain Mister Parellada,197 who was a comic poet with the pen name of Militón Gonzalez, arrived in Aranjuez to begin maneuvers. It surprised me that a popular literary figure, a known contributor to newspapers and magazines, could be in the military. He was a friend of Rusiñol and went to the café still in his uniform. While we were there, a regular in his regiment approached him to deliver an official message, informing him that one of the mules had come down sick; on account of the poor regular’s entrance and the mule’s situation, the sarcastic poet made some jokes that I thought out of place with the dignity of his station and the audience at the moment. Then, in a bombastic tone, he commented on the silliness that befell most of the famous poets. I listened silently to him out of courtesy but he did not like my lack of response and directed his interpolations to me. I answered, with courtesy, that he was right to say that serious poets sometimes did silly things when comic poets always did them. My barber informed me that Don Santiago used his services. I frankly thought that Don Santiago was not partial to barbers. His hair looked wild and it did not occur to me that he ever used a barber. “He comes often,” said the barber, “and when I see him coming, I play the disappearing act and let my apprentice take

197 Parellada is a gastronomic Catalan restaurant owned by descendants of the poet. Linguistic and cultural differences account here for what seems to be a tense situation. Andalusia and Catalonia occupied then opposed poles separated by semantic and conventions. Today, the rift is narrower due to extended cooperation among the different countries, known before as regions, in Spain.

174 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master care of him. He is hard to please— with, cut this much on this side, leave this side long, some to the front others to the back. I am so scared of him that I never serve his needs.” Such a comedian this Rusiñol, I was convinced that his hair was the product of honest lack of keeping. Anecdotes aside, I spent five months in Aranjuez, and I painted the most sordid paintings that I had done in my life, deaf and dead, a disaster, with such lack of common sense. Then I returned to Madrid. Juan Ramón Jimenez was about to leave for New York to get married. He wanted me to go with him to be best man at the wedding and bring my pictures along to exhibit them in New York. However, I had no means to do that. When he came back, already married to Zenobia, he introduced me in his circle at the Free Teaching Institute and found clients to sell my pictures. At that time, I deepened my friendship with the brothers Machado, Antonio and Manuel— long-time family relations. I made friends with Valle Inclan and Lasso de la Vega and with many other painters, sculptors, literary figures and journalists, and went back to Andalusia through the provincial lands of Sevilla, Cordoba and Granada, where I stayed to paint. I spent my last thousand pesetas in an exhibit at the Vilches Gallery, in 1916, where I had a good variety of works— among them the one I sold to Juan Ramón and a painting from Alcalá de Guadaira that had sold. Besides these two works. I did not sell anything else although the review and public attendance had been excellent. The Infanta Isabel attended the show and treated me with utmost courtesy, not only for my paintings but also for the significance of my illustrious family name. The Principe of Baviera and other distinguished personalities from the high society of Madrid and those that were living in the capital from Sevilla showed up. It was a social success but an almost null economic win. Although I can say that I sold some of the pictures in the show after it closed. Before the opening I sent my wife to Paris to close my studio. That determined for me not to be able to have a place in Paris since the studio’s rent increased enormously with the arrival of the Americans. Paintings were sold at good prices there but I had decided to become a Madrileño and there was nothing I could do about it. I lived in scarcity. I pawned my family’s jewels and silver.

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I sent my wife and son to Sevilla to be cared for by her family. I remained by myself in Madrid, where I already had an ample circle of friends among the high society, and with artists and intellectuals although I confess that I was not a socialite myself. I rented a studio that was also my living quarters. It was then when I painted an unusual work of a young mother and baby who I saw one day begging on the street and convinced to pose for me. The only thing I had to do was to copy her. It was sensational. I painted her a la prima with dark fluid tonalities that were almost watercolor-like; her beautiful face was so sad that looked it like she was crying, in contrast to the gay awakening of the infant. In this way, I united the pictorial and psychological values of the esthetic moment. This was something unique that had never happened to me before and has never happened again. This picture of which I do not have even a photograph, along with other landscapes I sold to an unknown gentleman who had a very sad ending. They say that he lost his reason on account of the sadness of the face in my picture. I lost track of the gentleman and the picture with time. Anglada Camarasa had an exhibit at that time in Madrid that resulted in a widely discussed success. I wrote a review article with the intention of jotting down my impressions of the event. I had the idea of reading these impressions to a public gathering of intellectuals and journalists. They liked it so much that it was published in the “Correspondencia de España.” This was my debut as a journalist; and I confess that I did not write art criticism again in my life. “Correspondencia de España” 24 August, 1916 The Art of Anglada—A Few Comments: The art of Anglada is like the fertile lands of eastern Spain— splendid in its vegetation with gorgeous flashy fruits but little taste. He is an artist who had an enormous fight to depict in his pictures— namely, the sensation received through nature. In that fight, he has presented sensations of nature to us, sometimes out of breath, other times as a winner, and still others as a loser; nature is always depicted as a giver of a sensation of life, strength, faith and happiness and that captures our attention. His whole work is a combat to remit us of his sensations. Most of the

176 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master time, he succeeds in his flashy intent of beauty with full tonalities and precious qualities that make us forget the less-cared-for harmonies in the forms. The unevenness of his work comes from the duality of what he wants to be and is not: a unity of vision and thought. One picture appears as a finished Japanese lacquer, another seems to be the product of a devilish ceramist, and another presents only certain feminine quality of matching tone by tone. Disregarding here the overall effect of whether this has to be of a certain color and that of a different one, as with any other work of the plastic arts, his work is a harmonic symphony where our eyes play and rest. Most ignorant, uneducated persons full of natural prejudices, go to the exhibits to admire the sights of one or another country, or the locals of diverse nationality but Anglada is not exactly this, and he does not have to be. We visit the Prado Museum to delight our senses and in order to be faithful to naturalism with El Greco’s portraits; and entranced by the gentlemen in the portraits, we are convinced of their similarity to the models to the point that we count them among our personal social relations; the doctor, the gentleman with the hand on his chest— who can avoid seeing them as present as darling friends? How much do we care about those persons? Truly, what we care about is the rhythms and harmonies that constitute those works by El Greco. There are hundreds of naturalist portraits that do not awaken our interest even though they present an extremely correct drawing, have good impasto technique, and a detailed finish. In a synthetic artist like Anglada, in a time when replication has less reason for being than in other times when imitation was so important that it was considered utilitarian, why would we want to duplicate reality when we have photography? In our time, imitation is less important than it was before; expression wins over what is lost in imitation. This is what Anglada does. He battles Nature to find the exact sensations that thrilled him in the natural world. This is a new way to see Nature as a product of the material world that is filled with charm for us. It is night converted into day. Anglada lives in a country renown for its forceful harshness. Therefore, he is also vigorous. Add to this the fact that he came

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 177 of age in a culture where charm has exceptional importance. Therefore, it is right to assume that he could not have evolved in any other way. Those paintings in between a pearly and a Parisian gray…Were you able to see them, in our exhibit hall of the Retiro Gardens despite the uncomfortable Vulcan heat and sooty quality of its walls? Did you observe198 our young, modern women crossing in front of the paintings with their fleshy legs seen through gauzy stockings, feathers, vaporous dresses, feline movements, and eyes and lips designed to be seen on their smooth faces at a distance? Did you notice how they complemented Anglada’s pictures even within the claustrophobic blackness of the environment in which they hang and the adamant look of our solemn males? You can imagine all this in Paris or Munich in an immaculate and fluid environment. Whiteness and smoothness that— Oh! — We would need many Angladas to accommodate them among the fierce conquistadors that do not conquer anymore and the orderly inquisitors that do not pray any longer.199 The work of Anglada is a natural product— spontaneous, a bit barbarous, and a lot decadent. In certain works, we doubt whether he ignores certain facts that are and will continue to be painted or whether he suppresses them altogether to increase the expression. His figures are less human in the sense that they do not feel or suffer. They are healthy plants or lucid fruits. Serenity, the legacy of classicism, is not there. How could it be in this tropical, unchecked growth, of tropical vegetation? Anglada’s painting attracts many artists as does the light to the moths. His figure is surrounded by a multitude of disciples and followers. Why analyze each one of his works? We will find beauty and defects in every one of them. Who may be interested in the analysis? Let us retain beauty for those who like to savor life, and in their own way, the strict disciplinarians that do not subjugate or pray will find their

198 The author’s art criticism demonstrates his sharp mind, distinguishing facts on pictures related to society’s changes. The description corresponds to the Fauvism and Expressionism movements that he participated in one way or another. 199 The differences between Spain and the rest of the European countries are here explained in poetic imagery. The author explains the importance of the environment in a metaphor. At the same time, he justifies the vestigial gain, rectitude, and faith as traits no longer imperative but nevertheless still present among the Spanish people.

178 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master own way for they have no desire to be gracefully subjugated by beauty and happiness in life. Through my works and labors I reached a certain prestige. I continued selling some of my works among the circle of intellectuals that I frequented but they could pay little. My situation was very modest and insecure. I decided to apply for a grant to the Junta para Ampliación de Estudios.200 After long, complicated bureaucratic negotiation, thanks to Sorolla’s support, I had my grant. What was the content of it? My task was to visit the Historic Gardens of Spain, collect all the data, and travel from one place to the other— all for fifty duros! Obviously, I did it spending what little money I had. Travel in third class and walking to places, photography, designs, field measurements and triangulation with string and hooks, library and archive research, a botany class that they made a requirement. Even with my little stipend. I was able to go through many gardens and with the amassed materials, I gave a slide lecture with my own illustrations at the Ateneo of Madrid in January 22, 1922.

The Art of Painting When I lived in Spain, at one time, the learning process of the Art of Painting was no more than any other form of art.201 Painting and Sculpture were then called Imitative Arts. The materials employed had been in use since the time of Murillo and even were used in the workshop of Pacheco, who used light color canvas primed with an emulsion or porridge of clay mixed with glue, some linseed oil and honey. The canvas already nailed to the frame was readied smoothly with this mixture that produced a non-absorbent surface that was good to draw on with charcoal. The charcoal came from coal dust. The slim charcoal pieces were processed from wicker cuttings, trimmed to fit the size of a cow’s bell and

200 Equivalent to Office of the Board for Continuing Education, this official organization had been created in the 1850s to stimulate scientific studies among science students. The first president was Santiago Ramón y Cajal, winner of the Nobel Prize for his discoveries about the nervous system. 201 The author put into practice the principles of painting explained in Pacheco’s manual. This is a practical summary of his applied experience that he used after his return from his first stay in Paris in 1907.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 179 pushed to pack it in with a mallet. The bell was thrown into a fire where the twigs carbonized. The fire provided the required intensity to produce very smooth, thin charcoal pieces with which to draw. Brushes were made out of mongoose or sable hair sheaves that were tied and stuck straight into thimble forms that were then shaved for an even finish. The short broom-like sheaves of hair were then inserted into the hollow end of a bird’s feather. In this way, all of the hairs were placed in diminishing sizes to achieve a pointed form. Then the brush was conveniently adjusted to a handle. The linseed oil was obtained by grounding the linseeds into a mill that was conveniently pressed to extract the oil. Two methods were used to purify the oil extraction with alcohol or exposure to sunlight in a crystal vessel. Colors were obtained from natural substances. Black bone was best when obtained from burned pigs’ bone kneecaps. Ocher was found in natural earth; red ocher, after burning, changed to a vividly beautiful crimson color. Natural colors had to be ground with oil on a stone slab with a wooden pounder and then collected and tied into tripe casings like sausages. The artists only needed to puncture them to squeeze out the color on the palette. Prepared colors could also be stored in small crystal or vitrified earthen pots covered with a thin layer of water to avoid desiccation. I will not overextend myself by explaining recipes. Interested parties can find them in Pacheco’s “Art of Painting.” Today, they are useless; but I mentioned them as a way to bring to life a sensation of what it was like to teach painting at the time. I mention the techniques here because I tried them myself, although painters’ supplies such as canvases, brushes and paint were already commercially manufactured in my time. What I also mean, though, is that the artist can prepare his supplies, if needed; utensils and ingredients manually prepared are in many instances better than the mixed-up products that are commercially available today. I reached the conclusion that the temporal quality of a proud civilization and the flamboyant quality of our technical achievements would prove but straw in the current of social changes. Sooner or later, we will have another universal cataclysm to wipe out our civilization. The Egyptian pyramids and the Parthenon witness the fleeting quality of civilizations. Who

180 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master could have told Queen Karomamá202 or a vestal that bestial invaders would destroy a civilization? After the war of 1914, society went back to old technical means like sail navigation. In most cases, the common factory worker is an appendage to the machines. He has no advantage to save his strength with machines when he spends so much energy inventing engines. Workers today live in two worlds: the traditional, day-to-day subsistence and mechanical labor. It is hard on them. The world has become smaller; distances are reduced. Nations have an excess of population and not enough food production. Bourgeois moralists, scientists and sociologists cry out for birth control that may lead to a scarcity of slave workers to the industries or soldiers to slaughter. Little or any has my digression to do with painting supplies and even less with Art. Human history witnessed that Art’s needs are as important as food to man. Progress comes from an empirical process to reason. From time to time, we go back to our origins. Reason can err. I know that the majority of people beginning to read through these lines must consider me a fool; when I talk about learning, performing and grasping the concept in painting, I intend to continue on the same course of thought that I used to talk about painting tools. Current art critics, pseudo-literati, pseudo- philosophers are the worse for it. So are the gangs of young artists that run after numerous art tendencies in modern time. They believe that the only thing they need to do to attain fame is to buy art supplies and fill canvas with scribbles and garish colors. Irresponsible art critics call their production esthetic tendencies. Other artists intend to give value to their senseless production for its message content since they cannot valorize them for what they paint. Let me counsel young artists, in case they try to find the concept of art sustained by El Greco or Velazquez. For the latter, study the painting of Las Meninas; for the first, I recommend La Trinidad. If you know how to see them you will find, expressed with painting, what cannot be explained by the authors’ words or any literary comment written for the purpose by the artists but it is

202 th 25 dynasty queen of the third millennium, whose cast-bronze statue is part of the Louvre collection. Encyclopedia Britannica.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 181 difficult to see. The majority of people have eyes but do not see, have ears but do not hear. I do not direct myself to the inexperienced artist only, because both artists, El Greco and Velazquez, had been contemplated and admired by many talented mature people for a long time without going further than grazing at the surface of the paintings. I say this because what matters about artist painters is what they accomplish. It is not what they say; it is what they do. You would find in Leonardo, Durer and others a correlation between their accomplished work and their writings. I used classic examples in reference to my previous sanction. In modern times we do not have artists from whom we can study execution and read their theories. We must be careful about any assertion on Modern artists because, in the first place, not enough time has passed to purify their ideas. In the second place, we have exceptions like Picasso, the most famous in pictorial value, and the most revolutionary and multiple in his productions that could be troublesome. Picasso follows a confusing zigzag pattern. He does not follow a straight line. We are not certain of the truth in his work. Picasso is a paradoxical, cheeky artist from the town of Malaga. He tells us that most of what he does is in order to confuse imitators and make fun of the bourgeois and extort their money. Be aware, at least he is honest, compared to others that pretend to be prodigies but are instead humbugs. The Official Schools represent a bigger danger. In the old times, even not-so- good artists— master painters— had disciples in their studios, although such cases were few and could be avoided. Not today. The art students or apprentices without economical means register in one of those schools that have a taste for art prizes, honors travel tours and you name it. On top of this, suffering the dictatorship of a mule master,203 we all know that teachers have to take a register exam to test the knowledge of subjects that are not related to the quality of being an artist. Teachers are honest professionals; after all, it is their business. However, to be a Master is different; it is the opposite of being a teacher.

203 Maestro malo and Maestro mulo have differing meanings: bad teacher, mule teacher. The author makes a pun to please his own taste for fun.

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Today, the beauty of folk art disappears rapidly. It is being substituted by silly industrialized, artisan production that has lost inspiration. The same phenomenon happened in the traditional trades. The Arts have not fared better in a losing game. Even in decadent times, some embers could hold the spirit of tradition. As I mentioned before, at the end of the 19th century, in my time, we still had reminders of the trades of ceramic, wrought iron and painting in the city of Seville. Painting, although reduced to a style known as Batalla, holds memories of good times. Besides, we had the specialized work of the mentioned trades. In ceramics, we had names like Almágena, Zinguizarra, Almiarra, and so forth. Mudejar204 styles which implied a definition of composing materials which suggested ceramic results in accordance to past canons of beauty. In the Art of Painting, I had the opportunity to compare, in a reverse way, paintings of the Batalla genre with authentic works by Pacheco. They had a similar pictorial quality that denounced similar schools’ provenances. Later, everything changed. In my time, the traditional painting had disappeared— even Romantic painting was gone. Artist painters were either bankrupt academics or they were considered the modern painters with whom I started my office. Usually, modern painters came back from Rome, followers of Fortuny, painting the sun raw and casually, in the new current of Paris— Neoimpressionism— and they passed over the photographic style of Messonier. Only Zuloaga, who came to Seville in the last years of the century, brought in the typical Spain that was so well captured by Manet. Zuloaga studied the classic Sevillian period and made remarkable works of art. However, instead of continuing with the same concept that would had made him into an extraordinary artist, he got sidetracked in his intent and instead brought qualities to his canvas that the bourgeois of the time valued but that, unfortunately, are of less importance in true Art. What a pity! All that I am saying has little to do with my actual work as a master painter— if I am allowed to call myself by such a designation. I was a landscape painter. I have done work infrequently in academies and studios except when experimenting. My work was

204 Art styles resulting from Arabic and Renaissance elements in architecture and plastic arts that were predominant in Spain in the 12th to 16th centuries.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 183 in “plein air,” where I could not use any of the media that I have mentioned— but instead use only a few tubes of color paint. My palette was very simple; I used few colors. With them, I toiled hard to capture light and environment. Although, I confess that classical concepts never ceased to weigh on me. Perhaps, I was tainted by the idea of Impressionism, and so I took more from nature than from other artists. Each one of us is a child of the time in which he lives. I did not save, and I am sorry for it, my early landscapes. I recall now, that even before getting acquainted with the Impressionist movement, without even thinking about it, I was one myself, an Impressionist. It was not exactly along the line of Manet that owed so much to Velazquian traits but along the line of Monet and Sisley. Let me leave this theme alone, I do not want to fall prey to what I criticize about artists painters— their being what they say, not being represented by what they do. About my painting, I can say that I painted what I liked. I also know that I stopped short in the middle of the road of my desires. The materiality of an artist painter as trade besides the media, so important for the quality and finish point of the work of art, depends on his daily toil. It is not possible to be an artist painter by hobby— it must be by trade. Graphic representation on a canvas requires a self-centered and constant assiduity. All of the artist painters that deserve that name have gained this designation from their intensive and constant labor of educating the hand and the eye. The individual must have the temperament, the intuition or even the grace. The holder of those qualities could give a sensation through line and color although this may result in an incorrect expression. In art, conception is secondary to delicate touch but if correct form is not present, then delicacy blurs. There are many works of still life so realistic that we can practically hold the objects in our hands, vulgarly speaking. What comes so easy with today’s photography, the old masters could do from sight; we all know the genre of pears and melons that could be captured for a morphology catalogue. There is no doubt that the execution requires ability but we are talking here about Beaux Arts— that is, Aesthetics, not only sensory abilities but the most elevated expression in Art, Emotion. In the old days, imitations were very useful. Painting and sculpture were classified as Imitative Arts in the past. Today, we substitute

184 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master them with mechanical means. Even so, a handmade object per se reflects the spirit; the human quality that moves the hand, therefore it has supremacy of manufactured over industrialized objects. Although I say this for those that make a distinction between terra-cotta and porcelain. For the general public, this is a confusing concept. This is very natural because the beaux arts that are beautiful without necessarily having beauty require sensibility and intelligence from executor and receptor. In the old days, Art was produced to serve religion or the refined aristocrats; Art was produced for the cultivated minds. The representational purpose in a material sense was, many times, a fanaticism, alien to aesthetic, not far from what it is today. Art production is for the intellectuals; today, the difference is that the general public is cultured, broad and powerful and can pay for art with their money. Art has to be done in accordance to their taste or to be assessed as materially worthy. Obtaining such art pleases their vanity, and having art allows them to be able to say, “I am an intellectual too.” And so, they pretend to buy intellectuality with their money. The Artist and the Art Critic fend for or try to defend Art, explaining the difference between traditional Art and the industrial or mechanical. In this way, with many an apparent, purified concept, sometimes noble and elevated, most of the time false and crafty. These artists and critics encircle the audience to extract the duros from the unaware bourgeois for the aesthetic value they attribute to their works or for the material value that they assign to them. Art is the collection of rules to make a thing. Beaux Arts are aligned with the creation of Beauty. Painting and sculpture are imitative arts. They cannot be otherwise because if they do not seek out nature to extract beauty, what other end can they have? In science, there is a place for abstraction but art has to be expressed in matter. Sculpture is free form. Painting is line and color. It forms lines and color where the artist seeking emotions successfully creates beauty. Art implementation requires knowledge; and the art of painting is the most difficult and complicated. It requires great virtue to attain. Drawing requires years of practice to educate the hand and the eye. Perhaps we will get to an exact copy of the model but even

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 185 then it is not enough when we ignore the constitution of a model and we fall in default; we create monsters to the slightest distraction. When we ignore geometry, we cannot represent shapes and project them. Furthermore, if we suppress the rules of colors, our work would be reduced to colors according to taste but not to the laws of color, light and environment. If we do not go deep into it, the result would be erratic and not meet our expectations. The concept of symmetry, proportion and order has to be present. Given the possibility of mechanical art without emotion, boredom would take hold of us. We were talking about the necessary steps needed to learn the trade, and we have said that it consists of the education of the eye to copy the model and the knowledge of the model in its diverse manifestations. Without the acquisition of wisdom, there is very little that we can do with our endowment. What is the best way for learning? It is only the continuous practice until we reach the exact portrait of what we seek to represent. In my time, children were taught to copy eyes, noses, mouth, ears, half-profile faces, full faces, feet and hands, all of them from flat prints made out of lines. Shading came afterwards. The drawing was done in charcoal— easy to erase and correct. When the teacher decided it was correct, it was transferred to sturdier paper, doing so by smudging the back-side with charcoal and pressing the lines of the original with a stone pencil to obtain a decal on which we could continue working. Then, with a rag, the student tossed away the excess charcoal. Once the drawing had been purged of excessive lines, it was a matter of adding the subtle shades from the model sheet with a graphite pencil and the stumping of rolled paper or soft tissue. Shading was done by applying gradual pressure from the lights to the darks to emphasize the deep darks in a gradient tone. Everything was done in a precise and clean way, using the eraser when the tone values had not met their purpose and always working from the light to the dark. Once the student had demonstrated proficiency in that kind of drawing he was permitted to do plaster cast drawings of feet, hands, and heads. These were reproductions from classics to allow the acquisition by the young student of what was then considered more beautiful, at the same time help him obtain

186 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master practice in draftsmanship. Copying of plaster casts was done with the same care of the tints, half tints and reverberations to the precise final form of the model as was used with charcoal drawing. Copying from live models was the next step. Color and composition was the final exercise. The study of Art History and Concepts of Art proceeded simultaneously with the practical classes. Students learned about landscape by copying from landscape painting. They could also attend the Museum to copy other paintings. This was the Academy205 in my time, where behaved, excelling children obtained cash prizes that were helpful since most of them were from artisan families, some of them of very modest means. After many years of that kind of toil, some of them used to become painter artists, but this generally turned out badly, because some were never able to make a living from their trade. Others drifted to the industrial applications of art or to teaching. Most of them hung up their aprons and shifted toward any profession that could feed their bellies. The best of it is that those that made it to become artist painters could not draw or paint. I say this because, in my time, the amorphous artists were classified as either draftsmen or colorists. I have no idea of the percentage of students who graduated as artist painters from the School. My guess is not even one percent. From it, ninety-nine were mediocre and on top of this, they were almost illiterate. Until then, the teaching staff in the School was selected from an open, official medal competition in State Exhibits or by provincial or municipal government assignment. Later on, open teacher positions were competed for by competitive examination. I am ignorant of the method followed by the regular schools to fill up teaching vacancies; the subject is beyond my interest. I only know that the few artist painters that can be considered as such, in our time, hardly keep a connection to their Schools. Each one of them matured at a different time, and generally did so outside the country.

205 The author here talks about the Academy of Beaux Arts in Seville. This docent center, still in great demand, has now obtained university status, and that has been the cause of friction with the Docent University of Seville, a much older institution but not one having better teaching ability.

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In my youthful years, painting exhibits were full of huge canvas with compositions furnished with natural-sized figures representing: the death of such and such or: the battle of whatever. Most paintings had historical subject matter. Ferrant, Padilla, and others were considered good in history painting; they produced extensively painted canvases acquired by the Government that are now hanging in our Museum. Rosales was the last exponent of the Spanish classics; classicism was dying with the use of immense surface canvas, which is, no doubt, still with some discernible value. When Sorolla appeared on the scene, he swept away what was left of classicism with his luminosity and coarseness. Romantic art was gone and the academic painting of Madrazo had departed. It was then time for Genre painting. What this genre meant was Truth and Realism. Some of the works from that time were more or less like extensive, illuminated photographs, with dark tones, even with the use of a complex color palette. This is additional information that can be added to what I already said on Sorolla, Bilbao and his followers. The notable thing was that the Museum of Prado was open to the public. Yet more notable is the fact that I encountered more than one of the masters of the moment who would take me to admire Velazquez, gesticulating emotionally in front of the canvas and then proceed afterwards, in a very contrary way, to describe their own work. How did they look at Velazquez and why did they look at and admire him so much? I never understood. They admired Goya, too, although not as much as Velazquez. El Greco was under scrutiny. It was so strange! On top of this, he suffered from astigmatism. Velazquez! Velazquez! Particularly from the early stages, Los Borrachos, we must learn from him!, they instructed. ”This portrait by El Greco is very good; but please do look at it attentively!” a certain gentleman told me; and then he got a pencil out of his pocket and placed it on top of the canvass, without any respect. “One eye is higher than the other!” he said, “Goya is fine but very shoddy. Velazquez! Oh, Velazquez! From him we must learn!” During his monologue, I said to myself: ‘If he says that, how can this fellow paint the way he does?’ They would not even utter a word on Rafael, Titian, Tintoreto, Rubens or the primitives. They would not look at them or even have erudite discussions

188 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master about them; it was the same thing about Durero or about the rest of the immense richness held at the Prado. In Seville, my land, besides the antique art in churches and Museum, we had modern painters— Jimenez de Aranda, Gonzalo Bilbao, Garcia Ramos and other minor artists. Parlade was a more or less classical painter, perhaps, having with more weight than others did, but he was a member of an aristocratic family and therefore was excluded from the circle of artist painters. The rest was a collection of painters that did gypsy portraits, flowers, and genre painting. Others were painters of fortune landscapes— La Giralda, La Torre del Oro, the river and the nude white poplars— to sell to the Englishmen since by then all of the tourists were considered “ingleses.” In my time, the pensioners of the Academy headed for Rome. Villegas, a Sevillian, was Director to the Spanish Academy in Rome. He was considered a colorist and he had the prestige of having sold to a Vanderbilt “The Triumph of the Dogaresa”206 for one hundred and sixty thousand duros! In those times in Seville, with one hundred and sixty thousand duros, one could consider himself a potentate. The social milieu of the time, in Seville, was not exactly the best for development of the Liberal Arts. That trade of painting and the practitioners were more or less deprecated. Gonzalo Bilbao was an exception. He was admired. Ladies from high society visited his studio. I remember, one time, one of the ladies was contemplating a large composition that had Bilbao titled “Moras en la Terraza.” It consisted of two Moorish ladies, or at least ones that were dressed like Moors, sitting on top of a parapet. One had dropped a slipper on the ground. And the lady contemplating the painting said: “Oh! The slipper! How natural the slipper is!” And taking her leave, she said: “I will never forget the slipper!” I agree with Zuloaga that only good or bad painters exist. I say that because the painter, the Artist, no matter the acquired knowledge he has, if at the moment of implementation he is not moved by artistic emotion, his effort will be worthless. From his own effort, his own internal vision is from where geniality can spring; because the other genius, the genius of ignorance, only

206 The Walter Collection in Baltimore has the original or a copy of it.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 189 produces smudges that surprise us in children. Modern pedagogy investigates the accidental drops and smudges as revelations of aptitudes; these are the aptitudes that, when present, are so effectively erased by the mule professors in the special schools. Art, in its higher form, requires knowledge of rules. Art without rules is not Art. It must be called by a different name. Even when there is beauty in production, we cannot call it Art when there is ignorance. Although the quality of inspiration is prominent in the world of Fine Arts productions, it is still not Art. My initiation into painting took place during my visits to the Conservator Trinidad Bertendona, who kept a studio in Seville. I remember that he had a great love for singing birds. His home was full of caged birds. Goldfinches and greenfinches were kept apart and were unaware of each other’s presence, and in this way they sang real concerts. I asked him once why he did not have canaries. He told me that he did not have them because the goldfinches imitated them and spoiled their singing. I think a lot about Pacheco’s workshop. What respect for his disciple! When the cultivated gentlemen of the golden century looked at Velazquez’s still-life paintings, they commented that it was a pity for such a greatly talented artist to have passed his time in lower works and not in higher subject matter. To that, Velazquez answered that he preferred to be first on the one than last on the other. What love and understanding in the teacher! What vision Velazquez had, how serene and humble was this man who never rejected the contributions from nature in the work of his predecessors— El Greco, the Venetian artists, and even Rubens. In this way, he achieved what he did. When Manet confronted Velazquez in El Prado, he said that the rest of the paintings in the Museum appeared artificial compared to Velazquez’s. Today, artist painters intending to make their art by ignoring the elements that constitute it will only produce crippled art with no arms, without legs. I do not say all these things for myself since I have been all my life idle and indolent, or perhaps I have satisfied myself with the ideas instead of the executions. The question is that I am leaving this life without knowing how to paint.

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CHAPTER IX

How I became a landscape architect-Botany class-Scholarship to study Historic Gardens-My lecture at the Athenaeum in 1922-Job assignment: Garden of the Minor Palace of the Moncloa Open Spaces-Trips to the Sierra and collection of small sketches-1924 Exhibit-Recognition-Private gardens-Becoming known-Boecillo y Tablada-Family life-1926-Alone with my little boy-A miracle-The kitsch artist-Seville- Endorsed article- Letter to Maria. 1919 When I decided to dedicate myself to the study of artistic gardening, I had to seek the official support of the Office for Continuing Education.207 I took an examination that was adapted to my special branch of knowledge. Passing the examination was necessary for accreditation since I did not have any title to support my aspirations except the fact of my inclination to paint old gardens and write notes about those models. It was not out of the question to give me an examination, but I perceived that the examiners knew even less of the subject than I did since they did not know anything. On our second meeting, they had the nerve to ask me, as if they were teachers, what I had told them on the first meeting. Such a procedure, given my way of thinking, could have been enough for me to give up, but since I had made up my mind to take to term my task, I had no other way than to count on the opinion of the members of the Office of Continuing Education. Therefore, I requested the support of influential personalities, and as a result, Sorolla and Juan Ramón Jimenez recommended me. Once my artistic capability was proved, the Committee insisted that I take a course in Botanical Science. I deemed the requirement very useful and went to see the Director of the Museum of Natural Sciences in order to register for the course. I found the gentleman engaged in conversation with another eminent scientist. He told him in no uncertain terms— that was forgivable, since he was who he was— “By the way, here we have this gentleman who wants to study landscape gardening without knowing Botany.”

207 Junta para la Ampliación de Estudios: Literal meaning is Council of Continuing Education.

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I was disparaged by his distempered remark but I came around and explained to him that my intention was other than botany, for gardening referred to design, aesthetic and historical significance of ancient gardens. Besides that, I added, I had come to his institution to take a class in Botany since it would had been useless to repeat it, in case I had had it before. I ended my meetings with the Committee on friendly terms but not without further impediments to continue what I had in mind to accomplish. I did not lose my time. With extreme scarcity of means and many sacrifices, I managed to visit the ancient gardens in the center of Spain. I wrote many notes and drafted the garden plans that did not exist previously. I investigated the history of the gardens [at the Central Library in Madrid and the Escorial]. With all that graphic material, photographs and transparencies for projections, I gave a talk in the Athenaeum208 in December of 1922 that was a resounding success. All my achievements209 altogether convinced the Committee of the worth of my intention. They asked me to repeat my lecture at the Student Headquarters at the Segovia Popular University. It was published in its totality in the Architecture Revue of Madrid and in the Revue of the Ancient and Modern Art in Paris. It was an accomplishment. Coinciding with my talk, the Board of Trustees for the Minor Palace of the Moncloa placed an order for the design of its gardens. Here I went from acolyte to a friar, so to speak. The Board of Trustees was nominated by the Society of the Friends to the Art. The Minor Palace of Moncloa was a royal donation to the

208 Handwritten note on the text of the lecture says that he wanted to express publicly his gratitude to Sorolla then gravely ill. 209 Winthuysen drafted the plans, photographed and studied the following gardens: La Abadia, Palace of the Duque of Alba, Renaissance Style, destroyed. El Escorial, Escurialense Style, Gardens of the Monastery and details. Aranjuez: Baroque Style Garden of the Island, the remains of the old topiary garden, Gallery of the Topiary Garden, Conservation in Isabel II time, Plan of the Topiary Gardens, The Fountain of Hercules, Details of the Topiary Gardens, El Pardo: Neo-Classic Style, The Royal Villa, The Zarzuela, The Casita of the Prince, The Royal Villa. La Granja: French Classicism, General Plan, Topiary garden of the Queen, Topiary Garden of the Cascade, Topiary Garden of the Fame. Brihuega: General Plan of the Textile Factory. Bobadilla Del Monte: Neo-Classic Style, General Plan. The Escorial: Neo-Classic Style, La Casita of the Price, The Casino of the Infante, Details of the fountain and table. In Madrid--: Neo-classic Style, Casa de Campo the Small Garden of the Prince. La Moncloa General Plan. La Florida, Neo-classic Style, Garden of Cano Gordo, Garden of the Paso, Garden of the Princess, Garden of the Pine-cone, Garden of the Gully. In Valencia--: Neo-Classic Style, Garden of Monforte General Plan and details. In Madrid:—Neo-Classic Style, Garden of the Alameda of Osuna general plans and detail of the Iron Gate.

192 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master government for its restoration and future use as a museum. The Marquis of Comillas was the President. The rest of the Board was the Duke and Duchess of Parcent, the Marquis of Montesa, the Count of Casal and Mr. Joaquin Ezquerra. Coincidentally, I met Ezquerra in the library of The Escorial. When he understood the content of my investigation, he introduced me to the salon circle of the Duchess of Parcent that was an intellectual center of discussion for aristocrats and politicians who were lovers of fine arts. There, it was decided to give me the assignment of designing and building the Gardens of the Minor Palace of the Moncloa. This was my first work of garden design. It was a job of applied technique of garden designs— it was not an investigational assignment. Fortunately, my architectural inclinations and my practice in drafting plans qualified me to do the work. The Moncloa’s granite stonework alone cost around fifteen thousand pesetas; the cost was less than the cost of my patient direction in designing, planting and touching each brick and piece of stone with my own hands. It was a work for the love of it. I was servant to the honor of my initiative that everybody, all, except…210 “The Hackle of the Pine Growth at the University City.” Crisol, July 15, 1931. Since the beginning of the downcast works at the University City that barbarously destroyed the only natural park that was part of Madrid, I had made up my mind not to return to those surroundings. One of this park’s corners had been the depository of loving work during many years from someone who has as his religion Art and Nature. The meaning of this cannot be grasped by the uninitiated. To build a garden is not only to combine rhythms, like in any other artistic construction; the elements that constitute a garden have a life of their own. They have expression, private beauty, and internal energy. They are living beings that we fear hurting when we touch them or perhaps we fear deforming them. We are afraid that excess manipulation will subtract what is essential to their nature, what artistic creation cannot surpass. Closing our eyes, we can imagine what those beings will be when

210 The text is here interrupted to include the content of the article published by Crisol. The editor-typist of the memoirs, Maria Hector Vazquez, decided that the artist could express his feeling better in this way.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 193 time erases the traces of handy work and the elements begin to order themselves using their inborn beauty. The same principle applies to the masonry work in a garden. It has to be natural, in harmony with the plants that embrace and eventually cover it. It is made of inert materials. Soon, nature will provide the germs of life— small gray, red or green dots that will extend over its surface, giving it color and the throb of life giving it the softness of existence. The fountain in a garden becomes a world; its statue is not the same as one we see in a street. Given time, nothing remains in a garden to indicate the hand of the artisan. The only thing that remains is the order that the intellect has transmitted to it. “N’avez vous pas vu comme un jardin sans jardinier est joli de lui même?” • Rodin. In this way, the small gardens of our Andalusia are, like the Moorish orchard in between, whitewashed walls, natural extensions to the residence. This is how the ancient gardens in the cloisters were. This was so even until the time of the extensive planning projects, like Aranjuez, where a multitude of playful fountains displayed ancient, classic mythical stories, interpolated by mature trees with its seedlings. As a writer from the 18th century says in his description of Aranjuez, the apparent uncontrolled growth contributed to sight delight. Trees that were never pruned or trimmed: it almost looked as if the garden came from spontaneous generation except for its visible pattern, like an undisclosed garden without gardener. Forty millions pesetas was the cost of the undoing of the Moncloa. Hundreds of thousands pesetas were calculated to acquire exotic conifers to compose a landscape that is alien to our nature. They were to add flamboyance, to serve a cultural trend— and the un- doers of the Moncloa found no fault in shattering our unique landscape, while the desolate planes of the barren Madrid211 could have been enriched with vegetation.

211 The Gardens at the Minor Palace of Moncloa, Florida, Moncloa University City were destroyed during the civil war of 1936. Winthuysen’s description of the Moncloa found in Jardines Clásicos de España, pages 124 to 131, with photographs, plans and details of the Minor Palace gardens. Editor’s handwritten note found in the text.

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“Open Spaces” Moncloa The Royal Site of the Florida (Moncloa) The Royal Site of the Florida resulted from the addition of several private properties to the Moncloa site. The first acquisition was from Princess Pio. It had a palace, gardens and orchards. The property dated from the 17th century. The original owner was the Marquis of Liches. Later it became a pleasure place for the famous Duchess of Alba. Her gracious figure came to us through the oil painting and caprichos of the genial, powerful artist who touched on the concept of Modern Art, over whose work, half a century later, babbled Impressionism’s first words.212 Not too far from it, Goya had his own property, the so-called La Quinta del Sordo,213 which is no longer standing. During the Duchess’ time, these country places were a mixture of pleasurable and utilitarian gardens. No descriptions have come to us. From documentation available and the unspoiled properties that did come to us, we know the topography of the land and the inventories of its trees and plants when the property of the Duchess of Alba became part of the Royal Patrimony. We could perceive from this information that the gardens did not have boxwoods or other plants that were typical of the gardens of past times and that they had a pictorial, poetic meaning with epic flavor. The garden continued inside of the Minor Palace of the Florida on a decorative theme. If Goya was not directly involved in the decoration, the style is witness to his hand. The bedroom simulated an arbor with hinged shades, some were closed, others half opened which allowed seeing the flowers of an imaginary garden. The backside of the Minor Palace reposes on a terrace. The balcony facing the sierra was finished with iron railings and granite pillars ending in spheres made of the same rock and done in

212 The author refers to Francisco the Lucientes y Goya, 1746-1828. 213 Literally, the Deaf Man’s Villa refers to Goya’s deafness during the last part of his life when he lived near the Royal Court, in Madrid.

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Escurialense style. These fixtures were also present in the palace of the Zarzuela. At a ninety-degree angle of a strong contention wall, an ample stairway that turns on a ninety-degree angle descends towards the flat land of the butter-making shop that was located under the terrace. The terrace gave access to a gully that was later filled up during the kingdom of Fernando VII and made into a garden done in poor taste— with little grass meadows, winding paths, huge conifers and other spread-out bushes that almost covered it. Everything was in a state of abandonment but not occluded of poetic feeling. That is at the time of the donation of the Real Sitio de la Florida by Royal decree on the 23 October of 1918 to the Society of the Friends of the Art. The Society gave me the project to do the conservation on the Sitio of the Florida. I started this new task in 1921. From old engravings of the garden, I noticed that part of the walls of this garden had finished, decorative statues. When I studied it, the only masonry detail was a circular reservoir on the lower level with a granite border and a central column of the same rock. It was finished with a lead decoration from which the water spouted. The garden planting dated from the 19th century, when the architectural style had parted from neoclassic to a decadent manner. Even so, the walls enclosing the garden and the big conifers present at the site conferred to it a remarkable Spanish harshness. Although without any detail of particular interest, within the enclosure it had a beautiful aspect when seen from the top railed balcony and promenade. In reality, it was an abandoned garden totally impracticable for walking through— a nest to vermin and pernicious germs, impossible to conserve using the plan for which it had been designated. For these reasons, the overgrowth that covered the soil and walls was removed, leaving the architectural design and the big trees exposed. Construction of an oval, small reservoir in granite rock where an ancient rock provided for the waterspout and a new planting of a neoclassic topiary restored the higher level ground. Trellis covering of the walls for the rose bushes and an open wall space for niches to contain the ancient busts that were part of the property was part of my conservation. One fir tree and two magnolias were left on site from the old planting. Other small trees

196 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master and bushes that interfered with the overall composition had to be removed. The inclined plane uniting the two levels of this garden had been clumsily converted into stairs, losing in that way the planes revealing the parapet. I therefore proceeded to remove the stairs and restore the original inclined plane. The lower level was ordered around a pre-existing sunken reservoir, a roundabout, surrounded by brick and granite stone benches and paved with cobblestone. Embedded in one of the walls and at the main axis of the composition, a figure fountain was constructed. I used the figure of a child with a seashell that used to be part of an old fountain. I found it as a decorative motif over the main entrance of the palace. I had it removed and with it and ancient column sphere endings, I composed the fountain. The triangular-shaped garden was replanted with topiary garden boxes of baroque design, leaving in between enough space for the asymmetrical big trees. Following the same trend, I proceeded to construct and plant other details, always looking for harmonic solutions within the general design, and always paying attention to each aspect and making them avoid dissonance with the old fabric. In this way, in a short time after finishing the garden project of the La Florida,214 with steady growth and acquired patina, it blended with the pre-existing old walls and the work of the 19th century. For the general aspect, this garden was neither an imitation nor a copy. Only details had been worked on and original solutions provided, and as such, it could be counted as a continuation of the general trend of the classic gardens of central Spain. A few months after my lecture at the Athenaeum, in Madrid, in May 1923, I was reading complacently, with the self-absorption of desire to be the author, the essay: “Ruins and Misfortunes of Madrid,” by Juan de la Encina, in the newspaper La Voz. I was surprised to find my name mentioned in the article: “Is it not true, my friend Winthuysen,” it said, “that a landscape gardener could plan here, without excessive cost or work, a wonder of amenity?” Although I felt proud to be mentioned in such an important subject,

214 The newly planned garden solution was totally destroyed during the civil war of 1936- 1939. Photographs of the garden can be seen in Jardines Clásicos de España and reproduced, if needed. The above mentioned is a personal parenthesis typed and handwritten note from the editor and typist Maria Hector Vazquez.

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I had my doubts whether I should answer publicly. In any case, I thought I should take the advantage of the moment, at least, to contribute for the purpose of keeping the public interest alive for the little-understood beauties of Madrid. I resolved to do it; and La Voz published an extensive article under the title mentioned above. In December of the same year, 1923, I answered an open letter by Juan de la Encina with another article: “To the Art Critic Juan de La Encina. The Dismembering of the Sad Urban Trees of Madrid,” followed by “Pruning of the Trees at the Paseo del Prado.” In this way, in October 1928, La Voz published another article: “The Gardens of Madrid.” Only this time, it began with a preliminary note from the publisher: “With the present article begins the collaboration in La Voz, of Mr. Javier de Winthuysen, artist and technician of gardening, eminent figure in this difficult specialty, distinguished art painter. We rest assured that his works would be of great interest to our numerous readers.” From then on, I published two or three articles per month, until April 1930, when the newspaper folded and was replaced by the Crisol in which I continued publishing my articles for two more years. In 1932, I wrote for the newspaper Luz and later in the Diario de Madrid, until 1935. Last but not least, in 1942, I contributed my articles to the newspaper Arriba. At the same time, during all those years, I had my articles published by Magazine of Architecture, La Esfera, Estampa, Magazine of Public Works, and Spanish Magazine of Art.215 The public exposure to the relevance of mistreating the urban trees in the city of Madrid created some antagonism from the responsible parties. At the same time, it won me an assignment to participate in “Memoria Sobre la Ciudad” that was edited by the city council of Madrid for the contest Anteproyectos Sobre la Ciudad: City Planning Proposals. This book written by an assorted number of specialists is still used as reference material. The content served as guide to the jury in the contest; its President, a notable European urban developer, congratulated me for my work.

215 The titles of the articles are listed at the end of the general index and give an idea of the importance and scope of the themes covered, some still of public interest. Editor’s note was found in the integral text of the typed memoirs; the note resulted from cooperation between Winthuysen and Maria Hector Vazquez.

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My triumph only attracted envy. It looked to me, in a contradictory way, more like a handicap. Nonetheless, I had good luck in my open country excursions when I painted a series of small-format landscape views of the sierra and outskirts of Madrid.216 It was in the years 1921 to 1923. The landscapes were Impressionistic in style but they had little to do with the French Impressionism— that was logical, since the environment of Central Spain totally differs from the North of France. With them, I had one more new exhibit in 1924, in Madrid. I sold widely in the exhibit and outside of that venue as well but at modest prices. After that, I was very involved with garden projects, and I stopped painting. There was another motive for me to give up painting: namely, the absurd diversity of modern tendencies, with their so-called originalities which had nothing to do with my concept of esthetics, that weighed on me in the sense that they made me think whether I was an outmoded artist incapable of evolving. Since in my art I only credited the dilettante aspect of painting, the thought of anchylosis217 was not only unacceptable to me but also repellent. Therefore, I took shelter in my gardens. It was only fifteen years later, after not painting at all, when I set up my residence in Barcelona, in 1940, when I was, already cleansed from Modernity’s hesitations when I began my last Impressionist mode. My last painting mode was the best to me, if we consider my work to be an offering to the “eternal classicism.” I say this because Art has never been, and never will be anything other than a means to transmit emotion. We can say so without rescinding all the artwork brought in through generations in their struggle for external expression. On the occasion of the exhibit of 1924, a group of friends offered me a homage banquet at which the General Director of Fine Arts presided. Other friends, known personalities of those times were there— Machado,218 my personal friend, Victorio Macho, Cristobal

216 The nearby mountains of Guadarrama were, and are, known as Sierra to Madrid’s residents. 217 Note from the translator: The choice of word: anchylosis, describes a state of hardening and a non- functional character that could cause adverse change into his chosen path of thought. 218 The poetry of Antonio Machado appears linked to the concept of environment landscape practiced by Winthuysen while the poetry by Juan Ramón Jimenez appears linked to lyric

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Ruiz, Benlliure, Juan Cristobal, Jose Frances, Jarnes, Verdugo Landi, Antonio Espina, Pinazo, Canal and others.219 The best critique of the exhibit said that my little painted sketches, because all had the same size— 46 x 38 cm— were witness to the Castillian flavor of the places, character made out of light and well- defined profiles, and this gave them an unmistakable stamp. Communion between the artist and nature was perfect; they indicated where indiscernible form and Art had been attained, once more, to mimic on the canvas the restless and changeable outlook of the living world. Between 1924 and 1929, I worked on private garden assignments in Avila, Boecillo, and Valladolid for the Counts of Gamazo, and in Madrid, for an assortment of aristocrats, in Ciudad Lineal for Mr. Ribera Pastor and Julio Casares and others. In this way, I gained respect from members of the Royalty. I was well received in the aristocratic salon reunions. They asked for my cooperation in the press. I had friendships and consideration in the intellectual world but my private dignity was in shambles. I was living in meager lodgings at a workers’ development; and when I socialized with prominent personalities or attended social reunions, I could not forget my poor family situation. My children were young, and my wife was totally incapable of keeping me company. I was already over fifty but still full of life and illusions; I did not have the virtue of accepting the sad results of throwing to the wind my social situation, my illustrious family name or my unsatisfied desires.

1926 - Alone with My Little Boy I was not able to sleep all night; I spent it tossing in bed. The incipient light of a new day came through the open window. I got concepts more inclined to abstract figures but also linked to the Spanish landscape and Winthuysen’s paintings, especially Andalusian. The difference between the two poets is also in political order: while Antonio Machado remained within the circle and was shown in public functions of the Spanish Republic to the bitter end. .Juan Ramón Jimenez left Spain, never to return. 219 The mentioned names were to be active members in the near declaration of the Spanish Republic. The ideals of the Second Spanish Republic were based on acceptance of the meaning of landscape in the local evolution of each Spanish geographic region. This strange phenomena was resurrected more than 50 years later in literary fiction novels. The authors of the revival literature at the end of Franco’s power unconsciously turned to principles that had been modified by techniques based on European and American literature and long Spanish historic roots of attachment to the land.

200 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master up; and I went to the terrace. The horizon had a slightly pink tonality. The last quarter moon was halfway up in the sky. It looked as if the singular beauty of the scenery was going to be hooked by one if its horns. What a contrast it made to my poor bare room— and to my poor, bed covered with an old blanket! On another bed slept the little boy in the most placid sleep. We were all alone and I thought: “He is alright now but when he wakes up, he will be hungry; and there is no food left after last night’s dinner. The worse thing is that I only have fifteen cents left.” I went back to the terrace. Dawn was still pointing lightly; the moon still wanted to thread the morning star with one of its horns. My life was ugly and sad. I left the child sleeping and went to the street. Where was I going? The streets were deserted and silent. Squalid dogs poked around in a trashcan. In front of a closed commercial store was a large cardboard box on its side with the packing fiber still in it. It served as bedding to a street urchin who slept there peacefully. I went by a ghostly black bundle that slithered away, trailing its feet on the pavement. It was a woman totally covered with a black veil. I could not perceive even her face. What was that? Perhaps a leper that only went out at night, scared of daylight. Tired of walking, I sat on a stone bench in a small square. The windows of a hospital faced the square. The windows were wide open and I could hear the death rattle of a moribund. The morning light increased; and a sparrow jumped in front of me with a happy chirping. I got up and walked through other deserted streets that took me to a busy marketplace full of the hustle of carts, baskets and carriers. After passing the sunlit roofs and terraces, I came to a deserted drive. It would still be hours before I could see somebody to loan me a duro. I was thinking about all of this while I walked on the sandy drive among trees looking at the ground, when suddenly I saw something shining. It was a gold coin with a snapped link, no doubt the pendant to a child’s bracelet lost the previous evening while playing. Poor little girl, how sad she must have been reaching home! How awful must have been the scolding from her mother and nanny! My sympathy tarnished my happiness a bit. The stores would be open shortly. I went to a jewelry store. They weighed the gold, paid me and I came back home before the child woke up. We had a splendid

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 201 breakfast while I blessed the girl of the pendant bracelet. Was this a mere coincidence or a miracle? My son Javier was born in Paris in 1913 and murdered by the Reds220 in Navalperal during the winter of 1936. When he was a young child he used to tell those that asked him what he would like to be in life. “Like my father, a painter and writer.” When he visited the Prado Museum for the first time; he was still a little boy. He was flabbergasted and asked: “Did my daddy paint all these pictures?” He was an admirer of all things out of the ordinary. He came back from the Natural Sciences Museum where he saw the skeleton of a dinosaur and told me with enthusiasm: “I saw one animal that has the neck here”— signaling his own neck— “and the head there”— signaling the ceiling. My friend, an artist who lived in the studio next door, had an order to illustrate the covers of books; and my child took my watercolor box and also made a book cover that I am sorry I did not keep because it was of an extraordinary make and coloration. He began high school and was expelled for his refusal to acquiesce to discipline and for his poor study habits. I was then living in the studio of the Torres. It was in 1928. I began giving him drawing lessons. I had him work on a plaster head that came out to be more or less a head. Then there was a skull that he did really well, then another plaster figure that turned out very poorly. Evidently, he was bored with the learning process. At that point, I gave him some lessons in Geometry and Perspective and I made him help with the inking of the draft drawings of my book about gardens and that provided him with some practice in Linear Drawing. With this short training, he found a position as draftsman that allowed him some income which he spent entirely on his alpine climbing habits. He was a great landscaper but he never painted. His entire wish was to breathe in air at the solitary summits and invent things like a folding canoe or a glider. He could have become something if the stupid Reds had not murdered him. How much we lose when we become old! Friends and family disappear from our sight. Not only close, living beings, but other

220 A common denotation used to designate the non-nationalist faction that encompassed a multitude of political ideologies on the socialist side from the moderate to the extremist.

202 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master aspects of the world around us are lost as well. The trees, perspectives, and picturesque places change. It looks as if our souls become dismembered by pieces. How many people I have seen mature, struggle in their existence, produce brilliant works, and succumb! What a dismal future we have of lugubrious burials of beings and things! Only the sea, the sky and constant renovation maybe are left for us. His handsome brown eyes must have remained open221 and then they threw earth on him— the most dreadful part of being dead: to have dirt thrown on you, as he said once! Believers find consolation in immortality! I painted his portrait while I taught him. It scared me when I saw it again; next to it222 laid another landscape, only that of a joyous garden, but that had disappeared, too. The elected of the Gods pass away young; during youth, little time there is to delve deeply into concepts, and then, what is the use of concepts? A shallow culture that separates us from savages should be enough. To the normal adult, what really matters is not the survival of goodness but beauty. This is the reason why Greece survived. That is the reason why we abhor ancestral religions and find mummies nauseous. “Death of one is life to another,” a Scandinavian saying says. The truth of the question is that when the individuals’ intellect or physical strength grows weak, they should be put out of their misery like an old beast of burden. This act would constitute a cleansing social act. That action is in the minds of many individuals although they do not dare to express it given the moral prejudices that are naturally disseminated about the cowardice and selfishness of the elderly. 1929 The artist is a cursi. The analogy to the term snobbishness,223 which was used until the middle of the 19th century escapes me. The Gaditan sense of humor accounts for the use of the word cursi to designate a

221 Information that was received by the family conceived of the possibility of a mass burial for those summarily executed at Navalperal, in the Sierra de Guadarrama near Madrid. 222 Civil War disrupted the residence of the author in Madrid. After a hiatus of several years, he came to see painted canvas that had been saved from destruction. 223 Cursi means pretentious or showy.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 203 bankrupt family that wanted to continue living in the high standards of the rich and notorious, using cheap and ridiculous garments and disguised poverty. I can testify to this phenomenon. Although it did not appear during my generation, it had its origin in the previous one from which I received it. It came from the real life of the Pineda girls. These bleached girls, from forced dieting, these puny and pale romantics, almost illiterate, had no other future than to find a bridegroom and to get married or enter a convent because they preferred death rather than be obliged to practice a trade or be dependent on employment. They were the sad product of the aristocracy. The Literary Academy made account of the epithet but has not come to a just meaning of it yet. Since the Academy considers the term to be similar to “pretentious,” this quality skips certain ridiculous nuances of the word cursi. In my youth, the use of the term was very extensive. It could be applied to the nouveau riche, to someone who lacked elegance, to the outmoded, to those working in non-aristocratic professions, or to those who lacked good taste or distinction. It could be applied to artists, in particular, and to those that had a modest position in life and that lived in a state of want but could not afford more. Since we had reached a philosophy of positivism in Seville, an idealist was also a cursi. The commoner had no use for the word. The low Sevillian translated it in cruder terms: Señorito jambrera.224 The Sevillian commoner is so ignorant that he scorns when he is not exploited. On my side, for not having sound resources and the fact that I chose to be an artist painter almost qualified me for the epithet. I was a clear borderline case but I did not care much. I always had some sort of sympathy for it, perhaps because I felt pity, or perhaps because I was modest. I prefer the street dogs to the classy pedigree dogs. I felt attraction for the cursis señoritas. In fact, they were more fun than the elegant ladies were. The cursi girls of Sevilla had the grace of the popular without the crudeness of the village women. They could dance seguidilla, play

224 “Senorito jambrera” means, literally, hungry young master. The term jambrera is a derivative of hambre, hunger, or starvation. The author uses the homophonic word that reflects the aspiration of the letter h in colloquial speech. There, the popular sense of humor of the lower classes in Andalusia cruelly remarks on loss of economical means to level all of the individuals of society and make him count, too.

204 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master the guitar, and had the artfulness to wear the mantilla and the flowers. They were vapid and had a sense of humor. They could pay court to their boyfriends through the iron grates of their ground floor windows that are commonly known as pelar la pava.225 I know about it very well because I made it almost my only activity, against tide and wind from my distinguished family, during the ages of eighteen and twenty-three. In reality, the talented people were the cursi. Among them, the girls used to be well behaved and industrious; the guys were good lads and hard workers in whatever profession they followed: trading, herdsman, crooked lawyers, medical doctors or something similar. All were charming, amusing people that the Brothers Quintero used as models for their short comedies. Some of them were good politicians or writers. There was little or no knowledge of science among them. In case of their becoming rich, they ipso facto lost their cursi epithet through the marriage to a ruined aristocrat. The aristocracy was a complete failure. Its members were a bunch of haughty, traditionalists, and doctrinaires. They had the solemnity of old mules. The ladies attended to their daughters as kind of virginity guards. To the poor girls, the smallest slip resulted in a sin. They confessed weekly with a Jesuit priest. When sitting in a parlor, they gave little pulls to their skirts so as not to show their ankles. They only danced the rigadoon. Waltzes were considered off limits; I do not know why because to hold the waist of some of those sylphs was like holding a captain of the armory. Their cultural level was more or less limited. They had some language knowledge. It depended on the religious order where they were educated— French was taught to those educated at Sacred Heart, and English was taught to those educated by the Irish nuns. Boys were different. They practiced religion but at the same time they whored, gambled and drank. They were good horsemen, herdsman, and had a general open attitude towards life. In

225 Pelaban la pava literally means to “feather off the she-turkey.” Somehow, it must refer to the fact that she-turkeys take more time to feather off than he-turkeys and are a more savory dish than the he. We can also see a certain amount of humor in a situation of apparently controlled sexual relations by the iron grate and the chaperon waiting inside the room.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 205 particular, they made good military careers or studied the law. To study the law was convenient to those who owned land. To know the flaws of the law was more productive than to study agriculture. Business for the landowner focused on avoiding paying taxes, taking advantage of the common lands and paths and paying daily wages to the hungry rural workers.226 This referred not only to the aristocracy but also to the parvenu farmhand landowner.227 The best country estate owner was the one that excelled in cattle hustling or jackrabbit hunting. Even so, Sevilla had always been, by tradition, the land of charm; I should say the land of grace and enchantment. I do not want to fall into the nostalgia of celebrating my people because of my apparent isolation from it. Among other reasons, it is because we Sevillians can adapt to any environment.228 On top of this, we can analyze its qualities without the ridiculous exclusiveness of imposing our own judgments but instead always making sure that the originality of the primary ideas remains within ourselves. There are things never forgotten: the sweet yolks of San Leandro, tiny buns of Santa Ines, bread from Alcalá, fried fish, soldaditos de Pavia— cod fish fritters— the small boiler stew of Saturday with spawn, the field asparagus, the oranges from Mairena, the kneed buns, and so many more.229 There are perfumes that never vanish from our memories, like the smell of the orange blossoms, jasmine, and the perfume of the musk

226 The rural economy of Andalusia resulted from the extension of the states and the fertility of the soil. The valley of the Guadalquivir, where the province of Seville is located, produced three harvests per year without requiring irrigation. The greedy owners of the cortijo or hacienda employed migrant workers for the harvest, mainly. The rest of the time, he recruited the locals living in the nearby village that usually were versatile in the many tasks found on a large estate with fields and cattle. Minimal wages kept the cost of production low and made the owners rich. The more land he had, the more he desired to acquire in any manner of ways. 227 The reduction of land from the religious orders at the early 19th century offered opportunity to acquire extensive landholdings from the government at reduced prices. Immigrant workers from Galicia, north of Spain, that became wealthy with sugar plantations in Cuba, returned to Spain and bought extensive properties at low prices. The economic th th factors in the history of Spain, in the late 18 and early 19 centuries, have been widely discussed by Raymond Carr and other authors. 228 In true elocution of the meaning of being a Sevillian, the author does not spare any effort to give the true feeling of what it meant to him to be a Sevillian. As a matter of fact, he retained his Sevillian accent and mannerisms all of his life. 229 These are all original food items that the author experienced while growing up in Seville and its province; most, like the bread from Alcalá, continue in the popular tradition of consumable items.

206 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master flowers, myrtle and the subtle fragrance of the white acacia flowers. There are sounds that never cease to tinkle in our ears, like the bells of the Giralda, the call of the street peddler, the song, the castanets, and dance. There are traditions that weigh in our lives: religion transformed into lyrics, and sumptuous decoration. Besides, there is the way of being of the Sevillian people that we cannot forget— the detached sense of humor, the way of understanding beauty and ridicule, the acceptance of the true values of life and the reaction against the false, and so much more. Seville is a historical city but not one of those cities where we sadly walk among the old stones covered with lichen. It is a city of flaming history; the Giralda, even after a thousand years of existence, continues to rise among the gothic pinnacles of its luminous and ample cathedral. Nearby stand the baroque Archbishop Palace and the Mudejar convent’s white walls, and the towers of the Alcazar. Palm trees, orange trees with the perfume of their flowers and their golden fruits are there for our delight. The airy small pavilion and the more serious Escorial style fabric meet in open-street traffic without contradiction between the old and the new. There is more to it; Seville is a rich city even without willing to be so. Its provincial lands, renewed by a continuous river alluvium, produce ears of wheat as big as corn ears on newly-open, arable lands. The river brings the world’s commerce to our doors. The well-to-do Sevillian does not have to work too hard. When he does, he makes sure that it is furtively because work is the curse from God leading to disobedience and is something ugly and sweaty. The Sevillian opened the doors to the foreigners to be served. Water for your house, for those that are not supplied by the pipes of Carmona— let the Gallegos carry it on donkeys’ backs on the streets or let the English provide the water conduit to the city. As for wines, the mountain-born people were more appropriate to sell it. Sevillian tavern owners would end up drinking their own product or inviting to it all of their customers. Robust Gallegos were also stevedores the same that we employed to carry over their heads the heavy platforms on which sit our crucified images of Christ and our Madonna covered with jewels. The Portuguese cut the wheat

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 207 of the valley. People from Soria were in charge of our olive-oil mills. The Catalans equipped us with manufactured bottled corks from the cork bark produced in our highland pasture cork oak growths. Besides, they furnished us with material for our dress and other products of their mechanized industries. We were far better to let the English and the Germans spend their time breathing the air of the boilers with their hands full of oil from greasing machines’ gears. With this avalanche of servants, we had no fear of become despoiled— that they might get rich at our expense. So what? Their children, or to make a story long, their grandchildren would become Sevillian young masters that would leave the industry and turn out to be raisers of fighting bulls and dose their lives with sherry wine and Manzanilla and eat ham cured in the sierra. Because, I am telling you, those that say that they do not like sherry wine or Jamon Serrano are scoundrels. Seville is a crucible where everything melts, and even the worse detritus becomes glory. As to what they say that people do not work in Seville. Well, those that have money do not since what would be the use of having it? The commoner worked as artisan of beautiful handmade objects in vitrified ceramics, forged irons, and cheeky hats, showy shoes, and in embroidering the mantles of the Virgins or the torero capes, always involved with beautiful things. The Sevillian, when forced to do rude work, does so poorly and with ill will. When in the market gardener business, he tends to the fragrant rose bush with better care than cabbage and lettuce. I began the lines “The artist is a cursi” with the intention of defining the term cursi; and I found myself reviving the Sevillian environment where my formative years were passed. I almost forgot the important practice of artisanship in Seville. Little by little, the crafts were taken over by industrialized products that I detest. In my youth, painters, sculptors and craft artisans as well worked under the denomination of artists. Someone in Seville asked a cobbler what his trade was. He answered that he was the artistic conservator of damaged footwear. Leaving aside the Sevillian sense of humor, the truth is that there was not too much difference between the cobbler and the multitude of spontaneous artist painters that sprang up in Seville in my time.

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The illiterate manual worker believed that he was capable of everything. This phenomenon may produce laughable results but, at the same time, it was the origin of the natural beauty of popular art in Seville. For the exercise of most intellectual activities, we require a certain level of technical expertise or a minimal amount of universal culture. Not so for Art, in Seville. At the end of the 19th century, the only thing needed was sensibility and taste that could come, as a standard, expressive result, from a cultivated mind or from an ignorant one. As a result, we had a multitude of artists, some from families that were well-to-do, like the Count of Aguiar, Andres Parlade, who practiced a solid classical style, and the Count of Casa Chavez, who was eccentric as well as talented. Bilbao also was from the upper-level of society. However, there was a huge amount of artists that could merely survive, and the handcrafters, some with the artistic inclinations of our cobbler, all of whom were happy and convivial people, that in other circumstances could had prospered easily. How much creativity they used to make ends meet! I had a friend who worked delivering beef from the slaughterhouse. He was so strong that he could carry half a carcass on his shoulders and such an enthusiast of the art of painting that he went to the academies even with blood-stained clothes. He was a furious landscaper who walked for miles to his site in nature carrying paint, chair, easel, and a parasol to paint meticulous and done-up paintings— what a paradox! Later, when he was already in his sixties, he used to go to the Alcazar Gardens to paint. The little princes staying in the Alcazar liked to play around his work, and he used to tell them, with the ease and naturalness of the Sevillian commoner: “You, your Highness, move to the side! You are in my way!” LA VOZ Year X. Num. 2614--15 of May, 1929 CRONIQUE THE GARDENS230 OF SEVILLE

230 With the insertion of this article, I followed the suggested order of appearance by the editor and typist of the memoirs, Maria Hector Vazquez. Javier de Winthuysen never forgot his roots. This is an out-of-the-ordinary description of the private gardens and monuments of the city of Seville.

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To Maria, the charming, the talented, the discreet, my noblest affection. Who has not seen Seville has not seen “marvel,” the old saying tells. Putting aside our preconceived notions about its modern transformations, the entrance to the city is immersed in light and perfume gives a festive insight. Let us leave aside the confused rush and its religious festivities, the comical aspects of the Sevillian humor for the third-class tourist, to penetrate its intimacy. In other historical towns the buildings, time gone by weighs like something dead over modern life— but not in Seville. The past hearts of buildings beat like revived antiquity. Its neighborhoods of narrow streets, balanced by the low construction height and the opening of the interior spaces, constitute urban solutions achieved out of the ordinary. We accept these solutions in accordance to our reason: their exotic nature delights our intellect. The old Sevillian home is so hospitable that it lets us see its interior through the iron grates of its patios, past which there is usually a garden. In reality, the whole house is a garden: patios, terraces, and windows. The Sevillian garden transcends us. It is the freshness of its jasmine and boxwood. It is the potency of the spikenard and morning glory, hollyhock, heliotrope and royal conch; not to mention the blooming time of the orange blossoms that overwhelms all other perfumes with their potency. The narrow street smells of glory: small garlands of musk rose flowers peep from atop the walls. The garden flirts with the passerby letting him figure it out. Privacy and mystery, behind each lattice a welcome possibility. The narrow street is a hall to home and community. We go through many curves and detours, from time to time small plazas, to find at each turn the picture of architectural graciousness. Innumerable architectural solutions, simple, and natural— they look as if they were spontaneously born. The roofs over the loggias give form to the garret— with ventilation opening to the main floor. Facades, elements of balconies, and cornices are the creative order done by a master mason who did not follow a classic canon, only his

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feeling of graciousness. The use of simple planes with internal spaces are human solutions where the light is interrupted; construction obeys intuitive architectural solutions that derive from reason. The result is an aesthetic ensemble, a product of thought and intuitive grace. What about glazed ceramic decoration detail? We can see them topping the half pilasters that give support to the rail of the upper terrace where the ruby carnation grows. Those are the finials glazed in fine gold showing off against the cerulean sky. We notice architectural details— an embrasure of the window may have an extension. There shows the airy gale of the church bell tower where the mosaics delineate the vertical among the pilasters or curves like a metal rod that follows a baroque curve. The rest of the decorations are whites of light-pink tonalities, ocher, bluish tones— altogether pastel toned like in a charming fresco. Décor-wise, Sevilla is made out of color tones with no bold colors. The bright note is brief and sparkling like a discrete jewel. Our walk takes us to a plaza, a modern-made garden. It is a showplace of all the typical fabric that is capable of the ability of the artisans. Glazed tiles make up planters, fountain and pavement. Colors in disharmony, here is a bench over a platform covered with glazed tiles; there is an absurd throne on which sitting requires a maharaja costume not to be out of character. The houses, though part of the counterfeited style231 that has become widely popular, accumulate over their facades all the elements created by art. On the same balcony we can see counterweights and props, glazed tiles and convoluted iron, glazed tiled altarpieces protected with an eave, grates of forged and worked iron, doorjambs with carved-out bricks in Plateresque Style, even glazed roof tiles.

231 The modern style of the decorative arts in the late 19th century embraced all of the elements previously used. The author’s article is a positive experience of the aesthetic. He is looking for harmonies that have been interrupted by a change in popular art that he has previously recognized but knows to be contradictory.

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Back on the modest streets are delicate forms and tones, a pry- open gate lets us peek into an old palace garden. The single order of the velvety boxwood topiary design encloses the orange-tree, among them are also the laurel tree, magnolia, and a pepper plant that serve as shiny cover to the old wall. In the back, a water reservoir with classic fabric niches, frescoes, and water fountain— a water play that comes from the ingenuity of the enlightened Renaissance schools. We continue strolling through twilight gold and lilac, with silvery tones, and shaded streets. The small gardens, patios and top terraces are as noble as the palace. We face an urban expression that we can only define as popular aristocracy, but let us talk softly, in case the modern protector of the typical designs comes to heighten all of these delicate contrasts with the strident colors of the ceramic tiles. I recognize that the sophisticated examples of delicacy are not open to all; let them be for those minds subtle enough to reach them. Javier de WINTHUYSEN May in Seville Occidental ideas transformed, somehow, the feeling of intimacy of the Andalusian garden. It came to us as a Moorish trait, transformed through the ages but still with its primary flavor untouched. Seville, in the 16th century, was a cultural link to the Spanish-American colonies. All of the activity to create and receive wealth was centered in Seville, where new moneyed aristocracies sprang up. Italian, French and Dutch artists opened workshops in this city. The influence of the works produced in those shops became known worldwide.

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A travel narration about Spain by Andrea Navagero,232 tells how the Venetian ambassador, arrived during Italy’s Renaissance, and compared the city of Seville with other Italian cities similar in richness of its palaces, gardens and public avenues. Descriptions by Navagero include the King’s Orchard at the Monastery of Our Lady of the Caves by the side of the Guadalquivir River. “The monks that live there have only to climb one step to find Heaven,” he says. Seville, at that time, had fused the Mudejar style with European art tendencies. It is worth recording how Seville had a commendable public garden; and the poet ambassador describes it for us. (This constitutes an early notation on European public gardens. Calsrue,233 in the 17th century, is normally referred to as the first public garden in Europe.) The public avenue decorated with cascading fountains and gardens, accounted for by Navagero, was the tree-lined avenue of Hercules.234 The immense height of the granite columns, of Roman precedence, topped by the statues of Caesar and Hercules, give an indication of its splendor. Earth fillings and expansion of private property done on the location contributed to erasure of the design of the avenue and its gardens. In my time, I was able to see the severe stone planters that held shrubs and flowers. Seville, at her peak economic and cultural expansion, was able to fuse all of the western cultural values. The Mudejar-style gardens of the Alcazar and mansions are enriched by Renaissance solutions. The marriage between the Moorish and Renaissance produces a distinguishable new style— the Mudejar. With the advent of the Baroque style, the Mudejar lost its poignancy. In the

232 Andrea Navagero, 1483-1529. IL Viaggio Fatto in Spagna, et in Francia, dal Magnifico M. Andrea Navagiero—fu oratore dell’illustrissimo senatto veneto, alla Cesarea Maesta di Carlo V; conla descrittione particulare delle luochi & costumi delli popoli di quelle Prouincie. Vinegia, Domenico Farri, 1563. For this purpose, I consulted work by Jose Maria Alonso Gamo; Navagiero’s travel narration is part of the rare books collection at the University of Maryland. Navagero gives a detailed description of the important gardens of Seville that includes the Monasterio de las Cuevas and the remark quoted by the author. Based on Plinius, he mentions the existence of Roman City remains that include an amphitheater site of the planting of the Alameda de Hercules.—T.Winthuysen Alexander, Editor. 233 Spelling indicates that the word may be a derivative from Karlrushe; the palace and gardens are noted in The Oxford Companion to Gardens, Oxford, 1986. Karlsruhe, Federal German Republic. See information on Count Barajas: Guía de los Parques y Jardines de Sevilla: Alameda de Hércules. 234 The reference appears in multiple authors; Las Plazas del Casco Historico de Sevilla, Junta de Andalucia, 1987, is perhaps one of the latest.

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18th century, Seville lived from its traditions; and the splendor of the ancient works was substituted by Romantic abandon. The gypsy, the churlish, and the equestrian remained as a note to the typical interest; but the highly educated intellectuals became mediocre. In Seville, to be part of Modernity consisted of destroying the entire beauty or character trace that could not be sold. Only a few embers from the past are left; it is a mere glow. But in the city of Seville, so many marvels concur: Its River carries the fertilizing mud from Cordova, Jaen, Granada, and Huelva to fertilize its lands to an unsuspected degree. The sea brings its salt almost to the port of Seville. High tides push the boats to the city and make the city rich without even willing it while she sleeps; when she wakes, she becomes powerful and fuses into her character all the new acquisitions. 15-5-1929 Madrid 15-5-1929 My dear Lady: This evening I had the great surprise of finding my article on the first page. They have promoted me. They are clever. I had given it the title as always: Gardens and City Planning” with the subtitle: “Sevillian Gardens” because it is a current events article, and probably the most refined concepts told on the subject for a long time. The newspaper decided to present it as a chronicle with the additional postscript dated in Seville. It is in such a way that, with a little cost, it can look as if the newspaper sent me there. Well, this is beneficial to me and tomorrow I will show up— I rarely do— at the newspaper headquarters to present my thanks to the director for the distinction accorded to me and at the same time to see if they raise my emoluments. If you like it, consider that the merit in it is yours. It was in the splendor of that night when I took a stroll in San Bartolome Labyrinth, when I was drenched with your charms, that I could see nothing but charm. Of course, when I talked about the soul of the city of Seville, I can see in myself my Sevillian Lady; my own, my property. One

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year past, you became enraged when I directed myself to you in those terms! Your mind was clouded and you could not perceive that when I said of you “mine,” I meant to be my god, my honor, things which we consider our property that we belong to them more than they to us. And I do not want to extend myself further because I want to send you this letter without a mixture of earthly business. I miss you dearly! Is it not true that dependency between two human beings is the most convenient of the conveniences? How much money or hard work could it cost to acquire companionship that so many millionaires are unable to buy? Good bye! And I kiss your hand softly because it is the best way to express what you became to me, and being what you are now, you continue to be as you were. Yours, Javier

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CHAPTER X

Classic Gardens of Spain: and how I did the book in 1930- Creation of the Department of Historic Gardens and Picturesque Landscapes of Spain-1934- Board of Trustees for the Spanish Gardens-Tourism-Ciudad Rodrigo-General Inspector of Gardens- Lectures in Paris and London-The Revolution of 1936-Gardens of El Viso-Minor Protection Office-To Valencia-My son Javier’s death. It was only in 1930 that I published my book Jardines Clásicos de España—Castilla, which I had stored in cardboard boxes for seven years. It was Maria who came to my rescue. She typed all of the originals for me; and she gave me hope and did for me what nobody had done before. Maria lifted my spirit and gave me new energy. She even gave me money to help with the expenses. My seventeen-year-old son helped me to draw the plans for the final drafts. I made the book assisted by two youngsters; and I say both were young (that is, my 17-year-old son, and Maria, who had such a vast difference of age with me). I am writing all of this in 1953. Maria has never stopped helping and supporting my ideas; even when she was busy in her own profession, she has shown a high level of spiritual sensitivity that matched the materials that I had given to her. I sent her my manuscript chapter by chapter, of my manuscript with comments like the one for the verses left by “The Curious Pilgrim from Villalta,” when he visited the Spring of the Planets at the Abbey Gardens, which read as follows: ‘No fuera justo que al alba ‘a este jardín le faltara ‘para que en él descansara ‘su tan ponderosa (clava) calva, ‘que a Flandes ha sido cara. I was asking myself, “What on earth does the bald head of the Duque of Alba have to do with the affairs in Flanders?” And my

216 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master typist said: ”It cannot be ‘bald’ head; it has to be ‘club.’235 The copyist in your version made a mistake, and that is understandable, since the two words have a very close spelling. Let me add a note about corrections, saying that the javalíes is written jabalíes, ojo does not have an h, in contrast to hoja, which does.” To this I answered that the matter of writing words with h is something to be experienced visually— take for instance a small bug, the ant— in Spanish hormiga— carries a tremendous burden of an H. I inscribed the book to her with a monogram that I created with the two capital letters, X and M in our names, intertwined in deep red within a green circle that I placed on the lower right side of the book cover. On the interior cover page, I added my herald family emblem with our monogram in between the two eagles’ heads which are on the helmet. She asked me not to do it, but I did it anyway; and I told her that I had control over what belonged to me. The book had success among the intellectuals who were dedicated to special subject matter and art. Economically, however, it was a disaster, in part because the Ibero American Publishing Company went bankrupt and the entire edition was seized; and it was done in such a way that very little benefit reached me. I lost heart and put aside the already commenced works on the “Andalusian Gardens” and the “Galician Pazos;” both of them remained unpublished and I continued in my refuge of constructing gardens. Our daughter Beatriz was born in 1930; and I recognized her publicly in my will, written on the 6 of August of 1934 in front of the Notary Public Lopez Urrutia, in Madrid. My friends Victorio Macho and Cristobal Ruiz were the witnesses. The recognition of our second daughter, Maria Teresa, caused no problem since the laws of the Spanish Republic allowed me to do it at the moment of her inscription of birth. The godparents to our daughter were E. Perez Comendador and his wife M. Leroux. I continued receiving assignments to make gardens against the criticism of certain professionals and in particular, of architects, although from others, I had received praises without any trouble. During the directorship

235 The figure of Hercules with his club was taken from the literature and he is depicted with monarchs and powerful leading figures from the Renaissance to the 18th century.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 217 by Eduardo Chicharro at the General Office of Beaux Arts, I was asked by the Director to create a document with the rules and regulations for the functions of the special Office for the Historical Gardens of Spain, and the Director also asked me to take the text to the Gazeta press. I received the commission and also the title of General Inspector, for which I was assigned a salary of 5,000 Pesetas per year. My promotion had positive consequences; many of the Historical Gardens were declared to be National Interests. I was invited to lecture at the Sorbonne, in Paris, and at the Hispanic Society in London. On my return to Madrid, the politician in charge of the Office of Education decided to suppress my salary to minimize expenses in the budget. I took no heed of the arbitrary measure and I continued my activities in the Spanish State Gardens. Even though the Office had disappeared, I dealt directly with the Architect Conservator of Monuments, Don Emilio Moya. I completed several projects in Toledo; and at the same time, the Office of Tourism gave me the project for the Garden at the Alcazar of Enrique II, in Ciudad Rodrigo. I completed other projects, too, beside those already mentioned, such as: La Escuela de Ingenieros de Caminos de Madrid, Canalización y Fuerzas del Guadalquivir, en Alcalá del Río (Sevilla), Parque de Valdenoja en Cabo Mayor, and Santander; I also did small projects for private individuals like the ones for Jose Ortega y Gasset, Don Salvador de Madariaga, Sres. De Olarra, Luzuriaga, Parque de Boecillo (Valladolid), Fundacion Del Amo, and more. In Paris, I went to see the ancient paintings at the Louvre that I missed seeing since 1915, and naturally, I went to Versailles, the Parc of Sceaux, the gardens of the Tuilleries, and the Luxembourg avenue, and many other places. In London, besides visiting parks and gardens, I went to the British Museum where I scarcely had the time to contemplate the Parthenon frieze that I had wanted to see for a long time; the emotional impression was even stronger than what I had imagined to be before when I glimpsed reproductions of Hellenic sculpture. At the National Gallery, I saw the paintings by Constable which were not familiar to me and one of the most beautiful paintings by Manet. I enjoyed the ancient paintings and in particular, The Venus of the Mirror-Venus and

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Cupid “The Rockeby Venus”, by Velazquez— to see the original is one of the unforgettable experiences in my life. The reproductions are not able to capture the subtle vibrations of color. I was lucky to see the “Laocoon” by Greco. On my way back through Paris, I was fortunate that my trip coincided with the opening of the Anthological Italian Paintings, although the Venetian School was not as well represented as in el Prado— which I knew so well. I was able to see works that I did not know, especially Donatello’s sculptures that I had always wanted to see since I was never lucky enough to visit Italy. From Modern Painting, I only was able to see what my young friend Bores was doing at his studio but the fine qualities of his vision did not awaken my interest. So, although I traveled to Paris and London with the pretext of the gardens, that was what mattered less to me. Even so, I was in a dilemma; I had distanced myself from painting caused by the Spanish indifference to my preferred profession and this mood reached such a point that when during the Red War, I found myself in the fields at open country, I was not able to even make miserable pencil sketches. My mental disposition as an architect of nature had had such an impact on my views that it disconcerted my train of thought as a painter of nature. During the interregnum of the Red Government, the Director of Beaux Arts asked me to visit and write a report on the “Jardin de la Fabrica Real de Paños de Brihuega,” conservation of the “Jardin de Monforte,” and the project for the “Albergue de Turismo de Benicarlo” that was in its final phase of construction. Unfortunately, the architect in charge of the swimming pool’s drain system destroyed my idealized vision and constructed a spatial composition to implant his exogenous drain system. The War of 1936 In 1923, the General Primo de Rivera rose up against the Government. I had met Primo de Rivera personally. I was formally presented to him when he returned from the Melilla Campaign on the occasion of his promotion to captain for his valor in battle. Although I did not have occasion for sustained conversations with him, I knew him by indirect references.

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Primo de Rivera had a distinguished and arrogant presence; he had support among many and he came from a notable family. Primo de Rivera and his general’s staff were in power thanks to an extreme liberal maneuver to accumulate the highest positions among the military and the politicians. The popular concept was not very rosy for his profile but the way he came to power was less important compared to the popular knowledge of other politicians’ profiles, all of them considered to be without morals and believed to bring bad omens in political resolutions. One explanation to these concepts is the fact that their defects corrected even bigger faults among the members of the previous administration. It was a fact that great politicians like Cánovas had attracted the attention of the Traditional Conservatives, while Sagasta had the attention of the Republicans. What was really important is that the combination of the two factions— Conservative and Republican— had ended the civil wars and the military insurgencies, thereby saving Spain from a continuous bloodbath. Nevertheless, the morality of the political members of the administrations was still a questionable myth. In politics we continued to have the two factions— Liberal and Conservative—that, during the Regency, had been able to establish peaceful turns to govern the country. The Conservatives encompassed the power of the Catholic Church, with its support to clericalism, militarism, aristocracy, and so forth; while under the Liberals, a multitude of parties and assemblies encompassed those that represented social progress and extreme ideologies. A multitude of political parties resulted from the anarchic way of thinking of each Spanish individual as one whose thoughts could simply fit in this way, and be congenial to any of the parties. The Spanish political scene was nothing but a modus vivendi in the hands of moderates and the progress minded but without any new resolution, it was the faint reflected light of the embers left of a long-gone, failed Constitutional Revolution. The Popular Constitution that was accepted by all was a warranty of the citizens’ political government; but the rub was that its guaranties could be suspended any time the government saw fit to do so. To resume the story, we were living in a time of incertitude, one supported in mind and body by the Spaniards; but it was a government of fiction, opportunity and fraud. The popular

220 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master consciousness was losing what was left of our national moral fiber, and this state conducted us not only to an economical disaster but also to a nonsensical war in Melilla, where we showed our military incapacity fighting against the native tribes. The situation encouraged the dissenters in the Philippines and Cuba to fight for their freedom; and even certain regions that were part of Spain claimed their autonomy, and doing so threatened to break the Spanish unity. The situation did not condition change in the general Spanish individual’s outlook; our troops were coming back consumptives, with fevers to such a point that the Spaniards cried out with relief when, at the end of the wars, we recalled our troops. Primo de Rivera was, aside from his political maneuvers, a valiant military leader; he had had a fast-climbing military career. I saw him again in Sevilla when he was a Lieutenant Colonel. He was also the president of the Military Circle. Popular ideals had changed; now the fashionable vision was socialism. Our politicians during the Regency supported the construction and growth of socialism as a far-off bad omen; and they did so to control the menace of the Republic, but as I said, their socialism was still incipient. The activity of the socialists consisted of attacking capitalism with strikes— and these strikes were almost peaceful, public manifestations. I remember one manifestation coinciding with the ascendancy to the presidency at the Military Circle by Primo de Rivera. When he was told that the manifestation was coming and where it would be closeby, he ordered lunch to be served on a table at the outside terrace. The crowd came down the Street of Sierpes; and it was a bunch of young, poorly-dressed people rashly chanting their slogans. Primo de Rivera continued eating and threw fried potatoes to the manifestation subjects, daring them to approach and stop in front of him. I report this happening because it reflected the typical arrogance of the political leaders and the indecision of the masses in their manifestation— both notable characteristics of the time. Both the arrogance and the threat present in the advanced-but-stopped masses as a result of his chivalric character gave Primo de Rivera credit and stopped the general feeling of secession in his apparent act in Barcelona. It was then that the King handed him the power

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 221 of government of the nation, as designed by popular command. In reality, the cause justified the means; Primo de Rivera was accepted with sympathy and hope. The population was by then tired of political maneuvers and compromises that the greatest politicians were unable to take to term. The bad thing about the entire situation is that Dictatorships are, for the fact of being what they are, bound to be doomed; and that for a good government to thrive, good moral qualities are not enough; other qualities of a different breed must be present to make the good ideas effective. Primo de Rivera fell from power and many mishaps followed his departure. The truth is that if Spain had any politicians capable of action, Primo de Rivera had degraded them; and to replace him, we were in need of another genial dictator or a king to support the Republic. That is what the general population and the intellectuals did by majority vote. What a Republic it was! It came to us as a trans-thought because we had very few Republicans left; and the few that we had were insignificant minds. The old model Republic was kept and the intellectuals deserted the political scene one by one. The constituency of republics and kingdoms was something that was outmoded. The really important aspect of a good government at the time was its social significance. It had to be either capitalist- or proletarian-based, but it was neither one nor the other. On the margin of the apparent government, a fight between the two factions had been going on for some time: they were called Fascists and Libertarians. The direct action between the two of them was an open gun battle, where their participants decimated each other like slaughtered pigs, and the government was indifferent to it. I avoided involvement in political activities; the Fascists were unknown to me. I limited myself to having intellectual contact with the Liberals then in power for reasons other than social-political ideals. I could not, or desired not, to investigate the situation of individual participation— for my own good. I had an open welcome from them and that constituted enough to me. From Azaña, I received an invitation to attend the reunion of an intellectual board of discussions. I made gardens for Madariaga, Ortega Gasset,

222 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master and Luzuriaga; and I was offered a modest position at the Conservation Gardens Office that I had founded some time ago. I dealt with long-time known, singular personalities that I had met before: Negrin, Alvarez del Vayo, Luis Belo, Araquistain, and Juan de la Encina whom I saw with certain regularity at the beerhouse where the politicians used to have informal reunions. The affair for the pre-prandial included vermouth, expensive langoustines, and caviar; after these dishes the extended meal followed at their preferred Italian restaurant. All of these social activities were apart from my modest taste and means; and I abstained from participation. What I admired the most is how with the insufficient means of some of them, they could compromise with such expenditure. The continuous state of emergency with murders and such sorts of violent things culminated with the assassination of Calvo Sotelo. Consequently, the Red Revolution broke out on us. At that time, I used to travel many kilometers by road to visit the gardens under my care; and I can assure you that it was in half of Spain. When we crossed by groups of young men followed peasants or factory workers followed they lifted their arms with clenched fists in salute. It was a programmed Revolution that came lit by the already practiced Church burnings. At that time, I was not painting. My activities consisted of designing and carry out gardens planning orders for private patrons and for government buildings like The Count of Gamazo in Valladolid, The Gardens for the Tourist Office in Medinacelli and Ciudad Rodrigo— for which I was never paid— and some interior courts for historical buildings in Toledo, like Santa Cruz de Toledo and Santa Maria La Blanca. Although at that time I was not painting, I kept in touch with some of the artists like the sculptors Victorio Macho and Emiliano Barral and the painters Cristobal Ruiz, Solana, Souto y Bores. The last two were new additions to the art scene— the first, full of furor, and the second, with exquisite sensibility. I was friend and admirer to all of them. Victorio Macho was in demand and he was vain about it. He was working hard, out of the ordinary, and certainly with vanity but that was forgivable owing to his chivalry and talent. Barral was bigger than his own work. In him shone the quarry worker who enjoyed the direct cut on the

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 223 stone with a sharp spark chisel that cut slides out of the living rock. He was a great friend, a strange mixture of goodness and amorality. It was the same mixture that the other artist, crazy Solana who was an artist who never let any competition pass by without his presence and whose work made the rest of the participants’ work look pale and outmoded. He was madly enamored of beauty in ugliness and, as Victorio Macho used to say, he painted the living dead and the dead alive. Cristobal Ruiz was a kind of mystic peasant. His rationality expressed itself as a wide-angle vision that resulted in immense luminosities; his inspiration came from the frescoes by Puvis de Chavannes. I shared my friendship with all of those extraordinary literary men at an old 19th-century café society of Madrid, where poets used to come for literate reunions. Among the constituents were Antonio and Manuel Machado and the actor Ricardo Calvo, Répide and Ricardo Baroja, who became a writer after losing vision on one eye. This was the usual crowd, plus two actress lady friends of Calvo and Manuel Machado and other literary participants joining in at will. Baroja and Répide, with their rich repertoire of anecdotes and news, were the most famous speakers. One night when I left the café with one of the reunion participants, we saw a church burning. Our meeting was not political but on the following day, when I went to the café, I found the place empty except for an old gentleman who used to join us. This person was an old socialist who favored Maura. He worked then as town councilor with Romanones, and was inclined to support La Falange.236 He was a gentleman of mind settled political ideas without an attractive personality and of no interest to me and I never returned to the old café. I stayed home, away from the happenings but I received the information about the murders, burnings, and crimes by the crowds. We were, Maria and I, with our two small girls, Beatriz and Maria Teresa, living in a very modest apartment on Francisco Silvela Street. In the same building, lived our house assistant and

236 The politics of the moment consisted of partisanship and Maura power play. An explanation can be found in: Raymond Carr. Espana—1808-1939, 467-472.

224 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master her extended family who I sometimes employed in my garden projects. They shared the apartment with guest; one of them was a member of the Special Assault Forces. He came from the same village as our house assistant and he used to bring in the news. One morning from my window, I saw how four individuals advanced shooting pistols towards the Guindalera Church, from Paseo de Ronda. I watched them and saw how from a car nearby they got orders to proceed. Two of them fired their guns again, while the other two went around to the end of a vacant lot where the church was, and once near it, they began to cry out loud, saying that someone inside the church was blank-shooting at them. From single individuals, they became a small crowd, and soon the church was in flames. In the evening, normality seemed to be restored. The next morning I went to the Tourism Office and some military men halted me to ask me where I was going and to search my person for hidden weapons. Then I proceeded without further impediment. In the evening, Maria returned home, shaky, from private student tutoring at a far away neighborhood. Her student was a nurse at a Maternity Hospital preparing for her high school equivalency exam; on her way from the health center, in an isolated part of town, Maria overheard the conversation of two men dressed like factory workers: “Look! Here is where the blond fell,” and he pointed to the dried blood stain on the ground and the impact of the bullets on the wall of the vacant lot. “And there is where the other did,” returned, his companion, pointing to spot on the sidewalk way across the street. “Pity the blood is not still fresh to dip in the soles of my alpargatas!”237 answered the first one. “We must extirpate the microbe,” said the other with a Cockney accent and attitude. The assault guardian, boyfriend to our house assistant, told me that some militia men had made gross commentaries around a woman’s dead body , and they had

237 Alpargatas: shoes made out of canvas and rope that were very popular among the working poor, Larousse Common Dictionary.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 225 laughed while one of them lifted the body’s skirt with the end of his rifle. “I saw another dead body,” he told me, “it was wrapped tightly into a thin mattress and by the expression on the face, one could tell that the person had died with terrible sufferings.” He also told me of other cases that he had witnessed. The next evening the streetcars ran, although not close to our lodgings. Since we were tired from remaining inside the apartment, we went for a walk with our two young daughters. We walked along the Paseo de Ronda and stepped onto the Prosperity tramway. On the first stop, a thin, undeveloped young girl dressed in a sort of long working coat climbed onto the tramway. In her hand she had a laminated handgun that looked like a toy and pointing it to me she said: “Let me see your idée- card, Comrade!” I shook my shoulders and said: “I do not have an idée-card!” and without a word, the poor girl continued checking the other passengers’ idée cards. The street was full of groups of women and young boys. Some of them carried shotguns and rifles. We stepped off of the tramway at the Lopez de Hoyo Street to return home, walking on the Paseo de Ronda, and one more poor woman dressed in her working clothes, with her cleaner’s apron, and with alpargatas on her feet and a revolver on her hand, addressed Maria: “Comrade, do you carry arms?” Maria answered her: ”How do you want me to carry a pistol when I have my hands full with the baby!” “That is alright but let me check you over for arms because that is what I am supposed to do” and she checked her over slightly. Nothing of this sort produced fright; on the contrary, we felt pity and repugnance for the mean-looking, unprotected, ignorant people who were caught by the system. We arrived at the Paseo de Ronda, where a group of militia ignored us. We approached the dismounted Civil Guards to allow the girls to pet the horses, and we reentered our home.

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At that time, I found myself in a special predicament. I had a young friend lawyer with communist inclinations who was negotiating my divorce. I had not seen him since the beginning of the open revolution; my friend had some connections with the extremist politicians who were heading the movement. Besides, that, I had public connections with Barral, Quintanilla, Alvarez Del Bayo, Araquistain Negrin, among others. I had these connections, most especially because I had worked steadily in coordinating journalistic pieces with Juan de la Encina that developed into Urbanism and Garden essays for newspapers and periodicals ever since I had completed the first published series “Letters to a Gardener.” For all of these reasons, I thought, I could be considered a person with advanced ideas although I did not share their political ideals nor did I had any point of reference with them. I can add to it that the same was true of my attitudes toward what concerned the Fascists supporters that were on the rise. Cristobal Ruiz lived nearby then, and his daughter was the girlfriend of my lawyer’s brother, who served as a guide for me on my visit to London in the spring of 1935. In addition to the lecture that I gave at the Hispanic Society in London, we were invited to dine at the Spanish Embassy in London, by the Ambassador Mr. Perez de Ayala. My friend was utterly convinced that I shared his political inclinations when he proposed to me to act as group chief in the active service. In those extremely dangerous times, it was not a bad thing to be considered as such a character. In reality, I was not a traitor to any cause since either faction was as bad as the other, from my point of view. Therefore, the only thing I had to do was to excuse myself. I went with him once; and we entered a tobacco store where a militiaman was asking for cigars and cigarettes. Since he did not have any money, he signed a voucher to the distressed tobacconist vendor that was misused in this sale. My friend asked the store vendor how much the validated purchase was, and he proceeded to pay the tobacconist the amount with his own money with a bitter comment: “There you are! And those that do not have money should abstain from smoking.”

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During that time, I used to visit my friend Poppelreuter at his family residence. Poppelreuter was a talented German artist who made a remarkable good copy of Durer’s painting, “Adam and Eve,” and whose son was an intimate friend to my son, Javier. I found them upset; someone had broken a window glass with a gunshot and they were about to leave the property and report themselves to the German Consulate. He wanted me to stay in the property— however, it was an inconvenient arrangement for me to do it and I refused. Coincidentally, a friend of the family— a retired military man from the front of the 1914 war— related how he had been a recent witness to the assault of the Cuartel de la Montaña and, due to his military background, he made some remarks: “The entire blockade was laughable” he said. “The siege was poorly organized and weak; a small patrol commanded by an intelligence officer would have sufficed to surrender it but, no, they had to capitulate.”238 Later, I got an account of the entire situation. The high command of the resistant headquarters had no idea about the revolution’s meaning nor did he trust the soldiers under his command; he could not figure out how to face a useless resistance nor would he admit to the possibility of the forces being taken by the enemy and being considered war prisoners. With all of these causes for indecision, the commandants paid for their ignorance with the sad truth of the matter. One evening while I was leaving to visit a friend, a militia soldier pointed his gun at me. I got close to him and told him to lower the gun. I said, “I am well known in this neighborhood, so dispense with your suspicious reaction.” The young guy almost apologized to me; but he needed to follow orders, he said. To tell the truth, none of the ungrateful animals which constituted the primary forces of the revolution imposed terror on me, but instead I felt it to be dangerous for my son. He was of a wild, aggressive, and violent nature. If he was participant in any party, I never knew. He denied the information to me when I questioned him. He was working as a graphic designer in a plane factory until the Red government nationalized it and disenfranchised his service. Poppelreuter told him to discontinue his friendship with his son

238 Information found in Raymond Carr, page 626.

228 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master and visits to his residence. My son had a sustained friendship with Tibor Revesz, a neighbor at his same building address. According to information received— I was then living apart from my legal family— he was impudent and confronted the militia. In those times, danger was a reality, since life had no value. To a military patrol that occupied the terrace in his apartment, he told them to move out; if he was asked for his walking documents, his reply was to deny the authority of the inquisitor. To such behavior, I trembled about possible consequences to his life. His military service had been called and I counseled him to seek a voluntary position. I thought that perhaps being one more soldier would make him appear less prominent for his impudence. Nothing helped me; his destination was in the Sierra of Navalperal. The column was operated by a commander named Mangada, who was well known among the Red chieftains. My son had too strong a personality to blend among the vulgar; he was the only soldier from management Service Corps in his column and he responded to requests from the troops. He got hold of a white pure-blooded mare to do the services; he shared lodgings with a former hotel cook who prepared his meals. Army Management had no direct command on the column; and therefore he was there on his own. For what I could perceive, the design of his situation was exactly the opposite of what I had in mind for his protection. With the revolution, services ceased, and we found that we had thirty pesetas in total to support ourselves. It was then when Mrs. Luzuriaga called Maria to help with the schoolgirls whose control the Minor’s Tribunal took over from the orphanages that had been abandoned by the religious orders that had taken flight. Mrs. Luzuriaga was a bright specialist in deaf-mute teaching, and she was, at the time, head of the Department of Education of the Tribunal for Minors’ Entitlement. Maria met Luzuriaga some time before, when they worked together at the Secretary Technical Ministry of Culture. Luzuriaga liked Maria and appreciated her work. The idea was to send Maria, as a teacher, to the local abandoned convents; and since I had practically no work to account for, I was able to follow her.

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In order to temporarily leave my studio and residence, we decided to place its control in the hands of the neighbor family who had been our employees for some time. I decided not to ask for official protection; I could have done so since I was a government officer and my studio was my workplace. My overconfidence resulted in a poor outcome: because the location was left empty, a homeless family took it over and proceeded to practically rob us of our possessions. They carried away almost everything, even the mattress stuffing. They left paintings, some furniture that I later moved to the neighbor’s family residence. With time, my daughter Salud recovered the rest of our possessions, but unfortunately a valuable collection of small-format paintings which had been left over from the exhibit that I did in 1924 had disappeared; I was never able to recover it. The school where Maria worked, along with other teachers, under the orders of Mrs. Luzuriaga, had been not only an orphan house but also a residence for well-to-do, elderly ladies. In its former use, the main rooms were dedicated to the elderly hostellers, while the mean part of the property was living quarters for the orphaned girls. The installations were very poor, especially for the younger residents. The girls had no access to the most basic conditions to keep healthy hygiene. We, therefore, converted the laundry tanks in the backyard into shower stalls. We proceeded to transfer the younger girls from their former living quarters from the top of a cow’s shed, and the older residents from theirs on the house’ attic, to better accommodations on the main living floors. The conditions were so poor that in the winter, they had to practically break the ice in their basins if they wanted to wash their faces early in the morning, I was told. The girls were dressed in grey, misshaped aprons; and they walked with bowed heads, shrunken in their demeanor. They asked for things as if seeking charity; and they kept their gazes fixed on the floor, without daring to look upwards. One of the youngsters saw our baby play with her legs in the air while sitting on her stroller and reported to Maria: “Madam, your little girl’s behavior is immodest!” The basic diet for the girls was starch-based; it was a pity that the house’s underused kitchen garden did not provide for a balanced diet. A few days later, the orphan girls had been bathed and

230 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master began exercise class wearing their swimming suits. They ran along the paths in the orchard; and they screamed happily in the sunlight. Regular instruction classes were organized to boost their educational level which was very low. We had a permanent militia guard; one of them used to sit all the time in an armchair and had his breakfast brought to him by the staff. The usual was a huge bowl of coffee and milk with five rolls; the other meals of the day were similar in size and content. I suffered two incidents on one of my walks outside the building; and I almost lost my equanimity, which could have cost me dearly. On a nearby street, a company with its battery were parading and I stopped to observe them. The artillery men rode horses or sat on the transports, in the middle of disorganized shouts, and foul language designed to smother the fright in their souls when soldiers march towards the unknown. They saw me and hissed: “Up with your fist! Up with your fist!” I lifted it while they paraded along the road; but I felt the deep hurt feeling in my blood of centuries of my family’s chivalrous tradition since I was neither in the military nor supported pro-military rule. Under the impasse of this encounter, I reached the entrance to the building at the instant when a truck loaded with incredibly horrendous women screaming like their counterparts, and the scene repeated itself. When the women saw me, like harpies, they screamed: “The one with the beard! Fascist! Fascist! Raise-up your fist!” I could not control myself and I turned around and gave them the conk sign with my folded arm. The scandal reached high ground! They wanted to jump off and get me but the high barriers of the truck kept them prisoners; and the only things visible were their tortured torsos and arms. From a nearby construction site, some supporter threw a brick that shattered at my feet. I made myself scarce and pretended I had not heard them and entered in the residence. Fortunately, the militia received me without hard feelings but instead with smiles. A short time afterwards, we were moved to a different locality— another school. Its building was of recent manufacture which had in the middle gardens and orchards. It was the foundation created

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 231 by a rich couple, who had left the property to the orphanage— and it was fully furnished with valuable things. The nuns had left. The caretaker of the house, a gentile-looking lady, was fully aware of the contents’ value and the need for caring for the property. The staff was trained for service in a rich house; the control of the property was in their hands. The head servicewoman, with open mien and educated manner, directed herself to me, mistakenly thinking me to be the head of the group when in reality I had little to do with it. I accepted her approach and listened to her. I was informed of the function and disposition of the staff members. Besides the maid servants, the property had a sort of handyman and gardener, who was Quasimodo-like— he lived in a pavilion. I asked the matron to call the staff, and I interrogated each of them about why had they remained on the property after the nuns’ departure. They told me that the nuns had been forced to leave and that they had been put in charge of the caring and keeping of their positions for as long as they could continue. I asked them if they wanted to remain in service or leave; and only one decided to leave. I inquired about their salary, and I told them that they would get a pay raise; to the one about to leave, I asked if she was owed any monies in arrears to clear up her account. The rest of the staff declared themselves at my service; and since it was suppertime, I was informed that it was ready to be served. Therefore, I asked the matron to serve the meal in the traditional order she used to do when the community was in residence. There were other teachers beside Maria and myself. One of them was from Russia; she was short, very fair skinned and had rounded limbs, and she was married to a well-known Communist, Gabriel Leon Trilla, who was murdered years later in Madrid; this same guy had been a boyfriend to Maria’s sister’s friend. Another teacher was a slim blond, and a Geography graduate; she came from a well-to-do family in Madrid and she involved herself in the Red revolutionary movement, following her penchant for modernity, a position placing her sentiments against her wealthy house. One more individual in the group was a lively girl; a service maid by office, and she was with us because her husband was an

232 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master official to the Judge Mr. San Martin for the Minor’s Title Tribunal. The brother of this officer was a member of the Libertarian Youths. The husband to the mentioned maid was a handyman and a good person in his own right; and he liked to dress as a fearsome militia man. He wore his cartridge belts, and on his coat lapel, he displayed a spent Mauser’s cartridge; and on his military cap a six-point metal star was displayed. This guy was always groomed and affable; and he thought of himself as indispensable for the efficient running of business difficulties. Husband and wife were like a couple of running-around squirrels. Besides these staff- persons, we had a concierge, who was a vast individual— he looked like the first issue of a statue of magnificent proportions before being polished. Even so, he was of a natural good and ignorant disposition; he liked to eat, and remain seated in his armchair and slap at the maids’ buttocks. He tried to mingle with some of the girls, who wore their congregation medals hanging from their necks. Maria talked to him to remind him that he was there to protect not to harass them; and at the same time, she talked to the girls, for they were to wear the medals inside their clothing and do their prayers before and after meals in a private manner. Poor Quasimodo was terrorized by the decked-out militiaman. When the teachers came back from their duty with the girls, the slim blond declared, in her Red fervor, that all of the staff should be dismissed and that replacements be asked for from the House of the Commoner. To that, Maria answered that as long as they did their work, it was not just to dismiss people because of their ideologies. One of the staff entered to tell us that dinner was on the table. The meal was abundant, well cooked, and served; and soon, the blond changed her opinion, although she did consider Maria to have the many prejudices of a Sevillian aristocrat. The good dinner was followed by after- dinner conversation and dessert, and then we retired to a good bed and continued to spend some days in such manner. Good things never last long, however, and soon we were told that the building had been assigned to the Republican Left, for the militias, and that we had two hours to vacate the place. When the caretaker heard the order, she lost her demeanor. To have to leave all behind! She called me aside to tell me that she

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 233 had many things of high value that she had saved; and we could put them in a sack. To that I told her to do as she saw fit. The only thing we did was to make bundles with the bed clothing in the closets and make the girls— some returning to their families— take them some things that could be saved. Within two hours, a military chief accompanied by an assistant and an escort showed up. He was to take possession of the place. In one of the parlors there was a painting that I estimated to be by Ribera, a figure of Saint Mary from Egypt, scantily covered by a rough palm-leaves dress. I took the chief to show him and said: “This is a masterpiece and we must save it. You do not need to have religious paintings in this place; and besides, it is a female nude figure and you do not know what the young militia can do about it. Let me un-hang it, along with other paintings of value and pack them for protection.” Reluctantly, he assigned two helpers and I proceeded to do the salvage. The girls moved with their teachers to another school and I returned to my flat in the Paseo de Ronda. During my absence, the committee of neighbors had the place opened to victims of destroyed living quarters— these were a woman with children, who robbed as many things as possible; but luckily they left behind a mattress to lie down on. I spent several days in our old home. I collected some information about the situation. Since our move to the schools, I had been cut off from news. The neighbor, now an assault militiaman in service to the Red government, told me about a thousand cruel cases and despicable inhuman behavior. The filth god had taken over, the former assistant prepared my meals, and I moved into their apartment because they had a spare room. I filled up two chests with what was left of interest, along with some furniture pieces. Maria had told me that they had moved to another school under the Minors’ Title Tribunal. This new school was of a different architectural setting. On the outside façade, it looked like a plain, two-storey house of the vulgar old style, but behind it there was an extensive orchard. The parlors of the nuns and living quarters, where we stayed, faced the street; in the back, in a makeshift building, the girls had their living quarters, schoolrooms, and an infirmary. Everything was

234 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master filthy, paint peeled from the walls, and it was infested by bugs and rats. We had to call the Municipal De-Infestation offices. The bugs crawled like ants or flies over cadavers. This was something that was repugnant to see; and it was impossible to put the children there. And this is the way that the nuns had kept them! The living space had no showers, bathrooms, or sinks with running water; they only had standing washbasins. In the stair landing, the nuns had hung a natural-size painting of the “Souls in Purgatory,” with the enthroned Carmen Virgin and an angel. The painting was permanently lit by an oil flickering lamp which exaggerated the figures of bearded men partially naked twisting among the flames of Purgatory. The girls had to go by this landing to reach the commode, day or night. One can imagine how scared they may have been of the painting! Maria had it removed and saved in the sacristy; and some of the girls expressed their happiness. We tidied the place as much as we could; water plumbing was provided to some wash basins so that they could have running water available. We proceeded to install shower stalls in the laundry room. The cleaned girls could sunbathe on the terrace. Many of the girls presented skin rashes and suspicious pimples; and so we provided a doctor’s visit to evaluate their health. The state of abandon that we found was inconceivable. There were girls 15- and 16-years old, who after many years at the orphanage, were illiterate. The nuns had a system to catalogue the girls according to precedence like the caste system in India; and, depending on it, they were given more or less attention in their upbringing. This classification noted those girls that could afford to pay, the ones subsidized by the government, orphans coming from orphanages, abandoned children, and the insolvent. The kitchen was a sordid hovel in the basement. The children had a court to in which to play that was located in the northern part of the building with scarcely enough direct sunlight; however, the terrace in front of the orchard was a reserved place. The history of each girl was something remarkable— some were sad, others repugnant. One of them, by the name of de la Cerda, was issue of an illustrious family.

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I burned the trash— abandoned papers, where the rats had their nests— in the fires that I lit on the orchard ground. I set rat traps and every day, we found some rats caught. I habilitated an aviary for the fowl from other appropriated convents. The Minor’s Protection Office sent me a worker to tend the orchard. Besides the members already existent at the other school, we got two additional ladies— they were Maria’s friends, librarians like her, and a lady who was the wife to a Navy general who was unfortunately captured because of his socialist ideas on the Red side. The attendant sent by the office was a pardoned murderer; he told me that he had been condemned for the cacique’s murder in his village. “But it was not me who killed him”. he said, and added: “You see, as things are today, I should not need to deny it but the truth is that I did not do it. About my imprisonment, I can tell you that it was the only time in my life when I ate well and had a bed to sleep in. I come from a hamlet in Salamanca, where I had an orchard and there I reared my family, eating only what we could not sell. I left a grown boy there, probably killed by now. In jail, as I said, life is not bad, except that to speak to an officer, the prisoner had to stand like a soldier, cap in hand, and that is a shameful torture.” He was a good worker, loyal, naturally talented, and, in prison, he had learned how to weave and do other trade métiers. During those days, I visited Victorio Macho at his studio; in fact, his only activity was to go to his studio. While I was there, a friend came. He reproached him about isolating himself, saying that the constituents of the café Lion Dor at Alcala Street were asking for him. We went out and I walked them to the tramway; they wanted me to come, they argued; but to go sit in a public café at the time seemed like an insult and a senseless lack of conscience to me. The next day Macho told me that I was right not to come to the café meeting. I saw my son. He told me that his regiment had been called to active service. He did his military duty with the Service Corps in Seville, And he was thinking whether or not he should do his active duty. I counseled him to present himself. “In Madrid” I told him, “many people know you. You are bold and unconscious and sooner or later we will have to regret it. A plain

236 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master enlisted man goes unnoticed. Enlist yourself and according to circumstances, do as your ideas tell you since I do not really know them. Are you a syndicated member of some party or similar thing? Do you have compromising connections?” I was not able to move him to respond to my questions. At the same time, I received notice that we were supposed to move to Valencia because the government wanted to begin clearing Madrid. Before I left, I received news from my son: Las Navas 3-9-36 Dear Father: I suppose you will receive my new postal address from: Las Navas- Largo Caballero Battalion. Transport Cistern Tanks. Here, everything continues to be quiet. The only inconvenience to us is the cold weather that has begun already. With an embrace from your son, Javier 3 October 36

Dear Javier: As I said in my last letter, I came here with a children’s colony and I do not know for how long. I am in the mountains. I am sending you my address and beg you: do not take too long to write to me because I suspect that the correspondence to this place must be sluggish. Residence El Cerrito Requena (Valencia) With my embrace, your father Javier A thick underlined mark traced the address to which the letter was sent. On the back, an unknown hand wrote: He was counted as absent from his column, the Responsible

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Rojo. He had been murdered! My poor son! I always have you in my mind. I see you through the different stages of your life and it seems like a dream. What a variety of individual moods and not accounted-for individuals’ lives! I had a premonition. I made you come to this world in a foreign country. I wanted you to adopt that land as yours. I wanted to flee from my land to a better place, to accept your country of birth as a better place than mine. Before you opened your eyes, I looked at you with emotion. Later, the people used to call you baby rabbit and chick. How charming you were! Then you said your first words. You left your country of birth and came back to this country and you forgot your origin. I defeated my purpose. While the babies in their prams looked like blond-white marzipans, you had a dark complexion; and with your legs propped out of the pram and your big dark eyes shining, you attracted people because of your exoticism. Here, when you were little, you had a big scarf and a playful fox-terrier grabbed the end between its teeth. It was almost stronger than you with its pulling shakes. Do you remember when you used to go by yourself to visit the old lone man who had no other friends but you? Or when you befriended a shepherd and, like him, you were able to recognize each of the sheep? Or when you proposed that my friends buy my paintings? Then, we were living in poverty but you had your bread every day. You ate avidly a plateful of boiled rice without salt and you did not mind. You grew up and played with your friends and to the younger ones, you used to give the small change that you got from me to have horchata. You were not even one meter tall and you had constituted yourself into a protector of the young. Do you remember one day when we were talking about burials and you said that you did not mind dying except that you did not want anybody to throw dirt on your corpse. Oh my poor little one! Perhaps your desire was fulfilled and nobody threw dirt on you! In life, your desire was to be in the mountains breathing the pure air of the high peaks; the bullets from your murderers made you fall and your big brown eyes, I imagine, remained open, reflecting the

238 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master blue sky or the stars in the pure air of the high ranges as pure as your life had been. You were noble at heart; and you never took offense to my punishing your faults the few times that I exerted a punishment on you. You had not overacted although I did wrong to you. We had a special encounter one day and I introduced you to your sister, Beatriz. You kissed her and we walked all afternoon on the hills covered with pink and mauve flowers. It was the most beautiful landscape in which we had ever lived together. You, strong with long, dark, and wavy hair, thick eyebrows and big eyes, and your big smiling mouth; and she, small, blond, delicate and full of dreams. “But is he really my brother?” she asked. We ate in the roadhouse; and we had a banquet of fresh salad, rabbit, fruits and wine. The children of the owners of the roadhouse called your name, “Javier! Javier!” You were familiar with the natives of fields and river shores. You were loved by all. The Germans also loved you! Javier! You were splendid and high spirited. Your friends were afraid of seeing your demeanor in front of the rebels. I was always afraid for you. Friends are friends! Who cares about the rabble? I wanted to separate you from them and gallantly you answered: “My friend H.,”. you introduced me. You were full of happiness with a red sweater and your disorderly hair. You kissed me good-bye and left the subway with your friend. I hated that friend of yours from the very moment I saw him but I behaved courteously. You did not walk towards your death willingly. You did not want that kind of death, you wanted some other death but it had to be through the hands of the rabble how your life ended. You continued to be what you had been before; happily you rode the riffs with a white mare. When they came to kill your friends, you— what friends they were— you joined them in the immolation. The rabble murdered you. Perhaps they attended to your child-like desire. Perhaps you were left on the earth with your eyes wide open to reflect the sun and the stars. I curse your murderers! And you, no matter if the wild animals peeled your bones, were fallen

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 239 proudly, and put a final point to your race in your extinction although I am still alive without fruit, and with the sore feeling of departing this life without continuation.

240 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master

CHAPTER XI

Sojourn in Valencia (1937 to 1939)-To Brihuega, as Inspector in the middle of a civil war-El Grao-Valencian landscape, Sorolla- End of the civil war-To Madrid- To Barcelona 1940-Becoming an artist painter again-New Department of Historic Gardens and Picturesque Landscapes, 1941-The Lakes of Bañolas and Sanabria-“The Golden Clover” award-Paintings exhibited at Syra Gallery, 1948-Other exhibits in Barcelona-Art-October 1954 Barcelona-Ministry of Education and Fine Arts decree for conservation and protection of Spanish gardens. On our side, we received the order to move to Valencia. I said “received,” always bearing in mind that I had nothing to do with the entire business; I was a sort of joined volunteer. (I stated at the Minor’s Office my firm wish to withdraw my work if Javier de Winthuysen did not accompany us. I wanted him to be away from imminent danger, and as I was then an indispensable part of the team, they accepted my petition and considered it an honor to serve us. I was right to be afraid for my Winthuysen’s life; a group of strange-looking men called on him at our domicile who knows what intention).239 To move to Valencia with the 70 girls in our charge needed my cooperation. I had the kitchen staff kill and cook the entire aviary’s content— 20 to 30 chickens and hens. We had enough bread to accompany the cooked fowls; at least we would not be hungry. It was vital to have enough victuals if our train was detained. However, we did not encounter any interruptions during the journey. The train rode in blackness the entire night. By dawn, the girls had eaten our entire store of provisions. With us, came the daughter of the former poet Enrique Mesa with her little girls. Her husband, an engineer at the RENFE, had been murdered in Seville; apparently, he was a relative to Azaña— sufficient cause for his dismissal. Maria, in her younger days, in Seville, had been a close friend to the assassinated engineer’s sister; she married Rivas Charif.240

239 The note was an inserted and written by previous the editor, Maria Hector Vazquez. 240 Perhaps the author meant to tell the reader that, through the intricate friendship connection, the lady and her two little girls were able to travel safely to Valencia with us.

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Late in the morning, our train arrived at a station where the local people were waiting for us with fresh fruit galore. The little girls, pleased with the novelty, ate the grapes to their fullness; and the wagons were covered with ripe grapes’ juice like in a press room. The entire scene looked like a party. The high voices of the old men from the reception committee got to the poor girls who until there were used to rigidity, and convent-like repression. Now they were joyously yelling their contentment. The Levantine scenery of orange groves and vines growths in a white transparent light with strong shadows tinged by the sun was the setting where nature smiled with cacophonous delight. Heavens knows if that response could have been the so-much–talked-about liberation of the masses! Indeed it evoked one of the strongest emotions in my life. The act was repeated at each of the stations at which the train stopped before reaching Valencia. In this city, the station restaurant had prepared long tables with hot café with milk; and there, we waited for a local train to take us to Requena and then, in buses, we crossed the old city to the outskirts— our final destination. El Cerrito, an old rural property, was our new location: It consisted of extensive agricultural fields, vines, and pine woods with a country-style house. Undoubtedly, it was the happy product of the union between the utilitarian agriculture and pleasure. The revolutionary Reds in control had sequestered it from its former owners. In the house, we were welcomed by an already-organized staff. One of the teachers in town, who was also the secretary to the Republican Action, showed us the interior of the house and its additional buildings. The main room was our bedroom; and the teachers in the group had accommodations on the second floor, and the girls were also provided with sleeping quarters there. Our bedroom had nice, light-brown walnut furniture of certain quality. As a human detail, we saw on one of the walls a column of ascending marks with dates and repeated names; undoubtedly the children of the owners being measured yearly at the arrival of vacation time in the country. We were informed of the owners’ names; years later, we learned that the oldest son, an artillery

Although the question remains of who Rivas Charif could have been— possibly a politician of some weight.

242 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master officer, had died commanding his troops at the Plaza de Catalonia, in Barcelona. On the ground floor, a spacious room had been prepared with benches and a blackboard to serve as schoolroom. The hall was the dining room for the girls and the teachers had a dining facility as well. The installation was perfect. In front of the house, an extensive, walled courtyard allowed the expansion of the girls’ activities without need to trample on the fields. In the back, the house had the utilitarian spaces and next to it, the pressrooms and the winery. The entire complex was located on top of a hill; therefore its name was very appropriate— El Cerrito. The land covered with vineyard swept from the top of the hill to an elm- covered riverside that had shallow, clear water with a sandy bottom. On the opposed margin, pine woods and broken land continued to the high mountains in the horizon. The teacher in charge was a young, energetic pedagogue, who was a faithful republican very much aligned with the revolutionary ideology. Unfortunately, the revolution contained a multitude of parties of very diverse ideologies like the UGT, CNT and so forth, and all of them were in a mutual war. I was never able to understand which was right or wrong and why; it was not my concern to understand them since I only dealt with Don Alejandro, the teacher. In the residence, Maria was the director; and she had her hands full, teaching sixty girls, making them learn how to clean house and to sew, among other things. Anita, the wife to the militiaman from the Minor’s Tribunal, was her assistant. The other two participants in the group, the teacher and the Russian lady, had stayed in Madrid. Their place was soon occupied by a local Liberal Arts student. This young guy was a strange character. He walked with a limp and was a little bit abnormal, in my opinion. We had a full staff of servants: one revolutionary, unscrupulous cook imposed by the committee and two women helpers— one of them, verily a harpy. Besides those three, we had an aggregate, half-wit who had arranged things to live at his contentment. At the beginning of our stay, meals were abundant and well cooked. We had delightful paellas, fresh fruit and you name it; at our side dining room, there was the addition of extravagant,

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 243 expensive cold meats, canned fruit, sweets, and champagne wine for special occasions. Where could all the luxuries come from? Who knows! This was the table for the teachers and part of the staff like the aggregated half-wit whose favorite saying was: ”Me, always ready for a meal!” The property had a dog. It was the former owners’ dog, a magnificent female Great Dane that adopted all the girls to its charge. Her name was Pearl and she had a superb collar and sorrow in her heart for her murdered master. I was informed that the locals had summarily executed many of the landowners; others had been put to work the fields. I, without a fixed occupation, could allow myself to take long walks and contemplate the magnificent landscape. I walked kilometers and kilometers and came to the foot of the sierra. Don Alejandro told me that it could be dangerous but nothing ever happened to me. From time to time, I encountered a peasant or a shepherd working on their land or the taken-over land and I conversed with them without ever finding the fastidious Red philosophy. Instead, many were reasonable people although of a retracted and shy nature. What disturbed the peace, in my walks, were the voices of the young singing peasants; they all sang the same absurd mode: “Hail to the spoon feeders! Hell to the fork feeders!” which they mixed in between the most sordid vernacular. Most of the girls were very young; they used to go swimming on naked in the river. The spectacle was completed with the sane intervention of the Great Dane, her sole thought the responsibility and well being of the creatures under her charge. Don Alejandro invited me over to the Republican Circle in town. There the members used to listen to Queipo de Llano’s discourses. I do not know why they listened to his indecent perorations because they always ended up enraged; one night they even broke the radio. They talked about the condemned bourgeois who they had murdered, and I got the information on an old sentenced couple that was still alive. Don Alejandro wanted me to go to Valencia to discuss the difficulties encountered by our colony because, although the

244 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master citizens of the nearby city offered to sustain the colony, they tried to evade the obligation as soon as they perceived the onerous charge that it constituted. I did not want to go; Maria went instead. She told me on her return that early in the morning, as they left, they saw on the side of the road how the old couple’s bodies were packed in sacks. During the night, they dragged the old couple previously mentioned and shot them. When I inquired why was it done a town resident told me: “He had conservative right beliefs; but he had no bad intentions— on the contrary, he supported as many as he could. She had an intransigent religious way of thinking, aggravated with bad intentions. Both were bedridden and she was in a wheelchair; the unfortunate had been dragged to a tragic end. Things in the colony marched from bad to worse. The spectacular meals offered to visitors from the city or from Valencia, in our dining hall, had disappeared. Although the meals continued to be sound for us, in the dining hall for the girls, they were getting inedible discards. We cut through the problem by telling the staff that from that day, on we would eat with the girls in the same dining hall. Our decision was not to their liking since they could not give us badly cooked meals, as they used to for the girls. Since the kitchen was short of funds, the staff discussed the possibility of begging for food from the rich peasants in the nearby lands. I believe this was an idea of the limp-walking, disabled student teacher. They asked me if I wanted to go along. The prospect did not sound pleasant to me, but it was out of the ordinary and I went out to beg with two of the girls in our colony. In one house the family invited us to dinner. They sat us at a little table covered with a tablecloth next to the main table. The father sat at the head of the table, and they served him stew from the cooking pot and gave him silverware. The mother and the girls sat in front of the cooking pot and ate from it, before they helped me and the youngster who was with me. They admired the good table manners of my companion begging girl. In another house, we spent some time in conversation with the lady of the house. She was very loquacious; and affectionately, she said farewell with the traditional expression: “May God be with you!”

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Her husband looked at her furiously, and took me to the door to explain her behavior: “Women!” he said, ”They cannot abandon their old ways; I hope that you forgive her saying this.” “No harm done, my friend,” I said, ”God be with you!“ and I shook his hand and left him open-mouthed. From our excursions, we used to come back with some money, bread loaves, chickens, and fresh fruits. But the attitude of the cook and his coterie was getting worse by the minute. In the kitchen, the staff ate prime fare and the girls had to continue putting up with disgusting meals. One of the girls was half sick and could not ingest the plastered meal; and so I ordered the kitchen to make her an omelet. They told me that there were no eggs, when the previous day I had brought in a couple of dozen. No doubt the cook and his help had been into it. The attitude of the staff became tense; especially the women towards Maria because she defended the girls’ cause. The situation was turning really dangerous, especially when we got the information about their attitude by way of an overheard conversation through an open window at the court: “She is a classy lady and she should be given the walk,” they said.241 On the other hand, our services in favor of the girls were voluntary; and so we decided that Maria should go to Valencia, to seek influence, and to request a teaching position in a village. She was lucky; she found out that the Director to Elementary Education had been the Inspector at the Ministry of Public Education where she had been working the years previous to the war and she obtained a teaching position in a village near Gerona.242 One day, at dawn, Maria left and came back at noon to pick up our daughters and leave on her way out of Valencia towards Catalonia. They traveled under protection of the Office for Minors’ Tribunal.

241 In popular language, it meant to take somebody out of their residence and kill them. 242 Maria Hector Vazquez was by profession an elementary teacher, librarian, translator of French language and on one occasion a translator from Catalan.

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I said farewell to Don Alejandro who had become a close friend and with a few pesetas that he gave me for a gun that I owned for many years, and a camera, I departed towards Valencia where the Republican government, along with the intellectuals, were installed. My intention was to be among the intellectuals where I had friends, knew people and had prestige. However, on reaching Valencia, I could not find lodgings; all the places I knew were full. I was tired of going from one place to another, always carrying my suitcase; and so, I asked a night watchman, who took me to a sordid-looking house on the town’s outskirts. There, a multitude of people were already asleep, and jumping over one occupied floor space to another, I arrived at a small room where a gentleman stood undressing next to his bed and next to it was the one that was supposed to be for me. The mentioned person looked at me straight on the face and asked me: “Were you ever at sea?” “You have not guessed totally right,” I said, “but almost; I come from a marine background and something or other may have been bequeathed on me.” “Not only something but a lot.” We exchanged greetings. On awakening the next morning, I again jumped over the sleeping guys on the floor and left the pigsty. Next day, I was able to find lodgings that were in reasonable condition. My situation was not easy, however, because with the twenty duros that I had in my pocket, I would soon be out of money. The first thing I did was to go to the Office of Tourism; they still owed me for the last garden I planned for them. Bauer, the president, was a correct gentleman but the secretary was one of those political walkie-talkies who, with a curtsy, told me they could not pay me. I looked for support among friends but I did not find it. The situation was pressing and I ended going to see the sub-secretary of the Government to plead my case. “And for that misery they squeeze you in trouble?” he said. He ordered a call placed to Bauer; and the secretary still wanted to have his delay but I stood in front of him and I asked for what was owed to me. What I needed, I told them, was not stories but money to cover my needs— even so, they never paid me for the

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 247 project for Ciudad Rodrigo, the best garden owned by the Spanish Office of Tourism. Not too many years ago, I received a letter from Mr. Bolin243 praising me for the beauty of the garden that he had just visited. In Valencia, the Street of La Paz looked like downtown Madrid; the intellectuals had their Residence on it. They were a gang that little by little left for Paris; where well-provided with the gold taken out from the Spanish Bank, they managed to glide to America, especially to Mexico, or other convivial places. Besides the obvious group of intellectuals, there were other personalities like the Solanas, Macho and so forth…and so forth. Neither Antonio Machado nor Benavente stayed complacently at the previously mentioned house. The popular point of reunion for some of them, and for those like me that were in Valencia, was the café across the street. The intellectuals were passable; the bad part was the ladies who were a special breed of intellectuals. They used to congregate at the Lyceum Club. They had been my personal enemies for many years. In their reunions, the ladies systematically scorched every classy individual. They were poor and pretentious and most of them were in their female-critical age of fifty. The Passionaria used to be a participant in their reunions. The sculptor Victorio Macho, with his showy public way, was working on her sculpture. Macho was a talented artist and had no need to be so partisan and political but he apparently enjoyed it. As a matter of fact, few artists were at work; even Solana used to say what we need to do now is win the war (apparently, this was contradiction to his usual actions— he always wanted to protect his interests first, like crazy and abnormal people do). General Miaja organized an exhibit for Macho; this was the poor commanding general of the Red army. I never went inside the exhibit; I only crossed in front of the entrance, which was covered with mysterious curtains that were protected by a militia guard standing in front with his rifle. I asked Macho: “What do you expect from these people?”

243 It could be a typo from “Botin,” for whom the author planned the garden at Puente de San Miguel.

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“I expect a great Republic!” was his answer. When I told Antonio Machado about this incidental conversation, he said with his usual mordacity: “Very good! We already have a Phidias and now we need to see where we can find a Pericles.” Antonio Machado and his extended family— mother, brothers, (except Manuel), and his nieces— resided in a villa offered by the Republican government at Montforte, and the entire family depended on him for their livelihood. Don Antonio always had had socialist inclinations but not sympathy for the extremist communist Reds; and the government profited from his services by presenting him internationally in lectures and things of the sort. Antonio Machado was extremely attached to his family, although many times, I considered that his oeuvre would have benefited from being alone. He left a lot of work but he may have left even more. His several cooperative works with his brother Manuel, and particularly the last book which was illustrated with drawings by his brother Pepe, were not of the best quality (although I think that work is lost). The Institutional individuals who were in control convinced Pepe that he was a good draftsman. No doubt, it was their lack of education which made them decide who may be a good draftsman without discrimination in matters of art. The Modernist movement was well represented in their mist; they had Sorolla, and it goes without saying that he was not a universal representative but at the same time, they ignored his real quality. Pepe Machado was a poor draftsman, even though his brothers had a different opinion; but putting aside his drawings, he was an extremely sensitive individual. Of the other Machado brothers, Manuel— without reaching the talent of Antonio— had talent and culture. One of the brothers, I never met, and I think he was the oldest; there was one more by the nickname of “Jailer,” who was a rough individual; and with this one, Don Antonio had no attachment or shared thoughts. I always regret the lack of development of Antonio Machado as a theater playwright. I remember his first play, Alvargonzalez, and how he used to converse with the actor Ricardo Calvo. The plays are noteworthy, without forgetting that his late prose works were mentioned by professor Mairena: Castilla! What a coincidence that the two greatest personalities who describe it came from Seville: Velazquez and Machado; and its environment was more

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 249 accurately painted through history than by anybody else. I paid a weekly visit to the villa in Montforte— Machado’s residence— during my entire sojourn in Valencia. Before that time, I used to see him regularly at the old café reunion in Madrid. I remember how a visiting literary personality admired how we could hold meetings in such an old, out of the way cafe. Perhaps he wanted us to meet in a brand new bar with chrome fixtures! Occasionally I met Don Antonio at the villa. He would be dressed in his starched collar shirt with his tie halfway tied up, waiting for the transport to the official place where he was going to be shown to the foreign nations to tell the world that Republican Spain was cultured. And poor Machado would finish dressing, if the transport showed up, and leave the house as if he were on his way towards the gallows. At the Residence for the intellectuals (in Valencia), I met Mrs. Robles. The Robles were a married couple who used to live and teach at an American university. They often visited Spain. I approached her, and said hello and asked about her husband. She said, in a, subdued mannered, “He is doing well!” I was not satisfied with her short answer and I made some inquiry. I found out this: Robles came to Spain full of hope for what could be accomplished with the Spanish revolution. He protested when he saw the disorganized partisan battle that it had become and saw all the violence. Consequent to his criticism, he disappeared (and was summarily executed).244 I went to the Russian Embassy to visit Julia Danilevsky. She had given up her position of language interpreter with the State Department’s Foreign Office and the Department of Public Education with the Republican administration. Her mother was a former Revolutionary who had escaped from Russia; and in Spain, she had married a certain Captain Rodriguez, of whom she was a widow. When the Russian forces arrived, she joined them— perhaps she was strongly feeling her roots. The two daughters had been taught Russian from early age; and they were fluent in this difficult language. Julia was an astonishing Slavonic beauty and with her language fluency; she had obtained a secretarial and interpreter position. I visited the embassy several times; one thing

244 Information was provided by one of the editors previous to my edition.

250 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master that attracted my attention was that they had a servant carrying sandwiches all the time. Apparently, they did not have set meal times. Julia was very close to Maria during the time she occupied the translator position at the Technical Office of the High Cultural Council; and Maria was then an assistant secretary. I often wonder what must have been the fate of that astonishing beauty that greatly fascinated Machado. Foreign interventions or invasions have left their mark on our land but not so the Russians. I think they did not leave us any sequel. Their special torture interrogation prisons, checas, had no continuation in a country where we had the Inquisition— so much criticized by liberal minds— their methods could be considered humanitarian when compared to the refined cruelty of modern times…Julia was, indeed, as beautiful as she was cold and intelligent. At that time I saw with a certain assiduity Damaso Alonso;245 he was a poet and Gongora translator. I met him when he was a student, and I even took some of his poems to Juan Ramón Jimenez, who welcomed them. All of these circumstances determined a certain attachment to him but I had my doubts when I read one of his verses: “Oh fisher of moons that I was!” Some youth lamenting being a fisher of moons seemed too practical to me. I cultivated another friendship while in Valencia; he was director of a museum in Toledo. He was always shaky with fear. I also saw his companion who was a member of the Reproduction Office in Madrid.246 I used to go to the canteens with the latter; those were the restaurants where we starved soundly. In the pension, I had room but not board. One day as I walked with him, a drunken militia soldier approached me and touched my beard; and I

245 Damaso Alonso, 1898-1990, was a poet and philosopher, part of the 1927 generation of intellectuals. The thinking of the 1927 generation differed from the 1898 generation: While the 1898 generation preferred super realism, the Generation of 1927 inclined towards surrealism and symbolism. In part it was because the intractable political situation in the country had come to standstill and it was better to go beyond borders of normality. Winthuysen’s way of thought approached the 18th century mode more than his own generation. Consequently, he was able to see the Spanish situation with clarity and sincerity. 246 Editor added these names: “Francisco B. de San Roman and G. Diaz Lopez.”

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 251 punched him in the stomach but nothing happened. I also remember a very tall Moor militiaman, dark-skinned and crossed- eyed who invited me for a drink every time we happened to meet at the same bar. I thought, ‘How odd!’ I asked him if we had met before and he said, with smile, from seeing you. Occasionally, when I went to the canteen to eat, I tried to sit at a table already occupied by one or two militia soldiers. I liked to converse with them, and besides they usually gave me bread of which I had none. From my conversations I deduced that none of them were Red. From time to time, I went outside the city on walks to find food. In this way, one day, I met several people who were doing the same. One of the ladies was tired. It was a hot day and we sought refuge in a barraca. The people living in this hut tolerated us and tried to ignore our presence. After resting and drinking, the tired lady began to converse; and with careful conversation we found out that none of us were Red. The peasant head of the family asked his wife: “See if you give these people some fresh tomatoes, and some bread if we have any!” They gave us a copious snack, and on top of this, a jug of wine. Shortly after my arrival to Valencia, through my relation to the Tourist Office, I visited the Benicarlo Inn, where the food was splendid and the room service was first-class like in the old days; the only thing changed was the staff. I met with a militia corporal there; he was a young, strong guy with a hand wound. He was from the Maestrazgo, where the “Trabucaires,” Carlistas militia, originated; and evidently the way of thinking of the natives supported the Carlistas’ cause. He told me that he was the lesser murderer of his gang; they had assassinated eight surrendered Germans who had been part of the national Legion Condor. He recounted other exploits of the same sort with a sardonic smile. “And with the wounded, what do you do?” I asked him. “Well, we get them out of their misery with a deep knife stab— ha! ha! —What else could we do with them?” One day, a rough guy ate with us; he held the rib steaks with his bare hands, biting and tearing at them like a true Neanderthal man. Later on, during my visit to Bañolas, I saw the fossil of a Neanderthal jaw with beveled molars from tearing sideways at

252 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master meat like my rough guy. The remarkable thing was to look at him eating side-by-side with Bauer, who was a mannered gentleman with a blond beard and a geranium flower on his coat lapel…I will never forget the scene. In Benicarlo, I became acquainted with a remarkable guy, who was a manager of supplies administration. The church, converted to a food depot, was stacked from top to bottom. Besides, he had a motor-propelled boat; and with it, he used to travel to Marseilles for some sort of interchanges. He disappeared during one of his trips. Later on, the enemy aviation began to shell the Residence building. In it, Azaña and Largo Caballero had their meetings. No doubt intelligence had pinpointed the obvious location, and the bombs fell on the surroundings but they never touched the Residence. One raid started when we were ready to sit down for a meal. When the first plane noise was heard, the people left the building, except me and a young rigger who asked me: “Are you leaving?” “No,” I said. “Then neither will I.” And we sat to eat hors d’oevres. This kind of behavior was not done to brag; it was a system that I had adopted. I had heard ghostly accounts of anti-air raid shelters hits and I had decided to let death seek me instead of running towards it. For a while, we heard the explosions and when the alarm was over, the mellifluous Mr. Bauer came back from the trench stained with mud, and said to me: “I think that after all you may be right!” Air-raid alarms were frequent in Valencia. When they happened at night, I liked to go to the top terrace of the building to see the airplanes caught by the anti-aerial beams, like so many white butterflies, surrounded by orange-like explosions from the missiles sent by the artillery that I never saw hit any plane. I used to do this in secret since it had been ordered to descend to the shelters as soon as we heard the alarm. I never entered any of them; I was told that they were full of the elderly, children and cowards that had dysfunctional intestines as soon as the air raid started. The result was an infernal situation that made me recall the popular verse:

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“Mas valor se necesita Para echarse en la privada Que para vencer a Fúcar Y a cien leones que salgan.” 247

The Grao was hit more often than the city by air raids. Surveillance over the sea must have been intense. As soon as a ship arrived in port, although it was unloaded speedily, the aviation attack started. This happened in such a way that the port was full of sunken boats, some of them at the entrance to port. They looked like big hippopotamuses, some with their decks above water, others with their masts or chimneys above the water, others on their sides, stuck on the sands of the beaches of Saler and Malvarosa. The entire district was in ruins. I did not want to miss the spectacle and one afternoon I went there. The entire quarter was off limits to the civil population but I was able to walk through it without being molested. Crossing by the military outposts I received the fist- clenched greeting; the guards thought I may have been an official with the high command. The only persons I encountered in the entire quarter were an elderly female and a woman with dressings on her head and a child on her arm. The streets were covered by overgrown weeds, some undulating. The paving stones were prisoners between the tram rails. Most of the houses had been demolished by bomb explosions; and some, without their front walls, revealed their interior furniture and hanger pegs with clothes. Still others were hermetically closed, and there were cats, lots of hungry, squalid cats, mewing to me and sadly showing one or another door for me to open. Poor kitties! These victims of the cruel war could only subsist by hunting lizards. From time to time, an engineer commander, with his escort, used to stay at the boardinghouse where I lodged. They were very agreeable army officers; and they always brought me presents of

247 “More than valor is needed To throw oneself in the privy Than to defeat Fucar Or overcome one hundred added lions.”

254 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master tobacco. They had wads of money that they spent freely; on one occasion, the commander had a niece with him and I overheard a conversation: “If the coat you like is a fur coat, do not worry if it is expensive. Just tell me how much it is and leave it to me.” Another boarder was a Lieutenant student at the army academy; and he aimed to become Captain. He attended math and algebra classes on alternate days but he had little understanding of the subject matter. He was not used to the discipline of being a student and gave up his desire to be promoted. I used to have conversations with him. He confessed that he was the only one in his platoon to understand concrete constructions and thanks to him they were done. He told me about a weird surrealist happening: His unit was on a road construction service when suddenly the airplanes came and started shelling them. Most of the men lay on the ground while some sought refuge in a storm gutter. When the attack was over, they continued their work; then they needed the hatchet but were not able to locate it until one of them said: “The guy with the hatchet went into the gutter.” The gutter had been hit by a bomb; and so they raked through the debris until they found the arm holding the hatchet so tightly that they had to cut the fingers to loosen it from the grip. Still other boarders were sergeants who studied to be promoted to officers; and one of them told me: “In a year, I will get my officer’s degree. Even if the war is lost, the nationals will recognize the grade.” The most remarkable individuals that I befriended during my stay in Valencia were members of a family;the head of the household was a smart individual. He was a lawyer, musician and writer. He had been Province Governor through his friendship with Martinez Anido. His wife was the daughter of a grocery store owner. She was good looking, cloying, self asserted and domineering. They had a twenty-year-old son. He was good looking, alert and social. His mother had procured a position for him with the “Carabineros,” the civilian guard service restricted to the inner cities. He was doing his service in Valencia. The son was a spoiled brat; and the mother saved the most savory morsels for him. He was fat and radiant. My friendly family moved into a luxury apartment when the

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 255 real famine started. I used to visit them there and I do not know how they managed it but they were always overstocked with food. They claimed food bonuses from Intendance and occasionally, they counted on me to take an additional coupon for rich, canned meat but the privileged son always ended up eating everything. They were reasonable people and very entertaining; and with the advent of the Liberation, they dressed up in uniforms with red gaiters and berets. The father of the family, through his ex- governor position, recommended individuals for a fee. I almost forgot my trip to Brihuega. As I said before, I was in Valencia, although I did not have a political affiliation. My position of Garden Inspector had been confirmed by the Red Government; and I already had Monforte under my care. I went to visit the director of the Academy of Arts, the artist designer Renau, who was an approachable individual. When I arrived, the director told me that they were waiting for me because they needed to have news about the Brihuega Garden. Near to it, a battle of some proportions had taken place, during the height of the war. The battle ended with the occupation of the nearby city by the Reds and the spectacular defeat of the Italian forces. Brihuega is a beautiful garden; its particulars appeared in my book Gardens of Spain. The Government needed me to confirm the continuous well-being of the garden with an official report. I left Valencia and arrived in Madrid and presented myself at the Modern Museum. The architect Valbuena was in charge of the art objects catalogue and was in the process of packing the objects for preservation. I asked him to assist me in traveling to Brihuega in accordance with the orders I had received from the Director of the Academy. He dryly answered that he would look into it. Indifferent to his short answer, I left. The next morning, I was on the train to Guadalajara; and I arrived at midday. I presented myself to the Committee and they offered me a meal bonus that was useless owing to the advanced hour. Luckily, a good woman gave me a glass of milk; I was on the verge of fainting. Before I left Madrid, I had had tea and biscuits. The Committee also gave me a transportation order for the postal car. This service was done by a taxi already full with ten or more individuals sitting on top of each other. I went to the nearby

256 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master military outpost to see if I could get a ride with a military transport; several cars with officers passed by, but none offered to take me. After a long wait, a military truck stopped, and I climbed on it the best I could with the military servicemen more or less making fun of me. When I finally reached Brihuega, I was exhausted and hungry. The truck stopped at the advanced post; and I left my suitcase there and walked to the center of city looking for the inn where I stayed on my last visit many years ago. I could not find it; the only thing left was rubble. Half of the town had been destroyed. From the hanging balcony railing of a house hung the diapers of a young child; perhaps it had also been gutted by the air raids. On a rubble mound, there was a little dog that someone told me would not move from the spot. Possibly, the owner’s body was under the debris. I thought about meeting the famous commander of the occupation forces in the region: “El Campesino.” However, I was informed that he had left, along with his guerrillas. Not long ago, I was told that “El Campesino” forces along with other refugees had been admitted to Russia; apparently, he continued, his chieftain-like behavior which compromised him and he ended up persecuted on the Russian steppes by the authorities. I have no way to prove the veracity of the information; I can only assert that the quality of such particular individual behavior is a typical Spanish character trait. I went to the post office to secure my return. The Postmaster told me to go see the Military Command who was a helpful person. Indeed, he was very kind; and he sent me to the civilian committee. Totally exhausted, I had to cross the center of the city again through the ruined streets. The Responsible Comrade listened to me and I had to return to the Military Command because the garden had been occupied by military forces during the occupation. During the time I waited for the Commandant Villanueva, who had a sort of a Greek name that I do not recall, I observed how the officers and subordinates of these Catalan forces maintained a respectful subordination within the comradeship of war. The Commandant heard my purpose and about my lack of success in reaching my objective. He provided me with an escort to visit the garden and invited me to dinner to compensate for the

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 257 poor treatment I had received. As I was later told, this gentleman was from El Puerto de Santa Maria, like my father and the rest of my family. In his youth, he was a cavalry officer; and he retired from active service when he received orders to assume a post in Barcelona. From then on, he had been a manager of an important commercial firm. He adhered to advanced social ideals; and with the advent of the civil war, he resumed his military career and had a column under his command. I visited the garden. Next to it, there was a combat battery station. Miraculously, the garden had not suffered any damages. The cypress arches, the garden box topiary, fountains, reservoirs and architectural details were unharmed. The regulars used the garden to take walks, sit on the benches and swim in one of the reservoirs. They were Catalans; notorious for their cultured life- style. Only the front planters, where Mrs. Cabanas used to grow flowers, were missing. I showed the soldiers my book with the graphic designs and the history of the garden and I begged them to continue taking care of it as they had done until this time. I went back to headquarters and congratulated the Commander Villanueva for the discipline and order of his troops. We went for a walk and I would like to mention a remarkable trait of his chivalrous character. I was telling him the story of the Royal Mill Plant and how, during my first visit, I had met two elderly ladies who had worked at the mill and still had remarkable, embroidered black material in strong colors with plant motifs of Queen Isabel- style that I did not buy for lack of funds. The Commandant was interested in acquiring the material; and I asked a woman villager if she knew the whereabouts of the two ladies and she said: “The ladies are still alive and have the black embroidered material but the poor things are so scared of the violent situation, that they have remained at home under lock and bolt and nobody knows how they have been able to survive.” “Take us there,” asked the Commandant. “No, sir, they would die of fright if they saw you coming in. You can not imagine their state of fright!” “All right!” he said, “let us leave the wretched things alone!”

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He introduced me to his officers; they were respectful, affable, and rough youths; and one of them wore an arm sling. He was a talkative, happy fellow! “He is as imprudent as he is happy,” Commandant Villanueva told me. “He was always looking over the trenches and I told him that he may get hit.” “Nonsense,” he said, “The bullet that is supposed to hit me has not been made,” and while he said it, he screamed: “They hit me!” We went to visit the church; they were boring holes and I asked why. “We are chasing mice” said Villanueva with humor. “When we took the town, the Italians who were unable to escape got into the basement of this old castle. Most of the entrances to the subterranean tunnels were obstructed and we have caught few of them. Some were in a pitiful physical state after spending days without water or food.” We visited the sacristy and he showed me all the altar pieces for the ritual that were to be put in storage. They were in the process of dismantling an altar. I told him it was a pity to do it and he suspended the operation. Then he invited me to dinner. “Since you have spent the entire day without sufficient nourishment, I want to compensate you. We have a very good cook and she makes pastries. We do not eat like this every day. Tonight we will have homemade dessert to honor your presence.” Of course the meal I ate at the officers’ mess was out of the ordinary. “I cannot offer you lodgings. You can see how we have accommodated ourselves,” Villanueva said, pointing to several rooms with mattresses on the floors. “I have to return to the advanced post to pick up my suitcase and I will look for a place to stay there,” I said. He ordered a regular to escort me. At the advanced post, they offered me a place in a loft; but, aware of the possibility of vermin infestation, I declined and tried to accommodate myself for the night under a big tree at the plaza where a motorcycle was parked. I asked permission to sleep in the motorcycle’s side-car and inquired if they had snipers. They informed me that I could use the sidecar, and as for snipers’ shots, few isolated cases had

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 259 occurred. With that information, I rolled myself up in a blanket and went to sleep in the sidecar. After few hours of heavy sleep, I overheard a conversation: “To whom belongs that sausage hanged on the tree?” and: “Do not let anybody eat it, for we do not know what it may contain.” “It probably belongs to the guy sleeping in the side-car,” answered a second voice. With that I became fully awake, I told them that the sausage was not mine, and that I had no idea to whom it could belong, and that the best thing to do was to give a piece to a dog to see if it was poisoned. After that I went back to sleep until daybreak. At dawn, I washed my face in a nearby fountain, and drank a bowl-full of coffee with cognac. Toned up, I walked again through the ruined streets; a man was frying doughnuts on the streets and I ate hot churros for breakfast! I went back to the military outpost to say goodbye to the Commandant and find transportation but there wasn’t any. The troops were on the field doing blank shot practice. I had no other recourse but to accommodate myself in the post office car door seat. It was so uncomfortable that I decided to walk to nearby Torrija with blistered feet. There, a military transport truck picked me up and took me all the way to the Guadalajara train station where I could board a train to Madrid. The result of my report was published in an illustrated pamphlet and was promptly translated into several languages and printed for propaganda’s sake. I could not agree to that forced cooperation but the subject was of technical nature and the political ideology did not count. When I reached Madrid, I went to visit the incongruous architect; he saw me and told me that in two or three days, his office would arrange transportation to Brihuega. I told him that I was already back from Brihuega and that now I needed transportation to go back to Valencia since I could hardly count on train service. Once more he had impediments to my desires and I had to make do with space in a truck. I arrived in Valencia and they paid for my

260 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master service and travel expenses, thereby improving my economic situation. Pity I was not painting at the time; in Valencia, we had exhibits of vanity-light works that sold. While I was in Valencia, I was involved with the work at the Garden of Monforte that Renau had commissioned me to do. The administration of the garden had been confiscated by Republican Action. The administrator was a certain gentleman who was courteous but tried to impeach my suggestions. This problem was solved when the aviators dropped a bomb at the door of the barber shop, killing all of the customers including the administrator of the Garden of Monforte. This circumstance seemed to ease my way but opposition to my service was still there. Victorio Macho had requested the use of the garden for his residence; and a hansom pavilion with the necessary accommodations for living quarters had been constructed without detriment to the beautiful decoration of the garden. I cannot well recall whether the problem was Macho’s absence, or whether he had given up the idea of living in it; the truth is that Macho never moved into it. There was one more impediment to my work, and that was the presence of Pepito Giner. He was an Institution partisan, nephew to Francisco Giner de los Rios, who had created the Institution for Free Education,248 the institution that transformed Spanish culture by giving new incentives to it. I found Pepito Giner in the garden giving orders for garden conservation and needed remodeling. Giner was a cultured, mannered person, perhaps with a penchant to femininity. He told me, in a mellifluous, sweet voice that the minister fancied putting him in charge of doing the remodeling. He had started moving a statue and making the gardener uproot a modern designed topiary that did not work together with the garden style; these were actions that I had speculated should be done for the improvement. About the topiary garden he said: “Do you think it is advisable to ask Pepe Machado to do the drawing of the remodeling?” I short-

248 The Institute for Secular Education took over the control of educating Spanish children and youth away from the Catholic religious institutions.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 261 circuited him by showing the planned drawing that I carried with me. “Oh! It looks beautiful! I did not know that you could draft so well!” To hear such comment after many years of professional activity! Many years had passed since I planned, drafted and reconstructed the Gardens of the Moncloa Manor which fell victim to our ongoing Civil War. There had been many years since then, when I gave my initial talk at the Madrid Athenaeum and at the Students’ Residence; and many years since I had published my book, Spanish Classic Gardens. And during those many years, I had my paintings in exhibits and known personalities, like Juan Ramón Jiménez, Jiménez Frau, Pio del Rio, Ortega and others had acquired my works. In many years since then, my journalistic campaign in Urban Planning and Gardens had taken place in Madrid. All this and more was known by the sweet-talking pansy. I escorted him to his waiting automobile and said very civilly: “At your orders !” “Why not! Me at yours!” he answered me, with mannered reverence. And I was tempted to kick his ass when he bent to enter the car but I restrained from doing it in case I lost my shoe in its profound depths. Oh! Those institutional partakers! My friend Rodriguez Marin used to tell me that they were Jesuits without Jesus but with wider knowledge of the world than Jesus. On a certain occasion, Rodriguez Marin asked Menendez Pidal for a recommendation to obtain a travel expenses certification to study Cervantes’ archived documentation; the reason had to do with the shortage of funds that Rodriguez Marin was undergoing at the moment. The Secretary, Mr. Castillejo, presented the petition to the Minister. Previously advised about the situation, the Minister found that Rodriguez Marin was listed under the student category. The Minister was angry. He called Castillejo to rectify the error. Castillejo said that the error would be accounted for but the Minister refused to sign the grant until the record was rectified. Finally, Rodriguez Marin went to receive his nomination; and Castillejo interrogated him formally as an unknown graduate:

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“State your name, Sir.” And Don Francisco Rodriguez Marin answered with a dissimulated hoarse voice: “Antonio Montes” Antonio Montes was a popular bullfighter at that time. “What did you say?” the confused Castillejo asked. “I said,” repeated Don Francisco, “Antonio Montes.” Repeatedly, nobody was able to make him rectify the situation. Of course, Castillejo, a Jesuit without Jesus, knew perfectly well who he had interrogated! I overextended myself in this relevant anecdotal content for the special social value that it represented: The Secular Institution of Education within the Spanish culture. The pinpointed personalities who I talked about were an important aspect of the underground labor that they performed. Although, they were not openly active in the revolutionary process, the intellectual participants with left- thinking ideologies opened the way to the revolution. The Spanish male’s vigorous outlook has always been part of Spain’s national identity; the individuals that were prominent in the tough masculine outlook grouped themselves on the extreme left ideology or on the right, that we knew as Reds or Fascists, and we know how they became what they were. The triumvirate Ortega-Marañón-Perez de Ayala finished their mandate like from a chamber music concert, into a jazz band. One day, Fernando de los Rios was having a hard time reaching the participants at the Council of Ministers; until one day, when, energetically, he took hold of the situation while banging his fist on the table, and said: “Damn it! Today, I will be the speaker. ”He succeeded, if anything, in provoking laughter from Prieto and his followers. “Hail to Fernando! Hail to Fernando! De los Rios Lamperez, saintly beard, Father to Socialism with white gloves, Besteiro is elegant but not as much!249

249 This popular song made reference to two friendly politicians’ part in the intellectual movement in Spain.

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[Poor Garcia Lorca! The poem was created in Granada, “In his Granada”]250 I went to Catalonia several times with occasional rides and reached Santa Coloma de Farnes that was then known as Farnes de la Selva. Maria exercised her profession of elementary teacher there and our little girls were protected from the horrors of the situation. Each Spanish region had its own political inclinations; the interim Republican government had moved to Barcelona. Along went the intellectuals that gave support to it from Valencia; and they openly cleared the way to go to France and from there to other European countries or the Americas, with the Spanish Gold. Meanwhile, the loyal republican populace tried to impeach with their blood the systematic recapture advances by the nationalist forces while Spain was devastated. On several occasions, I had the opportunity of witnessing unforgettable war scenes; one of them was a truck-load of raggedy children with haggard-looking faces and without a trace of the graceful happiness of childhood kept up by children in the most adverse situations. These poor kids were coming from Andalusia— it was the Dante-like scene of flight fright that took place between Malaga and Almeria. The entire population not in favor or disfavor of particular political ideologies fled in long caravans to Levant, persecuted by the Nationalists’ aviation and the naval force, helped by German forces, while they were grapnel-shot on the coastal roads. The poor creatures reached Valencia through hell and hunger. I had the opportunity of talking to an escaping illiterate individual and his wife; he made wood charcoal for a living. He was frightened to death because he had seen, in his hometown, how the infamous Falangist— “Patrol of the Dawn” — took individuals from their beds, in their underpants and shot them in the middle of the street. He was from Algeciras and went all the way to Santa Coloma, making and selling charcoal where he was allowed to do so. Pity I could not have recordings of these conversations; the content along with the

250 There is a relationship between the birth of the Garcia Lorca popular political pun mode in contrast to the town of origin of poet Garcia Lorca, its apparent creator.

264 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master expression of the individuals had conveyed incomparable realism that is not easy to duplicate. At the Tarragona train station, I witnessed another shocking scene in the dark of the night; a train loaded with war fatalities was in the process of unloading. In the middle of profound silence, the men carried the stretchers with bulgy shapes covered with blankets and with feet protruding from the covers. There in the station, the desperate and hungry travelers, tired of waiting for their train, slept on the floors like cattle. Some militiamen, seeing that I was from Andalusia like them, asked me if there were olive groves in the land around us; I told them that they grew very nicely there. Then, one said to the other, we could stay here since it is the olives’ harvest time. Both were peasants on leave from the army and they could not care less about war conflict; their care was for the fields and work on the land. I did another portion of my travel in a train wagon refurbished to serve as a canteen with counter, tables and chairs. I sat on one of the chairs intending, to stay sitting; I was tired of traveling standing. The wagon was full to capacity with young people; talkative, noisy Parisians recruited from the low stratus of society, apaches that I had met on my walks in Charenton looking for landscapes at the beginning of the century in Paris. They had a corporal in charge. Right after the train’s departure, the bar opened and all literally threw themselves on the counter to get sandwiches and beer. I remained seated, in case I lost my comfortable position. I considered the effort that was needed to obtain something to eat in the middle of the crowd to be impractical. Since all of them were eating, one comrade, without the prejudice of socially low stratus individuals, asked me why I was not eating like them. I was given pieces of their baguette sandwiches and returned their offer by passing around a bottle of wine. So, I traveled with the cannon fodder-mobilized crooks. I can say that during the entire revolutionary process, I was submerged in the realm of the “God Filth.” One can only consider how nasty and cruel popular revolutions are, but only on a few occasions, one finds refined, cruel individuals.

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Valencian Landscape-October 1938 How can we leave aside Sorolla and Blasco Ibanez at the beginning of this theme? This childish question comes to mind as a product of a puerile fear that we set aside as soon as it is thought. We are talking about two strongly positive personalities that looked at things head on without worrying about their depth. Both exert their art with an incredible ease. Both use their innate qualities like the song produced by the bird or the bud opening into a flower. They are both attuned to the sensual rather than esthetic emotion. These qualities produce a certain amount of envy. For those who work and suffer until they find the solid and intrinsic meaning, they find it unjust that the audience turned around and prefer the easy, splendid works of both artists. We set aside the originality. Originality is not the main value of a work. The value on a piece of art partakes of a communality of values that are assigned to categories. We insist on a supernumerary value found in the process of previous works on our way to a prototype. With a friend, I took a walk on the beach of Malvarosa, where the sculpture bust of Sorolla sits facing the sea. While we were there, a fishing boat with unfurled sails on the wind ran aground on the seashore among the blue and mauve waves and the silver break of the waves on the shoals; and my friend said: “Look! A Sorolla painting! But where did he get the strong colors and the violent light when here all is smoothly colored and the light is muted?” My friend had artistic vision. His opinion and mine coincided. And I said: “It is true; Sorolla was obsessed with direct solar light. Make believe with color on canvas is not as simple as it seems; his interpretations produced strong feelings of reality. It is not impossible that he took his newfound technique to the utmost, augmenting a beauty although, in my opinion, diminishing it. Although without his visionary work, we would not be here contemplating the scenery from a pictorial standpoint and even less being conscious of the marvelous light which wraps this scene with a silver tissue. If you were an artist painter, you could

266 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master imitate Sorolla and perfect his technique; not like the vain imitators that are in existence today.” Poor Sorolla! Cultivator of the master’s defects; and never forgetting that one of the biggest merits in Velazquez, servant of nature, was to imitate his predecessors and contemporary artists. In this way, he served not only Nature but also many great servants of Nature that existed before him. I say “servants” because subjective artists used to call “servile artists” the ones that invested their effort in front of nature to make ends meet. Poor artists that produced corrupted art in a decadent world— they thought their art was a product of their minds! Society considered them minstrels deemed to entertain. They were not paid by the skeptical individuals of a decadent society but by a bunch of millionaires gathered in the subtle nets of the Jewish merchants at the Rue Lafitte! Here in Spain, we live far from the Parisian, frivolous obsession, decadent artifacts of the end of an era which crumbled at the onset of the 1914 war that, at one time, with obsessive originality, tried to take us through bizarre pathways. Crumbling down of the Parisian frivolity was a natural end of an era that would be no more. Although, we enjoyed those times, as we do many other things, we gave them up without regret since death is a necessary component of life. During the First War World, we were invaded by refugee artists who had blamed Spanish artist for their harsh, vulgar academic 19th-century style; and they were partly right, although it was not totally likely. Unfortunately, we were so very far from the European art world. An exhibit had been brought to Spain from the Luxembourg Museum, and in the mixed bag of academic works and Impressionists, nobody was able to pinpoint the works by Manet, Pizarro and Renoir. There was not even the natural reflection that Goya’s hand was on the first work. I do not remember seeing any Post-Impressionist works in the exhibit from the Luxembourg Museum. I doubt they formed part of it since in France they still had not reached an approved Luxembourg Museum status. Our painters came back, too; and they had become more or less Francophiles. Anglada, with his vivid colors and ornate decorative style, came back, as did Zuloaga. It was not the Zuloaga rejected

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 267 for his classic imitations but the Zuloaga who brought a mannerist product of the Spanish essence seen through a French Montmartre filter. The other famous Spaniard, Picasso, never came back. He was then the patron of Cubism and even if he had come, nobody would have understood him. Other refugees and natives from second- and third- considered positions came back. Finally we were invaded by the most audacious tendencies. Even though the art in each nation is its own, it is sometimes considered inferior to outlandish imitations. The latter is fading fashions while our own is permanent. We only construct our vision on a land of permanency; the rest is unimportant. Sorolla was Spanish with a direct vision of nature that meant a Levant overall view, as Regoyos was Northern Spanish. In summary, Sorolla showed us nature reduced to the local Valencian; and Valencian art has no reason to be serious or profound. The land in Valencia is the sediment product of its rivers. This conveyed soil is very different than the granite land in Segovia or Avila, where the earth’s foundation comes to the surface. Granite foundations were an inspiration to Zuloaga when his art was untainted at the time, when he was rejected by the Salons’ Exhibits. The fertile land of Valencia is new soil covered with cultures of fast-growing irrigated plants in which the splendid outlook says more than the consistency. The sun in artistic interpretation of this land cannot be considered an accident but it is an acting agent over the land. The sea is smooth and the boats are light, gracious shapes with white triangular sails that jump lightly over the blue waves. The land is full of fruits and flowers and although so bizarre, it wraps itself lightly in a cover of smothered sunlight through its humid atmosphere, and Sorolla is all of this. In Valencia, light makes anyone an artist painter. Even the sculptor Benlliure should have been a painter or at least a goldsmith; and Blasco Ibanez cannot stay away from ‘colorism.’ He is a landscape writer. In his stories and in the paintings by Sorolla, we live the Valencian landscape with all the intensity that art is capable of, and this is extremely important.

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It is so important that, because we did not have it before we lived with our backs turned against Nature; people only see what they are taught to see. I had a hunter friend once with whom I used to go into the open country and who told me one day that I had had so much influence on him that he was now capable of going into the country without his hunting rifle— something that he would have never done before, because he had never looked at the landscape. Ever since this modern concept was established, all the schools of painting have had their landscape artists who have dedicated their lives to show Nature, in their countries, to their fellow citizens. Thanks to Van Ostade, Van Gogh and others, the Flemish identified themselves with their landscape; and we can say the same about England, Germany, and France. Landscape painting has its own niche in Art History; and sometimes it is of great importance. It would take too long to cite the names of the great artists working in the landscape genre. In Spain, this does not occur. Sensible painter artists recognized the importance of the genre landscape but their expression in it was curtailed because of the lack of public interest. Nevertheless, we recognize that El Greco’s Toledo landscape is a punching interpretation; and the same can be affirmed about El Pardo’s painted vision by Velazquez, and Madrid’s Merienda by Goya. Very few artists have been able to match the quality of interpretation that I have mentioned. The Spanish individuals have lived all of their lives with their backs turned against Nature; but it has not been for lack of diversity, because when we travel in Spain from north to south and east to west, we receive countless numbers of sensations and surprises. Only in the last years, landscapes have filled our exhibit halls, but it could be said that the work of investigating the nucleus of development of the diverse landscape genre in Spain is still pending, with the exception of Catalonia. It is an overall marvel of which no doubt Sorollism, be whatever it is in its intensity and esthetic value, is part. It is a wonder how in Spain, a country of painter artists, guiding writers have taken over the painters’ field because we can visit the

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Mountains with Pereda, Galicia with Valle Inclan, Castilla with Machado, Occidental Andalusia with Juan Ramón Jiménez, with Medina Murcia, with Galan Extremadura, The Pyrenees Mountains with Maragall…but although we have landscape painter artists, we cannot say that any of them has surpassed the descriptive quality of the writers. End of the War-I return to painting-Art—Painting-1939-40-41-New Board of Historic Gardens-Bañolas SanabriaAfter many years of not exercising my profession of artist painter— my last exhibit had been in 1924— I returned to my “forlorn” métier at the end of the Civil War. Since 1920, I worked away from the art principles that were familiar to me; I searched constantly, sometimes I centered my work on Impressionist concepts and on others, I tried classical principles. When I used Impressionism, I obtained some satisfactory results while the use of classical principles, resulted in an amalgam of incomplete studies. Those fluctuations resulted from my not choosing a well-defined path. On the other hand, my continuous insistence over the form saved me from falling into a disorderly way, “Mir”-like style.251 At the same time, it took me away from all the banal fashions which appeared after 1914. It got to the point that when I saw the young generation given to so much disorder, I concluded that I was an incomprehensible elder and before being deemed a démodé, I decided not to paint. I chose to do so even though the work I did approaching the year 1920 was favored by the crazy youth as well as by the classicist and by those in the vanguard that had never surpassed Impressionism. My work was appreciated but I stopped painting to attend to landscape architecture. In summary, at the upsurge of the Civil War I was not able to paint; in fact, I had forgotten it to such a point that when I tried a sketch, I was not able to finish it. I spent all of the war without painting. In the fall of 1939, I went to Madrid with the intention of claiming my old position of Gardens’ Inspector but met without success partly because everything was in the process of reorganization. I could have tried to defend myself by publishing

251 Joaquin Mir, 1873-1940, Modernist painter, born in Barcelona.. Reference found in: Biblioteca Museo Victor Balaguer—Guia de les Colleccions del Museu, 2001, 132.

270 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master articles but the Spain that came to be was the opposite of what I had expected. The new nationalistic ideals were unintelligent and they fell on me with smashing weight. I ran away from Madrid and went to Barcelona, and became sunk in the most abject poverty, almost in miserliness, lodged in forlorn dilapidated communal housing in Las Corts. The walls had been damaged by air strikes. One could see the sky through the fissures. It was enough to give you the impression of an impending smashing and crumbling over the head. The advantage was that it had a terrace with a round- the-clock view of the city and its surroundings. On one side, it had the view of the Tibidabo Mountain and on the other, Montjuich and the sea with the vibrations of the city of Barcelona in between them and factories with stacks in the mist of vegetable gardens— and the artist came back! At the beginning, I did not have materials to do my paintings and dedicated myself to making colored pencil sketches, and then a friend sent me an assortment of oil paints, manufactured in England, from Argentina, and I was able to paint some landscapes.252 I had a small oil sketch commissioned by an art dealer. That lifted my spirit and I did other smallish works that he acquired. Pretty soon, maybe due to Barcelona’s ambience— this caused by the purging of my Impressionist concept, and being able to reassemble my vision within a new modality of environment and light. During two years I lived in such difficulties. Heroically, Maria sustained the entire family with her strength. We passed bitter moments when our little girl fell victim to diphtheria, almost dying of it. In August 1941, I received communication from the General Direction of Fine Arts that I had been nominated as a member and Inspector General with salary. I took a loan from an art dealer, leaving some valuable works that, when I came back, I had to retrieve for double the value of what I had received and besides that one of the best had disappeared. All of this happened because the owner passed away and the subsequent manager had nothing to do with my previous agreement, but I went to Madrid to receive my nomination. I published some articles, very few, and they put me in charge of overseeing and restoring the old gardens. But I had to attend to my artist painter profession that

252 Those friends were the Olarra family, who had left Spain at the onset of the Civil War.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 271 had reinitiated. And so I returned to Barcelona and had a small exhibit— a few small oil sketches that the general public did not notice, only friends and close art interested people did. They gave me positive criticisms and personal congratulations. I only sold one of the small works but I was decidedly back into painting. Maria, like always, acted providentially, finding a place to live in Vallvidrera, where I worked all summer. The next year, she found another house in Cerdanyola in the mist of woods, where I worked for two seasons from 1944 to 1945 with great success. In the summer of 1946, she managed to find a house in Santa Eulalia del Rio, Ibiza. I went there again in the years 1947 and 1949 and worked profitably. In the year 1950, we rented a place in a flats-converted house that had great views of Barcelona from the Tibidabo Avenue; and I worked on capturing the marvelous, changing light over the town. After so many vicissitudes, my Impressionist concept had been refined. It was neither better nor worse than the Impressionist concept that I had attained by 1920; perhaps it was now more subtle due to the veiled atmosphere in the Catalan and Balearic countries and without the roughness of the Castillian. However, the work secured criticisms that were entirely positive from the press and my close friends— perhaps the response was even too flattering. Barcelona, a courtly city, where intellectual life takes into account appreciation for environmental Impressionism, turned my exhibit at Syra Gallery, in 1948 into a success on which I was not counting. In Spain, we say that honor and profit cannot be contained in a bag; nevertheless, I filled my bag with both honor and profit because not only had I received positive criticisms but also one-third of the exhibited works became pesetas. Catalan and foreign art collectors, private and well-known, some from Madrid aristocracy, acquired my works. Even so, this was not enough to level my financial situation neither did it compensate me for all the years that I had worked without proper pay. I was so used to not selling my works or to sell them at very low prices that I felt this was a gold rain or at least a rain of the raggedy paper money used in the postwar times. But the important thing was the reception that the art critics gave me: it was an open arms reception. Some conjectured that my art was a transcendental

272 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master renewal of Impressionism. But it was the positive effect on my own conscience over the value of my work that was more satisfactory than all of the criticisms that I could receive. If I really represented what they said I did, it would be more satisfactory than recognizing in me originality. My discernment of Impressionism is, whatever its modern values could be, not an innovation in painting, and neither is it a passing fad. Rather, it is recognition of an addition to the art of painting of qualities of environment and light that had already been initiated, in classical times, by Titian, Velazquez and Goya, but had not been imposed then for lack of scientific know-how. Since Impressionism is a quality added to painting that was not there before, we need to conserve, attend and cultivate it like any other progress referred to as Art or Science. It was for superficial venalities or inconsistency that Impressionism was set aside by authors who only saw into it a passing fad that could or could not be of course represented like this— if I represented the culmination cleansing action in time for Impressionism, my name, without doubt, would have a prominent position in the History of Painting. I am far from believing myself to excel so highly. Besides, the distillation of the concept only a genial artist would have been able to sustain such weight. I know that I am not such an artist, leaving aside my discoveries or extempore successes that I may have had. What I received on account for what they took from me; and what they gave me, without looking into who is giving it to me, would be too puritanical not to accept for lack of moral principles but to feel more duty for it. Public criticism and opinions were consistent in adjudicating my significance; others may be differing from them, I realize. Among them, there are some that totally differ from my personality and that I do not care about. Others refer to the quality of works and their defects. It is deemed important to have information that could justly help me to rectify where I err and open new horizons. I know this to be very difficult; and perhaps it is better to meditate without overexerting myself and avoiding excessive preoccupation. If I were able to paint a landscape with the pondering of the Meninas that I could walk into it, then I would be satisfied. Rubbish! But without comparison, there is no possibility of control.

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There is a fact that saves me from preoccupation when I exert my art of painting: when I battle to accommodate Nature to my Art, I leave aside all the learned principles and let the creative process take care of it— come what comes, that I will see later. If I do not paint in this fashion, I am lost.

Board of the Historical Gardens of Spain and Picturesque Landscapes At the onset of the LIBERATION, I was not working on garden conservation. When the new administration had been organized, a new board came to be by decree, July 31 of 1941, for the Conservation and Protection of the Artistic Gardens in Spain. The decree content was very interesting, as follows: “The large number of gardens already considered artistic, and recently the Garden of Montforte in Valencia, as well as the picturesque sites throughout our country demands that the Government of this nation safeguard their character, style, and historical significance. The artistic temperament of the Spanish people beautified them in accordance to our regional flora; we have to preserve them from abandonment and unavoidable destruction. The earlier decree, published some years ago (14 March of 1934), instituted a board to attend to the protection of the Artistic Gardens merely dedicated to them. Their administration was directly linked to the Art Treasury rules that were hardly ever enforced. It did not have a specific directorship. In addition, protection to picturesque sites that we consider to have as much value as our old gardens were not included in their entire legal aspects. We have come to the need, in this First Article, of completing the legal task assigned to the board and to supply it with an ample administrative margin. The Second Article specifies the following: The Board will oversee the well-being of the old gardens that have been under conservation and declared of artistic value. Among its proceeds, the Board will take care of the survival of these living monuments by respecting their styles, types and peculiarities. Through the

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Board’s report, such monuments would come under the declared “protected gardens.” The Board’s responsibility will be to report to the national administration any addition to the list. Conservation, protection, and oversight of necessary works and management of the picturesque sites will be direct responsibility of the Board.” With these reinforced protective tasks set out before the new Board, I reinitiated my work on Historic Gardens and I traveled to Bañolas. The general Director of Fine Arts, the Marquis of Lozoya, was the President of the Board, and he gave me my member nomination and my position of General Inspector. I continued with the assignment of the Garden of Monforte conservation works, in Valencia. The Board now allocated to me as well the restoration project of the Alameda de Osuna in Madrid, a garden that had been partly destroyed during the Civil War. I reconstructed the topiary gardens there and did conservation work on some of its ornaments. In addition, I designed a garden for the Rampart Walls on the City of Ibiza. Don Victor de la Serna then consigned to me the private garden design at his residency, “El Pinarillo,” in Escorial. This was a far- reaching work since the land was on a hilly site. I leveled the slope by designing ramp access and flights of stairs that turned out to have a marvelous visual effect. This disposition was entirely mine although the architect tried to interfere in the planning and make it appear to be his own. I could not avoid his cooperation— it was not welcomed ‘for help’s sake to save me the effort,’ as he said— in the draft of the fountains, water-jet basin, and entrance porch that I had already idealized. I consoled myself about his lack of conscience by thinking that God made the poor to be robbed by the rich. If his work had surpassed my work, I would have taken into account his talent, but the result was so snobbish that it would be painful to be credited for it. For much that I have done in my professional life, I have never been able to rid myself of fateful insinuations. This is not because architects should be kept away from such works; on the contrary, if they have training in this specialized field, it will be like a pinch of salt. In my opinion, however, they should not interfere and enter in their own inventions and projects and they should keep away from

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 275 entering alien property…Le Notre was not a professional architect, neither was Pope, although he was the inventor of the landscape architecture modality. The same thing can be said about Forestier. Garden builders do not need be regular architect professionals to build gardens. We are talking about two distinct professions: Architecture and Landscape Architecture; the latter cannot design and construct buildings, and the former should not interfere in what he does not understand. This is true and even moreso today, when architects dedicate their efforts to utilitarian works more than to pure Art. Today’s architect is a constructor. Our painters and sculptors, be they good or bad, are artists and, as such, they produce Art, but the majority of architects we already know have nothing to do with Fine Arts. Today we err when we call art architecture, or architecture art, as one of the Fine Arts branches, since the profession of architecture dedicates its time to building the hives which constitute this civilization that we live in and this has nothing to do with Art. Landscape Architecture is something else. It is Art. The “Agricultural Engineer” is one more parasite that recently began pestering the art of garden making. There is, of course, a relation among the two professions in Botany but by itself Agricultural Engineer has no direct relation to Art. No doubt the Landscape Architect must be knowledgeable in plant morphology, but this link has nothing to do with the engineering profession of growing plants. In my mind, I have no doubt about Architects’ accreditation. When Architects have knowledge in other fields, which complement their profession they may become proficient Landscape Architects. I say this because artistic garden-building requires a complex expertise. Poet, Philosopher, Urban Planner, Painter, Architect, Botanist, Geographer—the Landscape Architect needs to have familiarity with all these professions or at least an intuition about them since, in popular history, we find examples of spontaneous gardeners who produced gardens of greater beauty than any mediocre professional has done today. The concept that having a professional diploma is sufficient accreditation is as far from the truth as it is believing that the study of Rhetoric and Poetry makes someone a poet; of course, studying is a way to become one or at

276 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master least will help to perfect one’s information about the art, in any case. God save us if poets like Becquer, Esproceda or even Cervantes had been corrected by strict academicians! We have enough by having to hear corrections of the poet Gongora by Damaso Alonso; and Moya, with my excuses, correcting my work! The last official commissioned work was the project for the Park of Somio, in Gijon, and the Garden for the Salesian School, in Zamora. The latter one, at least, remains as it was designed and was made even better; but the project for Somio with the architect’s and others’ corrections, could not be identifiable even by its own generating father. Barcelona, May 2 1953, J. W.253

The Great Lakes of Sanabria and Bañolas Spain— a land of ineffable and diverse beauties— has two unique lakes known for their picturesque beauty and the geological interest that they represent. In the mountains of Leon, at thirteen thousand meters above sea level, the waters in the cataracts tumbling down on the slopes from the high elevations come to fill the Anchuron del Rio Tera, or, Lake of Sanabria, as it is known. Lake Sanabria is three thousand meters long by one thousand and four hundred meters wide and fifty meters in the deepest parts. While on the inclines of the Pyrenean Mountains, in the province of Gerona, with its diverse geological qualities and similar surfaces and measurements to the Lake of Sanabria, we encounter the Lake of Bañolas, which is fed

253 Handwritten note by editor Maria Hector says: “His last Garden was Puente de San Miguel that he did for Mr. Botin, owner of the bank of Santander. Mr. Botin wrote to me, inviting me to visit the garden and told me that it was one of the most beautiful garden works in Spain.” Javier de Winthuysen received the Golden Clover decoration in October 1954. This impromptu award—newly created for the purpose under Franco’s Administration-supported agencies— was offered in person by its creator, Eugene D’Ors, as a sort of atonement for Winthuysen’s life-long effort as Landscape Architect. Among the intellectuals of the time, in Barcelona, this was more of a lesser virtue since D’Ors was part of the opposing forces to a deep Catalanism sustained for many years. So the award allocation was a controversial ploy which had nothing to do with what Winthuysen had pursued all his life. Later in the same year, my father gave me the award and the diploma with an inscribed note which I still have. —Teresa Alexander Winthuysen.

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 277 by its own springs. Both lakes have depths of over forty meters; and until recently, they had not been explored completely. Lake Sanabria, also known as San Martin de Castañeda, was, until modern times, almost inaccessible. Travelers viewing the somber aspects of the sierras report reaching the point of hallucinating when they crossed this lake. A certain baron in the medieval times wrote a fantastic legendary description of one such reflection that included winged, gothic chimeras. Lake Bañolas’ lore does not fall behind concerning the existence of dragons. The Bañolas’ dragon lived in the lake’s depths, causing panic among the population whenever it decided to come out. In the last excursion of the dragon, Saint Benito was requested to come pacify the monster. Saint Benito was performing the mass ritual in church; and he came to the lakeshore dressed in his mass robe and outings and lassoed the dragon’s neck with the stole and took it as a pacific beast. Besides the dragon, the lake had undines, or water nymphs, who built their palaces in the granite fissures of Las Estunes. While the shores and Lake of Sanabria remained veiled under legends and superstitions of the mystic, primitive imagination, Lake Bañolas was put to use by nearby monks during the Carlovingian era. The shores of Lake Bañolas were living quarters to the Neolithic men. Mr. Alsius, a grandchild to the discoverer of the fossilized Neanderthal mandible, showed me the fossil which proves, with its beveled molars, the way the individual tore at roots sideways. The Benedictine monks were given the concession of the shore lands of Lake Bañolas. The monks constructed extensive mills on its shores to bring irrigation to their large properties where they grew crops and continue to do so today. Thankfully, the beauty of the creation which constituted the land around the lake was preserved by the intelligent management of the monks and without detriment to the lake’s spring-fed waters. However, Lake Sanabria’s water level can still be damaged should modern engineering decide to proceed with the project of using its waters to produce electricity. Lake Bañolas has the shape of an eight formed by two semi- circular volcanic craters that are filled with water of incredible depths. Its glittering waters become agitated by the breeze and reflect the mountains and the clouds; the water also offers

278 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master unaccounted-for color shades from second to second. In general, a placid Levantine weather prevails; and elms, willows and pine trees reflect their shapes in its waters along with the poetic medieval church of Porqueras with its black cypress trees. The Catalan know-how has made possible the respect to this Lordly creation by accommodation of its use in nature. The eight- kilometer lake contour has a walking path which allows passage near to the spaces that were once occupied by Neolithic dwellings and today are occupied by fishing pavilions. From the town of Bañolas, near the Pudosa Fountain, and the nearby roads, ample access leads to the lake. With a side channel, the lake is linked to a small lake— the Estanyol— a source of fish farms that the monks established during the Middle Ages and the Spanish government continued to enhance and protect with close cooperation with the citizens of Bañolas and the surrounding villages. The local population has contributed to its care and to the preservation of Lake Bañolas and its shores, always adapting modern needs to the exploitation of its resources. The causative problem to the Lake of Sanabria and the menace to its existence differ from Lake Bañolas’. On its shores, a town like Bañolas has not been established. The monks also colonized its shores and took advantage of the famous trout fisheries. These trout fisheries are an internationally-known attraction to lovers of the fishing sport. When the monks left, there was no one to care for the lake. Difficult access to its shores prevented control over the anarchy in the exploitation of its rich waters and shores. Fishing with dynamite destroyed the natural fish resources; and cutting disrupted the preservation of the mature oak trees off its shores that used to be reflected in its waters. The pride of deer coming to drink its water was almost annihilated but subsisted thanks to the impassable, broken terrain. Wolves and other hunted animals, less dangerous than the presence of men, continue to populate the area. It is a known fact that savages adored nature because they feared it, while civilized men tend to destroy it because they do not understand its meaning and only think of it in terms of profit. The danger to the Lake of Sanabria today comes from sources other than the barbarity of its treatment. It is the modern times and

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 279 the need to adapt natural resources for exploitation. Hopefully, the prospect of destroying such natural beauty was taken by the success of powerful opposition to its exploitation for electric force. From half of Spain, individuals have come to the shores of the Anchuron del Tera in popular cultural representations voting against degrading its beauty and geological interests. It is true that to most of the Spanish population, the Lake of Sanabria exists as an unknown location but not so for many intellectuals who have stepped on its shores and have perceived the benefit of its beauty. To this date, the Spanish Government has received a considerable number of petitions to spare development in Sanabria. We do have to consider, however, that although the general tendency is to exploit each inch of our national soil including the road coasters, and boulevard gardens to grow barley, if need be, man does not live by bread alone. We also have to think about preserving ancient and modern monuments for posterity.254 Conservation of Sanabria was of a different nature from Bañolas’ case, where the natives of the land can be proud today of having been able to conserve their beautiful surroundings, unmarred by progress. Not only the nature of the land differed but so did the culture surrounding the one and the other. In addition, as pertains to Bañolas, the land was the frame that exalted the beauties in the lake and served as a complement to it.

In September of 1940 I wrote a report on the Lake of Bañolas, as I had been requested to do by the Lake’s Board. The Lake of Bañolas was declared a picturesque region on June 22 of 1951. In the year 1952, I submitted my report to the Board of Artistic Gardens and Picturesque Lands of Spain about the needed expediency of declaring the Lake of Sanabria and its shores a picturesque region.

254 The philosophy of the moment, at least during the Republic, tried to analyze the excessive differences between the privileged and the poor. Some futurists calculated that, given time, the government would have to plant barley along the roads and the city boulevards to feed the poor.

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(The report on Bañolas is a model of how to proceed in the protection and conservation of picturesque landscapes.)

It would be redundant to exalt the importance of the landscape at the Sanabria Lake. The existing biographical sources that list the diverse aspects of its shores should be reason enough to declare it a Picturesque Site. We were impressed by the magnificent beauty of Sanabria when we visited the lake. Its huge water mass is encased among tall elevations of vegetation that entirely covered the lake’s shore. Its varied fauna contains roe deer, wild boars and amphibian life like the otter, web-footed birds and waders. Its waters house a variety of fish, among them the trout which constitute a rich source of revenue. In each season, the lake and its shores give the eye pleasure for the variety of its flora. In winter, with the deep snowfall, it becomes phantasmagorical. In addition to our perceptions, we can evaluate the damage produced by the hand of man in depopulating the forest, driving away the hunt and diminishing fish by use of abusive procedures. Luckily, the isolation of the site and lack of easy communication has served to protect it from irremediable damage upon its overall aspect. However, soon there will be a railroad service to Puebla de Sanabria; and because visiting uncommonly beautiful lands has become a fanciful pastime, a great number of visitors shall be expected. Abuses are likely to occur, thereby diminishing the natural beauty of the site. To control the situation, the Board of Gardens and Picturesque Sites should intervene beforehand by regulating over-fishing and over-hunting, as well as controlling woods exploitation and construction on the lake’s shores and to offer the public only the necessary facilities to practice sports. We should pinpoint a real menace to the lake these days: Its development to produce electric power. In case this should occur, the level of the waters will be diminished and according to experts’ views, the profit gained as an energy source will be less than if the site is managed for tourism and sports events. Above all the material gains, we should consider the significance of preserving the beauty of natural sites and the cultural meaning that they carry.

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In support of the action that we propose, we give the example of the converted site of the Lake of Bañolas, where our Board has intervened in the betterment of the site. By providing constructed design access of its shores, forestation, and regulation of its fisheries, the intention has been to increase the overall beauty of the area by protecting its natural characteristics— works supervised for many years by the Board of Gardens and Picturesque Sites. It is true that to reach this end, we counted on the positive, active support from the city hall in Bañolas, which is the owner of the lake and its lands, and has been in control of exploitation since very early days. The Board of the city of Bañolas has cooperated with the Board of Gardens and Picturesque Sites in authorizing the planning design of lake’s contour walk and access like the belvedere or Lake Viewer— a minor water-conduit of the lake’s channels— bridges and right-of-way to private properties for developmental access to an increased public presence that is expected to come with time. This initiative will be rounded with the results of a research project, ongoing now, which is being undertaken by the Urbanization Commission of Gerona Province and that will include the lake’s contour with recommendations for preserving its picturesque quality. Of concern is that Lake Sanabria does not have a nearby entity that is interested in its management. It has only the people of Zamora’s love for it as an asset of natural beauty and as a possible site for sports development. A research initiative could determine the possibility of creating a protective society, at Puebla de Sanabria. Lake Sanabria’s development into a sports location depends on the endowment and cooperation with the Board of Gardens and Picturesque Sites for effective protection to its natural beauties.

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Art At the end of my years, my eighty years, I have arrived at the conclusion that in Art, one’s contribution is balanced between the artist’s production and the spectator’s response especially when Art is considered Art for art’s sake. In this case, the Art produced must be followed by an esthetic concept. If not, when left at the reach of the common individual, Art becomes mediocre and trendy. Who is going to disagree with a modeled portrait done in minute detail like a photograph? Who is going to find fault in the use we have for a heard melodic dance step if it marks or quickens our pace? If the portrait encloses a psychological characteristic, the still-life is an expression of painting or the music an ineffable expression. What does my banality understand about all of these concepts and why should I care about them? The same reaction applies to a response from the amateur collector who acquires works to decorate his reception rooms. If he paid half a million for a recently acquired work, it is fine; a millionaire is not going to hang up a work which cost two pesetas on his walls. The same is true with a social dilettante: he is not going to attend a musical show or a concert in which the seats cost what an office clerk can afford. The only transcendence of Art is entertainment or a vanity boost. To appreciate Art, the viewer uses sensibility; in essence, this means that the viewer has to be an artist in essence and understand what it is all about. And who is the expert? I heard from significant individuals— in an intimate and sotto voce manner— that Greco is extravagant and a Beethoven’s sonata is boring; that Goya did not know how to draw and made rag dolls; and that looking at a Renoir painting is like watching herb soup. And all of these comments came from cultured individuals with high cultural positions. Because old age impairs movement, which is the spirit of existence, I muse in face of life’s end and I ask myself: Why did I become a painter? Why have I had so many doubts and exerted myself to make my ideas clear? And, after analyzing my work, I found out that if I employed myself in such elaborate lucubration, it

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 283 was because it came from a source unknown to me. And, because my nature is so extremely sensitive, in identical way, I believe myself to be gifted, or useless, depending on what someone tells me. Because in my mind, I divide things according to like or dislike, instead of convenient or inconvenient. And I have liked to paint, well or not, without caring less for others’ opinion but only for my own. I am—like the popular Spanish saying: “l, like Juan Palomo; I cook my thoughts and I eat them.” To have my room filled with my works and have pleasure in their contemplation—if I find them right, or tear them to pieces and throw them away—is to me a satisfaction, a way of life. Every landscape is to me alien from myself; it was done by my subconscious. Today, I look at my paintings as if they are an alien’s works; they only bring me memories of the moments I spent painting my creative emotion or my ‘alter ego’s’ emotions. In this way, I have become not only an artist painter but also an amateur appreciator and Maecenas of myself. And how dearly have I paid for it! Not a hint of vanity I can tell! When I was a child, my teachers used to report to my mother my progress in school: “He is intelligent and understands easily, but he does not like to work because he can care less for ‘self esteem’ and therefore cares not for competition with his peers.” That does not mean idleness on my part. I have worked intensively on what I liked, but on what others wanted me to work at, I have not. I was not born to be anyone’s slave, not even a slave to my own duty. I have served no one. I have always been a Great Lord, even of myself, and if Fortune had graced me with resources, I would have represented a magnificent life’s role, but reality constrained me to merely imagine what I could have been. And that, after all, is not so bad since to imagine and become are so close as to make something real at a moment’s time. In this imaginary world of mine I beheaded many enemies; I painted like Velazquez, like Teotocopulo,255 like Sisley, like God! I was above caring if the vain finger painter as the poet used to say painter did or did not point to me; when I had the possibility of

255 The author refers here to: Dominikus Theotocopoulus, “El Greco.”

284 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master receiving honors and money, I abstained from receiving them and threw them to the crowd, saying: “There, you can have these crumbs and I hope you digest them in profitable manner!” I did not modestly inhibit myself; rather, it was my demonic pride that made me do it. And do not think I did it for humility, of which I prize myself, since I like to be as humble as I am proud. However this was not what I wanted to say; my subject was to explain how I perceive the relationship between Art and Society. Art in my land, in Andalusia, and to be more specific in gifted Seville, reached the highest developmental point among the rest of the Andalusian towns. And this is because Andalusia has an incredible geographical diversity. From south to north, the Guadalquivir River current carries assorted sediments. On the southwest, the fine sands come to rest on the many kilometers of Gaditan beaches; these are fine sands, as fine as the distinguished natural citizens from the city of Cadiz. On the other hand, if we depart from Seville, the Guadalquivir sediment becomes coarser until we reach Cordoba, where the river carries precious little pebbles. From there on, in Jaen, the waters carry tumbled-smooth boulders. These boulders were snatched from the crags of Sierra Morena, where Don Quixote had the head bumping episode. All these represent the Kingdom of Seville, from south to north, and more, if we decide to go on the eastern side and follow the current of the River Genil. Seville is located in the culminant point of this geological panorama. The same as the sediment carried by the waters of its River, is the spiritual character of Sevillians— so confused, for its mischievous misinformation. Seville, during the time of Tartessus before the Phoenicians’ arrival, was a rich market of Art and wealth. The Betica current made its landmass out of its sediments from a mixture of sand and carried soil. At one time, cultures from the Orient suffused the land and the flavor is still present. In Seville, Art is something else but not for the sake of Art but for “Art” for itself.256

256 The author refers to the ancient Kingdom of Tartessus from Neolithic times; archeological remains and the found treasure of “El Carambolo” are at the Science

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Nothing exists in this land that is not directly linked to beauty, dance, singing, decoration, bullfighting, the way of walking and the way of talking. Sevilla! Sevilla! In my youth, when we had the decadent Seville, and to say it better than decadent “ailing” Seville, sapient gentlemen used to say about it that only two cities were worth living in: Paris and Seville. Of all the journeys I have made from one to the other painter I have lost count and I do not say that for showy patriotism but because once I lost the Sevillian Grace, I could not console myself until I reached the Parisian Charm. During my peregrinations, I stopped at the Prado Museum to offer my respects to the best of Sevillians Don Diego Velazquez de Silva, the Painter of Painters. For the leftover portion of the journey, I fastidiously used my third-class train wagon. With time, I learned to make a stop at Cordoba. The jewel city of the Caliphate is only alive today in the Mihrab of its Mosque; and to savor the city, I mentally put aside its degraded bestiality of internal convulsive confusions in the history of the land and delighted in the clear light of its fields. The leftover portion was its neat luminosity, where golden cumulus sail so close that they give the impression that you could touch them with your bare hand. The blue sphere for sky, too, was so near by that it seemed you could walk into it and confer with God on equal terms. Cordoba is a hard country that incites its visitors to Pantheism. Next to a sepulcher in a cemetery, I saw a cypress, one that was not sad but joyous, bright and shiny, as if made out of velvet. Next to it, there was an orange tree with red apple-round fruits and emerald green leaves with one of its branches bent, touching the marble cover of the tomb, erasing its sad outlook. I had the same feeling that I had had when I perceived the hard limpid bones of a human skull sitting next to a hermitage with a blood-color geranium flowering next to it that happened to be there for my delight. This Cordoba is too much! How could I forget its silver olive tree orchards on the shiny copper-colored soil; or the rocky crags of its Sierra moss covered among the shiny rivulets, sparkling in the sun, amid oleanders? This Cordoba is too much! No other country is equal to its harshness and its stillness.

Museum in Seville. Betica was the southernmost Roman province in Spain, and also refers to the name of its most important river that was changed during Arabian rule.

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Time in Cordoba seems to be still. Two friends sitting at a tavern in front of glasses of Montilla wine spend one hour in silence; they have no need to talk. Without words, they say all that they need to say, silently, to each other. In my meanderings, I also learned to stop in Toledo. This city of Toledo is pure archeology. The Imperial city looks as if it had been broken by a mallet at one time or another: Roman, Arabic, Jewish, Plateresque, even the Baroque appear to us like an incredible mixture of buildings. The Greco paintings look like an unearthed phantasmagoric apparition. How old Toledo is! Toledo presumes to be like Seville. Toledo clings to the canyon of the River Tajo; while in Seville, the Giralda seems like a work of yesterday. The river, in Seville, refreshes the soil every season with its mantle- spread sediment and produces this sensation of newness; but Toledo has no youthful grace to save it from being very old. Another watering hole was the high plateau of Castilla, especially the land of Avila, with its time suspended dreams of saints and knights when Castilla was the Kingdom of Castilla. Its granite, ice- broken landscape has a tremendously high sky so high and clear! The crepuscules are colorless in this land of livid, meager soils that alternate with thyme growths, purple flowering lavender or with its exposed, crystalline granite rocks with acute edges. It is a land of penitence and mysticism, where to free oneself it suffices to look at the infinite sky. France? To me France was only Paris and Paris is not France. From Paris, I like the Gothic Architecture. To me, the so-called: “liberte, egalite et fraternite” sounds like the musical score for “Manon.” I care little for anything that has to do with the “gourmet;” I rather like the style of the Parisian seamstress girls, “grisettes,” who are capable of providing themselves with sustenance with a handful of “escargots” and a few fries like my Sevillian “flamencos,” with a fistful of shrimp and half a glass of local wine. What Paris and Seville have in common is the grace, “Charme,” the difference between the two is a question of interpretation of the environment. In Seville it is the Folklore while in Paris it is a subtle, nuanced way of life that takes the visitor to their most refined cultural expressions.

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Pity the two cities could not be closer. I say that because what Spain took from Paris has come with its sharpest point of contact to their common frontiers. The Impressionist Movement (since it is about Art that I speak) has been very hard to transplant to the land of Andalusia. Its origin is so far away from us! The only one to perceive its meaning, what it meant, was Juan Ramón Jimenez, and he was not a painter but a poet, but if he had not been a writer, we would not have the divine prose of his “Platero.” Our Northern artists had the Impressionist essence more at hand and they used it to capture the land; for instance, Canals although with a second-hand Impressionism gave us some fresh ideas. In contrast— our artists from the Basque Country, although relatively close to France, with the exception of Iturrino— were products of their land. With Regoyos, our Impressionism dried up in his grey-belly donkey skies, and even moreso with Zuloaga, who had the devilish thought of taking his brushes to paint the arid luminous land of Castilla as if it were “Black Spain.” At that point, he lost all that he had learned from Manet in his art. And to continue the tragic list, there is Daniel Vazquez Diaz, whose specialty was the grey tonalities and human figures encased in cardboard robes that needed a can opener to find their humanity underneath. What is incredible is that all of these artists were confessed worshipers of Velazquez …of Velazquez whose only interpreter was Manet! Well, after so many digressions, I come to the conclusion that in Seville, esthetics and life share their substance. When the Sevillians dance, they seem like a breath of butterflies; when they walk, they embroider the soil with their fancy footsteps. The humblest dwelling covers itself with a white glow and sometimes, it seems to the eye to be of gold and magnificent jewels. Significantly marred by their popular cultural sensitivities, the Sevillians are stagnant in their attitudes. And one wonders why! In poetry, the Sevillian School is anything but appealing. The city’s modern painters produced vulgar works (and I am talking about the artists of my time; today’s artists are unknown to me); for all this, in my times, although the Sevillian had a natural, popular Grace, he had no appreciation for the Beaux Arts.

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There was in Seville a certain popular Moor called “Moro Cislan,” from whose story the significance of this particular popular attitude can be inferred. This remarkable Cislan used to say: “Art is a useless bore (puñeta).”257 For the popular culture in Seville, the only great painter, among the classics in Spain, was Murillo, painter of the Immaculate Conception. Murillo was the foremost artist, who assimilated the popular individual figure in its credible, luminous and detailed religious sceneries of popular religion in Seville.258 Murillo had an extreme artistic sensibility and know-how. The misinformed intellectuals, low-minded and godless, in my time, vainly tried to vilify his art for his apparent connection with the Catholic dogma of the Immaculate Conception. It is true that he created the TOTTA PULCHRA image of the Virgin Mary, perhaps pushing the belief in dogma. This unfounded criticism is a product of hateful materialism and low insolence. To give a better explanation of the intrinsic value of Murillo’s Art, I should be able to line up one of his works with a comparable contemporary of his in subject, without specificity for artist or style but I am not able to do so. To me, the popular concept: “After Murillo nobody else,” sufficed! But continuing with modern painting, as seen by Moro Cislan: Art is a “puñeta.” The Moro Cislan that I met when I was a child was a store owner at Alcuceros Street, where he used to sell horse harness, mount pouches, blankets, colored woolen fiber-embroidered burlap, mule sleepers and strap harness. I recall him vividly. In the summer, he used to sit on a braided twine- covered armchair to watch the “cigarreras”259 go by with their light shawls, their airy undergarments and prettily shoed little feet. Their hands held handkerchief bundles to keep the uptight pose, as they used to say. How witty and cheeky the shameless “cigarreras” could be!

257 The Spanish word is used as a curse or simply means some nuisance, like a lacy decoration at the wrist of men’s garments that interfered with normal use of the hands, and was used on garments in the late 17th and early 18th centuries, as per definition from common Spanish dictionaries. 258 For an explanation on Murillo, see note #19. 259 In the late 19th century, the “cigarreras” still worked at the Fabrica de Tabacos of Seville. The building today houses the Sevillian Central University.

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Moro Cislan was a good-looking, old man with a white beard, a head turban and an embroidered tunic. He had a good time watching the young women go by, while he paid them with flirtatious compliments. He was a well-versed, materialistic, Sevillian Moor, native to the city. He had a son who had given up the traditional Moorish garb. The son dabbled as a painter against his father’s wish; and so, the father refused to spend money for his art supplies. For this reason, Moro Cislan used to say that art was a “puñeta.” From the manual worker to the aristocrat, in Seville, they all firmly believed that art was a “puñeta.” Even the trade workers accepted their office, for what it was, as a way to make a living by selling painted tambourines and fans to the English (all the foreigners were “English;” the populace in Seville had not yet learned the meaning of the word “tourist”). These manual workers only made a payday out of their trade. But a gentleman, to become an artist painter, was out of the ordinary; the gentleman in question had to be crazy or stupid. And to tell the truth, I was naively stupid. MINISTRY OF EDUCATION AND FINE ARTS Decree on 14th March of 1934 “Gaceta de Madrid”, number 73, page 1968. In all cultures, gardens are part of a generalized, artistic expression. The European countries possessing art of this nature preserve with pride the works that signify their past glories. It would be useless to mention the gardens’ importance in Italy, France, England and so forth. About them, there are innumerable publications, from the 16th century to our days, and that would be cumbersome to list them all. The continuation of a line of art that is dedicated to the conservation of historic gardens is backed up with specialized field studies. Similarly, the United States, following the European tradition, has special schools to teach the art of garden planning and conservation. The production of their titled, scholarly-supported professionals follows, in many cases, classic works which are designed and preserved for their indelible meaning and historic value— they are monumental in concept like any other human creation.

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Setting aside the already-mentioned general facts, in Spain particular circumstances occurred that made gardens an issue for the Department of Fine Arts. Spain is almost the only country to conserve a medieval garden as it was when it was created from Spanish-Moorish workmanship. About today’s production, we can say that it is the confluence of what we had then, now married to the European contributions. Spanish Gardens are a showcase of different styles: Arabic, Mudejar, Escurialense, Italian Renaissance, Baroque, Classic French, Neo-Classic, Romantic and today, the Sevillian Resurgence. Because Spain has a variety of geographic characteristics, its gardens present unsuspected richness augmented by the different soil modalities. In Andalusia, we have a distinct genre known as Garden Andaluz that has been adapted internationally with the works by Forestier in Seville and Barcelona and that was also taken to the Moroccan Protectorate. The landscape architects in the United States also used the Garden Andaluz style for their works in California and Florida. In this way, foreign countries have taken hold of one Spanish product that could be used in Spain for developing our own garden specialists with special attention to ancient works and unique tools for the practical teaching of garden planning. None of the considerations previously mentioned have sufficed to convince the public of the importance of these monuments’ conservation work. It is no secret that entire ancient gardens were uprooted when their structures were still visible just because the structures were in ruins. Many of these ancient gardens continue to suffer from abandonment, lack of care, or inappropriate reforms. When we consider here the intrinsic value of these works from the standpoint of history and esthetics, and from the social point of view reflected in Modern Art, it is clear that the abstract concepts need to be brought together. It is of national interest to develop garden-specialized policies. We need to create a garden classification system in order for the gardens to be considered works of monumental national interest. Gardens are not inert entities; gardens for their vital qualities should be considered under a special category. They need to be administered by apt, specialized conservation and inspection efforts provided by the General Direction of Fine Arts, in harmony with what was

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 291 established by the third article of the Law from the thirteenth day of March in nineteen hundred and thirty-three. For all of the reasons given above, in a proposal presented to the Ministry of Public Education and Fine Arts and previous recognition from the Ministers Chamber, I declare the following: Article 1 Creation of a special Board in charge of conservation and protection to the Spanish Gardens. Article 2 - Conservation and protection of Gardens must be considered declared monuments according to the Board; reporting and facilitating disclosure of new monument sites, and their maintenance and conservation, is also part of the Board’s function. Article 3 - Management of the Board is constituted by its President, who is also the General Director of Fine Arts; two Vice- Presidents, who are the General Director of Habitation Property and the other, the President of the National Tourism Board; and a Secretary, who also is Chief of the Art Treasury. Article 4 - Administration of funds from endowments, donations, bequests, entrance charges to the public, monies from publication sales and so forth will be under the control of the Board. Its President will be in charge of payments. Article 5 - Activation of this decree will be put into effect by the Ministry of Public Education and Fine Arts. Decree was published, in Madrid, on the thirteenth day of March of nineteen hundred and thirty-four. NICETO ALCALA-ZAMORA Y TORRES Minister of Public Education and Fine Arts Salvador Madariaga Rojo

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CHRONOLOGY BY

CRISTINA AYMERICH

1999 This Chronology is part of the monograph on Javier de Winthuysen y Losada written by Cristina Aymerich for her dissertation at the Academy of Beaux Arts in Seville. Its contents are essentially in agreement with the autobiography written by Javier de Winthuysen and presented in the original Spanish version published in 2005. 1874 Born in Seville. 1875 The family moves from Bilbao Street to Tetuan Street, in Seville.

1882 He is enrolled at the Sevillian School.

1884 He takes High School admission exam. The family financial status is unsustainable.

1888 He is enrolled in at a new teaching establishment: Don Francisco School. He attends evening drawing classes with Joaquin Guichot. Don Trinidad Bertendona, famous art restorer, explains for the first time the intrinsic knowledge of art in front of ancient paintings under his care. Reading literary works, contemporary and classics, becomes his passion. He enrolls at the School of Beaux Arts; takes classes in Linear Perspective and Landscape Painting. In few months, he becomes disenchanted with the school’s teaching methods and stops attending it.

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1892 At the Jose Arpa studio, he paints his early landscapes of local sites in Seville: “Farms,” “View of Seville,” “The Alcazar Vegetable Garden,” “Garden of the Alcazar.” Early influences came from: Fortuny, Villegas, and G. Bilbao. Juan Ramon Jimenez becomes a personal friend. He enters Gonzalo Bilbao’s studio as a student; calls him “his teacher.” More acknowledged influences come from: Zuloaga, Regollos, and Canals. At the family residence, he utilizes a top terrace garden room as studio. Leaves Seville and goes to Castilleja de La Cuesta, for a seasonal break, at the family’s land property, “Bellavista;” the village is within short distance of Seville. Corpus Dei, his father passes away. Shortly afterwards, he moves to a rented old mansion at the Santa Cruz quarters in Seville. The sisters are no longer with the family; they have become nuns. He lives there alone with his mother. Has a very active painting season: he paints depictions of the Ceperos’ patio and gardens; and he also goes on prolonged painting excursions to Alcala of Guadaira. Actively involved in decorating his new home and finds old portrait painting and furniture that contribute to the new ambience he has created. The Impressionist concept surges as an integral question that he needs to solve. He travels to Madrid to visit the Prado Museum. Participates with: “The Ceperos’ Garden,” 1900, in a collective exhibit in Seville.

1903 In the spring, he goes to Paris, for the first time. He visits the Louvre [Museum of Luxembourg]; he enjoys the study of the Italian, Flemish and Dutch Schools. He becomes acquainted with European Impressionism.

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Short stay in Paris; returned to Spain through Biscay Country. [Perhaps in the early summer of 1904; he stays at the Valley of Arratia with the purpose of painting in Impressionist fashion]. He paints several small paintings; he leaves Biscay and travels to Madrid, visits Toledo and The Escorial. Joins his mother and niece at the beach resort of Cadiz, La Costilla; crosses the Straits of Gibraltar to visit Tetuan.

1905-12 Paints in Seville and Cordoba; goes to Alcala de Guadaira for seasonal painting.

1906 Participates with four paintings at the National Exhibit, in Madrid. “Valley of Arratia,” 1903, receives honorific mention.

1907 “Self Portrait” circa 1900, is exhibited at Artistic Circle in Barcelona in a collective portrait exhibit. Antonio Lozano, friend from Seville, returns from Paris with a garden project for the Gardens of Villandry. They barely associate but produce the planning for the garden and decorative ceramics. Interest in Garden Architecture is the result of the brief association. 1911 Marries Maria Salud Sanchez Mejias, sister to the famous matador. 1912 Moves to Paris with his wife to join his friend, Vazquez Diaz; attends the shows and studios of Clara, Bourdelle and others; visits the Louvre assiduously. 1913 Still in Paris, birth of his son Javier de Winthuysen Sanchez; leaves his family in Paris and goes to Madrid. Spends time in the Prado Museum; in June, he copies one more portrait by El Greco to learn his technique [the other copy study was done in Seville, at an earlier time].

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He leaves his family again, in Paris, and goes to Cordoba, and has a very productive stay, and, in August goes to Granada. He returns to Paris in September. 1914 Exhibits at the Fall Salon: “Garden in Granada,” and “The Ceperos’ Garden” are among the six paintings that he submitted; exhibits at the Independent Salon. At the onset of the First World War, he returns to Spain with his wife and son and travels through Andalusia; they establish their residence in Madrid. He reinitiates his life as a participant in the Spanish Generation of 98. 1915 Short time spent in Paris to dismantle the studio; likes the Paris war scenery but only succeeds in rolling up the canvas paintings to take to Spain; spends a season painting at Aranjuez, where Rusinyol paints. He comes away unsatisfied; sustains a pictorial ideal of his own. 1916 Exhibit at the Vilches House, in Madrid. Now he has a studio while Salud, his wife, goes to Paris. Writes his first art criticism about Anglada Camarasa, published in: La Correspondencia, in Madrid. The Figaro, in Paris, publishes his essay “Los Mochuelos.” 1917 Spends some time in Alcala de Guadaira. El Liberal, in Seville, publishes his article: “Jardin Sevillano.” Two paintings exhibited in a collective show. 1918 Applies for a pension from the Board of Continuing Education. Joaquin Sorolla and Antonio Machado support his petition. He is obliged to take a “Botany” class at the university in Madrid. He obtains an official grant and travels to the Historic Garden. His daughter Salud is born. 1920 Magazine Grecia publishes his poem “El Parque.” 1922 He develops his work of Garden Historian and Conservator. At the Ateneo in Madrid, he gives a public lecture: Jardines Clásicos de España, with the summary of his research. The lecture is a big success; and he is invited to repeat it at the Students Residence, in

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Madrid; London and Paris cultural organizations also ask him give the lecture. The magazine Arquitectura, in Madrid, and L’Art Ancien et Moderne, in Paris, publishes the lecture. He exhibits his paintings with Maroto, Barradas, and Cristobal Ruiz. 1923 Introduced to the participants of the Students Residency Circle. He accepted his first garden commission. The Madrid newspaper, La Voz, publishes his article defending city trees. This is the first in a series of articles on urban planning. 1924 Second exhibit at Nancy House, in Madrid: twenty-four landscapes and one garden project. Participates in a collective exhibit in Aranjuez. His work is in the honor salon along with Rusinyol, Camarasa, Sorolla, Mir, Meifren, Haes, Beruete, and others. The publication offices of the Library, Archive and Museum of the City Hall in Madrid publishes: The Moncloa Gardens. La Esfera publishes: El Resurgimiento del Jardin Espanol. 1925 El Auxiliar de Ingenieria publishes: Ciudades Jardines Españoles. 1927 More publications: Revista de Arquitectura: Resurgimiento de los Jardines Clásicos; España Forestal: El Jardin y la Naturaleza. La Esfera: Mirando a Andalucia; Revista de Bellas Artes: Paseos y Jardines. Through his friend, Juan Hector Picabia, lawyer, art critic, and fiction writer, he meets Maria, the inspiration for the rest of his life. 1928 Publishes in the Revista de Arquitectura: Arquitectura Paisajista; Manantial: Jardines Antiguos y Modernos; La Ciudad Lineal: Ciudades Jardines. 1929 Publishes in Estampa: Arquitectura Paisajista; Progreso Agropecuario: La Agricultura y el Jardin. 1930 Participates in the exhibit: Exposicion Regional de Arte, at the Casa de los Tiros, in Granada. He publishes his book: Jardines Clásicos de España. He publishes an article on Forestier in: Revista de Obras Publicas. His daughter Beatriz is born in Madrid.

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1930/35 Intense creative activity in garden planning, and he takes on public and private projects, such as Viso Colony: The Olarra, Salvador Madariaga, Ortega y Gasset. Urban solutions project in Madrid. First Landscape Site garden project, Santander. He is chosen General Inspector of the recently created Board of Historic Gardens. Publishes: El Viajante de Comercio: La Importancia Social del Jardin. In 1932, he begins a series of articles on urbanism: Diario Luz de Madrid.

1935 His daughter Maria Teresa is born in Madrid. His son Javier enlisted in the Army; dies shortly afterwards. During the Spanish Civil War, he works with Maria for Proteccion de Menores, in nun-abandoned religious teaching institutions. He went to Requena, Valencia, with Maria and daughters; They move the orphans in charge away from the war- front area in Madrid.

1938 Maria and his daughters went to Santa Coloma de Farnes, Gerona. He stays in Valencia. Continues his work as Garden General Inspector: Brihuega, Monforte, Valencia, and Benicarlo Gardens. In Valencia, keeps in touch with his friends: Antonio Machado; artists: Victorio Macho, E. Barral, C. Ruiz, Solana, Souto, Bores, Poppelreuter. He moves to Barcelona.

1939 Residence in Las Corts, Barcelona, was a derelict communal factory workers’ patio-centered building. Subletted rooms which had access to flat open terrace on top floor with around-the-clock view of Barcelona enclave.

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The site proves to be inspirational; he returns to painting. Manner has to do with the summation of landscape concepts. Exhibits the work produced in Las Corts at: Palacio de la Virreina, in Barcelona. He is reassigned by vote in his favor, by the reconstituted School of Beaux Arts’ Board, into his former position of General Inspector of Gardens and Picturesque Sites of Spain. 1941 He travels to Madrid to receive his official nomination.

1941-44 Official duties keep him in Madrid for many months. He goes to Barcelona for seasonal paintings, living and working in rented locations around the city: Vallvidrera. He is actively involved and responsible for designation of protected Picturesque Sites: Lake Bañolas, Lake of Sanabria, Elche Palm Forest, Albufera Landscape and others. 1944 Participates in a collective exhibit at the Salon J. Cañamar, Barcelona.

1944/45 He spends two painting seasons at Cerdanyola. Rented caretaker house in a large wooded property.

1946-49 Rented house in Santa Eulalia del Rio, Ibiza. House located on the outskirts offers easy access to landscape sites.

1948 First exhibit at Syra, Barcelona, with Mediterranean works. He continues his work of garden planning with official sites in Somio, Santander, and private property: Emilio Botin. His daughter Beatriz is apprentice and helper in this task.

1949 Second exhibit at Syra. Publishes series of articles on garden planning in: Crisol.

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1950 Newly rented location in Barcelona offers extended city view. He works from the balcony in the swift changes of light. 1951 Third exhibit in Syra. He begins to write his memoirs, assisted by Maria Hector. 1953 Participates in a collective exhibit at Palacio de la Virreina. Catalan artists such as Juan Serra, Rafols, Mallol, Suazo, Mompou, Rafael Benet, J. Sunyer and others recognize the value of his vision. 1955 Fourth exhibit at Syra is homage to the Artist. 1956 Dies in Barcelona.

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Archival Sources

Seville Municipal Archive Birth Certificate: Javier de Winthuysen y Losada, Parroquia de San Miguel: Civil Register 252; Folio 437; took place on April 1, 1874, at number11 of Palmas Street, in Seville, Spain, at eleven o’clock in the morning. Sevillian Census: 1880, Parroquia Sagrario, C, P2520. Cadastre: 9, Albareda Street. Municipal Councilors at the City of Seville: Minutes reunion: 17 December, 1880; scroll 405, book 26, pages 293-295. Signed on the margin by: Town Councilor Francisco Javier de Winthuysen Martínez de Baños.

San Fernando Cemetery Archives in Seville Mausoleum Conde de Bagaes, Bernardo Losada. Santa Teresa, Fe, and Isabel, 8, 2@: Javier de Winthuysen Martínez de Baños, 9 Albareda, Parroquia Sagrario, Sevilla, Spain. June 23, 1900.

Parochial Archives Saint Jean de Montmartre, Paris, France Birth certificate of Francois Xavier Winthuysen y Losada, registered with number 68, on March 19, 1913, born at this parish on the third day of the current month.

Spanish Naval Archives Dossier: Francisco Xavier de Winthuysen y Pineda, 1792, requests a Royal Pension.

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Dossier: Javier de Winthuysen y Martinez de Baños Museum Archive Don Alvaro de Bazan, El Viso del Marques, [Ciudad Real]. General Section: File N. 620/1294.

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Interviews

Carlos Hernandez, manager to pastry shop La Campana, on March 5th, 1999. La Manga Borrero, oldest employee at Barkley Bank, March 1999. Joaquin Agudelo Herrero, author specialist in Andalucian and Sevillian themes, on April 12, 1999. Armando Hierro, notary, land owner and merchant in Victoria while traveling from Victoria to Figueres, on June 15, 1999.

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Bibliography

Carr, Raymond. Espana 1808-1939, 1969; Ariel Editor Cerezeda, J. Dantin. Regiones Naturales de España, 1922; volume I, Madrid J. Cosano Carlos Ross, Director. Historia de la Iglesia Sevillana, 1992; Castillejo Colloque Pluridisciplinaire: Le Jardin, 6 et 7 juillet, 2004; Université de Versailles-Saint Quentin-en-Yvelines Diccionario Historico de las Calles de Sevilla, 1993; City Hall, Seville

Dutch Painting—1600-1800, 1995; by Seymour Slive Edelman, Murray. From Art to Politics, 1995 Eitner, Lorenz. An Outline of 19th Century European Painting, 1992 El Greco—Identidad y Transformación, 1999; Fundación Colección Thyssen-Bornemisza, Madrid

El Porvenir. “Gacetillas” December 8, 1886 Gardens of Spain—Exhibition of the Work of Winthuysen—Javier de Winthuysen Y Losada, 1874-1956, 1981; International Institute of Site Planning, Beatriz Coffin

Gauguin and the School of Pont-Avent, 1994 González, Antonio Cordón. Vivienda Ciudad Sevillana 1849- 1929, 1985; Seville City Hall Guia del Museo Sorolla, 1980; Florencio de Santana Guia de los Parques y Jardines de Sevilla, 1989; Sevilla City Hall History of the Low Countries, 1998; edited by J.C.H. Blom and E. Lamberts

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Hurtado, José María Egea. Cosas, Casas y Cosas de la Isla de San Fernando, 1997; City Hall San Fernando, Cultural Foundation

Ignacio Zuloaga, 1990; The Meadows Museum, Dallas, Texas Impressionist Still Life, 2002; Elizabeth Rathbone and George T.M. Shackelford Jiménez, Juan Ramón. Españoles de Tres Mundos, 1942, Buenos Aires Jardines de España—1870-1936, 2000; Fundacion Cultural Mapfre Vida José Elbo y la Pintura Romántica, 1998; Consejeria de Cultura de la Junta de Andalucia

La Andalucía. Suplemento, December 11, 1876 La Escuela de Alcalá de Guadaíra y el Paisajismo Sevillano, 20002; Sevilla; Text by Juan Fernández Lacomba

La Pintura del Siglo XIX en el Museo de Sevilla, 1988 La Pintura de Santiago Rusiñol—La Vida—L’Obra i la Critica— Cataleg Sistematic, 2004; Josep C. Laplana, Mercedes Palau- Ribes O’Callaghan Manet/Velazquez—The French Taste for Spanish Painting, 2003. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York Manjon, Luis Nieto. Diccionario Ilustrado de Terminos Taurinos, 1987; Espasa Calpe Marañón, Gregorio. El Conde Duque de Olivares, 1930_1999; Espasa Calpe Mena, de José María. Curiosidades Históricas de Sevilla, 1986; J. Rodriguez Castillejo S. A

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Montias, M. John. Le Marché de L’Art Aux Pays-Bas, 1996, Paris Museo de Cerámica-Palacio de Pedralbes Barcelona, 1993 Nineteenth Century Paintings, 1965. The Walters Art Gallery Padgen, Anthony. Spanish Imperialism and the Political Imagination, 1990 Palma, Jose Almuedo. Ciudad e Industria Sevilla—1850-1930, 1996; Diputación de Sevilla

Parker, Geofrey. The Grand Strategy of Phillip II, 1943/2000 Pena, María del Carmen. Pintura del Paisaje e Ideología—La Generación del 98, 1998; Taurus Parc de Collserola—Libro Guía, 1998; Area Metropolitana de Barcelona Parinaud, André. Barbizon—The Origins of Impressionism, 1994 Poyato, Jose Calvo. Los Galeones del Rey, 2002 Rivero-Garcia, Francisco. Origenes e Histórias de Alcalá de Guadaíra, 1997 Rufino, Antonio Caballos. Itálica y los Italicenses, 1994; Junta de Andalucía Consejería de Cultura

Shaw, Donald. La Generación del 98, 1989; Catedra The Cambridge Companion to Modern Spanish Culture, 1999; edited by David T. Gies Velasco, Julio Martínez. Paseo por la Sevilla del 98; J. Rodriguez Castillejo, Editor Visque Cubero, I. M. Vera Rodriguez, N. López López. Las Plazas del Casco Histórico de Sevilla, 1987; Junta de Andalucía Winthuysen, de Javier, y Losada. Jardines Clásicos de España- Castilla, 1930

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Winthuysen, de Javier, y Losada, Memorias de un Señorito Sevillano. Winthuysen Foundation, 2005. Editors: Maria Héctor Vazquez, Enrique LaFuente Ferrari, Teresa Winthuysen Alexander. World Impressionism—The International Movement 1860-1920, 1990; Edited by Norma Broude

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BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE Javier de Winthuysen y Losada was born in Seville, in 1874, and died in Barcelona, in 1956. During three hundred years, the members of the Winthuysen family were active members of the armed forces and the church at El Puerto de Santa Maria; their origin was in the Low Countries. One branch of the Winthuysen Family came to Spain in the late 16th century; they opened a trading house at the Island of Leon. In contrast, Javier de Winthuysen was born in Seville, after his father removed the family from El Puerto. His father, Javier de Winthuysen y Martinez de Baños, had been a retired naval officer for many years; and he moved the family to Seville consequent to his participation in the command of the 1868 Cantonal Revolution. In Seville, he entered the management offices at City Hall as Counselor in charge of public spaces-gardens and general urban upkeep. Javier de Winthuysen, the last son of a family with seven children, was born in Seville. Javier de Winthuysen was educated in lay institutions but he was always emotionally involved, as a good Sevillian would be, in the popular religious sentiment towards the Virgin Mary. When he came of age, he decided to choose pursuing an eclectic education rather than enter the Navy against his father’s wish; therefore he engaged himself in an artist painter career. He was part of the Modernist movement in Seville, for a short time, with the School of Beaux Arts, and the Ateneum, in Seville. He was an active member of the School of Landscape Painters at Alcala de Guadaira, in the Province of Seville. He went to Madrid, and later

308 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master to Paris in 1903; and exhibited his work in Paris, Seville, Madrid and Barcelona. In 1911, Winthuysen married Maria Salud Sanchez, mother of his two children, Javier and Maria Salud. He resided temporarily in Paris between the years 1912 and 1915. On his return to Madrid, due to his active participation with the Generation of 98— Intellectual Supporters to the Third Republic— he was considered to be a suitable candidate to obtain, as a freelance autodidactic, a title of conservator to the Historical Gardens of Spain. On this endeavor he was supported by the artist painter Joaquin Sorolla and a member of the Institution for Free Teaching, Juan Ramon Jimenez. During his residency in Madrid, he published articles in newspapers and magazines, on architectural landscape gardening, historical conservation, urban planning and art criticism; and his book, Jardines Clásicos de Espana—Castilla, 1930, contains the results of his investigations and construction technique. Winthuysen was the creator of the Board of Gardens, during the short duration of the Third Republic administration. During the disorderly times of the Spanish Civil War, he lived in a variety of government-seized religious orders’ elementary institution buildings that had been used for housing and schooling orphaned girls who were then abandoned by the flight by their members, in Madrid. Later, he went to Requena, Valencia, along with Maria Hector Vazquez, mother of his two daughters, Beatriz and Maria Teresa. In 1939, Winthuysen moved to Las Corts, Barcelona, where Maria and their girls were living. While he waited for the new Spanish government administration to guarantee his official position and complete the process of

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 309 recuperation from the war hazards, he began to paint the views of Barcelona. His official position was re-assessed and he divided his time between Madrid and Barcelona, where he returned to paint at the picturesque localities found by Maria Hector. At the end of the 1940s, the family moved to an apartment on the Tibidabo Avenue from where Winthuysen painted views of Barcelona which transcribe the changeling nebulosity over the city due to Barcelona’s unusual climatic conditions at the time. His work, as creator of Neo-Classical style gardens continued, along with the expression of his pictorial oeuvre to the end of his life.

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EDITORS’ DATA

Maria Héctor Vazquez was born in Seville, in 1906; and died in Washington, DC, in 1979. Maria came from a wealthy and politically influential family; their members were third generation relatives of the America’s rich returned colonists who acquired extensive land holdings from the crown, during the nineteenth century. These nouveaux rich used to marry into the insolvent aristocracy to amend their humble origins—as Javier de Winthuysen says in his autobiography- Her father, Juan Hector Picabia was a first cousin to the famous Dada artist, Francis Picabia. Juan Hector Picabia was a lawyer by profession and writer by inclination, and an intimate friend of Javier de Winthuysen. Maria was educated in a French religious order school in Seville, and continued so in Madrid, where the family had moved, going to Sevilla seasonally. Maria’s relationship with Javier de Winthuysen was an incredible romance. At the same time, it was a social scandal in the Sevillian society. The Sevillian society where Maria grew-up was a follow-up of the Montpensier court of which the Empress Eugenie de Montijo, consort to Napoleon III for thirty years had been a member.. The city was a chosen residence on her visits to Spain by the dethroned Isabel II of Bourbon. Maria tagged on her heart’s impulse, contrary to the feminine laws of the time that called for a well-to-do young lady to live and create a family under matrimonial vows. Her father, Juan Hector Picabia, and her uncle Abreu- a significant political figure in Seville- supported her drive to acquire a double career, of elementary

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 311 school teacher and librarian, to make herself economically independent. Her altruistic cooperation during the Civil War of 1936 saved the lives of Javier de Winthuysen and their daughters, especially during the hardship years after the war, when people died of hunger along the roads or of rampant tuberculosis. These were all products of a “nationalism” known in the Barcelona city of my time as the dictatorship of Francisco Franco that lasted forty years. Her educational work and her children’s literature writings have not been revised after her death. February 23, 1976 Esteemed Salud: Ponder carefully the content of the newspaper clipping I include and tell me if you could do the following for me: talk to Ibanez Cerda about this issue; ask him who was the naval officer undertaking the command for the voyages to help the colonies. It was the one-handed ancestor; I am positively sure. The Navy Museum must have the details on the expeditions. Someone can look for them. Cerda told me that there is an inlet, along the coasts of this country, with your family name, related to the expeditions taken by the famous ancestor. The dates match. I have the intention of visiting the National Geographic to consult the maps they have to see if am able to pinpoint the disembarking location. On the 9 of January, I visited Mr. Pedroso, Spanish Ambassador to the OEA [Organization of American Estates]. I left with him a folder with the artistic historical facts of your father’s life; twenty- seven years of following step-by-step the exhibits of his works, with all the newspaper critiques, catalogues and other details. He

312 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master is studying the possibility of an exhibit. He mentioned the difficulty of the family name being alien to Spain; even so, if we find all the details I mentioned, everything can go smoothly. Imagine, his oeuvre and his ancestors…in sum a real story is rather witty and it could be published. I am undertaking a new treatment and the response seems positive. I feel very strongly about it and energized about any enterprise. I have an English translator working on my books; now she is working on La Pajara Pinta. She is past the first half, and it sounds good. My five children’s storybooks and the brief children’s plays represent all of my talent as a writer of children’s literature completed after your father’s exploitation; as good Sevillian men do, and being as he was “a pampered mother’s child” to depend on others. You know it; he was what his friend Juan Ramon Jimenez, who a friend of mine, whose niece committed suicide on his account, used to call “the divine pimp.” Those overly sensitive artists are above the normal: they need to be supported all the time— otherwise, they become resentful and only think about revenge and are not responsible for their acts. Your father was one of them; what he did to me and to everything else was quite iniquitous…Except that in my case I stood firmly. And how! Well, I completed seventy years of age on the 17th. My two daughters and my five grandchildren came to my home. The girls had made a birthday cake…it was beautiful and it gave me great happiness to see that with or without cancer, I made it through and saved my daughters and my grandchildren from possible unjustified humiliations as there have always been atrocities that

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 313 were done to me and to him by your side of the family. Grandly, the children are being educated to become proficient adults. And, what is more important, I manage to live independently, with dignity, by my own means, and without misuse from others, thanks to an entire work life, as I always proudly did with dignity and intelligence and with my name which is short but clear sounding and easy to remember— thereby keeping my civil rights as a female and the esteem of many people who have known me. Do me a favor and ask Mr. Gilaberte if he has received the Memoirs by your father. I sent them to him on the 3rd of last September. I wrote him two letters simply asking if he had received them and I have not heard from him. And by the same token, ask them if they intend to publish the book and when that could be possible. Soon it will be two years since I delivered the original; the contract is in yours, and your sister’s hands and all the requirements had been covered. Tell me: What is keeping them? My phone number is: 969-1748, area code 202; I am giving it to you because I know you do not like to write, just in case. If the details on the one-arm ancestor become available, I will go visit the Spanish Ambassador to request his help. The exhibit must be done to coincide with the king’s visit…when I was a young girl I was introduced to his grandmother; and I still have my member nomination Lady in the League against Cancer which gave me the Princess of Orleans. How could I refuse to meet the grandson? He was the savior of the Spaniards from the social indignities committed by the Franco regime— retroactive decrees, and revoking of all civil rights which left the Spanish people

314 Memoirs of a Sevillian Master without freedom and without protection against blackmail and swindle…And in the middle of the destruction caused by the Civil War, your father and me were able to liberate ourselves when we moved to Catalonia, by putting land between your side of the family and ourselves; although, I must avow that he— as refined criminals do— from time to time returned to the crime scene. Look! I hope to hear from you. Will I? Salutations! I want to add that I was very sorry that the little yellow notebook was left among the papers for the book. You would not believe it was a casual oversight but it was. Deep inside, I always felt pity for you that although you were two generations younger than your formidable parents you were never able to disentangle your existence from them to have a life of your own, to be free from their exploitation and desire of revenge that you have shown even in the public death notices published for them. The past is dead and what remains of him are his works, his best, and his perpetuation in me: “You will see what come from your blood and mine” and he did not err. Yours, Maria

ENRIQUE LAFUENTE FERRARI, 1898-1985

To honor the memory of Enrique Lafuente Ferrari, Julian Marias, in 1998, wrote an article found in the web (at: http://www.conoze.com/doc.php?doc=1914/)

In it, Julian Marias explains how Lafuente Ferrari was an eloquent teacher who used to tell his students how he had to study philosophy in order to understand art within the historical context

Memoirs of a Sevillian Master 315 of the times. Lafuente Ferrari helped to establish the inter- university system between Spain and the United States. Lafuente Ferrari was one of the Winthuysen’s works’ lovers that were in Madrid, in 1974, on the inauguration of the Centennial Exhibit. To celebrate we went to Las Cuevas de Luis Candelas and I asked the participants to sign the menu which I still have. Enrique Lafuente Ferrari was seated side by side with Maria Hector Vazquez, Enrique Perez Comendador, Magdalena Leroux, and many others now gone and still alive actors in the scenes that were a product of a love story which was the lives of Javier de Winthuysen and Maria Hector.

TERESA WINTHUYSEN ALEXANDER, 1935- Is resident manager with the Winthuysen Foundation Inc., based in Greenbelt, MD. She has the following accreditations: MLA from Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore; BA in Art History and Art from the University of Maryland/ UMUC; AA in Psychology and AA in Laboratory Technology from Montgomery College, Rockville, Maryland.

ILLUSTRATIONS TO MEMOIRS OF A At age 19, Winthuysen had just begun attending instruc- SEVILLIAN MASTER tion with Gonzalo Bilbao. Previ- Javier de Winthuysen ously, he had been part of the (1874-1956) artistic revolutionary movement in Seville headed by Jose Arpa. Winthuysen Foundation, Inc. The participants effaced the Teresa Winthuysen Alexander traditional genre painting acceptable by the Art Academy in Javier de Winthuysen con- Seville of painting landscapes in sidered himself an environmen- studio from sketches by painting talist; his works supported his in natural setting like Alcala de environmental theory explained Guadaira. through his memoirs. The Win- thuysen Foundation purpose in Nopal and Reeds Growth, these illustrations is to interpret 1893, is a landscape build up his memoirs according to the en- within classic geometric per- vironment he happened to live in spective principles. The rural all the faces of his long life. setting shows the outskirt of Seville, on the edge of the fields. Nopal and Reeds Growth, 1893 Technique and subject matter chosen by the artist has simi- larities to Jean-Batiste-Camille Corot, 1796-1875 works.

The luminous sky picks up gauzy clouds product of the humidity of the near by Guadalqui- vir River. Moist atmosphere Nopal and Reeds Growth, 1893 shows in Triana Bridge, 1896. Collection: Museum Reina Sofia, Madrid, Spain (Donation Salud Winthuysen Sanchez, 2002.) 317 Triana Bridge, 1896. mat, and the fact that is signed on the left-his preferred sign site when he considered the work worthy. Plus the sky rendering is remarkable signature not to be ignored. The dark low clouds in de distance are discharging rain, sensation conveyed by letting the brush glide from clouds to the fringes of Triana, while the upper sky and frontward scene is illu- Triana Bridge, 1896 minated through the setting sun Collection: Teresa Winthuysen rays in a misty atmosphere. The Alexander, Greenbelt, MD, USA. crisscross brush work on the up- Oil on mahogany board per sky was used in a late period Dated and engraved signed on fresh paint, with location, on the left side: view of Barcelona to capture the Winthuyssen atmospheric fog over the city; it Sevilla 96 is almost a signature for authenticity of this work to me. The Guadalquivir River, divides Seville from the City of Tri- The luminous style seen ana. The Bridge of Isabel II, or in Nopal and Reeds Growth, Bridge of Triana-popular name- in 1893 could be predecessor was part of traditional imagery to this little view of the Triana painted for the tourist market by Bridge. The artist takes in con- artists of the time. The different sideration the light and reflec- spelling of the artist’ name in the tions on the water in a crepus- signature renders the authentic- cule setting when colors become ity questionable although double exacerbated by the setting sun. s appears in family documents. It could be a restorer work done CEPERO GARDEN in Seville by expert restorers in Change in style: After Win- the XX century. thuysen returned from Paris, in the summer of 1903, he no The saving grace of this de- longer adhered to a pure clas- lightful work is its subject matter sicist virtuous way of painting, which is part of the lively life de- as shown in previous Cepero scription in the artist’ memoirs, sights. On this painting, prov- his statement that he used to ably done at a later time than like better painting in small for- 318 the other Cepero paintings, the ON HIS SECOND VISIT tonalities are wormer, closer to TO PARIS what he saw in the Rejected Winthuysen left his family in Paris Salon in Paris, to the Modernist and traveled through Spain pro- way of painting. At close inspec- ducing paintings that he thought tion, the buildings in the back of he could sell in Paris. The Gar- the garden and its general set up den of Orlando, circa 1912, was seem to correspond to the “The painted at the romantic garden, Hose of Pilatos” where Winthuy- XIX century, of the same name sen painted in between 1904 in Granada, Generalife: and 1910 several canvass.

Garden of Orlando, circa 1912, Detail of the Garden of Orlando. Collection: Teresa Winthuysen Alexander.

Museum Reina Sofia, Madrid, Spain Donation: Salud de Winthuysen Sanchez, 2002 CEPERO GARDEN: Cepero Garden, 1910 From 1900 to 1903, Winthuy- Description of the Cero House, patio and garden, sen painted a series of views from appear in Winthuysen memoirs. The artist left his painting of the entrance to the patio at the Spring Exhibit the Cepero’ House and grounds in Seville, before he went to Paris in 1903. that were in consonance to what he defined in his memoirs his personal Impressionist style. These

Entrance to the Cepero Patio, circa 1900//02 Museum of Seville, Spain Donation: Salud de Winthuysen Sanchez 319 were large size oil paintings on canvass now part of the Sevillian Museum of Art. In Paris Winthuysen suffered a style transformation product of the Modernist time he lived. His controlled paintings were accentuated by deep colored shades that were common to the “avant garde” painters of the time in Par- is, considered Fauves, for the out of natural colorations. Winthuysen was aware of this transformation Detail from “Patio de los Cepero” shows the logia covered and disturbed by it from where his with paintings as Winthuysen describes in his memoirs. disillusionment and return to see Winthuysen moved to the neighbor house after 1900. Description of the house he rented from the Ceperos Velazquez and Goya in the Prado brothers and their large property next to his new home Museum in Madrid. His intention constitutes passages in the memoirs of remarkable to remain within the realm of con- interest. trolled classical way was as strong as his attachment to Andalucia and in particular to Seville.

Still Life: Silver Jug and Basin, c. 1903/1911.

Javier de Winthuysen mentions this particular painting in his published memoirs: During my stay in Paris, a Winthuysen mentions this painting, chimney sweeper who came along with other paintings done on the to my studio returned to it same site, after few days asking me to let him in to see again the still life with a silver basin that I had painted... 320 [Memoirs of a canvas owning during the hot Master from Seville, Chapter VII- Digressions, 118, Spanish typed months, May to September. An- Copy, other more likely date could be Manuscript is part of the previous to his first visit to Paris Winthuysen in 1903 while living at the house- bequest at the Botanical next to the Cepero’s’ brothers- Gardens in in the neighborhood of Santa Madrid] Cruz, in Seville. As recorded in In 1911, Javier de Winthuy- his memoirs, Winthuysen fur- sen moved to Paris with his wife nished the house with antique Salud Sanchez Mejias. The artist silver, old baroque mirror’ frame; tells that he had painted a silver the silver surface, in the paint- jug and basin still life but does ing, tells the gentle contour of not say when or where. The mahogany chair frame, a door painting could have been part opening, all part of the family of the family furnishings which furnishings. The artist captures the family took from Seville to his image while he holds palette the rented studio in Paris. The and brushes. It is in a sort of Silver Jug painting was found way-very interesting way-a self- among the collection of the late portrait. It is also a testimony to Salud Winthuysen Sanchez, in the artist’ family fortune left over. Madrid, in the year 2001. It is proof to his self asserted knowledge of the Netherlandish The painting was cleaned, Paintings in the Sevillian collec- varnished and remounted on a tions and a tribute to his masters new stretcher at a conservator Jose Perea Arpa, and Gonzalo studio in Metropolitan Washing- Bilbao, luminous technique. ton. The conservator reported no pigment loss or deteriorated The still life was a genre canvas. The artist used a com- greatly appreciated by Seville’ mercial red stripped canvas cut artists and collectors; by the age out to which he applied his own of twelve, Winthuysen had been primer. Javier Winthuysen, in introduced to this genre through his youth, had a studio on the the collections of Netherlandish top floor at his parents’ home. paintings in the city of Seville. He may have cut off a piece of owning in a rapturous moment Many paintings from the of inspiration The interior court baroque and renaissance pe- yards of the houses in Seville riods were restored during the were, and still are, shaded with late XIX century; some by Don 321 Trinidad Bertendona must have with Jose Arpa and Gonzalo Bil- been among the work of this bao. practically unknown conservator in Seville. Winthuysen befriended Francisco Bertendona-son to Don Trinidad Bertendona-in his early youth and Don Trini- dad imparted practical connois- seurship to his son, Francisco, and to Javier de Winthuysen in front of the originals at his studio. During his professional life Francisco-at least as far as I can tell-continued to exert the same even handed discipline of restorer while Winthuysen became an active member of the Modernist Both works are painted on movement. mahogany board. The work from It is possible that Francisco, 1891, by Francisco Bertendona, Paco as he was known, may has the quality of a Dutch paint- have been two years older than ing while the later work, 1896, Winthuysen. The circumstanc- intends to capture a moment of es of their meeting are part of light by the Guadalquivir River, Javier de Winthuysen memoirs. from the Sevillian side. Both In 1891, Francisco Bertendona works from 1891, and 1896 dis- painted a view of the Guadalqui- play historical site views. The vir with the Torre Del Oro. This 1891 has the Torre Del Oro; painting was part of Maria Hec- while the one from 1896 is the tor’ collection at her death, in view at sunset of modern en- 1979; Maria Hector may have gineering construction, Bridge come into it from Javier de Win- of Queen Isabel II, popularly thuysen, purchased it from an known as Triana Bridge. antique shop in Seville, or received it as legacy from her fa- After his sojourn in Paris, in ther Juan Hector Picabia. 1903, Javier Winthuysen decided to find an adequate place to In 1896, Winthuysen painted paint in Spain; this resolution was a view of the river, from Sevilla’ in accordance to what he had side; at that time, Winthuysen seen and experienced in Paris. had four years of studio training 322 To Winthuysen Impressionism, and to certain extend, Post-Im- pressionism, were products of adaptation to the environment. Accordingly, the French Impres- sionists could not have developed the same principles of light if they had been exposed to the crude light of southern Spain. Winthuysen crossed the border between France and Spain at the Basque Country and put into practice his environmental theory.

Mount Gorbea and Valley of the Arra- tia, Spring 1999. Photographs: Teresa Winthuysen Alexander; two small format sketches were possibly painted at the Val- ley of the Arratia, 1903, by Winthuysen. The small sketches could be The Arratia River, confluent to the Nervión River, is part of the hydrographic net at the part of the notes taken by Win- Basque Country. Mountain complex, Monte thuysen in the Valley of the Arra- Gorbea, divides the valleys of the Arratia and Nervión rivers. tia as he said in his memoirs: in one of my excursions I arrived at the Valley of Arratia and since I found good accommodations in a landscape which attracted me I decided to stay…

323 In the 1920’s, Winthuysen The rural houses, protected was a recognized journal and with mature trees, the agrarian news paper article writer in en- parcels, the narrow roads like vironmental science and art gray bands, and the high moun- critique, in Madrid. He had an tains enveloped in low clouds, intense intellectual life with the permitted the view of a clear members of the 98 Generation aerial perspective where the who were the forefathers of de- foreground appeared in neutral mocracy in Spain. Winthuysen tones,… continued painting at open air small sketches that he could sell easily at the Gallery Vilches, and Nancy in Madrid. Monte Del Pardo, 1923, 21.5x15 cm,Oil on wood board. Collection: Teresa Winthuysen Alexander

Montes Del Pardo, 1923, was one of what he said many. It was during that time interlude when the Commission for Fur- ther Studies-recommended by Joaquin Sorolla, Antonio Macha- 324 do and Juan Ramon Jimenez- ous to 1903, was result pairing gave him a grant to record the what he saw in the Cepero Gar- historical gardens in Spain as he den to esthetic dispositions he tells in his memoirs. Winthuysen had adsorbed in his walks with spent the next fifteen years prac- his father’ garden care, conven- ticing his new self acquired pro- tional treatment of landscape fession of landscape architect background in works at Sevillian and historian; Jardines Clásicos collections, included Don Trini- de España-Castilla, published dad Bertendona solicitous paint- 1930 contains his neoclassic ing explanations, and his own theory, scale designed reproduc- personal life in the city of Seville, tions, photographs and detailed the Guadalquivir River paddle descriptions of his methodology row excursions, and other small in the field. It was during the in towns and locations within the between times during and after Province of Seville, or Andalu- the Spanish Civil War and 1941 sia, and his assiduous study of when Javier de Winthuysen re- works in the Museum of Seville, sumed his painting profession at El Prado, and Le Louvre. greater scale.

Auctioned in Lyon, 2005, painted, most provably during his sojourn in Castilleja de Innovation was a recogniz- la Cuesta, at the rural property able virtue in the detail shown “Bellavista,” circa 1893, the artist where Winthuysen holds strictly left Seville to spend some time to neoclassic principles but at at his at the family rural prop- the same time attends to a suc- erty, in Castilleja de la Cuesta, cessful marriage with painterly where-he reports in his mem- representation. His discovery, oirs: “I painted several land- unconscious at this time, previ- scapes, without being familiar 325 with the work of the Impression- ists, in virtual Impressionism, nature’s best when it comes to capture natural situations, without preconceived knowledge, only for the sake of plastering away what you see.” Found in: (Memoirs of a Sevillian Master, Chapter VII).

On his second visit to Par- is, Winthuysen found difficulty to manage married life and he went away to paint in Spain thinking that he could serve the

Parisian international market Patio in Cordoba, painted circa 1912. with landscapes produced in Spain. Winthuysen and his fam- Or several versions of the ily returned to Spain in 1914. Cordoba Mosque interior, some From his residence in Madrid lost, and others part of the Mu- he visited the sierra on painting seum of Seville or private collec- excursions resulting in a diver- tions. sity of small format oil paintings readily accepted by the public. With the advent of the Span- Winthuysen style and inclusion ish Civil War in 1936, Winthuysen of classical principles differed continued to exert his late ac- from the modernist trends in the quired landscape architect profes- market therefore he preferred sion. In the interim time of Span- to concentrate his efforts into ish national government reorgani- writing essays on urban plan- zation he spent some months in ning, historical conservation of Las Corts. Winthuysen was over old gardens, and picturesque 60 years old when he decided to site preservation through the try again painting. In his memoirs Board of Historical Preservation he explains that although the lo- he helped to create during the cation in Barcelona was derelict it Spanish Republic administra- had the advantage of an around tion. the clock terrace from where he could paint the views of the city between the Tibidabo mountains, Montjuich and the sea. 326 These are examples of series of works that he painted from the terrace in Las Corts. They were painted at different times of the day and from diverse angles from the terrace. All of them show part of the terrace surface and its parapet.

Still life: Onions and Eggplants, circa 1941, oil on wood board. Collection: Teresa Winthuysen Alexander Between 1941 and 43 Win- thuysen painted Still lives, oils and color pencil drawings, and the portraits of his daughters

Luz Matinal Las Corts, 1941, 20.5x25.5cm, oil Beatriz and Maria Teresa. With on wood panel. Collection: Teresa Winthuysen scarcity of means Winthuysen Alexander. recurred to the local milliner to have wood panels cut where he could do his own support prim- ing to paint his preferred natural models landscapes or otherwise. The board shown may have been used for later work on the “Slops of El Tibidabo,” 1950. Subject matter orange earth gullies was a repeat from 1943.

View of Tibidabo from Las Corts signed on the lower left corner, 1941, 49.5x61cm, oil on wood panel. Glued note on the back says: “WINTHUYSEN, Las Corts, Barcelona, 1941. Collection: Beatriz Winthuysen Coffin.

327 Slops of El Tibidabo, circa 1950, 37x48 cm, oil View of Barcelona from the Pineda, 1943, on wood board. Collection: Teresa Winthuysen 21x26cm, oil on wood panel. Collection: Teresa Alexander. Winthuysen Alexander.

In this late modality Win- thuysen took into account in his paintings of a internal structure reflection from the classical garden planning, some art historians say, and perhaps his own conclusion of what a landscape painted should look as finished work. Never the less Winthuy- sen always remained attached Outskirt of Madrid, 1944, 22x27cm, oil on wood board. Collection: Teresa Winthuysen to his environmental transcript Alexander interpretation of what he saw in nature as he had done in his youth and in his mature years he was doing in his late work in Las Corts, in Barcelona, Vallvi- drera, Cerdanyola, the outskirt of Madrid, and Ibiza.

Outskirt of Madrid, 1944, 22x 27cm, oil on cardboard. Collection: Teresa Winthuysen Alexander

328 To Maria this forced separation solution was to rent places in the near by villages, in Barcelo- na’ Province, where Winthuysen could paint and stay with Maria and the girls during school vacations. Since Maria’ salary as a teacher was insufficient for the keeping of the family in the sum- The Public Wash House in Vallvidrera, 1944, mer of 1944 she rented rooms 21x15.5 cm. Oil wood borrad. [Title, date and support in accord to information provided by in a farm in Vallvidrera left Win- Maria Hector in her paintings share list circa thuysen and the girls there and 1967 as it is shown in the thesis by Cristina Aymerich.] went to spend several weeks with the Viscount of Guell at the Winthuysen was confirmed Costa Brava. Maria was going to in his position of Director to the work as instructor for the Guell’ Historical Gardens and Pictur- children and have time to rest esque Localities of Spain-creat- and write her children’ stories. ed with his help during the Re- publican Administration-by the In Vallvidrera, Winthuysen Spanish National Government, worked all summer very hard, known then to us as dictatorship under the care of his 12 year by Franco. Winthuysen official old daughter Beatriz, and proposition implied stays in Madrid duced works like the small view for bureaucracy unavoidable in- of the “Public Wash House in volvement. While in Madrid, he Vallvidrera.” As it happen to be went on oil sketch painting ex- this little house served also for cursions as proven by the two public bath house and the kids, attached oil sketches. During locals and vacationing, did not his times in Madrid he used to miss the opportunity of peeping stay in a boardinghouse in Ser- on grownups taking a bath al- rano, Madrid, where the still life though I confess that when they with onions was found at later told me that my father Javier de date. His oldest daughter Ma- Winthuysen was in there I was ria Salud and her mother lived not able to see anything from in the neighborhood. This may the window in the dark interior have been source of unhappi- in part because I have always ness to Maria Hector still work- being near sighted. I was seven ing hard in Barcelona, and their years old and had my interests daughters. climbing trees and stealing fruit 329 from orchards not gossip. This work under the owner- ship of the Sevillian Museum is The next location where he still impressive for its sensitive- spent six or eight months was ness, although in urgent need of Cerdanyola. The house was attention for conservation, to an ideally located in the middle of environment that has reverted the woods. At those times the to feral state with the reformula- peasants’ owners of the land still tion of the lands in the Valley of cultivated their fields at the bot- el Valles as natural Park. tom of the narrow gullies where small seasonal brooks provid- Maria was always on the ed moisture. “Pines and Oak look out for possible picturesque Trees” was culmination land- locations to spend the vacations scape of the works produced in with Winthuysen. Annabel Mc- la “Xamu,” the property name in Donald, Maria’ friend, secretary Cerdanyola dell Valles. at the Spanish Embassy in Lon- The Catalan art connoisseurs don, came to Spain for one sum- of the time among them the art mer vacation and Maria went historian and critic Rafael Ben- with her to Ibiza and found the net considered this work a mas- ideal location in Santa Eulalia ter piece of the Catalan Impres- del Rio. Ibiza the capital of the sionism although at later date island and the village of Santa the thematic for strict surrealism Eulalia were at that time sanctu- in Catalan, and specially Barce- aries for artists. Few tourists had lonan art, unconsidered Bennet’ managed to come to the island claim as démodé. reachable only by over night ferry from Barcelona or Valencia.

The summer of 1945, Win- thuysen and the girls spent several weeks together in rented rooms in a private house in San- ta Eulalia del Rio while Maria went to work for another powerful family again. The garden of the house located on the upper Pines and Oak Trees, Cerdanyola, 1944, mountain slop had enchanting 92x73cm, oil on canvass. Donation: Maria views of the sea. “Gabrielet Gar- Héctor Vazquez, 1978. Museum of Sevilla, Spain. den” was one of these delightful views of paradise. It was a gar- 330 den developed over terraces; the containing wall of one of the terraces supported the trellis for the vine arbor on the foreground. In the middle ground the sea adds promising note to the sight.

Jardin de Santa Eulalia, circa 1947, 45x37cm, oil on canvassed cardboard. Collection: Teresa Winthuysen Alexander.

Gabrielet’ Garden, circa 1945, 26x21cm, oil on canvassed cardboard. Collection: Teresa Winthuysen Alexander.

It was possible to rent, for lit- Photographed by Teresa Winthuysen Alexander tle money, a small house for the in the spring of 1999. family to spend time together and Winthuysen paint the stu- The extended orchard plane pendous views of the orchard was culminated on one side by plane culminated by the sea the river and some elevations today converted into extended and the sea which formed inter- neighborhood to house the tour- esting cove sites for swimming ists, in Santa Eulalia del Rio. and on the other by a hill where The house was located at the the church and other white village outskirts. It had a front washed buildings sparkled in and rear garden that Winthuy- the sun. The Mediterranean em- sen painted. braced the entire scenery with its seaweed pebble covered beaches wild cypress and towering pine trees near the water. The orchards were irrigated by water conduits system dating from the Islamic invasion on the 331 VIII century. The natural people of the island still used their traditional dress. The women did most of the field work while the men tended to flour-mill; sea fishing, husbandry, and horse drown transport of goods and people. Some foreigners had built vacation properties. The house of the Swiss was one of Casa de la Suiza, 1947, 60x73cm, oil on them. Winthuysen painted the canvass. Collection: Beatriz Winthuysen Coffin. property on several occasions.

Casa de la Suiza, circa 1947, 45x37cm, oil on canvass cardboard. Collection: Teresa Winthuysen Alexander.

Both works take into account the foreground made of the extended gardens and some of White Well and Rose Bush, circa 1948, oil on the rocky sea coast. Time wise canvass over cardboard. Collection: Beatriz Winthuysen Coffin. the smaller painting was done previous to dusk hour as shown in the large format. Winthuy- sen preferred time for painting was sunset but on occasion he painted at other times of the day depending on the season. In the winter time the sky and colors corresponds with the photograph shown above while in the summer the colors become 332 effaced by the excess light as seen in the painting of the back garden.

Puente de Santa Eulalia, 1946/48, 45x37cm, canvassed cardboard. Collection: Teresa Winthuysen Alexander.

The small view of the bridge Puente de Santa Eulalia, circa 1946/48, 92x72cm, oil on canvas. Collection: Teresa was painted in the winter of the Winthuysen Alexander same year, most provably. The elongated reflection of the bridge The pride and glory of Santa on the river water tells the eve- Eulalia del Rio the bridge counts ning time. The cloudy sky con- with three different architectural veys a message of winter con- style arches; one is Roman, the striction of the land; the missing other Visigoth, and the third one bloomed oleanders’ confirms from Muslim time. The smooth the season. While, in the large river boulders paving the road version, the atmosphere has be- on top of it, provably as ancient come lighter and sun drenched as the bridge, were very care- with white light in high morning fully fixed for ever in cement summer. when I visited Santa Eulalia On his longer walks Winthuy- in 1999-or at least that is what sen reached the rocky coast by the workers were doing when following the river on its right I came near the bridge. Other bank. The high elevation loom- wise, I have magnificent recol- ing behind the bridge ended on lections of the bridge, and the the sea shore with sharp edged river natural swimming pool and volcanic rocks formations. We I remember seen my father’s used to go diving from the rocks smiling face, among his white and then swim back on top with patriarchal beard, in front of the our old canvass shoes on to easel, painting this gorgeous avoid the sharp edges rocks and landscape while I sun bathed on the sea urchins living on them. top of a rock for a while.

333 Although this work is signed and dated “52” it was most provably done in 1951 when Paz Mata, long time friend to Maria Hector, let us use their summer rented house while the family traveled elsewhere. The oldest daughter, Beatriz, had just departed to UUS and it was a break appreciated by Winthuy- sen for short time since it cre- Marina, circa 1946/48, 45x37cm, oil on canvassed cardboard. Collection: Teresa ated a situation with Mr. Mata Winthuysen Alexander. who had us suddenly leave the place with the family early return The evening scenery unfolds to the premises. The flat sandy the sea reflecting hazy sky; the beaches near Barcelona may late hour accentuates the black- have reminded Winthuysen of ness of the wet rocks on the the beaches in Valencia for its shore while the dry rocks above calm translucent sky and wa- the water retain their gray to- ters. nality and match in their amor- phousness the mellow green of In 1950, Maria found the ide- the ground cover. al place to live at the Tibidabo Avenue in Barcelona. It was the Winthuysen painted this marine converted to flats large villa with scene near Barcelona in 1950/51. many additions and remodeling. The final location of the family had a panoramic view of the city and Winthuysen approaching 80 had only to look through the balcony or the window to paint landscapes. Maria’ teaching position at the near by International School was easy to reach with the blue tramway and the street cars running in the avenue Bo-

Boats, circa 1952, 46x38cm, oil on canvassed nanova. cardboard. Collection: Beatriz Winthuysen Coffin.

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Vie of Barcelona in Gold, circa 1950/51, 38x46cm, oil on canvassed board. Collection: Beatriz Winthuysen Coffin.

This sunset view of Barcelo- na depicts an artist’ internalized city landscape where the subject matter expressed in color blotches lets the viewer complete the image of the forms no longer needed for the abstract subject matter.

Winthuysen, assisted by Ma- ria Hector, finished writing his memoirs in 1953. The present are interpretation of the memoirs. .

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