(I’ve taken the liberty of adding photos and videos ~ArsArteEtLabore)
Desolation Row – Colm Tóibín
He believed in the concept of duende, a heightened soulfulness displaying an authentic, deep, and earthy emotion, but he was also a master of restraint.
Lorca’s politics overcame his natural instinct against ideology in the same way that, in his musical consciousness, the highly wrought emotions of a Schubert song opposed the fierce abandon of the traditional vocal style known as the cante jondo. Just as his talent as a lyric poet gave way to Surrealism and experimentation, under the pressure of his times his art became political. As an artist, he was interested in simple freedoms in a period in Spain when nothing was simple, when such interests came face to face with dark and malevolent forces.
He knew with an almost whimsical certainty that in Spain in 1936 the personal was political, and that the body itself, especially the body of a woman or a homosexual man, was as much the territory of conflict and destiny as the ownership of land or factories. In that fateful year he wrote a play, The House of Bernarda Alba, that had all the austerity and artful simplicity of a Schubert song. It was a play for women’s voices full of yearning and plaintive expression, but surrounded by a savage sense of restriction and cruelty that everyone in the audience Lorca imagined for his play would know and recognize.
He was too subtle to make this obvious or programmatic, and too interested in the pure excitement and depth of the conflict between his characters to make them smaller than the world outside. He wrote them with the same strange tenderness that George Eliot used to create her idealistic men such as Will Ladislaw or Daniel Deronda, or that homosexual writers from Henry James to Tennessee Williams used to imagine their women trapped by convention. And he shared with Oscar Wilde that pure confidence in his own brave gifts with no sense of his doom so close, save one that may be beyond us in its depth and its irony.
Federico García Lorca was born near Granada in 1898, the eldest son in a prosperous family. When he was growing up, his father purchased an idyllic country house, complete with orchards and gardens, on the outskirts of Granada. The family spent time in the city itself too, so that he could be educated there. In the early 1920s in Madrid, Lorca developed a close friendship with Salvador Dalí and Luis Buñuel. He would also remain close to a group of Spanish poets, known as the Generation of ’27, which included Rafael Alberti, Pedro Salinas, and Vicente Aleixandre.
In essays and interviews, Lorca made clear that his allegiance was not to Spain, or even to Granada, but to the Vega, the rich plain to the west of the city where his father farmed, the land nourished by the rivers Darro and Genil that flow down from the Sierra Nevada. “My whole childhood,” he said,
was centred on the village. Shepherds, fields, sky, solitude. Total simplicity. I’m often surprised when people think that the things in my work are daring improvisations of my own, a poet’s audacities. Not at all. They’re authentic details, and seem strange to a lot of people because it’s not often that we approach life in such a simple, straightforward fashion: looking and listening…. I have a huge storehouse of childhood recollections in which I can hear the people speaking. This is poetic memory, and I trust it implicitly.
This idea that Lorca’s imagery and poetic voice came from the soil unmediated has echoes of the Irish Literary Renaissance and the efforts of writers such as W.B. Yeats, Augusta Gregory, and J.M. Synge to ally themselves with a native culture that was primitive and powerful, simple and untainted. Unlike the Irish writers, however, Lorca had been brought up in the very places he wished to invoke, using the same language as the people about whom he wrote:
I love the countryside. I feel myself linked to it in all my emotions. My oldest childhood memories have the flavour of the earth. The meadows, the fields, have done wonders for me. The wild animals of the countryside, the livestock, the people living on the land, all these are suggestive in a way that very few people understand…. My very earliest emotional experiences are associated with the land and work on the land.
But like the work of the Irish writers, the poems and plays Lorca wrote came from an imagination that was not itself primitive or nourished only by the soil. It was not “total simplicity.” While his poems used ballad forms or took the shape of folk songs, they also took their bearings from ideas of the unconscious and from Surrealism, from his friendships with Dalí and Buñuel and contemporary poets as much as from the people working on the land and living in the villages, even though images and metaphors he used could have their origins in ordinary local speech.
In Poet in Spain, a volume of new translations of Lorca’s Spanish poems, with the original on the facing page, Sarah Arvio translates the first line of these four as “the heavy water oxen” and replaces “curving” with “rippling.” Will Kirkland and Christopher Maurer in Collected Poems translate the first line as “Dense oxen of water” and also use “rippling.” (The Spanish word is ondulados, which means wavy or rolling or indeed rippling, which is clearly much better since it carries the idea of water along and suggests the moon in water rather than just the moon.) Thus Arvio manages to keep the water metaphor going from the first and third lines into the fourth. Her use of “water oxen” is more precise than “oxen of water” (which sounds like a translation even if it opens the metaphor more to imply that there were in fact no oxen at all, there was just spring water, or spurting water that, as Dolores the nurse would have it, was like a bull).
Lorca’s early poems are filled with elemental things, like a Miró painting—night, star, moon, bird—but they come with edges of strangeness and menace, like a Dalí painting—clock, knife, death, dream. He is never interested in just describing a scene. Instead, he begins to work on a set of associations, using echoes in the patterns of sound and sometimes a strict metrical form as undercurrent, thus suggesting a sort of ease or comfort at the root of the poem so that the branches can grow in any direction, with much grafting and sudden shifts, as his mind, in free flow, throws up phrases that, however unlikely, he allows in, thus extending the reach of the poem, or at other times pruning it briskly back.
Since her translations are filled with intelligent decisions and a keen sense of the music in the original poems, since her ear for Lorca’s delicate and difficult tones is sensitive and sharp, indeed often inspired, this decision seems unwise. Hindering “the flow of the language” in the imagistic poems seems to me not only necessary but mandatory. Lorca, one presumes, added on the punctuation later because he saw the need for it.
In 1971, thirty-five years after Lorca’s death, a book was published in Paris, written in Spanish, by the Irish academic Ian Gibson, who would later write biographies of Lorca, Dalí, and Antonio Machado. Two years later it appeared in English with the title The Death of Lorca. I remember the chill I felt more than forty years ago as Gibson forensically and meticulously recounted the early days of the civil war in Granada, to which Lorca had returned shortly before the war broke out.
Gibson emphasizes in his book that Lorca had taken sides in the argument about liberalism and repression in Europe. In 1933, he writes, the poet signed “a manifesto condemning the Nazi persecution of German writers. And when, in 1935, Mussolini invaded Abyssinia, he cancelled a projected visit to Italy and signed another anti-Fascist manifesto.” Eighteen months before the war, Lorca spoke about conditions in Spain in an interview:
I will always be on the side of those who have nothing, of those to whom the peace of nothingness is denied. We—and by we I mean those of us who are intellectuals, educated in well-off middle-class families—are being called to make sacrifices. Let’s accept the challenge.
In the last interview he gave before coming to Granada, Lorca’s comments on the city would not have won him many friends among conservatives. He said of the fall of Granada and the expulsion of the Moors in 1492:
It was a disastrous event, even though they say the opposite in the schools. An admirable civilization, and a poetry, architecture and delicacy unique in the world—all were lost, to give way to an impoverished, cowed town, a wasteland populated by the worst bourgeoisie in Spain today.
Lorca’s family also had close links to progressive politics in Granada. On July 10, 1936, his brother-in-law, the socialist doctor Manuel Fernández-Montesinos, was elected mayor of Granada. But as Gibson makes clear, lines were not precisely drawn in Granada between left and right. Among Lorca’s closest friends in the city was the Rosales family, who were members of the conservative Falange, which supported General Franco’s uprising.
In the first weeks of that uprising, the repression in Granada was particularly severe, with more than two thousand people taken out and shot. Gibson writes: “The flower of Granada’s intellectuals, lawyers, doctors and teachers died…along with huge numbers of ordinary left-wing supporters.” Among those shot was Fernández-Montesinos.
As the forces of repression in Granada came to look for Lorca, he took refuge in a house owned by the Rosales family. He believed that he would be safe there. However, he was arrested a week later and then taken out and shot. The precise place where his body was buried has never been identified.
Lorca had first met Falla around 1920 when the composer, who had come to live in Granada, a city in which he had already set some of his best-known music, became increasingly fascinated by cante jondo, part of the traditional music of Andalusia being kept alive by the Gypsy population; it was “imbued,” Lorca said in a lecture in Granada in 1922, “with the mysterious color of primordial ages.” It is “a stammer, a wavering emission of the voice, a marvelous buccal undulation that smashes the resonant cells of our tempered scale, eludes the cold, rigid staves of modern music, and makes the tightly closed flowers of the semi-tones blossom into a thousand petals.” It “always sings in the night. It knows neither morning nor evening, mountains nor plains. It has only the night, a wide night steeped in stars. Nothing else matters.”
When Lorca met Falla, who was almost a quarter of a century his senior, he had already given up his dream of studying music to study law in order to please his father, but music became the bond between them. Falla was ready to treat the young poet almost as a son, and Lorca was careful to keep the more flamboyant parts of his life secret from the famously conservative composer, who lived with his sister.*
In order to give energy and respectability to the tradition of cante jondo—viewed as too primitive in some cosmopolitan quarters in Spain—Falla and Lorca organized a festival in Granada with some associates to coincide with the feast of Corpus Christi in June 1922. Lorca was already writing poems that mined and excavated and enriched the tones and formal structure of the cante jondo, poems that expressed deep anguish and intense feeling in ways both direct and rich with metaphor, and that connected the natural world or the world of objects with the self or the speaker. He became fascinated by the idea of duende, quoting a Gypsy singer who, while listening to Falla play his Nights in the Gardens of Spain, said: “Whatever has black sound has duende.” Duende was the opposite of mere virtuosity, it was what sent shivers down the spine when someone sang or played music or recited poetry.
Speaking of duende as a person, Lorca told a Buenos Aires audience in 1933 that it
is a power, not a work. It is a struggle, not a thought…. The true fight is with the duende…. But there are neither maps nor exercises to help us find the duende. We only know that he burns the blood like a poultice of broken glass, that he exhausts, that he rejects all the sweet geometry we have learned, that he smashes styles, that he leans on human pain with no consolation…. The duende does not come at all unless he sees that death is possible. The duende must know beforehand that he can serenade death’s house…. The duende wounds. In the healing of that wound, which never closes, lie the strange, invented qualities of a man’s work…. The duende loves the rim of the wound.
Singers with duende walked for miles to take part in the festival that Lorca and Falla organized. While the excitement gave Lorca inspiration and nourishment for his work and led to his “Gypsy Ballads,” Falla, on the other hand, could not wait to get back to his quiet life. In his work after the festival, Gibson writes, “the Andalusian elements…were drastically reduced.”
In Lorca’s poetry, there is also a sort of clarity of texture that is darkened or even tossed aside by phrases or individual images that are filled with beauty and mystery, but seem also at times jagged or almost private, elusive, abstract, yielding no easy interpretation. Out of these heterogeneous timbres come moments of piercing clarity, when sex and death are at war or at play, when doom and fear are in the air, but at other times a lightness and sense of ease is suggested.
Before reading poems aloud…the first thing one must do is invoke the duende. That is the only way that everybody will immediately succeed at the hard task of understanding metaphor (without depending on critical apparatus or intelligence) and be able to catch, at the speed of the voice, the rhythmic design of the poem.
April 5, 2018 Issue
Poet in Spain by Federico García Lorca, translated from the Spanish by Sarah Arvio
Knopf, 517 pp., $35.00