Guernica: Lessons not learnt

IN January 1937, Málaga-born Picasso — who moved to Paris in April 1904 — was commissioned by the Republican government to create a large painting to be exhibited in the Spanish pavilion at the International Exposition of Art and Technology in Modern Life in Paris from May 25 to November 25, 1937.

Picasso initially planned to paint a scene from an artist’s studio. He was visited by the poet Juan Larrea after the destruction of Guernica. Larrea urged him to turn his attention to massacre instead. On May 1, Picasso read a newspaper report on the attack and was convinced to take Larrea’s advice.

That story first appeared in The Times of London and The New York Times two days after the attack. It was translated into French and, the day after its first publication, appeared in l’Humanité, which was how Picasso was able to see it.

The piece was written by George Steer, who was born in East London. That's right: East London in South Africa. East London, where I also come from.

I won’t post all 1,450 of Steer’s words, but here’s a flavour:

“Guernica, the most ancient town of the Basques and the centre of their cultural tradition, was completely destroyed yesterday afternoon by insurgent air raiders. The bombardment of this open town far behind the lines occupied precisely three hours and a quarter, during which a powerful fleet of aeroplanes consisting of three German types, Junkers and Heinkel bombers and Heinkel fighters, did not cease unloading on the town bombs weighing from 1,000lb. downwards and, it is calculated, more than 3,000 two-pounder aluminium incendiary projectiles. The fighters, meanwhile, plunged low from above the centre of the town to machine-gun those of the civilian population who had taken refuge in the fields.”

Now that, people, is an intro. Back to Mr Steer:

“At 2 a.m. to-day when I visited the town the whole of it was a horrible sight, flaming from end to end. The reflection of the flames could be seen in the clouds of smoke above the mountains from 10 miles away. Throughout the night houses were falling until the streets became long heaps of red impenetrable débris. Many of the civilian survivors took the long trek from Guernica to Bilbao in antique solid-wheeled Basque farmcarts drawn by oxen. Carts piled high with such household possessions as could be saved from the conflagration clogged the roads all night. Other survivors were evacuated in Government lorries, but many were forced to remain round the burning town lying on mattresses or looking for lost relatives and children, while units of the fire brigades and the Basque motorised police under the personal direction of the Minister of the Interior, Señor Monzon, and his wife continued rescue work till dawn …

“When I entered Guernica after midnight houses were crashing on either side, and it was utterly impossible even for firemen to enter the centre of the town. The hospitals of Josefinas and Convento de Santa Clara were glowing heaps of embers, all the churches except that of Santa Maria were destroyed, and the few houses which still stood were doomed. When I revisited Guernica this afternoon most of the town was still burning and new fires had broken out. About 30 dead were laid out in a ruined hospital.”

Having read that, Picasso knew what to do. He ordered a special matte paint used for houses and prepared the giant canvas, which measures 7.77 by 3.49 metres. Working exclusively in monochrome, he spent 35 days on the painting. It was finished it on June 4, 1937.

But Picasso didn’t do it all alone. He and Dora Maar, a French Surrealist photographer and painter, were lovers. She found a studio big enough to house the canvas — the former headquarters of an antifascist group she belonged to — and photographed the painting as Picasso worked, which helped him keep track of what needed to go where in the massive picture. Maar also, at Picasso’s request, painted part of the dying horse.

AFTER its unveiling in Paris, Guernica toured Europe and the United States. Picasso declared that it shouldn’t go to Spain until his country was again a republic. Guernica was officially housed at the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) in New York, but travelled extensively. It didn’t go home without a fight.

Picasso died on April 8, 1973. Franco outlived him by nearly two years, and Spain became a democratic constitutional monarchy in December 1978.

Would that be good enough for Picasso, MoMA asked. After all, a democratic constitutional monarchy was not a republic.

Even so, in September 1981 Guernica was finally exhibited in Madrid — at first behind bomb-and-bulletproof glass. Because Franco’s death didn’t mean the death of Francoism.

We saw Guernica in all its intended ingloriousness at the Reina Sofía in Madrid in June 2015. That’s when we bought a print of it. But the story doesn’t end there.

We had travelled to Spain on our way to Havana. South Africans do not need a visa to visit Cuba. Both governments say so. But Iberia Airlines waited for us to get to the boarding gate for our flight before telling us we did need visas, which we didn’t.

We were not allowed to board, and our luggage went to Havana without us. It remained there for several days before we could catch the next flight to Cuba, now armed with visas we didn’t need. On arrival we discovered our bags had been burgled at the airport, and that our Guernica print had been among the items stolen. Happily, we were able to buy a replacement on our way back from Havana.

The Spanish Civil War has been an abiding interest since I started reading Ernest Hemingway too many years ago to count. I’ve researched the war and its long and continuing aftermath, and done something related to it on each of my three trips to Spain. I’ve seen and felt the bulletholes in the walls and walked the battlefields. On one tour I was given a lapel pin depicting the flag of Spain’s Second Republic. It’s still on my favourite coat.