Wednesday, January 23, 2008

Frida's shame

Having just returned from Mexico City, a trip which included a visit to the Frida Kahlo house (Casa Azul), I feel obligated to describe something which I wouldn't have noted had I not just got done reviewing some of the "reviews" of Jonah Goldberg's Liberal Fascism.

One of Goldberg's claims is that the Progressive Era progressives were just as nationalist as the national socialists who came later. Again, I haven't read the book, so I can neither endorse nor deny his claims, but it seems plausible. However, there is no denying the odd mixture of Mexicanism and Marxism in the work of both Frida and her husband, Diego Rivera.

I already knew that they were communists. In Rivera's mural in the Palacio Nacional, utopia flows both literally and figuratively from Das Kapital. What I found more shocking were the final works of Frida herself. The one upon the easel at her death was a large bust portrait of Stalin superimposed with a self-portrait, titled "Stalin and I". A slightly older work showed angelic hands emanating from Karl Marx' head to comfort Frida while an evil looking Uncle Sam Bird flew nearby; this one was called "Marxism Heals the Sick".

The Stalin homage is clearly the more shocking. This was a portrait from the early 1950s, at which point it was surely known that Stalin had been responsible for millions of deaths, rivaling or surpassing Hitler's death count. And it must have been plain that Stalin was behind the murder of their friend, Leon Trotsky. So why the worship?

A few conjectures may be ventured. First, Frida and Trotsky were reputed to have had an affair. Certainly, this was not the first such event that interrupted the tempestuous relationship between her and her notoriously womanizing husband. However, they reconciled thereafter and it seems possible that she adopted her husband's new-found rejection of Trotsky. Such a rejection may have originated in jealousy, but it is easy to see how, once the blinders fell, that he might begin looking for ideological as well as personal reasons to oppose the fallen Russian leader. And as we have seen in so many contexts, people are frequently animated more by opposition than by alliance, so it doesn't seem too far-fetched that Rivera could fall in league with the Stalinist Trotsky-haters. At some point, there may even have been an element of self-promotion as they claimed to have participated in the plot to kill him. The final conjecture involves Frida's mental deterioration at this point in her life as the result of her constant pain and use of pain-killers.

How did such a person become the object of so much recent fawning attention? I was surprised to learn that one of the reasons was Madonna's interest in her art. This led to the development of a movie project in which Salma Hayek eventually won the role, but for which Madonna was an early contender. It would have been a much worse movie with Madonna in the lead (Madonna did appear in a minor role). The Stalin worship was but a footnote to her life, and was completely ignored in the movie (from what I remember).

Frida and Diego were very clearly nationalists, though. This may have been partly in reaction to the Great Satan to the North, whose involvement in Latin American politics began with the Monroe Doctrine, peaked in the War of Northern Aggression North American Intervention United States Invasion Mexican-Amerian War of 1846-1848, and subsequently included interventions in just about every country south of our border, a total realization of Marxist claims about imperialism. [1] Their Mexican nationalism may have also been an affectation to cover their own origins and "sins", she being of German and native/Spanish descent and he being fond of international travel, study, and patronage by notorious capitalists including Rockefeller and Ford.

We can see less obvious indications of their nationalism in several ways. Frida overemphasized her facial hair in her self-portraits in order to emphasize her native origins. Despite her cosmopolitan upbringing and marriage to an inveterate international traveller, she stuck to traditional dresses and household decorations. Diego, for his part, was a tireless chronicler of Mexican history, producing works that mimicked the Aztec codex style of story-telling and giving birth to the Mexican muralism style.

A more prominent statement of their nationalism is the frequent recurrence of the Xoloitzcuintli, or Mexican Hairless Dog, in both their personal lives and their artwork. The dogs are small, black, hairless, and quintessentially Mexican, having been originally domesticated by the Aztecs. The dog can be seen in each of the pre-Spanish mural panels in the Palacio Nacional mural as part of the idyllic village life. When the Spaniards show up, the dogs snarl defensively at their European counterparts, and when the Europeans begin human trafficking in natives, the dogs become sickly and skeletal.

But nationalism is anathema to true Marxists, is it not? Well, yes, but then this seems to be one of those things Marx got terribly wrong. A Mexican painter has far more in common with a Mexican cab driver than with an American painter because language, culture, and other sources of personal identity are much stronger than class. Does this make Kahlo and Garcia bad people or bad artists? No, only bad Marxists (a charge which is only strengthened by their support of the antidemocratic Stalin).

And what of their unabashed support for the murderous dictator? In Latin America, where Che calendars are sold openly [2], perhaps we shouldn't be surprised by their embrace of brutal dictators. But we should be aware of it. Octavio Paz concluded about this issue,
Diego and Frida ought not to be subjects of beatification but objects of study--and of repentance . . . the weaknesses, taints, and defects that show up in the works of Diego and Frida are moral in origin. The two of them betrayed their great gifts, and this can be seen in their painting. An artist may commit political errors and even common crimes, but the truly great artists--Villon or Pound, Caravaggio or Goya--pay for their mistakes and thereby redeem their art and their honor.



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[1] We were pointedly reminded of the "1847 war" by a guide at the Palacio. I had thought it was 1848, but decided not to pursue it upon recalling that Americans are wisely counseled to avoid discussions about American foreign policy when traveling abroad: they generally know more about it than you do because they have been the victims of it. Several tourist sites stress that you should never talk politics in Mexico because it is expressly against the law for foreigners to participate in Mexican politics. Guess why.

[2] I was so tempted to ask if they also carried calendars with Mengele or Himmler. Murderers are murderers, the nature of the intent matters little to the victims.

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Tuesday, July 10, 2007

I am not evil, either

No posting for the past week or so while I've been in the Dragon's Lair. Meanwhile, our exploits have been chronicled here and here (and probably more since then).

A few notes about those posts: Tyler is a really nice guy. Kathleen and I met him just as we were getting married, which became the subject of an MR post. I am afraid we made nuisances of ourselves during this visit, managing to disrupt the entire building so badly that Robin came out to investigate the source of the commotion. Tyler was busy preparing for a trip and very graciously put up with the disruption.

Though Bryan made an attempt at taking the geek crown, I think my photo in the Smithsonian deserves at least honorable mention. Kathleen says he looks too young to vote; I think that probably doesn't matter, given his recent publication.

Robin's job in life appears to be to question everything. No, I mean everything. I think he's up to it, too. It's an honorable pursuit.

And despite his normally polemic posts, Alex may be the quietest of the bunch. Too bad.

All of the stuff we really wanted to see at the Smithsonian was in closed sections (Arts & Industry and American History), so we settled on the few American History artifacts temporarily displayed in the Air & Space Museum. We also went to the Native American museum. It's been a long time since I've been to the first, and the second was built since then. I was surprised to see:
  • The actual piece of Woolworth's counter from the 1960 sit-in
  • A stump from Spotsylvania. Wow.
  • General Sherman's hat (looks like it went through hell)
  • General Custer's coat (some odd stains on it)
If stuck in Washington and in need of vegetarian food, be sure to check out the Native American museum. The choices and quality were very good, though it was a little pricey. Peasant food is almost always vegetarian because it is hard to catch, cook, and store meat; this may be therefore a very historically accurate depiction (there were also fish, fowl, and buffalo menu choices).

The Museums of Industry and Arts and of American History are both closed. The SI staff indicated that there is no definitive plan to reopen them. They blamed it on a lack of funds; I'm not sure what to make of that given that recent SI chief Lawrence Small was both a record fund raiser for the Institution and a record, er, spender.

The DC metro bus system is not bad, or were we just lucky that our hotel lay on the same route as the Library of Congress, our primary destination? The freeway system in Northern Virginia and DC is a complete mess. The light rail system in Baltimore is okay, but not great.

At one point, we were on a road headed into a cluster of indistinct concrete buildings. I was thinking, and then my wife said, that it looked like something out of Brazil (the movie, not the place). Washington is freakish: you can walk from the high rent district to a neighborhood populated by people who probably do not have permanent addresses within a few minutes, yet all the while knowing that over $2 trillion is controlled nearby.

The Library of Congress is bizarre. We were both issued library cards. There were bold signs warning us that they were not souvenirs. No library employee ever wanted to look at them thereafter.

You cannot visit the stacks: you must find what you are looking for through the card catalog, then submit a request (in triplicate, with carbon paper), then wait for it to be delivered if it can be found. It may take a day. Several of the books my wife requested were not found even though they were not shown to be "charged" (you can't check them out). The librarians shrugged it off: they're probably either gone or misplaced. Gone? You have to go through security both entering and exiting; the security is tougher coming in then going out. Misplaced? This was blamed on the contract workers down in the bowels. Most people would generally accept the idea that the library staff who hired the contractors would have some oversight responsibility -- metrics, incentive alignment, and such -- but I think those quaint ideas exited in the Viet Nam era or earlier. I pointed out that a particularly old pamphlet was in bad shape and should probably be restored, or at least stored in a larger folder - yeah, the librarian said, but there's nothing that can be done. Don't they have a restoration department? What exactly is the point of the LoC if not to preserve these artifacts?

In Baltimore, I went to one and only one tourist attraction: The B&O Museum's Allegheny, a 2-6-6-6 monster of a steam locomotive. Well, that and a bunch of other stuff at the B&O museum. And there's some other stuff in Baltimore, I suppose.

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Sunday, April 29, 2007

Bizarre travel tidbits

In Paris, while walking around directly underneath the Eiffel Tower, I was approached by two utes, say 17-20 years old. It was 10 AM, and they were noticeably drunk. They said something to me and I responded in very broken Fench ("Je ne parle pas français" or anything remotely like it is a very handy phrase for stating the obvious). They immediately switched to broken English and asked if I were American or English. American. "Oh, we love America, the jeans, the shoes," they said, indicating our common attire. I pointed out that our Levis and Nikes were likely made in Singapore or Indonesia or somewhere close thereby. "Yes, but still, America is the best." Okay Francois, moving along now.

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In Cordoba, while sharing a Ute Hostel room with an Aussie and two English kids (again 17-20), the Englishmen made several comments to the effect that, "English travelers are famous for being loud, obnoxious, rude, and assuming that everyone else speaks English if only you speak loudly and slowly enough." That makes me wonder if every culture believes their own countrymen to be the worst. Or perhaps the rumors about the universality of English are true and foreigners really are feigning ignorance?

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Leaving Albuquerque after Thanksgiving one year, I was looking for a station that reputedly sells biodiesel. Since I couldn't find it, I called my wife on the cell, asked her to find the address on biodiesel.org, then take the address and guide me with google maps. How cool is consumer technology? Had I been thinking, I would have gotten the GPS location and homed with my own.

Anyhow, it's in a decayed part of the city, a mix of industrial lots and low rent housing. As I came upon a park, I noticed a black man running. It caught my attention: he wasn't dressed to work out, and he didn't appear to be running away from anything, so ... ? As I continued around the curve in the direction from which he just came, on alert for whatever might have caused his actions, I noted a group of people gathered around ... what is that? ... a body on the ground! I slowed enough to realize it looked like a seizure, so I pulled over, called 911 on the cell, and started walking toward the group.

The 911 operator kept asking me where I was at. Jeez, lady, that's why this thing has GPS; you tell me. "Okay, I'm in the park on 3rd near the Big I. Yes, 3rd. An ambulance. I don't know him, it looks like a seizure. Yes, the park. I don't know the name. Yes, 3rd." About this time, I notice that there is a Fire Station directly across the street, and the door is opening, so I tell the operator, "Nevermind, there's a fire station right here." She wanted to continue arguing about the location (looking it up, now, I think it's Coronado Park).

By this time, I'm standing with what appears to be a very skid-rowey crowd (no shaving, big bushy hair, slept-in clothes, underweight). We're watching the EMTs walk as slow as I have ever seen anyone walk toward us, and one of the men (the black man I originally saw running away?) engages me in conversation. He was surprisingly lucid. "Look at that. That's what we get out here. Look how slow they are, like we don't count. I'll bet if we called from a house, they'd be there already." Then he said something that just about blew my top off: "THAT is why I don't pay my taxes. They want us to pay taxes and THIS is what we get for service? Oh Hell no! This is why I do not pay taxes." Apparently, I ran into a vulgar libertarian, street edition. Perhaps it was a syndicalist commune? They thanked me for stopping and calling, the ambulance operators glared at me, and I split. Happy Thanksgiving, I guess.

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I found that the Prime Meridian in Greenwich is about 80 meters off (as I recall). I stood on the spot with my GPS receiver and it did not read 0.000 longitude. A Japanese man stepped up next to me, held his up to mine, and found the same result. The staff at the Royal Observatory neither took me seriously nor saw the humor in my suggestion to move the marker to the correct location as indicated by our 21st century devices (as if a 19th century device could be more accurate - ha!). I was not impressed by the Harrison clocks, either - jeez, any schoolboy can buy wristwatches more accurate than those monstrosities, and for about 10 millionths of the price.

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Last week, I saw an old man, perhaps late 50s, walking down the street with a new garden hose. It looked to weigh 1/3 of what he weighed, so he was having problems with it in the wind. I had already passed him, so I flipped around and pulled up next to him. He only had another 100 yards to go, but along the way he enthusiastically told me about the electric scooter he used to commute to work, how he could plug it in at either end of the trip so it didn't cost any money to operate (apparently his rent included electricity). He is a dishwasher at a well known cafe here. As he got out, he started hunting through his pockets and offered to give me some money. Let's see, 100 yards, divide by 46 mpg, multiply by $3, adjust for our income differentials ... I should have paid him for the entertainment value, eh?

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