Photography and Time at the Border
by Janet Sternburg
On January 26th,1939, Barcelona fell to Franco’s troops. With the defeat of the Republicans in Catalonia, the Spanish Civil War was in effect over. When the French border opened soon afterward, 350,000 Spanish citizens fled from fascism and reprisals, going into exile through the Pyrenees, especially via the towns of La Jonquera and Portbou. It was a frantic exodus; only a few days later, on February 10th, Franco’s troops controlled the border crossings.
Now, in Spain at that very border with France, in that town of La Jonquera, is the Museu Memorial d’Exili, inaugurated in 2007. This is not a museum of artifacts; there are no dusty shoes or worn suitcases. This is a museum that tells its stories through photographs treated not as documents but rather as carriers and embodiments of time.
ANDALUCES DE JAÉN,
sung by Paco Ibanez, himself one of those who went into exile,
in his setting of a poem by Miguel Hernandez
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A museum-goer is asked to begin the visit by taking an elevator to the second floor. Stepping out, directly ahead, one is met by a wall-sized mural, in color, grainy and translucent, of a line of stern-faced people in shabby clothes, This is expected: in context it is clear that they are refugees. But wait — the women are wearing babushkas; and it is in color; surely this can’t be Spain. And it’s not. A wall text informs us that it is Tuzia, Boznia and Herzegovina, 1992. Another step forward, and something very strange happens; a face and then another peer our from behind the column of refugees and, while these faces are also photographic images, they are black and white.
Brilliantly, the exhibit designers have placed a photographic mural of the Spanish Civil War refugees directly behind the Tuzia refugees, both images the same size so that the past bleeds into the present. It is an immediate sign that the idea of exile will not be confined to the period that brought this museum into being: instead one sees the long columns of people who have been straddling the globe in the twentieth and twenty first centuries of exile, migration and diasporas. The effect does not remove the Spanish Civil War refugees from their context; instead, through a simple and profound use of photography, it enlarges the idea of context.
Then one walks into rooms of fire. Giant photographs — fragmented, blurred, colorized — are encased in a dense forest of violently yellow rods serving as partitions through which to glimpse more images.The floors of these rooms within rooms smolder with what look to be red coals, both an evocation of the inferno of bombardment, and also a suggestion of embers not yet banked.
BALADA DEL QUE NUNCA FUE A GRANADA
sung by Paco Ibanez in his setting of a poem by Rafael Alberti
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The Civil War was supposedly laid to rest by the Pact of Forgetting, an agreement brokered by both the left and the right after Franco’s death in 1975. At that time all sides believed that a mutual decision to forget was essential to Spain’s transition to democracy. Through a blanket amnesty, no one would be tried or called to account for atrocities committed in the Franco years. For the past ten or so years, there has been a movement to dismantle the Pact, most literally expressed by proposals to find mass graves and disinter the thousands of persons killed by Franco’s death squads. Now, the argument goes, a society cannot move forward by forgetting — an argument that ironically appeals both to Franco’s victims and to his followers who want to resurrect his legacy. However one weighs the havoc that an excavation of the graves would bring, versus the peace of laying loved ones to rest, there is a further question: If a citizenry has decided to live with a pact of forgetting and then with a resurrection of the past, how does a society hold both decisions together?
Catalonia, that semi-autonomous state from Barcelona to the Pyrenees whose fierce contribution to the Republican effort was honored by George Orwell in Homage to Catalonia, has made a move toward responding by creating a framework through which such questions can be asked and explored. By creating a network of sites — an itinerary of interpretation centers, markers, viewpoints — in seventeen villages at the Pyrenean border identified by the collective name Espacios de Memoria, the Catalan government has mandated a living organism for recuperation and investigation. At the heart of the itineraries that make up these Espacios de Memoria is The Museum of Exile. It is through the lens of its commitment to critical reflection that one walks downstairs to the space dedicated to temporary exhibits.
When I visited, I was fortunate to encounter “Distancias,” a show of the work of photographer Gustavo Germano whose life project has been to chronicle the passage of time in lives disrupted by repression and dictatorship. Germano finds photographs that had been taken when people were more or less untouched by history; then he photographs those same people in the same pose, as here six decades later. “Distancias” is the second of a trilogy; the first was “Ausencias” (Absences) photographed in Germano’s native Argentina where he found photographs of families when they were whole and then ‘retook’ the image as the group is now, no longer intact, with the absence of a person who has since ‘disappeared’ throbbing like a phantom limb.
What the images of “Distancias” create is not only a recognition of the passage of time but also a space for imagination. What has happened in these lives between their youth and later years?
We know that this couple left Spain and lived in exile. We can infer that the husband has died and the wife has gone on to a dignified old age. But what of the years in between?
How were these particular lives shaped by exile? By what intangibles? The effort of imagination that we are asked to invest in this exhibition does not tilt toward any known direction; neither to the fictional nor the documentary but rather to an act of encompassing empathy.
NO TE PUDE VER
sung by Paco Ibanez in his setting of a poem by Lorca
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Hovering above the central space of The Museum of Exile hangs a huge panel with a single line of text. In Catalan, a language suppressed by Franco and now gloriously resurgent, is a line from King Lear: La llibertat viu lluny d’aqui, i aixo es l’exili, or Freedom lives hence; and banishment is here. The line is spoken by Kent when Lear banishes him; in essence he is saying where there is tyranny, there can be no freedom.
La llibertat viu lluny d’aqui, i aixo es l’exili. I think that this line is Janus-faced. It is spoken looking back, with recognition and sorrow that this moment, this situation, has come to pass. And it is spoken looking ahead, the future of ‘hence’ that takes Kent away from the tyrant into uncharted territory. That the museum chooses to suspend this line of text so that it broods over its main room is a sign of a deep and complex understanding of the fates of the people it remembers, placing them at the border in an eternal moment where looking back and looking forward are only a half-turn away, and then in the stride and stumble of going forward.
TUS OJOS ME RECUERDAN
sung by Paco Ibanez in his setting of a poem by Antonio Machado
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