Esferas 13: espacios, instituciones, gente

ESFERAS Issue 13 Spring 2022

Espacios / Instituciones / Gente Spaces / Institutions / People

The Undergraduate Journal of the NYU Department of Spanish and Portuguese New York, New York

COVER PHOTOGRAPH: Sam Cordell The images presented on the cover and interspersed throughout this issue highlight the architectural style of sections of NYU’s King Juan Carlos I Center. Forms reminiscent of the 20th Century International Style are paired with classic late-19th Century New York City architecture, a style which already invokes countless historical forms reformed to fit in a dense urban environment. Pictured are a selection of my favorite vantage points of the Center; some highlight common views seen by users of building and others abstract the space.

ESFERAS-ISSUE THIRTEEN * SPRING 2022 wp.nyu.edu/esferas/

SUBMIT TO esferas.submissions@gmail.com MANAGING EDITOR Lourdes Dávila INTRODUCTION TO THE DOSSIER Sophie Slade with Lourdes Dávila ASSISTANT Peter Stewart EDITORIAL TEAM Haitiana Munah Angerville, Elizabeth Baltusnik, Gabriela Barzallo, Britney Lizbeth Quiroz Rosales, Andrea Rodas, Félix Romier, Elliott Sarno, Sophie Slade, Ingrid Eileen Trost, Spencer Tsao LAYOUT AND DESIGN Sam Cordell with the Esferas Editorial team COVER DESIGN Sam Cordell

COPYRIGHT © 2022 ESFERAS & NEW YORK UNIVERSITY’S DEPARTMENT OF SPANISH AND PORTUGUESE ISBN 978-1-944398-16-3 RIGHTS & PERMISSIONS ALL RIGHTS REVERT TO THE ORIGINAL CONTENT CREATORS UPON PUBLICATION. THE EDITORS WILL FORWARD ANY RIGHTS AND PERMISSIONS CORRESPONDENCE TO THE AUTHORS.

ESFERAS is a student and alumni initiative within New York University’s Department of Spanish and Portuguese.

We are a peer reviewed publication that publishes critical essays, visual art, creative writing, interviews, translations, and works related to Hispanic and Luso life within and beyond New York City.

ESFERAS, “sphere” in both Spanish and Portuguese, is a fusion of compelling images, distinctive voices, and multidisciplinary views.

It is the ever-changing shape and infinite flow of our creative and intellectual pursuits.

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Esferas 13-Spring 2022 Introducción/Introduction

Sophie Slade with Lourdes Dávila

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Jordana Mendelson

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Remarks of Dr. John Brademas

John Brademas

24

John Brademas’ Tears

James D. Fernández

30

53 Washington Square South: 1890 to Today

Elizabeth Baltusnik

37

Instituciones, archivos y gente: el archivo de la Brigada Abraham Lincoln

Sophie Slade

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A Semester in the Center

Francesc Torres

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Anticipating the Shift of the KJCC Archival Materials to NYU Special Collections

Rachel Moorman-Minton

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Pulling Focus: Reconsidering the Photographic Archive in Southern Peru

Christine Mladic Janney

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Desarmar narrativas: archivos y museos.

Una experiencia en clase.

Ana Leonor Romero

86

Restauración (la autenticidad del material)

Jorge Ribalta

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Articulation, with the King Juan Carlos Center: A Reflection on the 25th Anniversary of the KJCC.

Jill Lane

102

Blood Flow Between Cultures: Quechua Chants in Greenwich Village. The Acoustic Resonance of the KJCC

Odi Gonzales

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Dossier Institutions, Archives, and People: KJCC@ 25

Mujukunata Tarpuspa, Planting the Seeds: Student Perspectives on Runasimi at KJCC El papel del hispanismo y la diplomacia en los centros culturales universitarios

117 Zaskia Torres

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KJCC: An Interdisciplinary Approach

Pedro Cardim

124

Johmmiry Almonte

128

Mary L. Pratt

132

Ingrid Trost

135

Thomas Zenteno

141

Trascendiendo disciplinas: la perspectiva del artista en la Academia

María José Urrutia

143

Paisaje interior, con fondo de King Juan Carlos Center

Vicente Sánchez Biosca

146

Juan José Lahuerta

153

Cristina Pato

162

Nicole Bula

163

Montse Armengou Martín

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Jo Labanyi

176

Zaskia Torres

179

A Very Very Personal Account of Catalan Culture at NYU

Mary Ann Newman

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Una reflexió sobre la meva estada al KJCC/ A Reflection on My Stay at the KJCC

Josep M. Muñoz Mary Ann Newman

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Diplomacia, inclusión y Cuba: la directora Ana Dopico en el KJCC

Devon Vazquez Forester

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Take a Seat Transdiciplinary Spaces: In Praise of the Potluck Interdisciplinarity and the Cultural Center ¿Cuál es la necesidad de crear el KJCC en NYU?

Hojas de los cuadernos de Nueva York Punto y aparte Cambios de responsabilidad e influencia El documental com a eina de reparació/El documental como herramienta de reparación Two Views of the KJCC An Interview with James Dunkerley

Centros culturales contemporáneos y el desmontaje de la jerarquía naturalizada

Rachel Moorman-Minton

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Cómo revitalizar una institución cultural bicentenaria. Entrevista con Luis Arroyo, nuevo presidente del Ateneo de Madrid

Miguel Caballero Vázquez

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“Orientalism” in the Alhambra. Examining Western Perceptions of the Alhambra and the Fountain in the Court of Lions

Maya Mau

217

Cultural Power and Memorial Art: Kiluanji Kia Henda’s “Plantation - Prosperity and Nightmare”

Yagmur Akyurek

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Pequeños motivos y bellezas renegridas: The Museum of the Old Colony de Pablo Delano End of Dossier

Nelson Rivera

228

Creative Writing and Investigation Loisada/La orquesta de la ciudad/La especie invasiva

David Rosales

244

Queer Excesses of Professional Wrestling

Hazel Bolivar

247

Nevvie

j.d.

256

En la esquina

Lourdes Dávila

263

Bam-bo-le-an-te/La hija naturaleza/Por ti/La hora

Haitiana Munah Angerville

266

Senior Honors Theses

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Biographies

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espacios, instituciones, gente spaces, institutions, people i n t r o d u c t i o n Sophie Slade with Lourdes Dávila Esferas 13: espacios, instituciones, gente celebrates the 25th Anniversary of the King Juan Carlos I of Spain Center (KJCC, or the center) here at New York University. A partner institution to the Department of Spanish and Portuguese and the Creative Writing in Spanish Program, as well as the Center for Latin American and Caribbean Studies (CLACS) among other programs, the KJCC’s original mission was to promote interdisciplinary research and dialogue about Spain and the Spanish-speaking world and to share this process of knowledge making with communities within and beyond the university. The Esferas editorial committee enters this celebration with a full belief that a cultural center must be a constantly evolving organism made of its spaces, its leadership, its events and its archives. Its people. We enter knowingly into a complex dialogue that includes questions such as: What lies behind a name? What lives within a space? What are the tensions with which the center works? How do we contribute responsibly and ethically to its history and its changes? We take this moment strategically as an opportunity to understand, reflect on and question KJCC’s history and evolution, to listen to the voices of scholars, artists and leaders in conversation with our undergraduate community of scholars and to lay claim to the center’s potential for future development.

Founded by John Brademas in 1997—NYU’s 13th President—as a result of his enthusiastic passion for Iberian studies and culture, the KJCC is an institution with a rich history and all-embracing legacy. Today, it is a shared space for students, faculty, and the broader public; it engages in conversations about the history, politics, cultures and languages across all geographies worldwide where the Iberian peninsula has had a marked presence. The KJCC’s partnerships and relationships reach local and international levels and have supported initiatives such as the Latinx Project and Sulo: the Philippine Studies Initiative. Programming has included seminars, lectures, film series, art exhibitions, musical performances and publications that were 7

sponsored by numerous campus entities as well as cultural institutions in greater New York, the United States, and abroad.

Especially relevant to this dossier is defining KJCC’s two honorary chair positions: the King Juan Carlos I of Spain Chair in Spanish Culture and Civilization, established in 1985, and the Andrés Bello Chair in Latin American Cultures and Civilizations, established in 2002. Under these titles combined, over 50 individuals have been invited as prestigious visitors to bring their expertise into dialogue with other communities. As current director Jordana Mendelson writes in the introduction to the dossier: “Together, these two chairs have served to build a dynamic, intellectually rigorous, and ever-changing array of courses, programs, and experiences at the KJCC by bringing together the most exciting scholars (including artists, journalists, writers performers, filmmakers, and many others) with members of the NYU community and the larger public.” These collaborative relationships—given space and support by the KJCC within a university environment—reveal the very core of the center’s goals. The center was established and has been directed by individuals who place an immense value on bringing a range of disciplines, practices, and perspectives unto its multidisciplinary stage and who have not shied away from difficult conversations.

The story of the King Juan Carlos I Center is not without contention. As Jordana Mendelson articulates in her introduction to this issue’s dossier on the KJCC, “Today, it might seem out-of-synch for a university to name a cultural center after any monarch, and Spain’s relationship to its monarchs has shifted over time in ways that echo the evolution of both national and international ideas about governance, power, and representation.” The decision to name the KJCC after the Spanish king traces back to John Brademas, NYU’s President Emeritus from 1981 to 1992, whose longstanding dedication to the study of Spain and Latin America transformed New York University into a more globalized university, establishing networks involving many Spanish institutions including the government. Brademas chose to name the center after him because of King Juan Carlos I’s profound role in Spain’s period of democratization and actions which largely defined the post-Franco era. Acknowledging the motivations behind the center’s name is paramount to understanding the criticism of the symbolic weight the center’s name bears, as well as to celebrating its longstanding legacy of scholarship, community, and cultural relations. To memorialize the KJCC is to understand its history—in totality—and frame its creation, intentions, and practices in discussion with younger generations whose hesitancy to celebrate its name and the meaning behind it reveals a fundamental and necessary critique of the politics of power and the legacy of colonialism.

Without such a critically informed narrative, history is left with its gaps. Thankfully, our host of essays, creative writings, and personal reflections diligently seek to fill these gaps and paint a more 8

complete picture of the KJCC and its tremendous impact at NYU over the past twenty-five years.

Working through these nuances sparked even further debate among our editorial committee about what we wanted this issue to present and represent. How could we position the KJCC in the middle of an academic, peer-reviewed journal in a way that celebrates the anniversary of its foundation and its many accomplishments yet brings to light its complicated history? We offer several answers. The dossier is arranged as a conversation, a call and response among directors, chairs, artists, critics and student scholars. Within this conversation, as ex-director Jim Fernández states in conversation with us, it is important to realize that the center and its leadership have had almost complete autonomy and independence over their programming and that each leader and chair has had the potential to leave their own mark, enact their own interventions, bring to light different histories. A look at the directors thus far—Jim Fernández, Jo Labanyi, Ana Dopico and Jordana Mendelson—reveals differences in objectives, scholarship and working styles; these differences speak to the ability each director has to shape the direction of the center beyond its name. In many of the reflections in the dossier, the weight of this “freedom” looms large and managed to leave a mark on the chairs, as Cristina Pato tells us in “Punto y aparte:” it was essential to consider, she says, what it means to inhabit a discipline in which you constantly have to listen, renew, adapt, collaborate, innovate. In her case, as she considered the relationship between art and social responsibility, Cristina realized that: “Esa pausa obligada en el calendario me hizo entender que quizá mi futuro ya no estaba en el centro de la disciplina, sino en la intersección que se crea entre la música y la sociedad.” Or, as documentarian Montse Armengou Martín states in “El documental com a eina de reparació” (El documental como herramienta de reparación), her leadership included the need to set straight the history of the transition to democracy in Spain after Franco: “No, la transición española no había sido ni ejemplar ni modélica. Se había convenido venderlo así y muchos países –Estados Unidos el primero– colaboraron para crear esta imagen, poniendo por encima sus intereses económicos y los equilibrios geoestratégicos en detrimento de los derechos más fundamentales de las víctimas: verdad, justicia y reparación.” Her words intend to show, specifically, NYU’s commitment to truth and justice as she led the semester-long seminar “Documentary and the Recovery of Historical Memory,” where she did not shy away from her profession as a journalist who understands her craft as a form of intervention in the world to make it “un poco más justo y solidario.” This kind of intervention can also be seen in the exhibits on the walls of the center, like in Pablo Delano’s Museum of the Old Colony of 2017, set under the directorship of professor Ana Dopico, and masterfully analyzed for us here by critic Nelson Rivera. Rivera tells us: En vez de retratar y denunciar al colonizador, el artista se silencia y le cede la palabra al imperialista, para que éste manifieste su racismo, su sexismo y misoginia, en toda su 9

ostentosa arrogancia. Delano se apropia de las fotografías tomadas en Puerto Rico por estadounidenses a principios del siglo veinte y las coloca en su “museo”, para revelar la mentalidad del colonizador tal cual éste la define.

We do not aim to provide a unified ideology but rather to bring together voices that are at times in complete opposition to one another. In a world where polarization has impaired our ability to come together and think about different perspectives, we believe that our issue offered a platform for conversation and in so doing we followed one of the center’s highest objectives.

We decided that this issue would be a collection of writings that uncover the intricate, urgent ways in which we as individuals interact with institutions that are ubiquitous to our daily life, and not solely dedicated to the anniversary of the KJCC. Instead, this issue presents a much more comprehensive body of work that reveals the crucial intersection of institutional narratives, archival collections, and the broad scholarship of individuals who toy with more abstract themes such as power politics, knowledge production, meaning-making, information, historical memory, decolonization, interdisciplinarity, and all that goes into recording history. In this vein, we include anthropologist Christine Mladic Janney’s entry into archival theory through Peruvian photographic archives and Argentine historian Ana Leonor Romero’s look at working with memory archives in Argentina.

How to celebrate the KJCC was not the only concern looming overhead as we dove into this issue. We were also apprehensive about how to represent all voices, just as the KJCC has sought to achieve in its recent years by expanding its focus outside of Spain and Spanish-speaking communities. Professor Odi Gonzales, in his essay “Blood Flow Between Cultures: Quechua Chants in Greenwich Village and the Acoustic Resonance of KJCC,” expounds upon the connection between the KJCC and its outreach to the Quechua-speaking community. He speaks of the Runasimi Outreach Community, a student-led initiative here at NYU based out of CLACS that invites enrolled students and the greater public to share in celebrating and preserving the Quechua language and culture. Professor Gonzales was also pivotal in collaborating with two doctoral students at NYU to publish the first academic Quechua dictionary in the United States, presented at the KJCC in 2018. His work has enriched the meaning of cultural outreach at the KJCC, one of its three primary missions and enriches our journal by offering an engaging discussion of the diversity within what many have assumed to be the mostly Spanish-speaking space.

We are also proud to introduce Josep M. Muñoz’s “A Reflection on My Stay at the KJCC,” which recalls his visit in Autumn of 2016 as the invited KJC Chair in Catalan, with a side-by-side translation by Mary Ann Newman. Mary Ann Newman also provides her own detailed account of bringing linguistic exchange to the forefront of cultural centers in “A Very 10

Very Personal Account of Catalan Culture at NYU.” She discusses how the KJCC’s dedication to cultural diversity and its collaboration with foreign institutions brought forth the Catalan Studies Program (1983-1986), and eventually the Catalan Center (2007-2011). Although more contributions from past KJC Chairs are included than Andrés Bello Chairs, whose position is granted to scholars and professionals with connections to Latin America or Latin American studies, writings such as those by Odi Gonzales and Josep M. Muñoz are evidence that communities and cultures are forever intertwined and that today it is inherently wrong to generalize the Spanish-speaking community. The vibrant compilation of writings in this issue aims to demonstrate that inclusivity acts as a home, similar to the KJCC, for all those who seek to find in it a sense of belonging or who understand that a space is there to be inhabited and transformed.

In this manner, it is our responsibility to recognize our own place in presenting narratives outside of our own, and we did not take this task lightly. That is why this issue is unique because, although a scholarly journal, this project seeks to decenter the hegemony of academia and that of the expert in matters that concern all individuals; matters of institutional power, of archival narratives, of cultural exchange. As editors, we often cannot escape the inevitable power of decision when it comes to which submissions to publish and which to leave out, and here this publication proved no different. However, the way in which this issue’s theme is deconstructed layer by layer within our pages, reveals something very special. We included works from scholars and students alike, placed academics and artists in conversation with each other, and laid bare important debates regarding the role of representation and inclusion in modern institutions.

What will you find in this issue? An elaborate web of individual accounts, some from those who have passed through the spaces of the KJCC and have even held various positions of leadership and others who have not, but all of whom define what it is to live in a world dominated and supported by institutions. First in the anniversary dossier you will have the chance to read very personal letters by KJCC’s founding members that demystify the center’s establishment and conflicting legacy. You will encounter submissions by past chairs and directors of the KJCC who offer eloquent commentaries of their stay at NYU, what they contributed to the center, and conversely, what the center offered them in return. You will be invited to engage with student submissions who analyze not only aspects of the center, such as its architecture or collaborations with other cultural institutions, but also the dynamics of colonization, cultural diplomacy, archival collections, and interdisciplinarity in academia. You will be privy to personal interviews with past chairs as students grapple with the meaning of knowledge-making at the center. In all, you will find that all contributions critically engage with a myriad of important and timely themes and offer unique anecdotes fitting for the celebration of twenty-five years of the 11

KJCC. This issue boasts a number of scholarly essays by NYU students, many of whom were participants in Jordana Mendelson’s Fall 2021 seminar “Institutions, Archives, and People.”

Students were encouraged to broach conversations critically not only about the KJCC and its founding but to investigate questions of institutions, education, and power. They were also introduced to the concept of the archive; how it can be a noun and a verb; how an archive can recount the past and yet be a process relative to the present; and how individuals act as constant interlocutors with archives of information. In an effort to augment the KJCC’s own archive, most of which is stored in NYU’s University Archives in Tamiment Library, students were tasked with taking on a final project that could explore any aspect of the KJCC, its mission and its history.

Johmmiry Almonte in her essay “Take a Seat” questions enduring biases and hierarchies within colonized spaces, and encourages us to remain skeptical of how we treat others and act in colonized institutions such as the university. The repetition of the word “questioning” in her essay allows her to address and reprove societal positions in the academic sphere and spaces of culture.

Through it, she is welcoming the collective dismantling of the persistence of the foundations of colonization in present day environments. María Jóse Urrutia launches an investigation, in her essay “Trascendiendo disciplinas: la perspectiva del artista en la Academia”, into the role of the artist within academic centers and finds a coincidence between the artist and the scholar: both are driven by the impulse and the duty to envision, design and create. She debates the nature of both the artist and the academic and asks what either can achieve in the environment of the other while considering the pedagogical value that lies in the collaboration among disciplines. In this vein, our issue houses important contributions by world known artists and thinkers in their field, such as Jorge Ribalta, Francesc Torres, Cristina Pato, Joseph Muñoz and Montse Armengou Martín.

In “An Interview with James Dunkerley,” Zaskia Torres goes beyond questions of the construction of knowledge to investigate more explicit relationships between institutions, looking specifically at cultural diplomacy as an instrument within international relations. She interviews a former Andrés Bello Chair who expounds upon his experience at the KJCC and how the center has the important role of liaison between larger, more powerful institutions.

As this issue goes beyond the recognition of the KJCC and its widely felt legacy, we have included submissions from scholars who in one way or another have worked with or at the center and can offer a nuanced perspective of the position of the KJCC in academia. Mary Louise Pratt, in her piece “Transdisciplinary Spaces: In Praise of the Potluck,” addresses the name of the institution that housed her retirement fete when as a scholar she was devoted to the critique of imperialism and the decolonization of knowledge. She looks at the KJCC within the history of 12

the development of area studies and underscores the advantages of transdisciplinary intellectual spaces. In “Articulation, with the KJCC,” Jill Lane illustrates the fundamental importance of space as tied to institutions, and sheds light on their potential to both educate and decolonize histories of power and imperialism. Yagmur Akyurek emphasizes the role of memorialization versus celebration, apropos for an issue centered on institutions, archives, and individual narratives, in her piece “Cultural Power and Memorial Art: Kiluanji Kia Henda’s ‘Plantation Prosperity and Nightmare’” that delves into Portuguese legacies of colonization and enslavement.

We have surrounded the story of the KJCC with the broad work of students and scholars alike whose contributions include short stories by j.d. and Lourdes Dávila, the sensory poems that traverse the rhythms of an urban New York City by David Rosales or the sounds and bodies of Haitiana Munha Angerville, as well as a comparative analysis of masculinity and queerness in professional wrestling by Hazel Bolivar. And as usual, we are proud to present this year’s honor students, whose innovative work runs the gamut of research and creation, including the first ever film script, by Deborah Maria Schonack, who sets her narrative film in the midst of the Shining Path conflict in Peru. Just as the KJCC pushes the envelop and eliminates barriers, students in the Department of Spanish and Portuguese move toward new forms of scholarship and expression. This issue of Esferas allows us to think positively about all of those changes.

We hope that as you navigate this special issue you discover this intricate web of voices, tied together by their diverse narratives of spaces, institutions, people. As we ourselves are a group of students within a university setting, it can be difficult to avoid our own discursive, framing power, but it is important to recognize that with this issue we are participating in our own archival practice. Thus, it is our responsibility as an editorial team to do right by those students, professors, artists, directors, chairs, and authors who have entrusted us with their stories by empowering them with a platform. What follows is the proud result of a semester’s worth of dialogue and collaboration in an effort to bring to you these exceptional stories. Esferas 13, espacios, instituciones, gente is brought to you by Lourdes Dávila, its tireless leader, Jordana Mendelson, current director of the KJCC and the entire student editorial team.

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Espacios / Instituciones / Gente Spaces / Institutions / People

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Institutions, Archives, and People: KJCC @ 25

Jordana Mendelson On April 9, 2022 we celebrate the 25th Anniversary of the King Juan Carlos I of Spain Center (KJCC) at NYU. It is an opportunity to revisit the origins and history of one of NYU’s first cultural centers, which was the culmination of an early and enthusiastic embrace of the study of Spain and the Spanish-speaking world at NYU. In 1958, NYU collaborated with the Universidad Complutense de Madrid to create the first study abroad program between a North American university and Spain, at a time when Spain was still under the rule of the dictatorship of General Francisco Franco. Almost forty years later the KJCC was founded in 1997, a process which was initiated by John Brademas, NYU’s 13th President, nearly fifteen years before. The building in which the Center is located was inaugurated at the same time as the Center’s founding, yet this same building not only houses the KJCC, it is also the home of the History Department, the Center for the Study of Africa and the African Diaspora, the Center for Latin American and Caribbean Studies, the Center for European and Mediterranean Studies, the Department of Middle Eastern and Islamic Studies, and the Skirball Department of Hebrew and Judaic Studies. The relation between Center and Building, one entity and many, the history and origins of a Center and its over twenty-five years of programs, bring with it a rich tapestry that layers and intersects individual, collective, and institutional histories. Together Center and Building connect so many narratives, and they provide an opportunity for productive thinking about the interlocking of space and symbol, home and abroad, history and futurity, and commemoration and critique.

Starting at the beginning helps untangle some of the historical through lines that have marked the Center’s origin and evolution. John Brademas had a longstanding interest in Spain, which he recounted numerous times in public lectures and comments about his commitment to the study of Spain and Latin America at NYU (his experiences included learning Spanish early on as a student, visiting Spain as a congressman, and writing his doctoral thesis about the anarchosyndicalist movement in Catalonia). In many of his public tributes to the Center’s history and founding, he explained the rationale for the Center and its name: “New York University has established this center for the study of Spain and the Spanish-speaking world in honor of His Majesty King Juan Carlos I of Spain, a courageous champion of democracy in Spain and a noble 16

advocate of education in the service of peace.”1 In 1983, a gift from Mr. and Mrs. Milton Petrie established the King Juan Carlos I Chair in Spanish Culture and Civilization. In celebration of the creation of the Chair, NYU bestowed on the King a doctorate honoris causa.2 In 2002, the Andrés Bello Chair in Latin American Cultures and Civilizations was established. Together these two Chairs have served to build a dynamic, intellectually rigorous, and ever-changing array of courses, programs, and experiences at the KJCC by bringing together the most exciting scholars (including artists, journalists, writers, performers, filmmakers, and many others) with members of the NYU community and the larger public.

Today, it might seem out-of-synch for a university to name a cultural center after any monarch, and Spain’s relationship to its monarchs has shifted over time in ways that echo the evolution of both national and international ideas about governance, power, and representation.

Indeed, even at the time of its founding, NYU’s decision to name a center dedicated to Spain and Latin America after a single individual who holds so much symbolic weight was not without criticism, at the very least because the breadth of what the Center hoped to achieve in terms of its academic, cultural and outreach mission was never meant to be limited or exclusive in scope or impact. It is impossible to understand the connection between NYU and King Juan Carlos I of Spain without tracing back to John Brademas the evolution within NYU from a more locally focused campus to one that has come to be defined, in large part, by its Global Network of campuses, portals, and research institutes. As Josep Muñoz so perceptively reminds us in his reflection on his time as King Juan Carlos I Chair in Autumn 2016: “when I lowered my gaze to Washington Square, I immediately understood the deep meaning of my stay at the King Juan Carlos Center, founded by the good offices—and fueled, no doubt by the ‘people skills’—of John Brademas (who had passed away the same summer of 2016).”

Understanding the motivations and rationale for the Center’s name twenty-five years ago requires us to consider that for Brademas, and for many others, the King’s role in Spain’s transition to Democracy was paramount. Walther Bernecker explains: “Due to his leading role in the transition to democracy, the monarch won the support of many who had stood in opposition to Franco, including the Republicans and even the Communist Party. The approval of the overwhelming majority for the constitution in 1978 meant simultaneous approval for the

1. Annual Report (1996-1998), King Juan Carlos I of Spain Center, NYU. All of the KJCC’s annual activity reports are availabe on the KJCC website: https://www.kjcc.org/about/ 2. https://www.kjcc.org/chairs/

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parliamentary monarchy, which was legitimated democratically along with it.”3 The King gained widespread praise again in 1981, when his televised support of the rule of law in the face of the attempted coup of February 23 in the Congress of Deputies was seen across the globe as further evidence of the King’s active role in supporting democracy in Spain. Yet, as Javier MorenoLuzón has explained, a monarch who had once been “the symbol of the Spanish nation that was least frequently challenged,” has over time shifted in Spain, in part “due to the strengthening of nationalist sectors who combat the monarch simply as a symbol of the Spanish state,” but also because of changes in the media’s treatment of the monarchy and “many errors in terms of their image and their own behavior.”4 In short, over the twenty-five years since the Center’s founding, many things have changed not only in terms of the symbolic weight of past symbols but also because of changing expectations with regard to how culture, history, and national stories intersect with the questions we ask about institutions and power in the twenty-first century.

When we think about commemorations, recounting the past, organizing an archive, and reviewing what we know and how we know it, the tendency may be to feel that these stories are written outside of ourselves and that we play no part in how histories are written or how they are retold. Often, especially within university settings, we may feel that the classrooms, departments, and institutions we inhabit are already built and defined in ways that are immovable, intractable, and impervious to our own positions, ideas, and opinions. And, yet, within the practices that we partake in and the scholarship that we study, we have learned through the example of philosophers, writers, and artists that institutional critique is a practice that has also become enshrined within museums and academies as an expected practice that engages dialogue between the past and the present as a necessary model for studying, dismantling, and building knowledge.

In his essay “We are the Information and its Record,” artist Kenneth Pietrobono captures this duality: “As simultaneous receivers and producers of culture, we embody a history but are also part of determining what that history is. The institution can assume the role as cultural organizer but not without the troubling question of ‘history according to whom?’ and which ‘we’ is in fact given voice.”5 It is with the idea of recording the history of the Center, while also engaging

3. Walther L. Bernecker, “Monarchy and Democracy: The Political Role of King Juan Carlos in the Spanish Transición,” Journal of Contemporary History, 33:1 (Jan. 1998), 79. For a fascinating account of the Communist support of national reconciliation, see the interview with King Juan Carlos Chair Antonio Muñoz Molina: https:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=N-9IJr8eYdU&t=1s 4. Javier Moreno-Luzón, “The King of All Spaniards? Monarchy and Nation,” Metaphors of Spain: Representations of Spanish National Identity in the Twentieth Century (Berghan Books, 2017), 103.

5. Kenneth Pietrobono, “We are the Information and its Record,” Performance Research. A Journal of the Performing Arts, 20:4 (2015), 26.

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with its history in ways that are as varied as the voices collected in this issue, that we underline the need to recognize the different positions from which the history of any center or institution is told (and retold). We hold with as much consideration a primary source document reprinted from the KJCC archive as we do a student essay written just a few months ago. Both of these records (and the many that occupy positions between these poles) show us fundamentally the power of universities and their administrators to build institutions (as James Fernández, Director, KJCC, 1997-2012, eloquently writes about in his essay “John Brademas’ Tears”) and manage the dual roles of scholar and director (as Jo Labanyi, Director, KJCC, 2012-2019, recounts in her essay “Two Views of KJCC”), but also that the source for reflection and critique of these same institutions is nourished within university settings that allow for the performance of self-reflection as a tool for critical pedagogy (as Mary Louise Pratt shows us in her essay “Transdisciplinary Spaces: In Praise of the Potluck”).

The original mission of the King Juan Carlos I of Spain Center was to promote research and teaching about Spain and the Spanish-speaking world at the university and to organize free public programs for a general audience that highlight the history, politics, and cultures of the Spanish-speaking world. Since its founding, the scope of its programs has grown to include the Portuguese-speaking world and, as academic fields have themselves evolved, the Center has embraced a more inclusive approach to programming that fosters discussions about the Spanish-speaking world in dialogue with the diversity of languages and cultures within the Iberian Peninsula, the Caribbean, and Latin America, but also within the United States and among Spanish-speaking communities across the globe (including Africa and Asia). Scholarship on the linguistic and cultural identities among Spanish speakers has increasingly recognized these identities as diverse, layered, and contested; the KJCC has responded by broadening and strengthening its partnerships with individuals and institutions across NYU and the globe.

When Brademas launched the idea of the KJCC, the only other Spanish language-related center at NYU was the Center for Latin American and Caribbean Studies (CLACS), founded in 1966. As mentioned, the King Juan Carlos I of Spain Chair in Spanish Culture and Civilization was established in 1985, and the KJCC opened in 1997. A year later, the Hemispheric Institute opened in 1998. In 2000, the Andrés Bello Chair in Latin American Cultures and Civilizations at KJCC was created. In 2018, the Latinx Project was founded. Most recently, the KJCC serves as the programmatic home for Sulo: the Philippine Studies Initiative at NYU. With each and every one of these centers and initiatives the KJCC has contributed to building and enhancing points of overlap and synergy at NYU, which has ultimately strengthened all of these centers and created a vibrant environment on campus that supports the study of the cultures, histories, 19

geographies, and languages in Spain and the Spanish-speaking world among the students, faculty, and staff at NYU, and the broader public. Central to its mission to support academic programs at NYU has been its longstanding partnerships with the above-named centers as well as the Department of Spanish and Portuguese and the Creative Writing in Spanish Program, both of which have contributed to helping the KJCC build and sustain relationships with undergraduate and graduate students since its founding. These vibrant relationships form the core of KJCC’s evolution over the past twenty-five years, which is why readers will find in this issue contributions by authors who have seen first hand how these collaborations have fueled a dynamic cultural environment that has brought so many points of community and difference into dialogue.

For example, Jill Lane (Director, CLACS, 2012-2021) writes poignantly about the spaces and relationships within and across CLACS and KJCC as points of “articulation”, and Odi González reflects on the “acoustic resonance of KJCC” in his essay “Blood Flow between Cultures: Quechua Chants in Greenwich Village.” Likewise, Pablo Delano’s Installation/Exploration in the atrium in 2017—The Museum of the Old Colony—is matched in Esferas with Nelson Rivera’s reflection on collecting the colonial gaze to show it back to the colonizers.

The KJCC has hosted thousands of programs and events focused on three principal areas: academic, cultural, and public outreach. The scope of these programs has evolved to include a range of disciplines and practices (in the humanities, social sciences, sciences, and the arts) with academic and non-academic specialists from across the Spanish and Portuguese-speaking world (KJCC’s first dedicated event on Portugal took place in 2010). We have become known for our prestigious visiting Chairs (over 50 holders of the King Juan Carlos I of Spain Chair in Spanish Culture and Civilization and the Andrés Bello Chair in Latin American Cultures and Civilizations combined), our world-class lecture and film series (especially the annual Cortocircuito Latino Shortfest and our biannual Spanish Film Festival), our exhibits, and for our collaborative relationships with other campus entities and cultural institutions in New York, the United States and abroad, which have included the Spanish Embassy, the Consulate General of Spain in New York, the Queen Sofía Institute, the Instituto Cervantes, and the Institut Ramón Llull, among many others. Much of what the KJCC does is to help boost or partner with emergent programs at NYU, some of which continue to develop and create spaces of their own on campus, like the Latinx Project and Sulo: the Philippine Studies Initiative, and others which hold deep historical resonance but are no longer active on campus. As Mary Ann Newman reminds us in “A Very Personal Account of Catalan Culture at NYU,” NYU showed a longstanding commitment to Catalan studies under the leadership of Brademas, which included a Catalan Studies Program (1983-1986), and later, the Catalan Center (2007-2011), but which 20

today appears at NYU more through individual programs, classes, and partnerships than it does as an established program.

In revisiting the history of the KJCC over the past two years in preparation for the anniversary, we recognize how crucial the original donors were to the founding of the Center, and how dependent any center is on the endowment it holds to build and broaden its programs.

At the same time, together we have also reflected on what these structures of institution-building mean to the arc of a Center’s development and the necessity at every turn to maintain the KJCC’s unique position as a non-degree awarding cultural center within a university, which requires an openness to different points of view as well as a constant defense of academic independence and rigor. Planning and organizing around the anniversary during this multi-year pandemic has brought into focus the importance of creating opportunities to reach across the different spaces within the university as well as those far beyond our walls. We are working with University Archives to transfer the administrative records of the KJCC from the Center’s offices to the Library. Rachel Moorman-Minton’s essay “Anticipating the Shift of KJCC Archival Materials to NYU Special Collections” explores the intricacies of this process and the different stakeholders who ensure that the records of our institutional history remain intact, even if incomplete.

Our “Atrium: Voices from the KJCC” series is a multi-year project to interview past Chairs and edit those interviews into a format that is accessible online.6 As a multi-layered compliment to these recorded interviews, we invited all past Chairs to submit essays, reflections, or portfolios related to their stays at NYU. Across the submissions included in this issue, are critical engagements with the history of the Center and the pivotal role KJCC held in the development of research, like those by Vicente Sánchez Biosca (KJC Chair 2013-2014) and Cristina Pato, (KJC Chair 2019-2020), an array of highly personal accounts and anecdotes from numerous Chairs about their stays at NYU, and visual portfolios that range from selections of photographic works and installations by Francesc Torres (KJC Chair 2005-2006) to sketches from personal diaries never before seen in public by Juan José Lahuerta (KJC Chair 20112012). The contributions are uneven in that not every Chair submitted, and those received were overwhelmingly from KJC Chairs and not Andrés Bello Chairs. However, taken as a whole and in combination, the Atrium videos and the reflections included in this special issue compose a remarkably unique and valuable record of the voices of individuals in the building and recounting of the many histories that have played out within the spaces of the KJCC, not just those on the

6. “Atrium: Voices from the KJCC” are viewable on the KJCC YouTube channel and website: https://www.kjcc.org/ initiatives/kjcc-25th-anniversary/

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stage in the auditorium in public lectures and symposia but also within and beyond the walls of classrooms at NYU since each and every Chair taught a seminar while at the KJCC. With a goal to share as much of the Center’s history with faculty, staff, and students at NYU and the general public, we have digitized all of the past issues of our annual activity reports, from 1997 to the present. These, along with all of our past recorded programs (which include hosting the CWS/Poetry Archive) are available as a constantly growing resource that is accessible to all on the KJCC website (www.kjcc.org). Accompanying these institutional and archival initiatives is a desire to bring our reflections to the public through a series of online discussions (the multi-year pandemic has shifted our focus from in-person to online programs, and will extend our anniversary initiative into Fall 2022 when we hope to hold some of these conversations in person). Our goal in organizing multi-speaker panels around an array of themes that recognize and explore in critical and dynamic ways the place of Spain in the world is to engage scholars from fields central and adjacent to the ones that have traditionally been represented at the KJCC with the goal to find new and different avenues to support and grow our mission.

Central to our reflections about the history and future of the KJCC at NYU is the role of students in every aspect of our mission. In Fall 2021, I offered a seminar on “Institutions, Archives, and People,” which held as its example the KJCC. We brought the students into our conversations about our interest in documenting, exploring, and critically engaging with the many different sides of our founding and history. To do so meant bringing students into the KJCC as active participants, interlocutors, critics, and archivists. It also meant placing a priority on the perspective of students when asking questions about the history of NYU’s cultural centers, the structures through which they are founded and sustained, the mechanisms through which they are directed and administered, and the criteria with which Chairs are selected, programs are organized, and audiences are engaged. We took very seriously Pietrobono’s insistence that telling critically informed histories requires that we ask, each time, “history according to whom?” and think as inclusively as possible about the “we” that is given voice when recording and narrating institutional histories. The result of this proposal was a semester-long seminar that began by exploring theories and methods for thinking about the university, considered different frames for thinking about education and power, and together engaged in a deep dive into the origins and history of the KJCC and its programs. As part of our seminar, we visited University Archives in search of traces of the KJCC (and found very little!), we interviewed key people involved in the founding of the Center (like Jesús Sainz, who was instrumental in building support for the KJCC in Spain and continues to support NYU through his role in the Fundación Rey Juan Carlos, 22

and Laura Turégano, who has been Associate Director since 2004) and its past directors (James Fernández, Jo Labanyi, and Ana Dopico). Each student took on a final project that related either to the theme of the class or to the history of the KJCC, many of which are included in this issue.

Each student contributed to our overall understanding of the KJCC; each sought their own perspective on the re-telling of its history.

What we learned in our endeavor to make sense of just one cultural center at one university is that the history of its founding and the different narratives that can be told around its many programs intersect in important, urgent ways with the history of NYU, and the history of the world in which any center or university forms part. We also learned how the personal lives of the individuals who have passed through the KJCC, from its inauguration to the present day, have impacted its founding and its ongoing evolution. Instead of finishing the semester with a singular idea about the Center, we came to the realization that the KJCC is not one thing nor is it defined by any one of its founders, donors, directors, or Chairs. Such a conclusion may read as simplistic, but it is important in that it empowers each of us: each student, each invited speaker, each curator, each chair, each director, and every member of the public who has attended or will attend one of our programs to define the KJCC for themselves. This dossier provides a mere glimpse into the very different moments lived within the walls of the KJCC, some of which go back decades even before the Center’s official founding, and others from just a few months ago.

In addition to the submissions by NYU faculty who have been involved with the KJCC (both the Building and the Center), past Chairs, and students enrolled in the seminar, this issue also includes other submissions by NYU students who have written eloquently about issues related to culture, institutions, and archives. We also invited submissions from scholars and artists whose work directly engages with questions of the past and present of cultural institutions, including Miguel Caballero’s illuminating interview with the current President of the Ateneo de Madrid and Jorge Ribalta’s photographic portfolio on the Banco de España, as well as Christi Mladic’s photographs on the uses of photography in Peru.

Together the submissions to this special issue of Esferas represent an important contribution to the ways we narrate the history of institutions and the singular importance of individuals (their voices, their perspectives, their politics) to any institution’s history. We thank Lourdes Dávila, editor of Esferas, and the entire editorial team for helping us bring this proposal to life.

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John Brademas’ Tears James D. Fernández John Brademas, former US congressman (D, Indiana, 1959-1981), former President of NYU (1981-1992), and founder of NYU´s King Juan Carlos I of Spain Center (1997), seemed decidedly out of place in his third row seat of the large auditorium. Even though he was probably sporting the most casual outfit of his entire wardrobe, he still seemed quite overdressed for this particular occasion and for this particular crowd—what with his pressed tan-colored khakis, white dress shirt, sharp navy blazer and polished brown loafers with tassels. The occasion: one of the annual reunions of the Veterans of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade. The crowd: a handful of the surviving men and women who had volunteered to fight fascism during the Spanish Civil War (1936-1939), surrounded by hundreds of their friends, family and fans.

One of the more memorable moments of that event came when Moe Fishman, for many years a spokesman for Spanish Civil War veterans in the US, speaking from the podium, got tongue-tied while trying to pronounce the word “globalization”—“globa, globiz, globula… Darn it, it was so much easier when we just called it what it is: imperialism.” The audience roared with laughter, and John Brademas chuckled. Towards the end of that event, the band on stage began playing the rousing left-wing anthem “The Internationale.” And the entire crowd, Fishman and Brademas included, quickly stood up. Many in the audience raised their right hand, crooked elbow, clenched fist near the right temple: the Popular Front salute. And many sang along, often with more verve than precise pitch: Arise, you prisoners of starvation! Arise, you wretched of the earth!

For justice thunders condemnation. A better world’s in birth…

I was sitting and standing next to Brademas that day. For some reason, a weird sense of modesty kept me from turning to look straight at him during the singing of the song, as I would have liked to do. Instead, I remember trying discreetly to observe him out of the corner of my eye. I can´t be sure of this, but I remember thinking at the time that he seemed to be mouthing the words to the Internationale. I recall my sense of surprise at the possibility of this moderate, progressive democrat knowing and lip-synching the words of this radical hymn. Perhaps he was just following along. But of one thing I am quite sure: as Brademas stood there that day in that raucous auditorium, a man in khaki surrounded by a sea of denim, flannel and leather, keffiyehs and berets, a couple of tears rolled down his cheek. For many years now, I’ve tried to interpret and understand those drops.

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*** I was the very unlikely director of NYU´s King Juan Carlos I of Spain Center from its opening until 2007, and in that position I got to work alongside Brademas for many years. John always had many irons in the fire—and his fire was the whole world. But the KJCC was particularly dear to him, and he invested a lot of time in it, particularly in the early years. The son of a Greek immigrant from South Bend, Indiana, John had been turned on to Spanish by an inspirational high school teacher in South Bend. He often told of how as a young adult he had hitchhiked all the way from Indiana to Central Mexico to work with indigenous Mexican communities, digging latrines and building houses in a program that was a precursor to the Peace Corps. Brademas would later write an undergraduate thesis at Harvard on a far-right wing political movement in Mexico, sinarquismo, and as a Rhodes Scholar at Oxford he would earn a doctorate with a thesis on an extreme left wing movement in Spain, anarcosindicalismo, on the eve of the Spanish Civil War. He would often joke in his public remarks: “though I studied sinarchism and anarchism, I never practiced either of them.” Indeed, he never did.

John Brademas was a proud consensus-seeking centrist, with strong progressive inclinations and a keen interest, throughout his life, in the arts, culture and education. Virtually all legislation coming out of congress in the 60s and 70s related to those fields bore Brademas’s imprint and signature. He was also a real internationalist at a time when such a stance was not so common; I remember him telling me how shocked he was when he joined Congress in 1960 and learned how many of his peers in the House of Representatives didn’t even have passports, and therefore had never traveled outside the United States. When Brademas lost his seat in Congress in the Reagan landslide of 1980, NYU would become the incredibly fortunate beneficiary of Brademas´ values and vision.

By the time I met him, he was several years into his status as President Emeritus. John was a very busy man, with little use for small talk and little interest in abstract, impractical questions—the ones that have always interested me the most. When I arrived at NYU and the KJCC, I was a young Associate Professor. I had spent very little time outside of the library and the classroom. Zero experience in program administration. Zero experience making decisions that affected anyone beyond myself. Zero knowledge of teamwork, negotiation, the art of compromise.

And, as a result of all of the above, I was probably as naive and as self-righteous as they come.

Despite this, John was always very respectful of me and of my faculty colleagues. But my faculty colleagues and I were almost certainly at times unfairly disdainful of Brademas, as we were often 32

disdainful of anyone—particularly faculty turned administrators—who took on a position of power, and was thus forced to make decisions bound to be unpopular among some people.

As I think back on the wisdom that Brademas transmitted to me—usually by example, only rarely with words—I realize that a lot of it had to do precisely with this dichotomy between, on the one side, a certain type of scholar who might have the luxury of operating above or beyond the fray, who might enjoy the privilege of staking out and maintaining pure and righteous opinions and positions, and on the other side, the scrappy administrators and politicians who have no choice but to roll up their sleeves and get their hands dirty, behave opportunistically, cut deals and compromise, left, center and right. In word and deed, it was often as if Brademas were saying to me: “If you want to always be 100% right, and 100% true to your vision, in the end you might feel good but you probably won’t ever get anything important done. If those are your goals, you might want to stay in the library. I myself have always preferred to deal with the art of the possible.” *** “John, is intransigence a good trait or a bad trait?” I remember Brademas looking at me like I had two heads—maybe a good head and a bad head—when, the morning after the Veterans of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade reunion, I asked him that question. I think he might have sensed where my doubt was coming from because I recall that he responded in an uncharacteristically cutting tone, saying something along these lines: “Intransigence is a bad trait; and if it’s coupled with the belief that you are the genuine representative of the wretched of the earth—regardless of whether the wretched have had any say in the matter—it is an absolutely miserable trait.” Brademas was back in his Monday morning business suit, and as far from vulnerability and tears as he could get.

“Moe, is intransigence a good trait or a bad trait?” I posed the same question to Moe Fishman, the longtime spokesman of the Veterans of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade, just a couple of days later. His eyes lit up. And he said something like this: “Well you know, James, Jim if I may, I think there’s definitely a time and a place for intransigence, because its opposite—I don’t know if transigence is even a word—but whatever the opposite would be, can lead to that proverbial slippery slope, one concession leading to another and before long, you’ve lost the war before you’ve even had a chance to put up a fight. Fascism, in our lifetime, certainly called for intransigence as a response. I only wish more people had realized this sooner rather than trying to make it go away by cutting deals.”

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I remember thinking after that conversation with Moe, that the opposite of “intransigence”, etymologically speaking, would probably be “transactive”, in the sense of giveand-take deal-making. And if John Brademas was convinced—at least Monday to Friday—that intransigence was the root of all or most evil, and that deal-making was the route to peaceful and efficient coexistence, Moe Fishman was convinced that unless we are moored to inviolable principles and values, the “art of the deal” is a sure way to drift, one transaction at a time, toward fascism or something scarily like it.

Curiously, one of my earliest difficult experiences as Director of the KJCC involved both John Brademas and Moe Fishman. It was during my first or second semester in the post. I had proudly designed and announced a film series on the Spanish Civil War in English-language cinema. I think I even designed the flyer. With solid intellectual and artistic criteria, I had included Ken Loach´s wonderful film ¨Land and Freedom”, which approaches the war in Spain with a decidedly pro-anarchist and anti-communist point of view. Not long after distributing the flyer announcing the series, I was visited in my office by Moe Fishman, on behalf of the Lincoln Brigade Veterans. He informed me that, regrettably, the veterans would have no choice but to protest outside the Center on the day of the screening because we had chosen to project a film that they considered profoundly inaccurate and offensive to the honor and memory of the International Brigades. I left the meeting shaken, imagining a picket line outside the newly inaugurated center. And I headed up to John´s office for advice.

I can still see the smile on Brademas´s face, as he listened to me nervously explain the situation. It seemed to me at the time that he was almost relishing the very thing that I was most eager to avoid: confrontation, uncomfortable differences of opinion. Brademas asked me a few questions about Moe Fishman and the Veterans, about the film, about the structure of the screening—was there going to be a forum before or after the film?—etc. After a brief silence, he did this gesture he had of rolling up his sleeves without actually rolling them up. “OK, James, here’s what I would do.¨ And he began almost dictating a message—something that he was very good at. “Mr. Fishman, you and your comrades have the right to protest the screening of this film however you see fit. But rather than having you picket or boycott the event, we would much prefer for you to come inside and speak with us and our audience. Perhaps you’d like to prepare leaflets explaining your organization’s position regarding the film that we would gladly make available to the audience. And we would like to invite you, or someone designated by you, to participate in the post-screening discussion of the film, as I´m sure the audience would be delighted to learn about your experience of the Spanish Civil War and your views on this particular film.”

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Of course I followed John´s advice. Of course Moe accepted the invitation. The screening and debate were memorable. And that encounter ended up being part of a series of meetings and collaborations that would indirectly facilitate the acquisition by NYU of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade Archives, to this day one of the most important of Bobst Library´s special collections; an acquisition which in part helps explain why Brademas and I were together at that Reunion of the Veterans of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade on that Sunday so many years ago. *** I´ve seen scientific claims that the chemical composition of tears varies noticeably depending on the emotions or events that trigger them. I can’t verify or disprove the claim with scientific evidence. The thought, I confess, is an attractive one; tears spilled over a cut finger shouldn’t be anything like tears shed over unrequited love; tears cried over an unexpected re-encounter with a beloved bike lane should have a radically different composition than tears that flow at a funeral.

The tears triggered by an undeserved slap ought not be anything like the tears released from a slap known to be well-earned.

Seductive though it may be, this theory of tears strikes me empirically as highly unlikely.

From experience and observation, I´ve come to be suspicious of the idea that simple identifiable emotions actually exist in isolation one from another, let alone the thought that tears might ordinarily express, chemically or in any other way, any single identifiable emotion. The deeply ambivalent memory of having spent a good part of your life trying to legislate for freedom in a house built by slaves might require its own distillation in tears. The melancholy of looking back over a career in which you´ve aspired to teach for equality in an institution established to generate and maintain distinction would likely give rise to its own formula for tears. It’s hard to imagine the chemical signature of tears caused by that mix of pride and shame, of accomplishment and disappointment, of certainty and doubt, that gets concocted whenever one looks back honestly, that is to say, vulnerably, at a life of commitment and compromise, a life of deals and ideals—and such is, alas, the life of institution builders; such is life itself.

I too cried at that reunion, standing there next to Brademas: my tears came, I recall, when the crowd got to the part of the Internationale that says “We must ourselves decide our duty/ We must decide and do it well.”

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53 Washington Square South: 1890 to Today

Elizabeth Baltusnik The King Juan Carlos I of Spain Center assumes the important role of educating the local community on Spanish and Latin American culture and history, but what about the physical history of the center itself? Visually, the hotel-turned-dormitory-turned-cultural-center has appeared unchanged since the 1890s, but various renovations and changing groups of occupants have greatly shifted the interior qualities and function of the space. Hidden behind an eclectic façade lies a rich and unique history, one that is rarely publicized by the university. In order to understand how the physical space of the KJCC shapes the behaviors and interactions that take place inside of it, we first need to understand the history of the space itself. Its preserved exterior has ensured that we don’t erase the early beginnings of 53 Washington Square South, but has this continued history helped or hurt the KJCC’s identification as a cultural center?

Although the façade of today’s KJCC is over a century old, careful preservation has ensured the ornate detailing remains virtually unchanged from its 19th-century design. In the late 1800s, architects McKim, Mead, & White faced the challenge of producing a curated image for the properties surrounding Washington Square Park. The Italian Renaissance Eclectic building and ten-story tower (campanile) that house the KJCC at 52-54 Washington Square South—what was then part of the Judson Memorial Church—were built in conjunction with the Washington Square Arch. Architect Stanford White intended for these structures to work together to evoke the beauty of an Italian piazza or, when viewed from north of the arch, a Roman forum. White considered this complex consisting of a church, campanile and hotel to complete his masterpiece of composition for the Square.

The style of the building stands in stark contrast to the red-brick apartment towers and brownstones surrounding the square, and this was also the case in the 1800s. The exterior walls are warm, yellow Roman brick and “represent the bricklayer’s art at his best” (“Judson Hall” 1). At the second, third and fifth floors of the hotel are masterfully laid bands of terra cotta, adding dimension and contrast to the exterior. Round-headed windows on the upper stories are enveloped by brick arches, while the square-headed windows of the lower three stories are topped with brick lintels. A variation of one and two-story brick pilasters divide the windows, further evoking the idea of a Roman forum with its capitals and bases. As the building was originally 37

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a five-story structure, White topped the building with an ornamental cornice and balustrade railing, adding dimension to an already impressive composition (“Judson Hall” 1).

The ten-story campanile attached to the center is similarly designed, making use of the same yellow brick and terra cotta. The horizontal terra cotta bands alternate with recessed brick courses to create an impressive pattern that towers over the surrounding area. On the first floor of the façade, swirls cover ornately carved terracotta, adding a unique textural element that draws viewers to the ornamental metal grills and stately wooden doors deeply recessed within the doorway (“Judson Hall” 1). The base of the tower raises it four feet above street level and includes a trim reminiscent of the Roman fasces, symbolizing the idea of the site as a place of victory and power. The height of the tower gives it the potential to appear repetitive, but the inclusion of both round-headed and square-headed windows breaks up the monotony of such a tall structure.

At the top of the campanile are the three arches of the belfry, punctuated with slender support columns. Like the hall below it, the tower also culminates in a richly decorated cornice at the roofline.

Visually, 53 Washington Square South stands nearly exactly as it did when it was first constructed, but the original purpose of the hall has been essentially erased. After Stanford White gained notoriety for designing the permanent version of the Washington Arch, the members of the Berean Baptist Church solicited his aid in designing a new building complex for their congregation. The church, Judson Memorial Church, continues to operate today and honors the Baptist minister Adoniram Judson, the United States’ first internationally known missionary.

The church complex consisted of a church, tower and hotel, with the latter two components housing the KJCC today. The hotel was integral to the church’s success, as the inexpensive studios and living quarters for artists, primarily, served to fund their mission trips that were essential to carrying on the legacy of Adoniram Judson. The gentrification of tenements in other areas of New York City lead to an influx of Italian immigrants in Greenwich Village, which not only supplied the hotel with new residents but also aided in informing Stanford White in his design of the church. By combining early Christian and Italian Renaissance styles to generate the Italian Renaissance Eclectic style, White was able to design a form that was externally representative of the purpose it served and the people that occupied it. The stunning architectural qualities of the complex also appeased and consoled residents of the square after the razing of other ornamental buildings, namely NYU’s University Building and the Reformed Dutch Church, for commercial development. Physical manifestations of the Judson Memorial Church’s influence can still be seen around the Square today, as the campanile inspired the towers atop the apartment buildings like 39

those along Washington Square West (Harris 150, 213, 298). The impact of White’s design and its influence on the Square has caused many to staunchly defend the site and protest any changes that might alter its role in the context of the neighborhood.

The NYU acquisition of the Judson Hotel in 1925 remained relatively uncontroversial until the proposal of a law school annex on West 3rd Street in the Spring of 2000 that would have obscured views of the campanile. Although the university would have been within their rights to build the 194-foot tall facility, not to mention the fact that the campanile was NYU property, community members and historians were angered at the mere suggestion that the building would be erased from the skyline. The university had already been heavily criticized for its “continuing land grab for more control over the square” and compromised with critics, reducing the annex to a height of 145 feet (Harris 248). This intrusion was not the first time the Judson Hotel’s standing had been threatened—Robert Moses’ early 20th century plan to reroute traffic through Washington Square would have razed the complex. Similarly, community pushback over the continued loss of ornamental architecture saw the end of this urban renewal project (Harris 249).

Although NYU demonstrated a lack of concern over the campanile’s role in the integrity of the Washington Square skyline, it was conscientious enough not to alter the Hotel’s exterior even as it dramatically developed the interior. When they acquired the hotel in 1925 to build a dormitory, the university’s main campus was still in the Bronx, in “the Heights.” However, a rapid increase in enrollment—14,000 students, to be precise—at the “Square branch” had begun to initiate a shift within the school and a rapid development of the Washington Square Campus, with the Judson Hotel being the fourth site to come into the university’s possession within the previous six months. Prior to this acquisition, there was no dormitory at the Washington Square campus and only one other dormitory at any school in downtown Manhattan (“Judson Hotel to be N.Y.U. Dormitory”). The hotel was not immediately converted to a dormitory, and it was instead held as an investment for some time before eventually becoming the first iteration of many forms that the space would take during its time as an NYU site.

After being officially opened, the NYU Judson Dormitory at 53 Washington Square South was still subjected to internal shifts. Once the prior lease ended, Judson Dormitory opened its doors to male students in hopes of “[providing] a social center and inexpensive residence for the young men of the neighborhood” (“Judson Hotel to be N.Y.U. Dormitory”). In 1947, the dormitory closed for a year to undergo renovations to become a women’s residence hall. A New York Times article published after the reopening in 1948 cited the additions of a “diet kitchen” 40

and a “four-bed infirmary,” along with the freshly painted rooms in “pastel shades of pink, green, and yellow” (“Judson Hall Again”). The conversion to a women’s dormitory evidently brought along unexpected costs, as in 1952 NYU sought to revert the dormitory to a men’s residence hall. Operating deficits incurred by the Judson Dormitory prompted them to reduce security— something that “seemed impracticable with girls in residence” (“Brooms”). The women, however, were unwilling to give up their park views and tower bedrooms, choosing instead to take on the role of housekeepers themselves. The strong-willed residents of Judson Dormitory were not unlike the artists and poets of the Judson Hotel. Unique architectural qualities inspired fireplace headboards and pink radiators; rooms were covered with colorful candles and black bedspreads (“Dormitory Decor”). The Judson Dormitory shut its doors to residents in the late 1980s, and, unfortunately, the legacy of the space seems to have disappeared with it. The building still stands prominently on campus as it did back then, but information and documentation about Judson Dormitory is, unfortunately, hard to come by.

During its time as Judson Dormitory, the site underwent the process to be formally designated as a Landmark Site. After a hearing and thoughtful review, the Landmarks Preservation Commission granted landmark status to 51-54 Washington Square South on May 17, 1966. “Careful consideration” found that the site has “special character, special historical and aesthetic interest, and value as part of the development, heritage and cultural characteristics of New York City” (“Judson Hall” 1). The commission also emphasized the “new elegance and joy” it brought to “a city of red brick and brownstone,” a sentiment that continues today. Mere steps from the KJCC lie the metal and glass of the Kimmel Center and the massive brick structure that is Bobst Library, further emphasizing the unique architectural character of the yellow brick and terra cotta masterpiece. While landmark status ensures the façade will stand proudly for years to come, Landmark regulations coupled with age can make essential renovations a challenge.

In 1995, architecture firm Polshek and Partners began the extensive process of unifying four historic buildings—51-54 Washington Square South—to create the King Juan Carlos I of Spain Center. The design sought to achieve what any other university center might: to create a new university common space, academic and administrative offices, classrooms and meeting areas (“King Juan Carlos I”). The upper floors retain the snaking hallways and nearly-identical rooms of the Judson Dormitory era, while the first and second floors are the most architecturally intriguing. After leaving the security vestibule, visitors enter the open space of a “two-level gallery with floor-to-ceiling glass and uninterrupted windows” (“King Juan Carlos I”). The foyer seems to extend outwards onto the terrace beyond the glass, evoking the feeling of a traditional 41

Spanish courtyard. It was important for the architects that this “seamless experience from inside to outside” introduced “a sense of intimate scale, comfort, and repose” (McClurkan). In contrast to the Renaissance-style exterior, the interior aesthetic is described as “distinctly modern.” Heavy focus was placed on highlighting the Spanish influence on the project “without being ‘kitschy’ or ‘nostalgic’” through a “minimalist abstract approach” inspired by both historic and contemporary Spanish design (McClurkan). Spanish materials including wood, blue ceramic tiles, marble and limestone are emblematic of the country the space serves, but are used in ways that almost symbolize a “new” era of Spain, not one characterized by kingdoms and monarchy. Sharply angled walls, paneling, and cutouts are in stark contrast to the traditional flowing curves of Spanish architecture, representing a modernization not unlike the one brought upon by King Juan Carlos during the Spanish transition to democracy (Bernecker 66).

Unlike nearly every other NYU building in the city, there’s no flag, no sign, no NYUrelated anything on the exterior of the KJCC. A passersby on the street would likely assume that it’s part of the Judson Memorial Church that still stands on the corner of Washington Square South and Thompson Street. The KJCC is almost like a secret: something to be thoughtfully cherished by those who know what lies behind the façade, but something that’s at risk of being regrettably unrecognized, and thus underutilized, by the community. This sentiment naturally extends beyond the physical use of the center. In an era of constant digital bombardment by ads and emails, concrete manifestations of cultural centers might be becoming more important than ever. During the 1995 renovation, it was important to the architects and the university that the buildings continued to be “useful and contributing members of the local community” (McClurkan). Without visual representation, how are community members, both within and outside of NYU, supposed to learn about the critical events and programs the center has to offer?

Much like the history of 53 Washington Square South has lain hidden, the KJCC remains obscured by a façade connecting it to a bygone era. Intricate ornamentation certainly worthy of preservation and appreciation might intrigue those walking along Washington Square South, but what does it mean for a cultural center like the KJCC if this façade renders it unnoticeable? In the interior, Spanish materials nod to the purpose of the space just as the exterior Italian materials of the Judson Hotel represented its inhabitants. Modern qualities of the new design represent a much-needed cultural shift, away from the era of colonialism and towards one of equal representation and equity. However, if this shift lies behind a 19th-century façade, how can the center transform what it houses behind its façade to achieve its full potential?

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Bibliography Bernecker, Walter L. “Monarchy and Democracy: The Political Role of King Juan Carlos in the Spanish Transición.” Journal of Contemporary History, Jan., 1998, Vol. 33, No. 1 (Jan., 1998), 65-84. Web. “Brooms Repel N.Y.U. Men.” The New York Times, 23 December 1952, 25.

“Dormitory Decor Is in a Class by Itself.” The New York Times, 2 November 1961, 40.

Harris, Luther S. Around Washington Square: An Illustrated History of Greenwich Village.

Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003.

“Judson Hall.” Landmarks Preservation Commission, 17 May 1966. Web. “Judson Hotel to be N.Y.U. Dormitory.” The New York Times, 8 November 1925, 66.

“Judson Hotel Again an N.Y.U. Residence.” The New York Times, 7 July 1948, 31.

“King Juan Carlos I of Spain Center.” Bergen Street Studio, n.d. Web. McClurkan, Kevin. Email to Clay Miller. 20 January 2022.

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Instituciones, archivos y gente:

el archivo de la Brigada Abraham Lincoln Sophie Slade ¿Has pensado alguna vez en los mediadores de intercambios culturales o quiénes son los actores involucrados en la elaboración de una historia institucional? ¿Has pensado en lo que pasa con la adquisición de un archivo o la colaboración realizada para llevar a cabo eventos históricos en tu universidad? ¿Qué relaciones existen entre las instituciones culturales y las narrativas que éstas producen? Utilizando entrevistas con dos investigadores hispanistas, James Fernández y Sebastiaan Faber –ambos directores de organizaciones que funcionan dentro de un marco institucional– este ensayo considera las instituciones y los archivos, al igual que la gente involucrada en las conexiones entre los dos. Específicamente, el ensayo se centra en el King Juan Carlos I of Spain Center (conocido como el KJCC o el centro de aquí en adelante) –establecido en la Universidad de Nueva York en abril de 1997– y la organización sin fines de lucro de los Abraham Lincoln Brigade Archives (conocido como ALBA de ahora en adelante), fundada en 1978. Durante la Guerra Civil española (1936-1939) casi 2,800 americanos se ofrecieron como voluntarios para luchar por la causa republicana, uniéndose a las Brigadas Internacionales en su esfuerzo por frenar el fascismo. Este colectivo de voluntarios estadounidenses llegó a ser conocido como la Brigada Abraham Lincoln (veteranos de la Abraham Lincoln Brigade o VALB). La organización, ALBA, se estableció para promover la defensa de los derechos humanos y el activismo, pero también para conservar el legado de los voluntarios, el cual está documentado exhaustivamente en un archivo. “El archivo”, como lo llamaremos de ahora en adelante, consiste en más de 300 colecciones individuales, incluyendo documentos, fotografías, carteles y artefactos originales que se encuentran en la biblioteca Tamiment de NYU. Este ensayo analiza la relación entre el KJCC, ALBA, y su archivo, para investigar específicamente qué lugar ocupa el centro como institución cultural en la narrativa y memoria de los voluntarios.

Este ensayo está organizado por una serie de preguntas presentadas a ambos entrevistados con el propósito de resaltar las perspectivas y experiencias de cada uno sobre el rol de las instituciones para promover, interrumpir y manejar las narrativas históricas elaboradas en torno a los voluntarios de ALBA. También, destaca una cronología más completa de las interacciones entre las instituciones y la naturaleza de su relación. La primera entrevista, con Sebastiaan Faber, 45

profesor de estudios hispanos en Oberlin College y cátedra actual de ALBA, se realizó el 9 de diciembre de 2021. La segunda fue con James Fernández, profesor de estudios hispanos en NYU y primer director del KJCC, el 11 de diciembre de 2021. Tal investigación es muy útil para comprender el nexo entre los centros culturales y las narrativas que estos perpetúan y crean. Con esta comprensión, se revela el poder y la influencia de las instituciones culturales, así como la hermosa crónica de la colaboración entre ellas.

Slade: ¿Qué es ALBA (el archivo y la organización) y qué era de más importancia o interés para usted y el centro?

Sebastiaan Faber, en su introducción, dijo que se sintió atraído por el tema de la Guerra Civil española y la Brigada Abraham Lincoln por sus estudios sobre el exilio republicano español en México. Al principio, él fue el Presidente del Consejo, y luego asumió la cátedra en 2012. Más recientemente, ha estado involucrado como escritor y coeditor de la revista trimestral de ALBA, The Volunteer. En su cátedra actual, él dio una descripción de la organización y su relación con el archivo en la biblioteca Tamiment. “ALBA se fundó en los años setenta por un grupo de voluntarios veteranos de la Guerra Civil española con un grupo de académicos y activistas con el fin de asegurar la permanencia, la supervivencia del archivo de los documentos de la memoria con fines educativos”. Aunque el archivo físico se trasladó de Brandeis University a la biblioteca Tamiment en NYU, ALBA permaneció involucrado con la colección. Faber caracteriza la relación con Tamiment como algo espectacular. “Nos tenemos simpatía mutua y colaboramos en lo posible”. Además, Faber recordó cómo James Fernández llegó a NYU en el mismo momento de la inauguración del centro por John Brademas, que era investigador sobre el teatro español, y cómo “[había] en torno del cambio del milenio una especie de sinergía [...] de personas interesadas y de cambios institucionales” que condujeron a mucha productividad. En general, interpreta la historia de su relación como provechosa, anotando que Tamiment vio desde el principio “el valor de esa colección”.

James Fernández conoció la Brigada Abraham Lincoln por primera vez cuando era estudiante universitario. Describió cómo en sus primeros años en Dartmouth College fue influenciado tanto por profesores interesados por la Guerra Civil española como por las celebraciones de varios aniversarios de la guerra a las que asistió. En uno de estos eventos en la universidad conoció a veteranos de la Brigada junto con eruditos y artistas como Rafael Alberti.

Entonces, con esa “hermosa” presentación, comenzó a desarrollar un mayor interés por el teatro 46

español y la Guerra Civil. Llegó a NYU en 1995 –en el momento de la fundación del centro– y fue nombrado oficialmente director interino, continuando como director hasta 2007. Cuando le pregunté sobre el archivo, dijo: “nos pusimos a programar algunas cosas que tenían que ver con la Guerra Civil porque es un tema tan importante y porque siempre ha habido mucho interés en Nueva York por ese tema”.

En su definición del archivo, Fernández recordó el “pequeño grupo de brigadistas en los años setenta, ochenta [que] empezó a depositar sus archivos personales en Brandeis”. Esto fue la génesis del archivo de la Brigada, “un puñado de colecciones de individuos que [...] iba creciendo y creciendo porque tristemente iban muriendo los brigadistas”, señaló Fernández. Habló sobre cómo los brigadistas solo querían conservar la memoria de sus experiencias “porque es cierto que el relato mainstream de los Estados Unidos tiende a borrar ese episodio de la historia”. En sus palabras, el hermoso esfuerzo fue un “antifascismo prematuro [...] antes de Pearl Harbor”.

Por esta razón, la adquisición fue muy importante porque la colección ha seguido creciendo y muchos investigadores que pasan por Nueva York que tienen interés en los temas del archivo pueden visitarlo. Según Fernández, por un periodo, el archivo fue la colección más consultada de Tamiment y sigue siendo el archivo más completo de artefactos relacionados con la participación americana en la Guerra Civil española.

Slade: ¿Cuál es la relación actual entre ALBA (la asociación) y la colección física en Tamiment? ¿Cómo era en el pasado? ¿Qué cambios hubo a lo largo del tiempo?

Para entender mejor la relación entre el ALBA y el KJCC, le hice esta pregunta a Faber. Él hizo referencia a la adquisición del archivo en NYU en 2000 de la Universidad Brandeis y cómo la transferencia no impidió la continuación de la relación de ALBA con la colección. “Una de las funciones que hemos tenido es mantener viva la comunidad de descendientes, primero de sobrevivientes y después de descendientes de voluntarios. Y, por tanto, cada vez que hay una familia, un pariente que descubre algo que quiere legar o donar algo, nosotros le dirigimos hacia la biblioteca; entonces, somos una especie de conducto de materiales y ayudamos para desarrollar la colección”, indicó. De esta manera, ALBA está intrínsecamente vinculada a la colección, ya que le da la capacidad de crecer. Faber continuó diciendo que ALBA está formada por investigadores y periodistas que, como educadores, “nutrimos constantemente el archivo; [lo] usamos, yo en mis libros y en mis artículos, pero también en mis clases y también en la revista y también en los talleres que hacemos con profesores de secundaria, usamos las cartas, las fotos, los vídeos, 47

los audios, los carteles, etcétera, constantemente”. Así, la relación se convierte en “una especie de simbiosis muy productiva de apoyo mutuo y de uso mutuo”; por ejemplo, ALBA “también justifica su existencia [la del archivo] porque parte del público usuario que tiene la biblioteca también viene a través de nosotros”, anotó Faber. A partir de su respuesta, se hace evidente la red o “conglomerado” de personas e instituciones que afectan al archivo, incluyendo la comunidad de investigadores fuera de los EE. UU. Slade: ¿Qué papel crees que tienen la organización ALBA/el KJCC en la definición del legado de los voluntarios de la Brigada Abraham Lincoln?

Según Fernández: “Es difícil atribuir méritos y decir que el KJCC es responsable de esto o de lo otro. Pero sin duda en la adquisición y luego en el uso de los archivos, el centro ha tenido un papel importante, por su programación y eso es una gran contribución en todos los sentidos”.

Continúa explicando cómo estos eventos y programas han sido importantes porque los fundadores de los archivos eran los mismos veteranos cuya “preocupación principal era que no cayera en el olvido su propia experiencia”, lo que era un miedo real, anotó él. Como respuesta, sintió que se necesitaba cierta celebración para proteger su legado. “Pero también supongo que soñaban con que el archivo siempre ayudará a que la gente celebre sus acciones, y yo creo que es cierto, que hay muchas cosas que salen del archivo que son celebratorias. Es difícil no celebrar, desde mi punto de vista, las acciones bastante altruistas y valientes de los brigadistas”. Faber afirmó este profundo sentimiento de responsabilidad de celebrar a los voluntarios: “Ha sido muy importante la desaparición física de los veteranos; el hecho de que hayan venido muriéndose hasta que ya no queda ninguno ha cambiado nuestro papel porque ya no existen”. Por eso, Faber dijo que hay una necesidad de “contar el relato de lo que pasó en España, traduciendo al mundo actual y amplificando un poco su significado”.

De la misma forma, pregunté a ambos autores si habían observado un cambio en el propósito o el uso del archivo físico y el KJCC (a Fernández) o de la organización ALBA y su revista The Volunteer (a Faber). Faber respondió positivamente, admitiendo: “Sí, ha habido una evolución seguramente, incluso en los veinte años que yo estoy involucrado con ALBA. Bueno, hay un par de cosas, uno es que [ALBA] cambia el mundo y por tanto cambiamos nosotros, ¿no?

Entonces hablar del antifascismo en 2005 no tenía la misma referencia que tiene hoy; entonces, curiosamente, ha habido un regreso lamentable a una percepción de peligros fascistas o de extrema derecha que ha hecho que el interés en la historia que contamos haya cambiado y haya 48

incrementado”. Del mismo modo, los archivos evolucionan, “adquiriendo nuevos materiales y clasifica[ndo] nuevas formas”, dijo Fernández. No obstante, el cambio más grande en su opinión proviene de las preguntas que los investigadores se plantean y llevan hasta el archivo. Él hace una analogía identificable para todos nosotros: “Si tú lees una novela con quince años y la vuelves a ver con veinticinco o treinta y cinco, es otra novela. Puede ser el mismo ejemplar y tiene los apuntes en los márgenes, pero a veces a mí me pasa que no reconozco los apuntes y son míos [...] porque yo fui otra persona”. Así, Fernández argumenta que curar un archivo es lo mismo porque la forma en que evoluciona depende de quiénes visitan y manejan el archivo, tanto como los archiveros que ayudan a los investigadores a encontrar sus respuestas. Para él, lo más importante es “el trabajo a largo plazo de mantener vivas las perspectivas y mantenerse abiertos a nuevas perspectivas para que la gente pueda ir al archivo con nuevas inquietudes”.

Slade: Como parte del liderazgo del KJCC [o si estuvieras en la posición del KJCC, cuando pregunté a Faber], ¿crees que hay una responsabilidad de promover el archivo a públicos interesados? ¿Qué deber tienen los directores de reforzar la narrativa establecida para los archivos? ¿Qué libertad tienen para modificarla?

Ambos respondieron de manera similar. La administración y sus experiencias pasadas dan forma a sus intereses como líderes y la dirección de una organización con respecto a la programación. Al mismo tiempo, ambos también reconocieron que tener un archivo tan amplio e históricamente importante en NYU representa algo que exige atención –tanto pedagógica como de la configuración del público. Fernández planteó también otro factor: “El tiempo es limitado, y cada director o directora tiene que distribuir su tiempo y elegir qué aspectos enfatizar y qué aspectos no; cada directora tiene que pensar cómo invertir su tiempo y todos teníamos intereses muy diversos”. Usó como referencia los diferentes antecedentes académicos de los directores anteriores del KJCC, incluyendo a la actual directora, y señaló que hay una razón por la que algunos años el archivo recibe más atención específicamente a través de la programación del KJCC. Según Fernández, ni siquiera el fundador de un archivo “debe intentar prever todos los usos, no debe intentar controlar los usos a los que se va a poner ese archivo porque no conviene”.

Fernández también mencionó que el archivo “ya tiene vida propia” en la biblioteca Tamiment, a diferencia de cuando era director y se realizaban muchos eventos para visibilizar el archivo. Faber comparó la pregunta con la institución de ALBA, diciendo que “tenemos una misión muy claramente definida. [...] El Centro Juan Carlos I tiene otra misión mucho 49

más amplia, pues entiendo perfectamente que pueda haber periodos o personas, directores y directoras, que quieran poner otros énfasis, y tiene mucho sentido porque claro, el pedazo de historia de la que estamos hablando es muy peculiar, está muy centrado en España, y una comunidad también en NYU muy determinada entonces entiendo muy perfectamente que puede haber años en que [el archivo] recibe menos atención. Por otro lado, Faber reconoció el hecho de que el archivo en NYU “parece un buen motivo para seguir haciendo cosas” organizadas por el centro. “Es que el mundo de lo que es los estudios ibéricos en EE.UU. es un mundo bastante pequeño, a fin de cuentas, y el centro ocupa un lugar importante ahí”, observó él. Continuó comentando sobre la relación histórica que ALBA tiene con NYU en una escala mayor y cómo es muy importante tener, y haber tenido, su apoyo y recursos como institución académica.

Jorge Blasco, autor del “Ceci n’est pas une archive”, escribe que “Archive is not just a noun—something finished, designed and identifiable in a space—archive is a verb and we—all of us—archive and that is perhaps the most interesting and least conscious version” (Blasco, “Ceci n’est pas une archive”). Esta investigación fue un experimento para probar tal afirmación y aprender más sobre las instituciones y centros culturales que tienen un papel muy importante en el proceso de archivar o aumentar un archivo. En conclusión, se revela la compleja red entre el King Juan Carlos I of Spain Center, la organización titulada Abraham Lincoln Brigade Archives y la colección física de artefactos en la biblioteca Tamiment en la Universidad de Nueva York.

Específicamente, quedó claro que las instituciones culturales asumen muchos papeles y eso incluye el rol de colaborador y enlace entre otros centros, el rol de un historiador que elige qué documentar y qué dejar fuera de la narrativa y el rol de un líder que asume proyectos que dejan una huella positiva en la sociedad como la preservación y la celebración de un archivo como el de los veteranos de la Brigada Abraham Lincoln. Es importante ver los centros culturales así y tratarlos como agentes de meaning-making porque son entidades que a menudo olvidamos que existen. Como dijo Fernández en nuestra entrevista, la adquisición del archivo “demostró que, a pesar del nombre, el centro tenía autonomía e independencia intelectual casi absoluta y que no iban rehuir de ciertos temas”. Así, las instituciones navegan agendas importantes, en la promoción de un archivo de este tipo en la universidad y la creación de eventos que sean apreciados por estudiantes, académicos e hispanistas por igual. Sin embargo, están hechos por individuos que tienen la potencia de dejar un legado institucional que los superará en el tiempo, como los profesores y las cátedras de Jim Fernández y Sebastiaan Faber.

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Bibliografía “About the Center”. NYU KJCC, 1 agosto, 2017. Red. Fernández, James. Entrevista por Sophie Slade, 11 de diciembre de 2021, entrevista 2, transcripción y grabación, New York University.

Blasco, Jorge. “Ceci n’est pas une archive”, Revistafakta. Red. Faber, Sebastiaan. Entrevista por Sophie Slade, 9 de diciembre de 2021, entrevista 1, transcripción y grabación, New York University.

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Francesc Torres

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Images from “Memory Remains”, 2006-2011. A piece based on the objects and material sediment from Ground Zero in Manhattan preserved for their historical significance and temporarily kept in the cargo Hangar 17 at the John Fitzgerald Kennedy Airport in New York City. The piece premiered simultaneously in NYC, London, Madrid and Barcelona, cities hit by massive terrorists bombings in the Twentieth Century. The bombing of Barcelona was both military and terrorist, like Guernika, but while this Basque city was hit only once, Barcelona was continuously bombed over a two year span for the first time in history, a sign of what was coming once WW II began.

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A Semester in the Center 2006 was quite a year. I was involved in a long drawn out and complicated project dealing, a little too prematurely, with the historical memory of the Spanish Civil War within the realm of “fine arts;” and, more concretely, with the Republican victims of fascist repression during the war and the never ending postwar—the majority of whom were still lying at the time in unmarked common graves all over the Iberian peninsula. That year I was also generously invited to chair a semester at the King Juan Carlos I Center of Spanish Culture and Civilization at NYU. My predecessor was Judge Baltasar Garzón.

I am an artist, not an academic, so I was somewhat hesitant as to what might be the best way for me to contribute to the remarkable history of the Center. The first possibility was to work with the Spanish Refugee Aid (SRA) archives, which had recently arrived at the Tamiment Library of NYU, consisting of hundreds upon hundreds of boxes of individual files of Spanish refugees who remained in France for decades. It was extraordinary to see all that material which included letters from supporters such as Albert Camus, Hanna Arendt and the like. James Fernández, then the director of the Center, asked me to consider working with the files as the subject of my tenure, which was very tempting, but the sheer volume of the material was overwhelming. I thought, realistically, that I could only barely scratch the surface of that incredible treasure, consequently I discarded the possibility.

However, I brought the subject to the attention of the Generalitat de Catalunya and a team of historians and archivists was sent to NY to examine the files in order to determine the archive’s nature and importance. As a result, and taking advantage of an official visit to the UN, Pascual Maragall, then president of the Generalitat, stopped by the Tamiment Library and was shown the archives.

An agreement of collaboration was reached between NYU and the Generalitat through which the Catalan Government would help finance the ordering and digitalization of the archive in exchange for a digital copy that would be deposited in the Catalan National Archives. Due to the nature of the Spanish and Catalan political environment, I cannot say what was actually accomplished by this agreement, but we tried.

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The bulk of my activity at the Center ended up being a workshop on multi-media installation around a theme project based on the roughly one hundred African-Americans who enlisted in the Abraham Lincoln Brigade and fought for the Spanish Republican Government during the Civil War (1936-1939). Simultaneously, I spent considerable time examining material from the Abraham Lincoln Brigade Archives (ALBA) also housed at the Tamiment Library. Thanks to the help of Professor Juan Salas, I became aware of the existence of a roll of 16 mm. film with 40 minutes of extraordinary unseen material shot by Harry Randall in Spain between 1937 and 1938. Years later this became the core of a piece of mine titled “What Does History Know of Nail Biting” which is now included in the permanent collection of the Whitney Museum of American Art in NYC. A few panel discussions were organized during my tenure with the participation, among others, of John Hanhardt, then curator of time-based art at the Guggenheim Museum and the late Arthur Danto, Professor Emeritus of Philosophy at Columbia University. We held a collaborative panel discussion with the New York Institute of Architecture; and I delivered the yearly lecture organized by ALBA at the Cervantes Institute in NYC. While all this was happening, I continued to work on my current project at the time, “Dark is the Room Where We Sleep”, which was premiered a year later at the International Center of Photography (ICP) in NYC coinciding with an anthology of Robert Capa’s work and the first retrospective of Gerda Taro. The time spent at the Center also alerted me to the existence of the Hangar 17 repository and introduced me to the staff of the newly created September Eleven National Memorial and Museum, which enabled me to realize another significant project a few years later.

So, to sum up, the generous invitation to reside at the Center during the second semester of the 200506 academic year helped facilitate all of the above. It was an unforgettable experience.

Francesc Torres, 2022.

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Images from “Dark Is The Room Where We Sleep”, 2007. Fully documented exhumation of a common grave of 46 civilians killed by fascist paramilitary forces at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War (1936-39). The piece is now in the permanent collection of the International Center of Photography (ICP), in New York City.

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Anticipating the Shift of KJCC

Archival Materials to NYU Special Collections Rachel Moorman-Minton In light of the 25th anniversary of the King Juan Carlos I of Spain Center, it is important to consider how institutional history is preserved, and how the context in which it is found influences the discoveries that can be made about it. The planned transfer of the materials in the KJCC’s archive to NYU’s University Archives, housed in Bobst Library, provides a good opportunity to ask these questions of the KJCC’s historical ephemera. I will be exploring the following two questions: what role in the preservation of the history of the KJCC might the University Archives play in the future; and what will the implications be in terms of organization, preservation and access to that history? How might the context in which this material is positioned influence its interpretation by future researchers? To explore these questions, I have conducted two interviews; the first with Janet Bunde and Danielle Nista, University Archivist and Reference Associate, respectively, at NYU Special Collections and the second with Laura Turégano, who has been Associate Director at the KJCC since 2004 whose time was punctuated by multiple stints as Acting Director. Their answers provided great insight into the way the center’s history has been collected and stored in the past and how it will be processed in the future once it is transferred to NYU Special Collections.

Each of the interviewees approaches the center, its history, and its physical collections from a different point of view and with slightly differing priorities. Laura, who has lived and collected this history firsthand, is to a large extent responsible for deciding what ephemera from the center’s history should be saved. She also understands the center’s history through the lens of her own experiences, whereas Janet and Danielle are approaching the center’s history from the outside perspective. Janet is the person who would be responsible for organizing the center’s history within the framework of the archive once transferred from the KJCC. She must also ensure that everything that is in the collection can be housed and preserved in such a way that it does not deteriorate and can be made available to serve to researchers. Meanwhile, Danielle approaches the collection from the perspective of the researchers and of her work supporting them, particularly in terms of how this material would converse with other parts of the university’s history and repositories of archival materials. The archival collections at NYU are divided amongst three 66

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repositories: the University Archives, the Tamiment Library and the Fales collection.

Even without its administrative records being there, the KJCC is already somewhat represented in NYU’s Special Collections. Before I interviewed them, Janet and Danielle had already familiarized themselves with the KJCC as it appears in the archival collection for the sake of our class, when we visited to learn about how the KJCC’s history and influence appeared in the repositories. In the interview, Janet explained how the voice of the center itself was not represented in the collection, so it became necessary to look where else people had spoken about it and its work. It was also necessary to locate where the resources and the will for the creation of the center had come from. She said that “in figuring out who those people were, that’s what led me back to John Brademas and then to his Congressional Papers” (Bunde and Nista).

The history of the center intersects with the contents of the University Archives due to John Brademas’ strong personal connection and involvement with the actions of the center during its first years. John Brademas’ administrative papers from his time as president of NYU (1981-1992) form a portion of the University Archives, as do his Congressional Papers, records of his time as a US Congressman from 1977 to 1981. In a dinner for King Juan Carlos I at which he was awarded an honorary degree and the Chair was established in his honor in 1983, Brademas spoke to the “personal bond” that he felt with Spain because “just thirty years ago I wrote my own doctoral dissertation on Spain” (Brademas 82). This event, Brademas writes, “symbolized the dedication of New York University to Hispanic studies in particular” (Brademas 81). Laura Turégano points out that in terms of the KJCC, “it was really Brademas that wanted to create a center on Spain” (Turégano). In the early years of the center, he was also instrumental in using his connections to “the Spanish entrepreneurs and businessmen [and] the king” to help raise the necessary funds to establish and maintain the center and its academic, cultural and outreach programs (Turégano).

In addition, the KJCC’s influence on the study of Spain more broadly at NYU contributed to the accession of the entire Abraham Lincoln Brigade Archive (ALBA) into the Tamiment Collection in 2000. Danielle, who was consulting the library’s Tamiment repository, explained this surprising way in which she first encountered the KJCC in the collection: “I happened across a letter in our collection files from Jim Fernandez, who was the director of KJCC at the time, advocating for this collection to be brought to NYU. So in that way, the KJCC is appearing in our own institutional records, as an actor and not just as a subject and influencing the way that we were able to assist researchers and influencing the way that the archives interact with each other” (Bunde and Nista).

Shifting the KJCC’s administrative archive to NYU Special Collections implies changes in 68

the organization, preservation and access to the materials. In their current organizational structure in the KJCC building, it is possible to thumb through the entirety of the organization’s history in chronological order, or to look at records relating to any one of the chairs that has come through the center. Laura showed me the records following our interview. There were folders dedicated to each event in the center’s history that include relevant documents—largely promotional material, invoices from related payments, email correspondence and any written communication. There are also files dedicated to each of the King Juan Carlos and Andres Bello Chairs who have spent time at the center and the specific events, partnerships, courses and other initiatives they created.

They are very well organized, which Laura herself also attests to. “The more organized you are, the easier it is to work,” she says (Turégano). Currently, it is also possible to speak directly with Laura about the center’s history to better understand it and how it appears in the records she has.

Even when the materials are transferred to Special Collections in the future, Janet affirms that “you’re probably going to find the same organizational structure that whatever person had charge of those records,” which means that Laura’s organization of the center’s administrative files will likely carry over once housed in the University Archives (Bunde and Nista). This will allow future researchers to interpret the material in a context as close to the original as possible.

However, while the organizational structure may remain the same, it will be more difficult to see everything at a glance. Instead of them all being stored in the same handful of filing cabinets and a closet in the KJCC, the materials would be divided into boxes with the rest of NYU’s Special Collections, potentially at an offsite location. It is also important to note that Laura has in recent years stopped printing much of the historical ephemera, opting instead to keep similarly wellorganized digital folders (Turégano).

Because the KJCC’s archival collections will not all be stored as one coherent unit, it may be more difficult to see any gaps in the recorded history. However, because conversations between the KJCC and Special Collections will be ongoing while the archival collections are being transferred, there will be greater clarity regarding these potential gaps. Janet spoke to this as a major benefit both for herself and for researchers in interpreting the collection in the future: That’s where having the initial conversation I had, which will be the first of many, with Jordana and Laura, was super helpful. Because one thing I took away from that conversation was that before Laura was there, records were kept in a different way. So documentation… for the first six to eight years of the center is going to look different and be organized differently, and maybe spottier, because she wasn’t there imposing a particular organizational structure or collecting and saving materials in a particular way.

So that’s information that we can use when we’re processing the collection, that we can communicate to researchers through the finding aid that will help them understand why 69

they may see some things in those first eight years, some kinds of documents that don’t continue. Or something that starts to appear in like 2003 and they’re like, ‘well, where was it before then?’ And we can say with a little more certainty, ‘well, it might not have been created or organized in that way because the person responsible for the organizational structure at the bulk of this collection wasn’t here then (Bunde and Nista).

Having clarity about reasons for peculiarities or gaps in the record better prepares Special Collections staff to assist researchers in interpreting the history they find in the archive.

Preservation is another concern when dealing with archival materials, one where the long-term benefits of the material’s inclusion in NYU’s Special Collections are clear. Special Collections has much greater environmental control, storing all of its materials in temperatureand humidity-controlled spaces, which help to preserve the materials for as long as possible. At the same time, not all of the material that currently makes up the KJCC archive will necessarily wind up in the collections held in the University Archives. The material will be pared down, and so in a sense, not all of it will be preserved. This is a topic Janet discussed in the interview, using as an example “a receipt from a grocery store for food that was at a reception” (Bunde and Nista).

This is the type of documentation that would likely be excluded, “particularly when, as in any large bureaucratic institution, it winds up with a purchase order, and then there’s the catering menu and there’s all these other documents attached to it that might have things like credit card numbers that I really can’t share, that really can’t be opened” (Bunde and Nista).

Ephemera such as invoices and receipts which are currently interspersed with other records from events held at the center may be discarded in favor of ensuring that other, more historically significant items, “like the annual reports from the center that talk about the administrator’s vision for the center and what kind of work it should be doing,” can be included (Bunde and Nista). Other reasons to pare down the material that currently makes up the center’s archive can be as simple as there being duplicates. For example, the KJCC has many leftover flyers, posters, printed calendars, and annual reports, and only one copy of each will be preserved at NYU Special Collections. Archivist and Records Manager Gregory Hunter calls this appraisal and selection process, during which archivists must “decide which materials to add to the archives and which to destroy,” the “heart of archival work” (Hunter 103). While all materials have “some conceivable value,” he says, it is the job of the archivist to “select those records with sufficient value to justify the costs of storage, arrangement, description, preservation, and reference” (Hunter 104).

In terms of access, moving the KJCC archive to Special Collections means putting it in a space where it is expected to be studied, and facilitating that study is central to the everyday purpose of the department. It will be added to the online finding aid, which will describe 70

the contents of the collection. This means that on a logistical level, it will be much easier for researchers to know about the KJCC and access the collection. This ease of access is central to the purpose of archives. Danielle explained: “we want them to be useful. Archives don’t exist to be locked away, they exist to be used by people. Obviously balancing the need for preservation with the need for access, but there’s not much of a point to collections not being used if we’re devoting resources to caring for them” (Bunde and Nista).

Beyond this, it will signify a shift in the way the KJCC and its history are contextualized.

In our interview, Danielle emphasized that “things aren’t made to be put in the archive necessarily. They’re made with some sort of purpose in mind. But eventually someone has to make the choice that this does have historical value, it’s worth saving” (Bunde and Nista). Right now, the history of the KJCC, as a young center, still feels administratively relevant. Since the entire history of the center is easily accessible on Laura’s computer or in her office filing cabinets, it still feels as though the records are fulfilling the purpose which they were intended to fill. By transitioning them to the University Archive and presenting them alongside NYU’s history as a whole, the voice of the center will be positioned in terms of its relation to other entities at the University and to the broader relationships between NYU, Spain and the Spanish speaking world.

The inclusion of the KJCC archives into NYU Special Collections will also unite the extensive records of Brademas’ time as President of NYU and in Congress with ephemera in the KJCC archive that gives insight into his relationship with Spain and more specifically with King Juan Carlos. Laura described to me “two medals that John Brademas got, which are the highest honors that the government of Spain can give to civilians. One is the Isabel la Católica medal, and the other one is Alfonso X El Sabio medal. He also received a letter handwritten by King Juan Carlos, which Brademas received on his 80th birthday” (Turégano). These give insight into the personal and professional connection between Brademas and King Juan Carlos that was likely not previously contained in the archive, and researchers will be able to consult it and other ephemera like it in conversation with the other materials in the repositories such as Brademas’ Congressional Papers.

There will likely be many other interesting connections like these to be found between the KJCC’s archival collections and the existing repositories at NYU Special Collections. Of these unexpected connections, Danielle said, “it just shows how you’ve got to let the archives kind of show you paths and show you different connections in different ways. And even if a researcher has consulted a collection a thousand times over, or several researchers have consulted a collection a thousand times over, there’s always something new to discover because someone else is going to 71

bring a new lens to that end” (Bunde and Nista).

Moving the KJCC’s archival history to NYU Special Collections ensures that the impact of the KJCC on the community, on the university and on scholarship related to Spain and the Spanish-speaking world will be felt long past its 25th anniversary. It positions the center as a wellestablished place, one whose founding and early history were long ago enough to be studied and considered alongside the history of the university as a whole.

Bibliography Brademas, John. “International Education.” Washington, D.C. to Washington Square. New York: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1986.

Bunde, Janet, and Danielle Nista. Personal interview. 7 December, 2021.

Hunter, Gregory S. “Selection and Appraisal.” Developing and Maintaining Practical Archives: A How-To-Do-It Manual, American Library Association, 2020. Web. Turégano, Laura. Personal interview. 8 December, 2021.

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Pulling Focus: Reconsidering the Photographic Archive in Southern Peru Christine Mladic Janney 83-year-old Javier Glave first showed me the material he had saved from his father’s photography studio in early 2016. A good deal of it was being stored in the office area of a rugged warehouse space in one of Arequipa’s industrial corridors, about a half-hour drive from the city center. He said that he had done his best to try to take care of it over the years, but earthquakes, theft, and the impact of Arequipa’s desert climate had taken their toll. As he held some negatives up to the light streaming in through a small window, it was clear that the dramatic shift in humidity between the dry and rainy seasons, and the passing of time, had caused severe damage to the balance of chemicals holding on to the images in negative form, with many of them beginning to fade. Box upon box of Kodak, Agfa, and Hammer dry glass plates were stacked on piles that had been consumed by a thick layer of dust; even inside the boxes, dust had crept between each plate.

Javier made it clear that he was eager, at that point in his life, to have more people appreciate the work of his father, Manuel Jesús Glave Gomez (b.1896-d.1981), who worked for many years with his studio partner, Victor Alcázar. He thought that he might be able to achieve greater national and international circulation of their work by collaborating with me, a doctoral scholar from NYU conducting fieldwork about photographic practice in Peru. In return, I would help to conserve, digitize, and disseminate his father’s photographic legacy.

Photographic archives are currently on the move in Peru, both physically and conceptually. While much photographic material remains as a kind of family heirloom—such as that of the Studio Glave-Alcázar—institutions are taking greater interest in acquiring it for 74

Cambio de foco: reconsiderando el concepto de archivo fotográfico en el sur del Perú traducido por Ros Postigo A principios del año 2016, Javier Glave, de 83 años, me mostró por primera vez el material que había guardado del estudio fotográfico de su padre. Una gran parte de este archivo estaba almacenado en un depósito de una de las zonas industriales de Arequipa, ubicada aproximadamente a media hora en auto del centro de la ciudad. Javier me contó que había hecho todo lo posible por cuidarlo durante muchos años, pero los terremotos, los robos y el impacto del clima desértico de Arequipa inevitablemente le habían pasado factura. Mientras él sostenía algunos negativos a la luz que por una pequeña ventana iluminaba la habitación, se hizo evidente que el cambio dramático de humedad entre las estaciones seca y lluviosa de la ciudad, junto al paso del tiempo, habían ocasionado graves daños en la estabilidad química de los materiales ocasionando el desvanecimiento de las imágenes. Cajas de cajas de placas de vidrio seco de las marcas Kodak, Agfa y Hammer, estaban apiladas en medio de una capa gruesa de polvo, el mismo que había ingresado dentro de las cajas cubriendo cada una de las placas.

En ese momento de su vida, Javier dejó claro que se sentía ansioso por que más personas conocieran y aprecieran el trabajo de su padre, Manuel Jesús Glave Gómez (n.1896 - d.1981), quien había trabajado durante muchos años en sociedad con el fotógrafo Víctor Alcázar. Javier vió una oportunidad y pensó que podría lograr que el trabajo de su padre obtuviera difusión nacional e internacional colaborando conmigo, una estudiante de doctorado de la Universidad de Nueva York que se encontraba en Arequipa realizando un trabajo de campo sobre la práctica fotográfica en Perú. A cambio, lo ayudaría a conservar, digitalizar y difundir el legado fotográfico de su padre.

Los archivos fotográficos en Perú se encuentran actualmente en movimiento, tanto física como conceptualmente. Si bien gran parte de los archivos aún permanecen como herencia familiar, como lo fue el archivo del estudio Glave-Alcázar, las instituciones públicas y privadas se están interesando cada vez más en adquirirlos para sus colecciones. No solo se habla de los archivos fotográficos como patrimonio local, sino que también han empezado a ser registrados legalmente como Patrimonio Cultural de la Nación, como ha sido el caso del archivo de Martín 75

their collections. Not only are photographic

Chambi. Archivos enteros o parte de ellos,

archives talked about as local forms of

están cambiando de posesión a través de

patrimonio, but they are also beginning to

caminos difíciles de seguirles el rastro, pasan

be legally registered as Patrimonio Cultural

por manos de turistas, dueños de tiendas de

de la Nación (National Cultural Heritage),

antigüedades, académicos, coleccionistas,

which is what occurred with the archive of

vendedores de mercadillos, entre otros.

Martín Chambi. Portions of archives and

A través de estos y otros procesos, se han

entire collections are changing possession

ampliado los marcos conceptuales en torno

through circuitous pathways, passing

a las fotografías y los archivos fotográficos.

through the hands of tourists, antique store

El término “archivo fotográfico”

owners, academics, collectors, flea market

hoy se menciona con mucha frecuencia

vendors, and others. Through these and

en el mundo de la fotografía peruana.

other processes, the conceptual frames

Por ejemplo, lo hallamos en el evento que

around photographs and photographic

lleva por nombre “Encuentro de Archivos

archives are also expanding.

Fotográficos” gestado por la escuela de

The term “archivo fotográfico”

fotografía Centro de la Imagen ubicada

(photographic archive) is mentioned with

en Lima, Perú. Se utiliza en artículos

great frequency in Peruvian photography

periodísticos, tesis, exposiciones y libros,

today. It is in the title of the event series,

así como también en conversaciones

“Encuentro de Archivos Fotográficos”

coloquiales. Comprender los significados

(Photographic Archive Conference),

que hay detrás del término “archivos

organized by the Centro de la Imagen of

fotográficos” es fundamental, pues no solo

Lima, Peru. It is used in newspaper articles,

influye en cómo el material fotográfico

theses, exhibitions, and books, as well as in

histórico será tratado, sino que también

colloquial conversation. Understanding the

dará forma a la construcción (o negación)

meanings of “archivo fotográfico” is critical,

de diferentes “imaginarios de archivo”

however, because they not only influence

(Ginsburg 2018). El término no es sencillo,

how historical photographic material might

pues combina dos conceptos que ya son

be treated, but also shape the production (or

bastante precarios por sí mismos. Aunque la

denial) of different “archival imaginaries”

percepción común del archivo lo presente

(Ginsburg 2018).

como una fuente de conocimiento sobre el

The term itself is hardly straightforward,

pasado contenido en soportes materiales, los

combining two concepts that are already

estudios que analizan la teoría y la práctica

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rather precarious on their own. Although a common perception of an archive presents it as a source of knowledge about the past that is found in the content of material items, scholarship analyzing archival practice and theory reveals otherwise. An archive is neither static nor stable, but an “active historical process” (Edwards and Morton 2009). Rather than sites of knowledge retrieval, archives are sites of knowledge production (Stoler 2002). Archives have come to exist the way they do (or don’t) because of the logic, structures and power dynamics at work within and around them (Foucault 1972; Derrida 1996, 2002), which is why analysis of form is just as important as that of content (Stoler 2002).

On the other hand, while adding “photographic” may appear to help specify the material nature of the archive, potentially aiming to distinguish between an archive of documents (with or without photographs in it) versus an archive of primarily photographic images, this is hardly the result. After all, what counts as “photographic” material? The boundaries of the photographic archive are difficult to trace, with the inclusion and treatment of items like cameras, enlargers, chemical bottles, and frames remaining unclear. The ideas of the “original” and the “historical” can also be elusive when dealing with photography.

Is the original image found in the photographic negative, or the positive photographic print? What if no negative was ever made, or it wasn’t saved? Can a print achieve original status if it was printed by an assistant as well as the photographer? Is a photographic print historical if it was created before a certain year, or can it be historical if it was printed recently but from a particularly old negative? Just as a photographer might change the focal plane from one shot to the next, scholars, collectors, and practitioners alike are pulling focus on the photographic archive itself, offering new ways to expand interpretation, interact with material, and challenge existing power dynamics.

Featuring images made by the Studio Glave-Alcázar and images made during the investigation of this photographic practice, this photo essay offers a wide view of the 78

archivística revelan lo contrario. En ese sentido, un archivo no es estático ni estable, sino que es un “proceso histórico activo” (Edwards y Morton 2009). Más que un espacio de recuperación de conocimiento o memoria, los archivos son espacios de producción de conocimiento (Stoler 2002). Los archivos han llegado a existir tal como son (o no) debido a la lógica, estructuras y dinámicas de poder que operan dentro y alrededor de ellos (Foucault 1972; Derrida 1996, 2002), por ese motivo el análisis de la forma resulta tan importante como la del contenido (Stoler 2002).

Por otro lado, si bien agregar la palabra “fotográfico” puede parecer que ayuda a especificar la naturaleza del material de un archivo, tal vez con el objetivo de distinguir entre un archivo de documentos (con o sin fotografías) frente a un archivo principalmente de imágenes fotográficas, esta es una especificidad aún difícil de lograr. Después de todo ¿qué cuenta como material “fotográfico”? Los límites de un archivo fotográfico son difíciles de trazar, y la inclusión de elementos como cámaras, ampliadoras, botellas de productos químicos, marcos, entre otros, siguen sin estar claros. Las ideas de lo que se denomina como “original” e “histórico” también pueden ser esquivas cuando se habla de fotografía. ¿La imagen original se encuentra en el negativo o en la impresión positiva? ¿Qué pasa si nunca se hizo un negativo o no se guardó? ¿Puede una impresión positiva considerarse como original si esta fue impresa por un asistente y no por el fotógrafo que capturó la imagen? ¿Se considera histórica una impresión fotográfica si fue creada antes de un determinado año, o puede ser histórica si fue impresa recientemente pero a partir de un negativo antiguo? Así como un fotógrafo puede cambiar el plano focal entre una captura y otra; los coleccionistas, académicos y profesionales cambian el foco de un archivo ofreciendo nuevas formas de expandir su interpretación, de interactuar con el material y de desafiar las dinámicas de poder existentes.

A través de imágenes producidas por el estudio Glave-Alcázar y del registro visual de la investigación de su práctica fotográfica, este ensayo ofrece una visión amplia de aquello que se entiende como “archivo fotográfico”, sirviendo, además, como un recurso de contemplación visual para reflexionar sobre estos debates. El estudio de las imágenes y del material fotográfico 79

“photographic archive,” serving as a visual contemplation of such ongoing concerns. Study of the photographic images and material that are property of the Glave family continues, as well as conservation efforts. To see more images from the archive, and to watch videos featuring the history of photography in Arequipa and an interview with Javier Glave, please visit the virtual photography exhibition curated by Christine Mladic Janney, Ros Postigo y Juan Carlos Belón of CIEFO, La Otra Ribera, at https://ucsp.edu.pe/glaveyalcazar/laotraribera/. Any additional information related to this essay can be sent to: ciefo.peru@gmail.com.

Captions of in-text photos in order of appearance, left to right, top to bottom: Javier Glave holding a collection of photo postcards made either by the Studio Glave-Alcázar or Casa Glave in Arequipa, Peru.

Photograph by Christine Mladic Janney, 2016.

Three bottles of chemicals found in the photographic archive of the Studio Glave-Alcázar.

Photograph by Christine Mladic Janney, 2016.

Javier Glave inspecting a glass plate negative in the storage unit in Arequipa city where he kept archival materials from the Studio Glave-Alcázar.

Photograph by Christine Mladic Janney, 2016.

Research Assistant Leonilda Humpiri Puma cleaning and scanning glass plate negatives from the archive of the Studio Glave-Alcázar in Arequipa, Peru.

Photograph by Christine Mladic Janney, 2016.

The studio camera used by Manuel Jesús Glave and Victor Alcázar. The lens is engraved with the “Max T. Vargas,” who was one of the most important and influential photographers working at the turn of the 20th century in the southern Andes.

Photograph by Christine Mladic Janney, 2016.

Boxes of glass plate negatives that form part of the photographic archive of the Studio GlaveAlcázar.

Photograph by Christine Mladic Janney, 2016.

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que es de propiedad de la familia Glave aún sigue en curso, así como los esfuerzos para su conservación. Para ver más contenido relacionado al archivo Glave-Alcázar, visite la exposición virtual permanente “La otra ribera”, curada por Christine Mladic Janney, Ros Postigo y Juan Carlos Belón de CIEFO, en el siguiente enlace: https://ucsp.edu.pe /glaveyalcazar/laotraribera/.

Para obtener mayor información relacionada con este ensayo, puede escribir a ciefo.peru@gmail. com.

Leyendas para las fotos en texto en orden de aparición, de izquierda a derecha, de arriba a abajo: Javier Glave con una colección de postales fotográficas realizadas por el Studio Glave-Alcázar o Casa Glave en Arequipa, Perú.

Fotografía tomada por Christine Mladic Janney, 2016.

Tres botellas de productos químicos encontradas en el archivo fotográfico del Estudio Glave-Alcázar.

Fotografía tomada por Christine Mladic Janney, 2016.

Javier Glave inspeccionando un negativo de placa de vidrio en el depósito donde guardaba materiales de archivo del estudio Glave-Alcázar, Arequipa, Perú.

Fotografía tomada por Christine Mladic Janney, 2016.

Asistente de investigación Leonilda Humpiri Puma limpiando y escaneando negativos de placas de vidrio del archivo del Estudio Glave-Alcázar en Arequipa, Perú.

Fotografía tomada por Christine Mladic Janney, 2016.

La cámara fotográfica del estudio de Manuel Jesús Glave y Victor Alcázar. El lente está grabado con “Max T. Vargas”, quien fue uno de los fotógrafos más importantes e influyentes que trabajaron a principios del siglo XX en el sur de los Andes.

Fotografía tomada por Christine Mladic Janney, 2016.

Cajas de negativos en placa de vidrio que forman parte del archivo fotográfico del Estudio Glave-Alcázar.

Fotografía tomada por Christine Mladic Janney, 2016.

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Manuel Jesús Glave outside the Studio of the Brothers Vargas in the Plaza de Armas of Arequipa city, where he apprenticed and worked as a retoucher before opening his own studio with Victor Alcázar.

Photograph found in the Archive of the Studio Glave-Alcázar, unknown year.

Manuel Jesús Glave afuera del Estudio de los Hermanos Vargas en la Plaza de Armas de la ciudad de Arequipa, donde fue aprendiz y trabajó como retocador antes de abrir su propio estudio con Víctor Alcázar.

Fotografía encontrada en el Archivo del Estudio Glave-Alcázar,, año desconocido.

Manuel Jesús Glave (far right) with unidentified men.

Photograph found in the Archive of the Studio Glave-Alcázar, unknown year.

Manuel Jesús Glave (extremo derecho) con hombres no identificados.

Fotografía encontrada en el Archivo del Estudio Glave-Alcázar, año desconocido.

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Manuel Jesús Glave (far right) with peers and retouching equipment in an unidentified photography studio.

Photograph found in the Archive of the Studio Glave-Alcázar, unknown year.

Manuel Jesús Glave (extremo derecho) con compañeros y equipo de retoque en un estudio de fotografía no identificado.

Fotografía encontrada en el Archivo del Estudio GlaveAlcázar, año desconocido.

View from the balcony of the Studio Glave-Alcázar, located above the Glave family home on Alameda Pardo in Arequipa, Peru.

Photograph found in the Archive of the Studio Glave-Alcázar, unknown year.

Vista desde el balcón del Estudio Glave-Alcázar, ubicado sobre la casa de la familia Glave en la Alameda Pardo en Arequipa, Perú.

Fotografía encontrada en el Archivo del Estudio Glave-Alcázar, año desconocido.

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Photograph found in the Archive of the Studio Glave-Alcázar, unknown year.

Fotografía encontrada en el Archivo del Estudio Glave-Alcázar, año desconocido.

Photograph found in the Archive of the Studio GlaveAlcázar, unknown year.

Fotografía encontrada en el Archivo del Estudio GlaveAlcázar, año desconocido.

Photograph found in the Archive of the Studio Glave-Alcázar, unknown year.

Fotografía encontrada en el Archivo del Estudio Glave-Alcázar, año desconocido.

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Photograph found in the Archive of the Studio Glave-Alcázar, unknown year.

Fotografía encontrada en el Archivo del Estudio GlaveAlcázar, año desconocido.

Photograph found in the Archive of the Studio GlaveAlcázar, unknown year.

Fotografía encontrada en el Archivo del Estudio GlaveAlcázar, año desconocido.

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Desarmar narrativas: archivos y museos Una experiencia en clase Ana Leonor Romero Hacer archivo me resulta siempre un gran programa. Quizás porque cuando leo documentos el tiempo se detiene, quizás porque siempre es un misterio a desentrañar, o quizás porque soy historiadora y me gusta lo que hago. Explorar un archivo es como viajar; puedo recorrer espacios por primera vez y ver otros mundos donde a veces las cuestiones me resultan familiares y otras extrañas.

En los últimos años la multiplicación de los archivos digitales acrecentó ese potencial.

El giro digital, como se le ha llamado a esta transformación cuantitativa y cualitativa del acceso a los documentos, impactó sobre el modo de hacer historia y de reflexionar sobre el pasado.

Acercó, virtualmente, archivos ubicados en espacios remotos rompiendo límites materiales de la práctica de la investigación histórica. Posibilitó deslocalizar las investigaciones, indagar con mayor facilidad por fuera de los límites de la narrativa del Estado Nación, establecer conexiones y diversificar más las agendas de investigación1. Como investigadora latinoamericana, la posibilidad de acceder a archivos digitales en España o Estados Unidos me permitió profundizar la perspectiva global y transnacional de mis indagaciones.

Para mí este no fue, ni es, el único beneficio del giro digital. Desde 2017 form parte del Comité Editorial del sitio que alberga la obra y los papeles del historiador argentino José Luis Romero, mi abuelo2. La digitalización nos permitió poner al alcance público su legado como historiador y como ciudadano, que en mí confluye en el aprendizaje del oficio y en la posibilidad de recorrer una obra que fue fundamental en mi formación. Mi participación en el proceso de 1.. Sobre el impacto de los archivos digitales en la investigación, su articulación con la Historia Global y sus límites ver: Putnam, L. “The transnational and the Text-Searchable: Digitized Sourced and the shadows they casts” The American Historical Review. Abril 2016; 21 (2), 377–402. Red. 2.. José Luis Romero (1909-1977) Historiador argentino. Profesor de la Universidad Nacional de La Plata, de la República del Uruguay y de la Universidad de Buenos Aires, de la que fue Rector y Decano de la Facultad de Filosofía y Letras. Allí creó la Cátedra de Historia Social General que tuvo una influencia decisiva en la renovación historiográfica de la década de 1960. Especializado en historia medieval europea, su obra analiza la historia del mundo occidental desde sus orígenes greco-romanos al presente. Analizó el desarrollo de la mentalidad burguesa surgida en la edad media y su crisis en el siglo XX. Su abarcadora visión de la expansión europea incluye estudios sobre la sociedad y la política en la Argentina y América Latina. El sitio José Luis Romero. Obras completas y archivo digital (https:// jlromero.com.ar/) del cual Nicolás Quiroga es codirector del proyecto de digitalización y del archivo digital reúne sus obras completas y papeles personales.

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digitalización me abrió una ventana a los complejos entramados que acompañan el desarrollo de las humanidades digitales, el peso que tienen las lógicas de programación y los formatos en los que los archivos son guardados y recuperados. Lógicas tan complejas como las de los archivos materiales.

Los archivos físicos, sobre todo los públicos, ofrecen el encanto de la experiencia corporal de transitar esas lógicas, de aventurarnos en los procesos de almacenamiento y memoria que tiene el Estado. Cada visita a un archivo es única y cada investigador realiza una observación propia al adentrarse en sus pasillos. La sola etnografía de un archivo permite un plus en la indagación de su acervo: ver las relaciones de poder y el lugar que ocupan las distintas colecciones en los sistemas de almacenamiento. El modo en que se ordena, clasifica y pauta el acceso a esas colecciones es un modo de armar un relato sobre las mismas. Por sobre todo, en contraste con la digital, la experiencia del archivo permite situar los documentos en el entramado local, entender sus dimensiones físicas, tocarlos, palparlos, sumando así su dimensión material y develando el entramado de su contexto de producción3.

En América Latina, y en la Argentina en particular, los archivos cobran un lugar central no sólo como acervos públicos del funcionamiento institucional sino también como espacio de memoria, un lugar donde reunir el material referente a un pasado reciente y doloroso que aún está siendo indagado no sólo por historiadores sino también por organismos de derechos humanos y por la opinión pública4. Su emplazamiento combina en varios casos ambas cuestiones.

Así, el Archivo Nacional de la Memoria preserva la documentación sobre el quebrantamiento de derechos humanos en la Argentina, posee fondos de origen público y privado y está ubicado en Espacio Memoria y Derechos Humanos (ex ESMA), emplazado en lo que fue un centro de detención clandestino en el interior de una institución estatal, la Escuela de Mecánica de la Armada5. Hoy, como sitio de memoria además de archivo, ofrece un espacio en donde se despliegan testimonios de ese momento histórico, buscando aportar a la comprensión sobre cómo se planificó y ejecutó el terrorismo de Estado en la Argentina y sus consecuencias en el presente.

Los aportes de les estudiantes de NYU en Buenos Aires que realizaron pasantías en este espacio han sido en mi clase un elemento central para profundizar el debate sobre las lógicas internas de almacenamiento y despliegue de sus colecciones y el modo en que los Estados, y cada una de sus

3.. Sobre las experiencias en el archivo: Farge, A. La atracción del archivo, Valencia: Edicions Alfons el Magnanim, 1991. Caimari, L. La vida en el archivo. Goces, tedios y desvíos en el oficio de la historia, Buenos Aires: Siglo XXI, 2017.

4.. Ver entre otros: Jelin, E. “Public Memorialization in Perspective: Truth, Justice and Memory of Past Repression in the Southern Cone of South America” The International Journal of Transitional Justice. 2007; Vol. 1, 138.156. Web. 5.. Para más información sobre el Archivo ver: https://www.argentina.gob.ar/derechoshumanos/ANM. Para más información sobre el sitio https://www.espaciomemoria.ar/

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instituciones, establecen una relación con el pasado.

Al igual que ir a un archivo o realizar una pasantía, la experiencia de estudiar historia latinoamericana en un espacio latinoamericano como Buenos Aires es una oportunidad para situar lo estudiado y contextualizarlo. La mirada de quien viaja, exploradora y extrañada, es similar a la de quien visita un archivo buscando desentrañar sus lógicas. Dar la clase de Introduction to Latin American Studies en Buenos Aires para estudiantes de NYU me planteó el reto de trazar un diálogo entre mis preconcepciones sobre Latinoamérica, su historia y su presente y las de los estudiantes y, luego, el desafío de iniciar una deconstrucción. Esta clase inicial, generalmente reúne estudiantes de distintas orientaciones para adentrarse por primera vez en los rudimentos de la perspectiva histórica para desarmar a partir de un abordaje crítico las múltiples narrativas sobre América Latina. El primer día de clases les estímulo a ser parte de este proceso: les propongo poner en papel, y sólo para su propio beneficio, sus ideas e impresiones previas al viaje sobre lo que esperaban encontrar en su estadía, sobre la historia latinoamericana y sus expectativas del semestre para que luego, al final de la cursada, lo relean y reflexionen sobre si se transformó su visión y cómo.

El desafío es poder incorporar en este proceso la experiencia específica de la investigación histórica, del archivo, que ofrece una herramienta para reflexionar sobre las lógicas narrativas y para desarmarlas, en un curso introductorio, heterogéneo y situado.

Las visitas a los museos me permiten ofrecerles este recurso. Museos y archivos despliegan los mismos objetos con propósitos diferentes y para públicos distintos; en muchos casos una misma institución despliega sus colecciones en estas dos direcciones. Mientras que los archivos organizan sus acervos para ser recuperados por quienes buscan información, los museos despliegan sus colecciones construyendo imágenes de un pasado, armando una narrativa y dando forma a la historia pública6.

Estas narrativas interpelan, en tanto turistas y visitantes extranjeros, directamente a los estudiantes de ILAS. La propuesta es incitarlos a aceptar esta interpelación e instarlos a desafiarla.

Visitar así dos espacios vinculados con nudos temáticos del syllabus, gestionados de modos distintos y emplazados en sitios que permiten pensar un recorrido etnográfico por la ciudad.

Una primera visita al Museo Evita –de gestión autónoma, vinculado al Instituto Nacional de Investigaciones Históricas Eva Perón7– está dirigida a trabajar las imágenes del peronismo y de uno de sus principales íconos. El uso de la imagen en este espacio es central; de hecho el análisis 6.. Sobre el papel de los museos en las narrativas históricas ver: Blasco, M. E., Pagano, P., Di Marco, J., Di Meglio, G., Katz, M., Sarsale, C., Carman, C., Gómez, F., Finocchio, S., Paganini, M., y Lorenz, F. “Investigación, transferencia y gestión en museos históricos”, Cuadernos del Instituto Ravignani. 2021; 01, Segunda Serie. Web. 7.. Para más información del museo: https://museoevita.org.ar/

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del Instagram del Museo proveyó en tiempos de aislamiento social un dispositivo para desarmar el modo en que se presenta la imagen de Eva y su vinculación con el presente. Una segunda visita, al finalizar el curso, al Museo del Bicentenario –dependencia del gobierno nacional y emplazado en la Casa de Gobierno8– que presenta una narrativa de la historia argentina articulada en torno a las gestiones presidenciales está orientada a pensar el papel de los grandes relatos nacionales.

Los museos permiten sumar otro tipo de fuentes –diferentes, principalmente vinculadas con imágenes– del repertorio de la investigación histórica y presentar abanicos de los modos de acceso a un acervo histórico. La etnografía de esas visitas se plasma en ensayos estructurados que buscan explicitar estas conexiones.

Como resultado, he tenido el privilegio de leer una variedad de análisis, impresiones y agudas reflexiones originales sobre estos espacios. Les estudiantes ponen a prueba sus intuiciones, colocan en juego los temas discutidos en clase y vinculan el pasado con los procesos del presente.

Más de una vez, me encontré sorprendida por las vinculaciones que establecen en sus lecturas del pasado con los colectivos actuales, con sus propias experiencias y con la coyuntura política local que les tocó transitar durante su visita. Todas las veces me sentí interpelada a cuestionar mis propias interpretaciones.

La visita al Museo del Bicentenario es además un trabajo de cierre y balance. En él les propongo que analicen la narrativa del museo y, a partir de ese disparador, escriban un ensayo que vincule lo que ven en el museo, lo trabajado en clase, y su propia experiencia en Buenos Aires. Mi invitación es a que evidencien el proceso de deconstrucción de narrativas propias y ajenas sobre América Latina. Les desafío a que relean con esa mirada ese primer escrito, revisen su experiencia casi de modo etnográfico y lo contrasten con lo discutido y analizado; que plasman, a partir del ejercicio, su propio proceso de transformación de ideas.

En este intercambio, esa mirada de quien se animó a ese proceso, una mirada extrañada del cotidiano, me ofreció nuevas perspectivas para cuestionar mis propias narrativas de la Argentina y de América Latina. Por sobre todo me señaló, y sigue señalándome, mis puntos ciegos, aquellos que por estar acostumbrada o muy inmersa en la situación no puedo desarmar. Al llamarme la atención sobre cuestiones como el papel de la violencia, el aspecto racial del conflicto social, el lugar cotidiano del debate político me iluminó aristas de procesos que de otro modo me quedarían solapados y fragmentados.

8.. Para más información del museo: https://www.casarosada.gob.ar/la-casa-rosada/museo

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Selección de imágenes de la serie de Jorge Ribalta, Restauración, 2017-18. Cortesía del Banco de España.

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Restauración (la autenticidad del material) Jorge Ribalta “El oro y la autenticidad son justamente expresión de la fungibilidad, de la comparabilidad de las cosas” Theodor W. Adorno, Prueba del oro (Minima Moralia, 1945).

El concepto de truth to material o de la verdad o autenticidad del material es consustancial a la arquitectura y las artes de la modernidad. Su teorización se remonta a John Ruskin, que dictaminó que “ninguna forma ni materia deben ser representadas con falsedad” (Las siete lámparas de la arquitectura, 1849). Cada material tiene sus cualidades singulares y la comprensión y el respeto de tal especificidad de los materiales y de la pureza de las artes es un imperativo. Los materiales se muestran a sí mismos: cada uno sirve para una función y una forma, y eso debe ser legible, nunca ocultado. Esa verdad, a la vez estética y moral, es lo moderno.

Ningún medio se debe transformar en otro. En fotografía, este imperativo de pureza en el uso de métodos fotográficos genuinos (Paul Strand, Photography, 1917) produce el rechazo al mimetismo de la pintura en favor de los principios de nitidez, objetividad y funcionalismo.

Sobre tales principios se basa la idea documental que surge en la década de 1920 con la primera democratización/masificación de la tecnología fotográfica, cuyo emblema es la cámara Leica (de hecho, esa es la segunda democratización: la primera es el nacimiento de Kodak y la implantación del gelatinobromuro en la década de 1880; una tercera, la era Instamatic, culminará en la década de 1970). Los procedimientos pigmentarios de positivado, que caracterizaron las estéticas de la primera modernidad fotográfica en el cambio de siglo XIX al XX, son abandonados en favor del papel al gelatinobromuro. Los métodos artesanales dejan paso definitivamente a los materiales producidos industrialmente.

[Excurso: Con la masificación de los medios digitales, Internet y las redes sociales en el tránsito del siglo XX al XXI –¿una cuarta democratización?–, la autenticidad del material en fotografía se complica. Los papeles y las técnicas de impresión de tinta evolucionan en busca de la calidad fotoquímica. Esto es, imitan o intentan reproducir la materialidad de las copias al gelatinobromuro. En esa búsqueda, Leica replica el diseño de su clásica cámara telemétrica 91

y produce en 2012 un modelo digital monocromático. Más allá de la aristocrática Leica, en las cámaras digitales la pantalla sustituye al visor directo. Este pequeño detalle de la desaparición del visor y de la visión directa en la cámara explica un profundo cambio epistémico del dispositivo fotográfico digital. De hecho, con los medios digitales acaso asistimos a la desaparición de la cámara como tal, al quedar integrada en el teléfono móvil y, de ahí, en las redes sociales. La autenticidad del material en las técnicas fotográficas digitales es inauténtica, es un mimetismo. A pesar de la masificación de la fotografía digital, la tecnología fotoquímica persiste. Doblemente: persiste como tal y persiste como un inconsciente o precondición de la fotografía digital. Persiste de manera auténtica y de manera inauténtica, por así decir. Hoy, el fotógrafo no tiene más remedio que tomar partido a favor o en contra de la autenticidad del material, escoger entre verdad o falsedad. Aunque este dilema se presente de forma equívoca, confusa o híbrida, incluso fantasmagórica, porque la fotografía con medios digitales ya no es propiamente fotografía sino otro medio diferente, como lo es el video del cine. Su autenticidad permanece indefinida.]

Esta serie sobre la restauración de la fachada del Banco de España se basa en la adopción lo más literal posible de los principios de la autenticidad (óptica y fotoquímica) del material fotográfico propios de los discursos de modernidad fotográfica tal como se formulan en la década fundacional de 1920.

Esa adopción tiene diversos subtextos. Mencionaré dos.

Uno de ellos es reconocer la simultaneidad histórica de Ruskin y Marx. La “autenticidad del material” es uno de los discursos que adopta el surgimiento del materialismo histórico. En torno a 1850, además de Ruskin y Marx, se inicia la era de la fotografía reproducible y de los álbumes (la fotografía “pública”), con la revolución tecnológica del colodión y la albúmina, la mítica “edad de oro” de la fotografía previa a su industrialización en la década de 1880. Esa primera revolución de la tecnología fotográfica constituye un momento fundacional, aunque su reconocimiento y teorización no se producirá sino medio siglo más tarde, entre lo que inicia Paul Strand (circa 1916) y culmina Walter Benjamin (Pequeña historia de la fotografía, 1931 y La obra de arte en la época de su reproductibilidad técnica, 1936). La comprensión del surgimiento de la fotografía como una traducción tecnológica de los discursos del materialismo histórico nos lleva de nuevo a Benjamin, en donde además tanto la fotografía como el materialismo histórico (o la fotografía como materialismo histórico) adquieren nuevos sentidos. Benjamin hace una crítica al materialismo histórico en sus tesis de filosofía de la historia (1940), donde lo compara con un autómata. El estudio de la historia no puede reducirse a un marco teórico preconcebido y sobre-determinado, es necesario un concepto más poroso y delicado de la historia. Habla de 92

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cómo la tarea del materialista histórico es cepillar la historia a contrapelo. Esta idea de acción “a contrapelo” es importante para la fotografía, y reaparecerá cuarenta años más tarde con Allan Sekula, al retomar el testigo dejado por Benjamin y denominar justamente como “fotografía a contrapelo” su proyecto artístico, en su primer y más importante libro (Photography Against the Grain, 1984). En suma, mi argumento es que la filosofía de la autenticidad del material de las artes y en particular de la fotografía, que se formula al inicio del siglo XX, se fundamenta y es una consecuencia de la confluencia de discursos y tecnologías (en torno al materialismo histórico) que se produce hacia 1850 y que eso es algo constitutivo de la fotografía, una suerte de inconsciente que emerge de diversas formas y en diversos momentos.

El otro subtexto es la relación o equivalencia de la fotografía y el dinero. De nuevo en torno a 1850, Oliver Wendell Holmes estableció una analogía impagable y visionaria entre los archivos fotográficos y el dinero. Con la existencia y proliferación de archivos fotográficos se abría la posibilidad de un sistema universal de intercambio de imágenes que equiparaba las fotografías con los billetes de banco. En un giro inesperado de la idea que marca la aparición de la fotografía, introducida por Fox Talbot veinte años antes (Photogenic Drawing, 1839), de que con la fotografía la naturaleza se representa a sí misma, Wendell Holmes aporta una nueva dimensión a esa misma idea: la fotografía como un gran “Banco de la Naturaleza” (The Stereoscope and the Stereograph, 1859). Si la fotografía es un instrumento de cosificación, el archivo fotográfico es por tanto un banco (¿acaso no estamos, por otro lado, ante una formulación avant la lettre del “capitalismo mundial integrado” de Guattari?). La reformulación que hace Wendell Holmes de Fox Talbot se puede sintetizar así: con la fotografía, el capitalismo se representa a sí mismo.

Estas consideraciones vienen a cuento ante la tarea de fotografiar un banco. Al fotógrafo se le ocurre que fotografiar el banco es la “prueba del oro” de autenticidad de la fotografía. Y si además se trata del Banco de España (el Banco), el fotógrafo se da cuenta de que se enfrenta también a la cuestión nacional (ese otro inconsciente que no le abandona a uno, aunque uno lo abandone a él). Resulta que el fotógrafo fotografía el Banco durante las obras de restauración y limpieza de su fachada en 2017 y 2018. Al constatar que el edificio del Banco data de la década de 1880, el fotógrafo (que entiende el dispositivo fotográfico como una máquina histórica o, valga la pirueta semántica, una “máquina del tiempo”) no puede sino relacionarlo con la historia de la fotografía (el inicio de la era Kodak, digamos) y además con el periodo histórico de la Restauración borbónica en España (1874-1931). Así, el edificio del Banco se le aparece como un documento/monumento de la Restauración. La idea de restauración adquiere pues un doble sentido: la restauración de la Restauración. ¿La Restauración se representa a sí misma?

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El 28 octubre de 2015 se produjo un desprendimiento de un canecillo de la cornisa del edificio del Banco de España sobre la calle Alcalá, tras el cual se instaló un andamio en todo el perímetro de la fachada exterior (calle Alcalá, paseo del Prado, calle Madrazo), y una red en las cornisas altas para garantizar la seguridad y para proceder al estudio técnico de la piedra de la fachada. El estudio detectó fisuras y síntomas de inicio de fractura de varios otros canecillos de mármol de Carrara en la cara inferior de la cornisa de la calle Alcalá. Las obras de restauración consistieron en la sustitución de los canecillos afectados y el refuerzo preventivo de los elementos de la cornisa superior. El dispositivo para la restauración estructural de la cornisa se aprovechó para la limpieza de las fachadas externas. Las obras se iniciaron en febrero de 2017 y se prolongaron durante un año. A lo largo de 2017 secciones del andamio se fueron desmontando a medida que se iban completando los trabajos. Los últimos tramos del andamio en la calle Alcalá se retiraron en febrero de 2018.

Las fotografías realizadas durante las obras de restauración de la fachada no constituyen un seguimiento exhaustivo ni sistemático del proceso de las obras, aunque aspiran a constituir un documento de ese episodio en la historia del Banco. Abren una dimensión meditativa sobre la institución del Banco y su historia a partir de la documentación fotográfica de las obras. El andamio y los elementos de refuerzo estructural son una prótesis en el edificio, que palian un estado de debilidad o convalecencia [Otro excurso: la posible equiparación de ese estado con el de enfermedad gubernamental/institucional endémica característico de la era Rajoy en España, iniciada en 2011 –y en la que se produjo la abdicación del rey Juan Carlos I en 2014-, queda como tarea para el lector o espectador]. Han sido realizadas entre marzo de 2017 y febrero de 2018 y muestran diferentes momentos y actividades dentro del proceso de la restauración.

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Articulation, with the King Juan Carlos Center: A Reflection on the 25th Anniversary of the KJCC Jill Lane The King Juan Carlos Center has been a valued site of institutional articulation at New York University since its founding. We could invoke “articulation” in a range of meanings as a site that has enabled the precise execution and expression of ideas. As a dynamic venue and sponsor, the KJCC has “articulated” the space of the university in an architectural sense—providing shape, form, and texture to the production of knowledge, the way one might “articulate” a flat plane with angles and depth, or a facade with light and shadow. In an anatomical sense, it has enabled specific linkages between disparate parts the way a joint articulates the movement of surrounding bones. It not only brings together disparate elements (languages, regions, media, discourses, people, communities); it sets them in motion and puts them in relation to one another. The work of such rich articulation allows us to engage across coordinates of difference, and, more importantly, to better understand the challenges, benefits, and risks of doing so. I have had the good fortune to organize a number of events and projects at the KJCC over the last dozen years— first as a faculty member and later as director of the Center for Latin American and Caribbean Studies (CLACS). I offer three illustrations from my experience of these complex moments of articulation for which the KJCC is so deservedly valued.

2009: After Truth Domingo Giribaldi del Mar’s haunting photograph of an infant victim’s recovered sweater hung in the atrium of the King Juan Carlos Center in 2009. The photograph was part of the exhibition Si no vuelvo, búsquenme en Putis. In 2008, Giribaldi traveled with the Equipo Peruano de Antropología Forense (EPAF)—directed by José Pablo Baraybar—to the Andean town of Putis, Peru, in order to document the exhumation of the mass grave where 123 campesinos were massacred in 1984. The most compelling photographs pictured exhumed clothes—a baby sweater, buckled shoes, knitted caps— carefully laid out against bright blue tarps, the empty clothes conjuring up the disappeared bodies. Both the exhumation and its photographs served as extended rituals of mourning through which the dead were honored and the living came to terms with their loss.

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The photography exhibit was one of two staged simultaneously at the KJCC in conjunction with a symposium called “After Truth: Justice, TRCs, and Related Aftermaths,” which brought Giribaldi, Baraybar, and the Mayor of Putis together with a range of other artists, scholars, activists, and other social actors to reconsider the legacy of the first truth and reconciliation commissions in Latin America. The other was a traveling iteration of Yuyanapaq: Para recordar (Quechua and Spanish for “to remember’’), an exhibit created in 2003 as part of Peru’s Truth and Reconciliation process that aimed to recreate the key events of the conflict drawing from a vast photographic inventory collected as part of the Commission’s work. The exhibitions contrasted one another: Yuyanapaq was drawn primarily from photojournalism and aimed to create a reckoning with the conflict primarily for the privileged part of the country, especially Lima, that had not suffered its worst consequences; Si no vuelvo was an intimate memorial to the Andean victims. Yuyanapaq provided a powerful narrative context for the photographs of Putis; yet Putis seemed to speak back powerfully and even reproachfully to Yuyanapaq. What does the larger nation that “forgot” the atrocities as they were happening owe Putis? What is the value of their traumatic memory, and how and when is it used or misused to imagine truth and reconciliation for that “forgetful” nation? Our goal—with my collaborator Marcial Godoy, managing director of the Hemispheric Institute—in bringing these two exhibits to the KJCC and in having a public conversation about the legacy of TRCs was to stage precisely these complex challenges and, furthermore, to challenge our own community at NYU and in New York to think about our own relation to these histories, and our own strategic forgettings.

2013: What’s Left of Cuba?

In his lecture-demonstration entitled “Photographs of the Day Before,” presented at the KJCC in April 2013 as part of a lecture series organized by CLACS, the writer and photographer Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo described Cuba as both “a closed fortress of internal feudal repression” and “the utopia of the international left.” He presented a series of photographs taken prior to his departure from the island; they captured both the Cuban reality and the internationally romanticized dream of Cuba “before” the Revolution ended. His images asked: could it be that such dreams of the days “before” dramatic change arrived are, in reality, our way of coping with the day “after” that is already here?

His presentation answered the central concern of the Spring 2013 CLACS graduate seminar and lecture series entitled “What’s Left of Cuba?” It was co-organized and taught by three professors—who were also colleagues and friends of mine—Ana Dopico, the late and 103

beloved José Estéban Muñoz, and myself. The seminar and lecture series asked: where was Cuba now in the geopolitical context that once heralded it as the exemplar of radical left projects in Latin America? Cuban civil society had for a number of years begun to challenge the projects of the revolution and had recast the tired cold war frames of embargo, exile, and exceptionalism. A new generation of writers, bloggers, visual and performance artists, as well as political activists and dissidents, were demanding both universality and contingency: an agenda that mixes the politics of human and civic rights, Cuban values, and the unfinished projects of both the republic and the revolution. From a burgeoning presence in social media to smaller, more poignant acts of reclamation such as political tattoos and graffiti, these social actors were creating spaces of expression and action that opened fissures in the discourse of the revolution and the control of the state. We invited artists, activists, and scholars from Cuba and from Greater Cuba—including Tomás Robaina, Antonio José Ponte, Yoani Sanchéz, Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo, Alberto Laguna, Alexandra Vasquez, Coco Fusco and Tania Bruguera—to reflect on what is left of, left to, and left for Cuba in the complex transition from the days “before” to the days after.

2016: From War to Politics The peace process that ended El Salvador’s 13-year brutal civil war (1979–1992) was a remarkable achievement that enabled the country to transition to peaceful civilian rule. In 2016, we organized “From War to Politics: An International Conference on El Salvador’s Peace Process,” a historic three-day conference held mainly at KJCC that brought together the principal protagonists to reflect on the nature of such political works. We sought to reflect on the circumstances that allowed the peace process to be so successful and on the legacies of that process today. An exceptional range of actors participated, including leaders of Alianza Republicana Nacionalista (ARENA) and the Government of El Salvador during the 1980s and beyond; former members of the Frente Farabundo Martí para la Liberación Nacional (FMLN) leadership; the UN officials who brokered the accords; former members of the U.S. Military Assistance Group involved in directing the counter-insurgency war and their counterparts in the Salvadoran Armed Forces (ESAF); human rights activists; and representatives, policymakers, and members of the US diplomatic corps from the Reagan, George H. W. Bush, and Clinton administrations.

In a series of roundtable discussions, participants were asked to dialogue on these key questions: How did changing Cold War dynamics shape the prospects for peace? Why was the UN able to play such a decisive role? How did battleground dynamics influence negotiating 104

strategies? How did external actors shape the peace? Who or what “won” this war—and how does that matter now?

Like many large scale events that find their way to the auditorium of the KJCC, the organization was a cross-institutional venture involving the effort, talent, and labor of many parties led by a team of New York-based faculty from area schools, including Van Gosse of Franklin & Marshall College, Héctor Lindo Fuentes of Fordham, with George Vickers of Columbia, alongside other NYU and Columbia faculty. The organization and funding were provided in part by CLACS and the Institute of Latin American Studies at Columbia; the two are longstanding consortium partners in a Department of Education Title VI grant that jointly designated them a National Resource Center for Latin American and Caribbean Studies, an important funding source that underwrote costs for the prior two events described above as well.

In this example we see the ways in which the KJCC is a site for the precise articulation not only of the labor of scholars, artists, and social actors, but also the articulation of a set of institutional relations, resources, and investments on which the production of knowledge deeply depends.

I hope that these three cases together might briefly illustrate the range of work performed by the KJCC in the service of complex and impactful academic work as sponsor, partner, and host. I would further venture that the most valuable yet curiously undervalued work of articulation often happens in the beautiful two-story atrium of the KJCC. It has been a striking home for many exhibitions, including those described above, but here I signal its role as the liminal space that hosts the informal gatherings that take place at such events—where we encounter participants and guests as they enter the building; where we mingle over coffee during breaks in a long day of conferencing; where we share wine and cheese at the closing reception. If this sounds like leisure, it is not quite, or it is not only so: as most academics know well, at times the real work of teaching, learning, sharing, mentoring, and collaborating happens in these interstitial spaces where conversations and encounters enter an improvisational and creative mode. Indeed, the success of institutional articulation might be measured by the density of the informal, liminal energy it generates around it—a measure in which the King Juan Carlos Center has far excelled.

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Blood Flow Between Cultures:

Quechua Chants in Greenwich Village and the Acoustic Resonance of the KJCC Odi Gonzales No one would have predicted that at the beginning of the new millennium, a millenary culture that ruled in the confines of the continent (The Andes), and another, global, resolutely modern, multicultural, vertiginous, would converge in the Greenwich (Village) Meridian, at the edges of a majestic grove: Washington Square Park (New York). Just a few meters from the iconic music club Cafe Wha? or The Bitter End where Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix or Janis Joplin used to exhale the tensor curve of their voices, a pair of Scissor Dancers (Danzantes de Tijeras) from Coracora, Ayacucho (Perú), usually composed a dance and competition choreography in an intimate venue called King Juan Carlos Center (KJCC) of New York University.

Founded in 2008 at the Center for Latin American and Caribbean Studies (CLACS), the Quechua Program at NYU is enhanced and enriched every year by the inclusion of students from Columbia, Fordham, Princeton, CUNY, Yale, and other schools from Europe. Since then, working together with students and the 5 directors of CLACS (the late professor Thomas Abercrombie, Sinclair Thomson, Ada Ferrer, Jill Lane, Dylon Robbins) we produced books, a trilingual dictionary, videos, translations, Quechua documentaries with English subtitles, audio materials, podcasts, debates, seminars, poetry readings, performances, and a comic book based on a folktale. All these activities were presented in the stages of a single location: the King Juan Carlos Auditorium, the Atrium, and The Backyard. It was all possible thanks to the decisive promotion and support of the KJCC’s team: associate director Laura Turégano; former directors Jo Labanyi and Ana Dopico; current director Jordana Mendelson; and administrative assistant Luis Alfonso Pérez, among other people.

Since then, in terms of revitalizing the Quechua language and culture, we can talk of a “before” and an “after” the NYU Quechua Program, at universities in the US. The influence of NYU’s Quechua Program was evident: before that, only 5 universities had a Quechua Program, but nowadays there are at least a dozen American universities offering Quechua programs and Andean Studies: Stanford, University of California; UCLA; University of Georgia; University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign; Indiana University; University of Kansas; University of Michigan, 106

Ann Arbor; University of Pittsburgh; University of Pennsylvania; University of Texas, Austin; Brigham Young University; University of Wisconsin, Madison; Ohio State University; Rutgers University; University of Colorado, Boulder.

Quechua’s Hidden Variables First of all, the original name of the Andean language isn’t Quechua, it’s runasimi, which means language of people or language of the human being, to differentiate it from the language of birds or rivers, and this has been how native speakers refer to their language. Quechua was the name assigned to the language by the Spanish priest Domingo de Santo Tomás (1499-1570) when he was working on the first dictionary and the written grammar book about this language in the 16th century. Quechua derives from qheswa, which is the name of an Andean geographical region, a kind of valley in which the priests lived and worked.

There are currently an estimated 10 million Quechua speakers in Bolivia, Ecuador and Peru, as in certain regions of Argentina (Jujuy, Santiago del Estero), Colombia (Pasto region), and Chile (Maule river). Quechua is understood as a language that has many variants; the Cusco variant or Southern Quechua is the language that NYU offers, but in conjunction with Peruvian variants such as Quechua Chanka, Ayacucho, Apurimac, Huancavelica, Huaraz, and other variants from Bolivia, Argentina, Ecuador.

Quechua is an agglutinative language, which means that a series of suffixes can be attached to root morphemes or verb stems to denote unique and specific semantic nuances. For this reason, Quechua dispenses with synonyms: synonymy is more typical of written languages as opposed to oral ones, and it means each word is unique, and non-transferrable. For example, the word dusk is defined as ch’isinyay, rasphiyay, and tutayay. While at first glance these may appear as synonyms, they actually each refer to different and distinct moments in the process of nightfall, related to the type of semi-darkness, half-light, or shadows.

The verb waqay/to cry is unique for the same reason. In Spanish we have: llorar, sollozar, gemir, plañir, lagrimear, gimotear; in English, it is the same. However, Quechua has several disjointed words that derive from the same root waqa; we can differentiate them by specific and precise suffixes: Waqakuy

cry intimately, for oneself (sob)

Waqayuy

crying disconsolately, with intensity

Waqapakuy

moan, whining (crying with pauses) 107

Waqapayay

cry again and again (to get something)

Waqanayay

have the urge to cry, being about to cry

Waqarpariy

crying suddenly

Waqaysiy

cry with (accompany in tears)

Concrete philosophy The Andean cosmogony or Quechua philosophy are not expressed through prepositions, premises, axioms, inferences, syllogisms, or conclusions (metalanguage). The philosophy is rooted in the language itself (object-language, or the language of everyday) through concrete forms: the suffixes. Andean philosophy (los saberes) is not theoretical or discursive; it happens every day through interactions in markets, burials, planting, households, or in chicherías where people go to drink chicha or corn beer. You don’t assimilate the philosophy or cultural categories of the Andean world through abstractions; knowledge moves through people’s language or actions. It is from there that you have to extract and interpret it.

For example: Quechua language has two personal pronouns for “we:” ñoqanchis, which includes the speaker and the listeners, and ñoqayku, which includes the speaker and a few listeners, but excludes the caller. Ñoqanchis is all of us; ñoqayku some of us. In concrete terms, why does the Quechua language have two personal pronouns for “we?” In Andean philosophy, the collective is more important than the individual.

There are many actions that we share with animals. In this case, the root is similarly applied to both human and animal, but the difference is marked by a suffix. For example: Wachay: give birth (animal) Wachakuy: give birth (human) Hisp’ay: urinate (animal) Hisp’akuy: urinate (human) In the latter case, the suffix –ku denotes that the animal lacks awareness; animals can urinate wherever they please, but not the human being. The suffix –ku remarks that. The private and public categories are simply distinguished by a human being.

In the Quechua language, all verbs were shaped solely from the perspective of the human being, not the machine. That’s why verbs such as “to walk” and “to travel” have the same meaning: the only way to travel for the human being was walking; due to the deep respect for 108

animals, the Andeans did not even ride the llamas, the greatest of their beasts. There are no verbs to say turn on/turn off the radio, TV, or cell phone. In order to communicate new concepts such as these ones, speakers create neologisms or take words from Spanish or even English.

Trilingual dictionary at the KJCC One of the most significant achievements of the Quechua Program was the work performed jointly by the professor with two graduate students to produce a trilingual dictionary, which was presented at the KJCC on April 30, 2018. Containing nearly a decade of research, Christine Mladic Janney (then a NYU PhD candidate, now an anthropologist), Emily Fjaellen Thompson (then MA, now a PhD candidate), and I worked fervently on this project, one of the first academic Quechua dictionaries to be published in the United States. Published by Hippocrene Books (New York), this full-length dictionary of 11,000 entries includes 3 sections: EnglishQuechua, Spanish-Quechua, and Quechua-English-Spanish. Spanish is a logical conduit language between Quechua and English, and many Quechua words are found in Peruvian written and spoken Spanish.

The night of the presentation at KJCC, I described the cultural differences that arose while we were working on this project. Although I knew Emily and Christi for several years (they were my students for two years), our cultural differences emerged every time we tried to translate some Quechua or Spanish expressions into English. I remember the case of the verb q’allpay: we argued for two weeks without being able to conciliate our different points of view. We did not initially agree because the word q’allpay in Quechua is not merely a verb; it is also an event. It happens when a playful child lifts a girl’s skirt deliberately to see if she has underwear1. But the act of lifting the skirt can also happen unintentionally, for example as the result of the force of the wind. The first few days, Christi and Emily seemed very confused, so I used this example as an explanation: “Sipaskuna (young ladies)” I said, “have you seen that scene from a movie in which Marilyn Monroe, when she

1. This action also occurs among adults in the carnival festivities.

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was glamorously standing above the subway station, when suddenly the train in motion causes her red dress to lift up? That’s is q’allpay without intention,” I said. But even with the explanation, it was impossible to put all of these details in our dictionary.

Quixote in Quechua In 2005, news of the translation of the classic novel Don Quixote into Quechua raised great expectations in Peru, Latin America, and Spain, countries that were celebrating the 400th anniversary of the book’s publication (part one, 1605)2. In 2015, it was announced that the second part of Cervantes’ novel had also been translated into Quechua. At first it was a kind of epic feeling—a literary accomplishment that mixed pride and self-esteem: no literary work of such magnitude as that of Quixote had ever been translated into any native language before.

However, a careful reading of the Quechua version of Cervantes’ novel3 shows the cracks in the collision between two irreducible codes: writing (Spanish) and orality (Quechua), with a tension evident in the very title.

The complete translation of the novel’s cover in Quechua [Yachay sapa wiraqucha dun Quixote manchamantan Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra qilqan] involves an orality/writing conflict: Quechua orality prevails over Spanish writing. How? On the cover of the book, space intended for the title of the book and the name of the author, there is a hidden voice: that of the speaking subject. This external voice comments or says that someone (Cervantes) writes something (Quixote). This is called a writing oralization, the process in which the speaker displaces the author and his work.

A conference on November 18th, 2015 at the KJCC analyzed the complexities involved in Demetrio Tupac Yupanqui’s translation, which interspersed two incompatible codes, forcing— for moments—the oral nature of Quechua language into the writing discourse of a novel, which made it scarcely understandable by a Quechua reader but not by a listener. The translation of any text into oral Quechua involves a double challenge, as it must be addressed to two recipients: the reader and the listener. The great challenge of the Quechua translator is to configure a single speech that is understandable by both the reader and the listener. It cannot be ignored that a large number of the Quechua speakers are illiterate—many will not be able to read but can understand if someone reads to them in their language.

2. As is known, the first part was published in 1605 and the second part in 1615.

3. Yachay sapa wiraqucha dun Quixote manchamantan Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra qilqan. Traducción y adaptación de Demetrio Túpac Yupanqui. Primera parte. Lima: Ediciones empresa editora El Comercio, 2005.

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That night, in the fully packed King Juan Carlos Center Auditorium, we began the talk about emphasizing the oral nature of Quechua: the fact that Quechua can be written with the Spanish alphabet does not mean that Quechua has lost its oral character. In Quechua, it is extremely difficult to translate purely rhetorical constructions such as The Unbearable Lightness of Being (La insoportable levedad del ser), the title of eminent writer Milan Kundera’s novel. Why? In that grammatical construction, there is not a single concrete action. Quechua is a language with a tendency towards concrete actions (performative verbs) and dispenses with concepts and rhetorical expressions.

The translation of an ancient or modern literary work into Quechua is difficult but not impossible. It is a laborious exercise that can’t be done hastily. To translate a text in general from Spanish or English into Quechua, the rhetoric, concepts, and abstractions with which it assembles a novel must be deconstructed into its simplest most concrete forms (performative verbs) that constitute the nature of Quechua. That’s what my students and I did when we translated, for example, the New York Occupy Wall Street Manifesto.

Academic discourse, and in general that of science, philosophy, and politics, are embodied in an artificial language (metalanguage), but not in the object-language (daily speech level). For Quechua thought, academic discourse is considered as a dead language, with relevance only among academics or in very restricted circuits—a child or an adult who is not an academic will not understand.

Scissor Dancers at the Atrium The night of Friday, October 18th, 2016 at King Juan Carlos Atrium was particularly memorable. Probably no art or dance critic would have ever said what a jubilant delegation of African-American children from the Bronx—one of the guests at the Scissor Dancers event—said about the performance: “It was cool, like break dance!”

Originating in the Ayachuco region of southern Peru during the Andean resistance period in the mid-16th century, ancient Scissor Dancers were prohibited from performing because they were considered rebels and heretics, and possessed demons. However, they used dance as a form of resistance against the Spanish rule and the processes imposed by catholic missionary organizations that promoted the extirpation of Andean gods and deities. Even so, scissor dancers have survived until the present.

The Scissor Dance at the KJCC was performed by a group of Andean artists called “Los Chankas,” made up of Alejandro Velázquez on harp, Ignacio Velázquez on violin, and two 111

competing dancers: Steve Tintascca Cotaquispe and Walter Qesqento Velille. The event was presented by students in three languages (Quechua, Spanish and English) under the coordination of graduate students Arlean Dawes and Mike Cary.

Comic book Peruvian writer José María Arguedas (1911-1969) published La agonía de Rasu Ñit’i [The agony of Rasu Ñit’i]4 in 1962. The story is about an old scissor dancer Pedro Huancayre, Rasu Ñit’i, who is dying. Before passing away, he wanted to reveal to someone the ancestral ritual and ideology of Andean scissor dancers. In the presence of his family, Rasu Ñit’i is eventually relieved by the young dancer Atuq Sayk’u. In recent years, Peruvian playwright and draftsman Walter Ventosilla adapted the story into a comic version. From this version, my students and I worked on the translation from Spanish into Quechua. The bilingual comic version Rasu Ñit’iq wañunayanmanta/La agonía de Rasu Ñit’i, was published thanks to the support of CLACS and 4. The grammatical construction Rasu Ñit’i derives from proto-Quechua, and means The one who crushes snow.

It refers to pilgrims who used to take their offerings to the Wamani, or spirit of the sacred mountain, to the top of mountains, snow-covered mountains, and glaciers.

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was presented by the Quechua student group Runasimi Outreach Committee (ROC) at the KJCC on October 30th, 2018.

A spread from Rasu Ñit’iq wañunayanmanta/La agonía de Rasu Ñit’i

Quechua voices at KJCC The great Andean guitarist and troubadour Manuelcha Prado and the first Andean coloratura soprano Sylvia Falcón, presented their majestic musical shows on many different occasions.

Manuelcha came from Europe after receiving recognition from the BBC, which was also attended by none other than Jimmy Page, the lead-guitar of the British band Led Zeppelin. Sylvia Falcón, the heiress of Ima Sumac, frequently comes to New York to present her Quechua lyrical singing show at institutions such as Lincoln Center, New York University, Cornelia Street Café, and others.

As usual, the introductory words of Sylvia’s presentation (Andean Carnival, March 23, 2016, and An Evening with Sylvia Falcón, October 2, 2014), and of Manuelcha Prado (Intimate concert, October 2012) were given by Jill Lane (Director of CLACS), and students of ROC. The friendship forged between the artists and the students was so frank and cordial that the students—dressed in traditional Andean clothes—sang some Andean waynos with them in Quechua.

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Clockwise from top: audience at Andean Carnival in 2016; Sylvia Falcón singing at Andean Carnival in 2016; Intimate Concert in 2012; Manuelcha Prado singing at Intimate Concert in 2012

The Occupy Wall Street Manifesto in Quechua It was the student and activist Christopher Santiago (now an anthropologist and Professor at CUNY, Staten Island) who proposed a Quechua version of the Occupy Wall Street Manifesto to his fellow OWS New York board members. The translation of this document from English into Quechua was one of the most complex challenges we had in our experience as translators. The OWS manifesto was written almost entirely with concepts, abstractions, and rhetorical terms different from the nature of the Andean language. To translate it into a language with a tendency 114

to concrete actions was like “pulling a train with the teeth.” But we did it, and we included Intermediate and Advanced level Quechua students in the project. The presentation at the KJCC was not about the document itself; it was a kind of discussion about the translation of a document written in a way that was so different from the nature of Quechua language.

The Quechua translation—alongside other versions: French, Slovak, Spanish, German, and Italian—was accepted by the NYC General Assembly on September 29, 2011 and was published a day later. As a Quechua speaker, I must confess: the Spanish and English versions seem like mere proclamations, while the Quechua version is much more dramatic and moving because it was assembled with concrete, basic, essential terms instead of with concepts, abstractions, or rhetorical phrases. Here are some excerpts: They have taken bailouts from taxpayers with impunity, and continue to give Executives exorbitant bonuses.

Paykuna hap’ikapunku qolqenkupas kanman hina llapan impuestonchiskunata, chay mana kutichiwasqanchis qolqeta yapayunku qella directorkunaq sueldonman They have perpetuated inequality and discrimination in the workplace based on age, the color of one’s skin, sex, gender identity and sexual orientation.

They have poisoned the food supply through negligence, and undermined the farming system through monopolization.

Paykunataq cheqniwanchis; munayninkuwan t’aqawanchis, ch’eqechiwanchis; qarqowanchis llank’anakunamanta machupaya kaqtinchis, hoqniraq kaqtinchis, manapaykuna hina kaqtinchis. Paykunataq manachaninta usuchishanku, ch’usaqyachishanku tukuy tarpuykunatapas, chakrakunata hap’ikapushanku, rakinakushanku paykunapura.

They have profited off of the torture, confinement, and cruel treatment of countless animals, and actively hide these practices.

Paykunan ñak’arichiwanchis, laqha ukhupi kawsachiwanchis; paykunataq nak’arparinku uywanchiskunatapas, pakallapi lluytapas q’otorapunku They have continuously sought to strip employees of the right to negotiate for better pay and safer working conditions.

Paykunataq pisiyachishanku llank’aqkunaq salarionkunata, paykuna mana hunt’asqatachu pagashanku empleadonkunaman, ichaqa llank’achinku mana samachispa They have held students hostage with tens of thousands of dollars of debt on education, which is itself a human right.

Paykunataq estudiantekunatapas manuyachinku, wakchayachinku estudio rayku, ichaqa educacionqa manan rantinachu, derechonchismi 115

They have influenced the courts to achieve the same rights as people, with none of the culpability or responsibility.

Paykunataq llusinku qolqewan juezkunatapas leykunata pantachinankupaq, mana Corporacionkunata carcelman winanankupaq They have purposely covered up oil spills, accidents, faulty bookkeeping, and inactive ingredients in pursuit of profit.

Paykunataq sapa kutinpas usuchinku asnaq petroleota mayukunapi, Mamaqochapi ima; paykuna wañuchinku runata accidentekunapi; q’echunakunku wakchakunaq qolqenta Coda At this point, you must be wondering who are the people who study Quechua in NYC. They are mostly students in social sciences such as Anthropology, Archeology, Musicology, Colonial Studies in the Andean region, International Law of Indigenous People, Linguistics, and Cultural Studies. There are a few cases in which a student chooses Quechua for reasons that go beyond academics: although their parents are migrants (Ecuadorian, Bolivian, Peruvian), they were born in the US or came to New York as children. When they return to their countries of origin, they cannot communicate with their grandparents who only speak Quechua. Thus, they study Quechua for sentimental reasons and self-esteem.

Quechua is the most widely spoken native language in the Americas. CLACS and the KJCC give it visibility and strength, a space to nourish its growth, and a home for the articulation of its community and culture.

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Mujukunata Tarpuspa, Planting the Seeds: Student Reflections on Runasimi at the KJCC

“We didn’t know what to expect. Our request for funds for some snacks had been fulfilled. We had booked a room at the KJCC and moved the tables to make space for a circle of chairs. It was the first Quechua Conversation Night, and we were prepared for nobody to show up. We couldn’t have been more wrong.

We were some of Odi Gonzales’s first students in a brand new Quechua language program at NYU. We thought that we could complement our coursework with some free-spirited mingling events, which we aimed to conduct (as best we could) in Quechua. We figured it might be a good way for students at NYU to practice language skills outside of the classroom, but we also opened the event to the general public. That night, we discovered the true potential that these events had.

If I recall correctly, more than 20 people showed up to the first “Quechua Night,” and the majority were actually not NYU students. In fact, there was a great diversity of guests, from NYU students and faculty to grandmothers from Queens and men from various neighborhoods in Manhattan and the Bronx. The concept of the event mushroomed in the best way possible, and we realized that we had tapped into something much richer than our original idea.

Over the years, the kinds of events that were organized by the student group—first as the Quechua Outreach Committee, then as the Runasimi Outreach Committee (ROC)—diversified, and the number of attendees grew exponentially. We organized poetry readings, immersive game nights, BINGO and enormous dance presentations. Events were held throughout NYC boroughs and in New Jersey. Yet, the KJCC acted as a kind of home, a place where we knew that we could reserve space and be welcomed by those managing the Center—and in turn, a place in which we could welcome people from across NYU and surrounding communities. Of course, what we were pursuing was much more than practice in the mechanics of speech: we were strengthening and building relationships, we were challenging dominant narratives, we were overturning historical hierarchies. Being a part of ROC was one of the most incredible, rewarding, and humbling experiences of my time at NYU.” —Christine Mladic Janney (Quechua student, 2008-2020) 117

“I have only positive memories working alongside my wayqeykuna and panaykuna, especially through the Runasimi Outreach Committee.

In retrospect, one of the most significant moments may have been our group’s name change. Initially, the group was formed under the name of Quechua Outreach Committee. As the group conducted greater outreach within the wider Andean community in the New York City area, we opted to use the language’s original name and called ourselves the Runasimi Outreach Committee.

Events with the Peruvian diaspora in Paterson, engagement with intergenerational Kichwa speakers at the Queens Museum, and a Kichwa radio program broadcast from the Bronx to the world are a testament to our group’s focus on the community and speakers themselves beyond the academic context.

In many ways, and without realizing, the Runasimi Outreach Committee may very well have been participating in a minka right in the hatun llaqta of NYC.” —Michael Abbott (Quechua student, 2012-2014)

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“We launched the very first Kichwa-Quechua Film Festival in NYC! We brought the director and some of his family came, too! It was a SUCCESS, with an outreach and activities that extended to multiple boroughs and even to New Jersey. I mean, when I look back, it seems we were responsible for bringing the Runasimi Outreach Committee to its glory. We held monthly Quechua Outreach nights and had a solid attendance at the events. I don’t know—we did a HUGE event at the Queens museum. I mean… I can barely believe it. I had no idea there were so many Quechua speakers living in the United States. For me, as a Peruvian, it was ironic— but not surprising—that I had to come to NYU to start learning Quechua, because the racism that pervades Peruvian culture makes it so that the language is not taught in schools. The fact that this is offered at NYU is more than significant: it is life-changing.”

—Constanza Ontaneda (Quechua student, 2013-2015)

“I am extremely grateful for the Runasimi Outreach Committee.

To this day, nearly a decade later, the Quechua community at NYU (and beyond) continues to challenge and support me intellectually and personally. Time with the ROC involved buying as many t’ika (flowers), t’anta (bread), and rurukuna (fruit) as we could on our shoestring budget to bring with us on the long subway ride to Quechua Night in Queens; meeting intrepid Quechua speaker Serafina in a market just blocks from CLACS; interviewing Kichwa musicians in snowy Central Park; learning to cook, sing and dance with Elvacha in her Brooklyn apartment on the weekends; and later spending hours poring over translations in Odi’s office.

These moments were some of the most grounding, and ultimately impactful, aspects of my MA at CLACS.” —Emily Fjaellen Thompson (Quechua student, 2011-2013)

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El papel del hispanismo y la diplomacia en los centros culturales universitarios Zaskia Torres Las universidades como instituciones son fundamentales en una sociedad contemporánea. Las personas que forman parte de las universidades aportan nuevas ideas, perspectivas y opiniones. En “El Habitus. Una revisión analítica”, José Saturnino Martínez García analiza el concepto de habitus acuñado a partir del “Homo academicus” del sociólogo francés Pierre Bourdieu. Según Martínez García, un habitus es una mezcla de diferentes condiciones y experiencias sociales, económicas y culturales que, junto con relaciones establecidas entre personas e instituciones, conducen a tendencias de comportamiento (Martínez García 2). Las universidades están formadas por diferentes individuos con sus propios habitus que, integrados en la institución, desarrollan un nuevo conjunto de tendencias que trascienden el nivel universitario. Esto es particularmente cierto cuando la universidad establece centros culturales; dedicados a la investigación y el estudio, los centros tienen la capacidad de articular políticas que impactan más allá del espacio universitario. En este ensayo, propongo que un centro cultural dedicado a España y al mundo hispanohablante, en la Universidad de Nueva York, tendrá el doble propósito de promover el hispanismo y, al mismo tiempo, de mejorar las relaciones diplomáticas y culturales entre los dos países.

Establecer un centro dedicado a este estudio proporciona un espacio para un discurso más amplio sobre las complejidades y matices de la historia española, que tenga en cuenta múltiples perspectivas, amplifique opiniones diferentes y fomente la multiplicidad de conocimientos dentro y fuera de la institución. Las instituciones tienen un gran impacto, no solo en la comunidad local sino también a nivel mundial, ya que “el conocimiento no solo se ve como universal, racional y unificado, sino que también se considera comprensible para todos aquellos en todas partes que han pasado por los rituales apropiados de educación” (Frank y Meyer, 2). El conocimiento académico es la característica principal de la universidad como institución. Al mismo tiempo, las instituciones sirven como paraguas de este “conocimiento unificado”. Este concepto es muy poderoso porque el conocimiento se puede examinar y estudiar de diferentes maneras bajo diferentes marcos organizacionales alrededor del mundo. Por lo tanto, las ideas y los nuevos aprendizajes desarrollados dentro de un centro cultural sobre el estudio del hispanismo trascenderán el nivel local y se convertirán en parte de la universidad global.

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La universidad por un lado sirve como una idea global, pero es, además, un instrumento para introducir ideas y opiniones propias, en ocasiones, con motivos políticos. Un centro cultural dedicado a España en los EE. UU. crea una atmósfera positiva entre los dos países. Esto se debe a que los centros pueden servir como mediadores para las relaciones económicas y exteriores entre dos o más gobiernos. En este sentido, un centro cultural puede funcionar como poderosa herramienta diplomática en negociaciones de mayor escala. A mediados del siglo XX, el gobierno de EE. UU. aprovechó el poder de las instituciones para fomentar la modernidad en el extranjero. Participó en proyectos internacionales como el establecimiento de universidades occidentales en países de bajos ingresos: “[Las universidades de investigación estadounidenses] creían que las universidades como instituciones eran mecanismos esenciales para el desarrollo, y que la administración pública era fundamental para llevar la modernidad al estilo estadounidense a los países en desarrollo...” (Schrum, 127). El papel de la universidad en este ejemplo muestra cómo una institución puede impactar las relaciones entre los países. En este caso, Estados Unidos utilizó su poder blando para influir en las sociedades de otros países, invirtiendo en capital intelectual de la población.

Los estudiantes universitarios desarrollan un habitus colectivo que se traduce en sus vidas cotidianas. Si son estudiantes que viajan de España o Latinoamérica a los Estados Unidos, funcionan como representantes de su tierra natal y traen consigo sus costumbres y habitus. Al mismo tiempo, los centros culturales atraen a personas de sectores más amplios a participar en una multiplicidad de eventos. Los estudiantes que vienen del extranjero encuentran en el centro una conexión con su lugar de origen, mientras que los otros individuos que se sienten atraídos al centro pueden expandir su conocimiento y participar en conversaciones sobre el lugar del hispanismo en España y Latinoamérica. Por lo tanto, un centro cultural dedicado a España y al mundo hispanohablante tiene la capacidad de fortalecer lazos diplomáticos y culturales.

La noción de que la universidad como idea e instrumento no tiene límite para llevar sus ideas al mundo demuestra lo poderoso que es el conocimiento y el concepto de habitus. Establecer un centro cultural es un aspecto importante de la universidad global, ya que beneficia a la sociedad al promover el hispanismo y unificar el conocimiento bajo un mismo espacio. El establecimiento de un centro cultural en la Universidad de Nueva York sobre España y el mundo hispanohablante proporciona muchos aspectos positivos; sin embargo, también muestra la importancia de crear estos espacios no solo para el beneficio de los gobiernos, sino además para ampliar las conversaciones sobre perspectivas históricas y culturales que incluyan a los miembros de la comunidad en el discurso.

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Bibliografía Frank, David John y John W. Meyer. The University and the Global Knowledge Society. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2020.

Martínez García, J. S. “El Habitus. Una revisión analítica” . Revista Internacional de Sociología, vol. 75, no. 3, sept. 2017, 144-57. Red. Payne, Stanley G. “El hispanismo y la hispanofilia: una perspectiva histórica”. Vínculos de Historia, no. 9, 2020, 144-57. Red. Schrum, Ethan D. The Instrumental University: Education in Service of the National Agenda after World War II. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2019.

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KJCC: An Interdisciplinary Approach Pedro Cardim Before holding the King Juan Carlos I Chair in Spanish Culture and Civilization in 2014, I was professor in the history department of Universidade Nova de Lisboa, Portugal. My research focused on the sixteenth- to eighteenth-century Iberian world. Besides studying the political, legal, and social interactions between Portugal and the Spanish Monarchy, I also worked, from a legal historical perspective, on the Iberian colonization in the Americas and, more generally, on the history of the Atlantic world during the early modern period.

My first experience at New York University was in 1998, at a symposium held at the King Juan Carlos I of Spain Center entitled Philip II of Spain and His Times. The symposium was convened by Antonio Feros, then a professor in NYU’s history department. At that time, I was a young PhD candidate and was included in the program only because my mentor, Antonio Hespanha, was unable to attend the event. It was a great honor for me to present my research in the presence of so many experts on sixteenth-century Spain that I so deeply admired. On that occasion I also came to appreciate the KJCC’s potential not only to foster innovative research, but its ability to showcase the rich diversity of the societies and cultures of Spanish-speaking peoples.

In the spring of 1999, while preparing my PhD dissertation on political thought in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Iberia, I undertook a research stay in New York City. My aim was to take advantage of the city’s extraordinary libraries, as well as to explore the archival collection of the Hispanic Society of America. Thanks to the working relationship and friendship that I already had with Antonio Feros, New York University served as my host institution, and I was thus able to have access to the Elmer Holmes Bobst Library. For a young doctoral student like me, coming from a country with a great lack of academic libraries, access to NYU’s library system was an extraordinary opportunity. During my stay, I had the privilege of being involved in the vibrant intellectual life of NYU: I presented my doctoral research in the graduate program in history; attended all the events and seminars I could; and was introduced to historians who are still a reference point for my research, such as Ronnie Po-Chia Hsia or Alejandro Cañeque.

Obviously, at the end of this stay I was very eager to return to NYU. That opportunity came fifteen years later, when Lauren Benton—by that time a professor in NYU’s history department—put my name forward for the King Juan Carlos Chair in Spanish Culture and Civilization. Lauren was incredibly generous and believed that I could make a worthwhile contribution to the intellectual and cultural life of the KJCC. I am forever grateful to 124

her for placing such confidence in me. *** As King Juan Carlos Professor, I spent the fall of 2014 at the KJCC. During that period, I taught a seminar in the graduate program in history, entitled “The Early Modern Iberian Monarchies: from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic,” and had the privilege of working with several excellent students not only from the history department, but also from the Spanish and Portuguese department, and from other New York City universities. In addition, I delivered two lectures at the KJCC and convened a symposium on the topic of “Community-Formation Across the Early Modern Iberian World.” The purpose of this symposium was to bring together several specialists to discuss the dynamics of community formation across the Iberian world from the sixteenth to the eighteenth century. I had the pleasure of inviting to the KJCC great historians from Spain, Portugal, the United States and France. The speakers at the KJCC focused not only on the dynamics of inclusion, but also on processes of exclusion and discrimination across the Iberian world. Resistance against the political and social order of early modern Iberia was also very much in focus. As a result, the symposium was the stage for an extremely intense intellectual exchange.

In order to do this, I benefited from the constant support of Ana Dopico (by that time the KJCC’s director), Laura Turégano and, last but not least, Luis Alfonso Pérez. Their competence and dedication made my job much easier. *** The almost four months I spent at the KJCC profoundly changed the way I think and work.

First of all, I had a unique opportunity to interact with NYU faculty members who are leading authorities in my field of study, such as Lauren Benton, Sinclair Thomas, Barbara Weinstein, Larry Wolff, Ruth Ben-Ghiat, Frederick Cooper, Jane Burbank, Mahnaz Yousefzadeh and Georgina Dopico Black, among many others. I had unforgettable conversations with each one of them, which were extremely fruitful for my research. The fact that NYU was the host institution for many international scholars also presented a great opportunity. One of them was Luigi Nuzzo, professor at the Università del Salento, in Italy. Luigi was doing a postdoc at NYU’s Law School at the time, and we shared many common research interests. I vividly recall the many conversations on legal history I had with him.

It was also a privilege and a challenge to interact with the PhD students at NYU, all of whom were extraordinarily advanced. It was likewise very special to work with these students in a seminar setting. This experience led me to reshape, sometimes quite profoundly, the way I teach and work with students in my home country.

Another unforgettable aspect of my time at the KJCC was my participation in the Atlantic History Workshop at NYU. There I had the enormous privilege of engaging with remarkable 125

figures such as Karen Ordahl Kupperman, and also with colleagues I already admired, such as Ada Ferrer, Nicole Eustace, Rebecca Goetz, Yuko Miki and Gabriel Rocha. Apart from listening to and discussing with some of the foremost scholars in the field, I had the great honor of presenting my research in this workshop. The challenge of submitting my work for appraisal by colleagues participating in it was immensely rewarding. My research benefited greatly from their expertise and constructive critique.

During that fall of 2014, I tried to participate in as many events as possible at the KJCC and NYU. I recall, for example, an extremely interesting symposium in honor of Mary Louise Pratt and the many excellent photography exhibitions that were hosted by the KJCC. I also took part in several seminars at NYU’s Center for European and Mediterranean Studies, brilliantly led by Larry Wolff and as in extremely interesting events organized by Ruth Ben-Ghiat at NYU’s Casa Italiana Zerilli - Marimò.

Unsurprisingly, the stay at the KJCC changed the way I study the history of Western Europe and its colonial empires. During my time in New York City, and parallel to presenting my research, I endeavored to engage with the methods and approaches of my colleagues and visiting scholars at NYU, but also at other institutions, such as Columbia University, The New School, and CUNY. This experience further demonstrated to me the importance of interdisciplinary approaches, and the porous barriers between various social sciences and the humanities. Their concern for thorough and continuous theoretical and methodological reflection left a deep impression on me. The debate on Eurocentric biases and their impact on historical research was another important aspect of my time at the KJCC. The same could be said of two other dimensions of the work of many NYU faculty members and graduate students: the marked interest in the history of colonial America from the perspective of the Amerindian Peoples, Africans, and African Americans; the concern for—and the political commitment to—making visible the agency of people from the so-called subaltern groups, often silenced by those who write history. The many conversations I had with NYU colleagues on these and other topics left me only more convinced of how important it is to study power relations from the perspective of the dominant groups as well as those who were the object of power projects. I also gained a more acute awareness of the importance of taking the “non elite” groups into consideration and highlighting their ability to contest, to question, and to resist those in power. Although these questions were already part of my research agenda, they gained much more weight after my splendid and unforgettable stay at NYU’s KJCC.

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Take a Seat Johmmiry Almonte In December 2021, I interviewed two of the past Andrés Bello Chairs in Latin American Cultures and Civilizations as part of the final project for the seminar “Institutions, Archives and People,” which had as one of its aims to research the history of the King Juan Carlos I of Spain Center (KJCC). I also reviewed previously recorded interviews with them and their scholarship. I chose these two Chairs because they are both feminist writers who approach their creative and scholarly activities in a way that connects them to issues that matter to me. However, my experience speaking with them also revealed something important about the difference in our positions and priorities: I am an Afro-Latinx student in New York City and they are two prominent writers who work and teach in Mexico City. The interview was centered around their socioeconomic status; It became evident that they experienced and expressed an awareness of class through the lens of others. As an Afro-Latinx, I am aware of the impact that my presence makes in the spaces that I occupy. I was conscious of my position as an undergraduate student who went into the interview expecting groundbreaking alternatives for issues of performative diversity, colorism and sexism.

Due to time restrictions, we were unable to dive deeply into critical conversations that explore the root causes of systemic issues.

Despite the distance between my expectations and my experience, I learned a lot from the interview. Those who may appear to be enlightened might not be enlightened in the way you would want them to be. It is important to think about who is asking the questions and who is having these conversations. Even though scholars have worked with and studied certain communities, their knowledge differentiates from actually living the impact that these issues have in the communities affected. That said, these scholars are not always the most equipped to participate in dismantling or decolonizing the institutions in which they are working. Eduardo Restrepo’s “Decolonizar la universidad,” one of the readings we discussed in class, alludes to this argument: “De ahí que la deseabilidad y posibilidad de descolonizar la universidad requiere de una adecuada comprensión” (16). Individuals interested in engaging in decolonizing/dismantling conversations need to have an in-depth understanding of the subject; without this knowledge, legitimate advances cannot take place.

As a social work major, I constantly contemplate intersectionality while navigating my studies and life experiences; race, ethnicity and privilege are recurring themes in my courses.

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In fact, numerous kinds of privileges arise in class discussions. Through those conversations, non-BIPOC students realize the difference between their life experiences and the experiences of BIPOC students (BIPOC: Black, Indigenous, People of Color). BIPOCs also acknowledge certain privileges they have within the community. Able-bodied individuals see how much accessibility they truly have, and all get to understand the various layers that exist in the term “disabled.” Additionally, I’ve encountered social work professors that, even with their titles and years worth of experience, have seemed to have lost touch with their students. The privilege that comes with their positions unintentionally results in this disconnect, which is what I experienced in my interview with these two highly esteemed feminist thinkers.

Something that would have made the interview different, amongst numerous other factors, is an awareness of positionality. In “Recuperando Nuestra Identidad: AfroLatinx Students Decolonizing Their African Lineage,” author Claudia García-Louis exhibits this self-awareness and position as she confronts this topic: I self-identify as a Mexican immigrant woman who is phenotypically mestiza. Since I am not Afro-Latina, I critically considered data through multiple viewpoints by journaling and discussing thoughts, procedures, and findings with two colleagues. I am conscious of the fact many Afro-Latinxs experience(d) prejudice and discrimination by mestizes, therefore, building trust and rapport required intentionality and authenticity. I verbalized the importance of the research and worked with participants over the span of a year to establish rapport. My experiences as a First-Generation, immigrant student, who grew up in a predominantly white community, where I experienced severe racism, informed my worldview and helped establish trust with participants. My transnational and panethnic ties manifested into identity confusion given I was racialized and alienated by U.S. born Latinxs—I too navigated the in-between (97).

This positionality is lacking in higher education and other institutions in general. Unfortunately, from my interview with these Andrés Bello Chairs, it became audible and visible that it was missing here at NYU as well. Acknowledging one’s privilege is the first step in tackling the layers of issues around colonization. In my case, though I am Afro-Latinx, I am light skinned and, therefore, privileged in this colorist world. I am also a student at an institution in which these questions of positionality should be raised and confronted by those individuals who occupy positions of authority.

Overall, the conversation I had with the chairs and the information I reviewed about the Center’s history demonstrate that the root of this issue is deciding who is nominated and who ascends to these prestigious and powerful roles. In class, we consistently discussed matters like decolonization and positions of power. “Una visión del mundo universitario” by Julio César 130

Olvera García stresses the several layers that make up a university as an institution. Olvera comments, “el campo universitario es el lugar de una lucha por determinar las condiciones y los criterios de la pertenencia y de las jerarquías legítimas, es decir, aquellas propiedades adquiridas que funcionan como capital para producir los beneficios específicos que el campo provee” (306).

These roles of prestige and power only reflect whoever created them and their place of residence.

In order to begin the process of decolonization, we have to get to the core of this predicament.

“Decolonizar la universidad” was also a recurring subject throughout the semester. To the same degree as Olvera, Restrepo dissects his topic of decolonization. Restrepo illustrates the diverse ways in which colonization is seen in the university in order to proceed towards decolonization: “El giro decolonial como estrategia de descolonización de la universidad apunta al cuestionamiento del profundo eurocentrismo que ha descalificado a los conocimientos de los sujetos coloniales” (20). This point encapsulates how decolonization can be initiated, with the mere action of questioning the institutions of which we partake.

I have begun practicing this insistence of questioning as a skill through my social work classes. Questioning is the first step to approaching decolonization. Questioning needs to be done not only by students but by those who acquire prestigious positions. Questioning the rights of not only the demographics that pertain to oneself, but to other communities, is vital. Real change and decolonization cannot occur until those with influential positions are Afro-Latinx, Black, Indigenous, etc. There are still many unanswered questions and a lot of work to do.

Bibliography Almonte, Johmmiry. Personal interview with Carmen Boullosa and Marisa Belausteguigoitia. 10 December 2021.

García-Louis, Claudia. “Recuperando Nuestra Identidad: Afrolatinx Students Decolonizing Their African Lineage.” International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, vol. 34, no. 2, 2020, 89–107. Web. Olvera García, Julio César. “Una visión del mundo universitario.” Convergencia. Revista De Ciencias Sociales, vol. 16, 2009, 305–310.

Restrepo, Eduardo. “Decolonizar la universidad.” Investigación cualitativa emergente: reflexiones y casos, 2018. Web.

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Transdisciplinary Spaces: In Praise of the Potluck Mary L. Pratt When I retired from NYU a few years ago, my day-long retirement fete was held at the King Juan Carlos of Spain Center. Judging by the name, some might have found it a strange choice of venue to celebrate a career devoted to the critique of imperialism and the decolonization of knowledge.

But, for other reasons, the KJCC was the perfect place. I was a scholar whose big questions reached beyond disciplinary boundaries, and the KJCC’s founding aim had been to foster a transdisciplinary intellectual community. That history made it easy for my two departments— Spanish and Portuguese and Social and Cultural Analysis—to work together to organize the event. The KJCC’s central location was familiar to colleagues from all over the campus; this generous social space encouraged conversation; its uniquely intimate auditorium was a familiar home for everyone who, as I did, studied Latin America within and across disciplines.

The “Spanish [and Portuguese]-speaking world” in whose name the KJCC was founded is, of course, the product of empire and colonialism. The phrase does not denote a linguistically unified “world” where only Spanish is spoken. Rather, it denotes the parts of the world where the Spanish language cohabits with many others—Catalan, Basque and Gallego in Spain, and dozens of languages in the Americas and the Philippines, including both indigenous and other imperial languages (like French, Portuguese, or English). The “Spanish-speaking world” is an enormously heterogeneous entity, precisely because it was created by layerings of empire over already existing societies and histories.

Transdisciplinary intellectual spaces like the KJCC have become ever more important to the mission of universities, alongside the disciplinary departments that have formed their traditional core. The KJCC reflects one key early source of interdisciplinary institutional forms: the area studies programs that proliferated in American universities after World War II, in response to the shifts in global geopolitics. As the Cold War mapped the world into geographically defined areas of influence for one side or the other, the U.S. government called on universities to produce comprehensive knowledge of particular regions—Southeast Asia, the Soviet Union, Latin America, for example. The National Defense Education Act of 1958 funded the establishment of area studies centers at universities across the country aiming at bringing 132

together scholars working in different disciplines, but focused on particular regions. The Title VI grants that fund the Center for Latin American and Caribbean Studies (CLACS) are the legacy of that initiative. They included the National Defense Foreign Language Fellowship program that poured millions of dollars into language training, without regard to disciplines. As a Comparative Literature graduate student, for example, I received an NDFL grant to learn Portuguese in Brazil. In Slavic Studies, such funding supported political scientists like former secretary of state Madeleine Albright, but also generations of Russian literature scholars whose knowledge was also considered important. Area studies associations, like LASA (Latin American Studies Association) evolved into capacious, dynamic spaces of intellectual ferment whose annual meetings were radically multidisciplinary. A literary scholar could decide (as I once did) to attend all the sessions on agronomy; a panel on the ecology of water could include participants from political economy, anthropology, and cinema. Area studies never upheld the boundaries of Cold War anticommunism. Energized by Third World anti-imperial and anti-colonial struggles, it challenged and disrupted them, all the time.

The revolutions in knowledge-making that took place in the 1970s, 80s and 90s hugely magnified the need for transdisciplinary intellectual spaces. The KJCC, conceived in the 1980s and realized in the 90s, was born into a time of astonishing transformation and innovation in the work of knowledge-making. The democratization of higher education demanded new subject matters and fields of inquiry. The transgressive, insurgent energies galvanized by 1968 uprisings took up residence in university departments. Every discipline underwent methodological revolution in these decades, often multiple ones. Disciplinary boundaries were challenged at every turn as new objects of study leaped into view, objects that were impossible to house in existing disciplines—like ideology, hegemony, patriarchy, modernity, sexuality, the social imagination, coloniality, transculturation, race, madness, the state, etc. Methodologies traveled. Humanists brought their interpretive methods to bear on domains beyond literature and the arts. Feminism, ethnic studies and post-colonialism challenged literary canons, and at the same time revitalized them with new revelations about old texts. The emergence of race, gender and ethnicity as objects of study fostered new methodologies and institutional spaces, animated by social and political urgency. Relationality became important: studying “the Spanish-speaking world” no longer meant studying Spain and Spanish America separately, for instance. Transatlantic and transoceanic paradigms enable reflection on the extent to which they constituted and defined each other.

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For individual scholars, this methodological ferment, into which the KJCC was born, was enormously liberating. You could be a scholar without necessarily housing yourself in a single discipline, methodology, or department. You could rove and belong to multiple conversations.

You could cultivate the arts of trespass. You could look for connections, commonalities, and continuities across contrasting or opposing domains. It was and is an exhilarating experience.

In 1976, Raymond Williams, one of the founders of cultural studies, introduced his groundbreaking work, Keywords thus: “The work which this book records has been done in an area where several disciplines converge but in general do not meet” (Williams, 1977, 2).

Today, because of Williams and many other innovative theorists, many of them do meet in post-disciplinary intellectual spaces with names that end with the word “Studies,” and in postdisciplinary institutional spaces whose names contain the word “Center”. The KJCC is one such space.

I like to think of centers like the KJCC through the image of the potluck–the shared meal to which each person brings what they best know how to make. Nobody knows in advance how the meal will turn out, but everyone trusts that everyone else will do what they can to make the feast a successful collaborative event. The potluck model does not make disciplines irrelevant. Au contraire, they are essential contributors to the feast. The potluck requires a spirit of generosity, community and good faith. These are the qualities I most value in the KJCC.

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Interdisciplinarity and the Cultural Center Ingrid Trost As the King Juan Carlos I Center’s undergraduate intern for the 2021-2022 school year, I have worked with a wonderful team to organize cultural conversations and develop programs at the center. In the fall semester, we kicked off our Fridays on the Patio programs, where students, faculty and other NYU community members were invited into the KJCC for weekly communitybuilding events. I have had the privilege of meeting many people across the NYU community from groups and organizations I am unlikely to have found on my own, and have been fortunate to assist them in identifying a space to share their missions with a broad community of students seeking to connect. We were able to collaborate with groups from a variety of undergraduate journals, the student-run radio station, and the LGBTQ+ Center, as well as organize some less structured activities like collaging, knitting and game nights.

The casual environment allowed students and faculty alike to relax and get to know each other outside of the classroom, an often difficult process which has been further exacerbated by the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic. In the shade of the outdoor patio, we witnessed student-run journals comparing their editing and publication processes and people returning week after week, inviting their friends as a break after a week of class. Students even volunteered to teach different skills for later Fridays, and we had multiple student clubs express their desire to co-sponsor future events. And on a chilly November afternoon, we sipped hot chocolate outside with first-year students who had never visited the center before.

A key component to the mission of the KJCC—which perhaps should be replicated by other such centers nationally and internationally—is to offer community-centered programming in a non-classroom setting, in a space which can encourage innovation, invite the participation of the public and allow for a decentralized progression of cultural thought. As programming professionals with budgetary, human resource-related and accessibility limitations, we need to ask ourselves: what is the primary goal of a cultural and academic center, and how may we achieve and maintain that goal in our ever-changing environment in an inclusive and accessible manner?

I argue that the most important role of the academic and cultural center is fostering practical and genuine interdisciplinary collaboration and providing a setting where all community members can connect and converse without academic hierarchy. The academic and cultural center is uniquely suited to this mission because of its ability to quickly respond to community needs and 135

wants, with the possibility of a distance from university hierarchy and a capacity to prioritize student-led multidisciplinary initiatives.

Research shows that there’s a great need for the services an academic center can provide, given that our universities are more isolated and disconnected than ever. Faculty are stretched thin and students are frustrated. Even before the coronavirus pandemic, university communities were distanced from the public and surrounding neighborhood—an academic center could fill these gaps. A pre-pandemic poll of more than 32,000 students across the United States reveals a student body wherein only one third feel they have the knowledge and skills to be prepared adequately for the job market or the workplace (Friedman 96-114). A smaller survey executed

by The Chronicle of Higher Education and Fidelity Investments reveals that in the wake of the pandemic, more than half of the university faculty have considered early retirement or a change in career path. Faculty members were twice as discouraged, angry and fatigued in 2020 compared to 2019; this trend also falls along a binarily-gendered line with female faculty members experiencing stress with ten percent more frequency than their male counterparts (Tugend).

A study performed in six American college towns from 1940-2000 by Cambridge University observes a town-gown effect evolving in communities from the 1970s onwards; town referring to the public of a college town, gown referring to the distinct college or university community (Rousmaniere 320-340). It is hard to imagine calling New York a college town, but I believe the effect is still more than prevalent. I have been fortunate to experience real collaboration with a global community in interdisciplinary classes such as Queer Activisms taught

by Ana Gabriela Alvarez and Zeb Tortorici, where we met with numerous experts in a variety of subjects pertaining to queer resistance and storytelling, but it should not be the role of individual professors alone to establish connections with our community. Unfortunately, I have been a part of isolated volunteering missions organized throughout the university where students remained distanced and did not speak to anyone except their group, per the design of the activity; this does nothing to establish real trust or connection with the community.

Academic and cultural centers offer a setting for an effective form of collaboration and connection to take place if it is prioritized in their mission and resources. The involvement of diverse communities, including both the university and public, and direct sharing of knowledge should be the primary concern for those involved in cultural, political and area studies, lest we repeat the same patterns of exclusion and the same discounting of personal experience that are far too prevalent. In the words of Kimberlè Crenshaw: “knowledge production about race and social power has always been a contested enterprise in which the very same dynamics that were 136

under study were playing out among those involved in the field.” The post-pandemic reimagining of our educational structure and the public’s involvement can provide us with an opportunity to restructure and reprogram in a way that more effectively supports the individuals and communities whose efforts make our existence possible.

One thing the pandemic has taught us is that while we have a lot to learn when it comes to accessibility, diversity and adaptability, we often can weather more changes than we ever thought possible. Working in academia and having adapted so much to continue the varied missions of education has shown that a skeptical review of our present organizational and operational structure is long overdue. This practice and subsequent changes will help us to achieve our respective and collective goals while preventing burnout on either side of the studentteacher relationship. While I criticize components of our institutional structure, I do so with the desire to push collectively towards a higher standard, as well as with the utmost empathy for the restrictions that make overwhelming change challenging under any circumstance. Institutions were and are created through incremental actions carried out by individuals, and their reform will be gradual; still, we must push ourselves to imagine better structures for our organizations and those we serve and do so with actionable change–to do otherwise would be to resign to unimaginative fatalism.

Any review of the organizational and operational systems of United States universities will reveal a departmental structure which generally follows disciplinary divisions.1 Philosophically, this may be attributed to diverging theories emerging from the critical rationalist thought of the eighteenth century,2 but practical limitations like physical space as well as individual and capitalist needs for streamlined hiring, promotion and rewards processes are surely a key concern as well. Disciplines help us to distinguish between the different “methodolog[ies],” “subjectmatter[s],”“curriculum[s],”and shared “purpose[s]” of given “intellectual” communities (Post 749770). By distinguishing disciplines by department, smaller areas of study are given their deserved recognition in the university system. In this way, disciplines may make autonomous decisions 1. For further reading, Robert Post has collected a wonderful variety of sources discussing departmental disciplinarity in his essay “Debating Disciplinarity,” cited below; especially those on pages 752-53.

2. In the 1840s, Comte called for a universal social scientific discipline studying the subject of humanity. Marx, Spencer, Bentham echoed such a perspective; with a(n) universal/indivisible conception of human society, the study of that society should therefore be similarly united. They do not elaborate how this may be practically achieved, given diversity of perspective but also simple physical restrictions which may lead to more disciplinary thought.

Perhaps this is why a more compartmentalized organization continues.

Reference: Greenfeld, Liah and Nisbet, Robert A.. “Social Science”. Encyclopedia Britannica, 22 Oct. 2021.

Accessed 4 January 2022.

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regarding their educational and facutorial standards and requirements. Stanley Fish declares that disciplines allow us to stake out individual and collective territorial claims in academic study (Fish); decolonial scholarship raises an eyebrow.

Despite the encompassing nature of departmental organization and the difficulty of envisioning a transition to a different structure, many of us understand that “the notion of disciplinary unity is triply false: minimizing or denying differences that exist across the plurality of specialties grouped loosely under a single disciplinary label, undervaluing connections across specialties of separate disciplines, and discounting the frequency and impact of cross-disciplinary influences” (Klein 190). The theoretical separation between different disciplines and departments often results in physical distance between them, reinforcing the separation in an exaggerated manner. The academic discipline or department is limited in its ability to respond to the everevolving needs of the subject, students, and faculty it serves, as it is accountable for the university as an institution and must match its bureaucratic systems of employment as well as educational operations; plans must be made at least a semester in advance, limiting a department’s capacity for responsiveness. The result of our present organizational and operational structure is dissatisfaction in most facets of the university system and its interactions with the public, and the discipline-based department is a key unit in this structure.

The cultural center allows for programming and conversation which may establish a framework for interdisciplinarity that has been made difficult by physical separation. I argue that the most important role of the academic and cultural center is that of fostering practical interdisciplinary collaboration, and providing a space in which students, faculty, and other community members may gather to share ideas on equal footing, outside of the classroom. This focus will provide those feeling frustrated with the present structure a space to ensure that their perspectives regarding their own discipline as well as the broader institutional structure can be heard and discussed among their peers and community. With the central mission of the academic and cultural center being to share political, cultural, and historical knowledge, attempting to do so without incorporating the public or highlighting varied ways of knowing means a limited scope and thus a failure of their mission (hooks).

In our summer planning meetings, KJCC Director Jordana Mendelson and I agreed that the Center’s physical presence within an academic building should translate to a similar interconnectedness with students and other university community members. We made it our goal to demonstrate the variety of perspectives, careers, and expressions available to those connected to Spain and the Spanish-speaking world through identity and study. This direct relationship 138

strengthened week-by-week through Fridays on the Patio as we saw increased attendance, leading to contact with over a hundred students. This inclusion results in a more connected and weighty relationship with the student body which has the possibility of translating into increased interest in similar classes. Students of an analytical research university like NYU should experience a connected and multidisciplinary educational community, and the academic and cultural center provides a setting for this to occur at a variety of levels.

We can look to already established interdisciplinary initiatives such as the undergraduate core curriculum and multi-disciplined hiring efforts as positive instances of collaboration across departments. However, these efforts are limited in scale and duration and are merely supplementary, rather than a guiding principle for academic departments. These are important tools, but they are based in the institution of the university. Progress may thus be slowed by bureaucracy’s struggle to incorporate extremely broad and contrasting perspectives, so the cultural and academic center may fill the gaps presented by a departmental organization and can help distinct disciplines collaborate to execute their goals on a larger scale.

While departments continue their philosophical conversations, asking what is the most effective way to execute our research and whether a disciplinary vision helps in the pursuit of that goal, the academic center may offer support to students and faculty directly. The autonomy and adaptability of an academic and cultural center that does not have the pressure of meeting specific educational requirements enables its members to craft its mission in real time and to present a variety of content and ways of knowing (hooks). There are often smaller numbers of employees within the center, so there is direct communication and ample opportunity for student involvement.

Academic and cultural centers must create a space for conversations about progress by establishing programming that invites the community to gather and discuss what their experiences and studies have taught them, intentionally providing space for learning to become praxis. Of course, any faculty member or administrator will emphasize that their schedule is already overwhelmed, so I implore the executive boards of centers to establish more positions for undergraduate and graduate student involvement through internships or hired hourly employees.

Invite the student-run clubs in your field to gather in your space, giving them the chance to grow familiar without the power dynamic seen in the classroom and to see the variety of how others inhabit their experiences and studies.

The academic center is uniquely positioned to provide a space for active interdisciplinary cooperation through the implementation of inclusive community programming, both online 139

and in person. There is significant student interest in participation in these programs which will only increase with a more supportive structure. The presentation and debate of narratives and counternarratives is the only way to develop true understanding, and the cultural and academic center may provide a setting for this to occur in real time. While departments and centers work to find ways to engage students and further their missions; I repeat June Jordan’s famed question cited by hooks: “Is the university prepared to teach us something new?”

Bibliography Crenshaw, Kimberlé Williams. “Race Liberalism and the Deradicalization of Racial Reform.”

Harvard Law Review, vol. 130, no. 9, Oct. 2017, 2298–2319. Web. Fish, Stanley. “Being Interdisciplinary Is So Very Hard to Do,” Profession, 1989.

Friedman, Hershey H., and Linda W. Friedman. “Does Growing the Number of Academic Departments Improve the Quality of Higher Education?” Psychosociological Issues in Human Resource Management, vol. 6, no. 1, 2018, 96-114. Web. hooks, bell. Teaching Community : A Pedagogy of Hope, Taylor & Francis Group, 2003. Web. Klein. “Blurring, Cracking, and Crossing: Permeation and the Fracturing of Discipline,” in Knowledges: Historical and Critical Studies in Disciplinarity, ed. Messer-Davidow, Shumway, and David J. Sylvan. Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 1993.

Post, Robert. “Debating Disciplinarity.” Critical Inquiry, vol. 35, no. 4, 2009, 749-770.

Web. Rousmaniere, K. What Happened to Your College Town: The Changing Relationship of Higher Education and College Towns, 1940–2000. History of Education Quarterly, 61(3), 2021, 320-340.

Tugend, Alina. “‘On the Verge of Burnout:” Covid-19’s Impact on Faculty Well-Being and Career Plans.” Chronicle of Higher Education, 2020. Web.

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¿Cuál es la necesidad de crear el KJCC en NYU? Thomas Zenteno Los centros culturales son instituciones formadas con el propósito de promover la cultura y las artes. A finales de la década de los ochentas, las universidades en los Estados Unidos empezaron a establecer centros dedicados a la investigación y enseñanza de países y culturas específicas. En ese momento surgió la conciencia de que había poca información acerca de España y Latinoamérica.

El Centro Cultural del Rey Juan Carlos I es un ejemplo de uno de estos centros culturales; según su página web, este centro fue fundado en el año 1997 con la misión de fomentar la investigación y la enseñanza de la historia y la cultura de España y el mundo hispanohablante en NYU (“The King Juan Carlos I of Spain Center”).

El amor y el interés por el hispanismo es algo que puede trazarse a través del tiempo.

Stanley G. Payne, en su artículo “El hispanismo y la hispanofilia”, nos muestra los orígenes del hispanismo en Francia e Inglaterra. Aunque estos países tenían enfoques diferentes, contribuyeron cada cual a su modo a la expansión de los estudios hispanos. En “The Instrumental University”, Ethan Schrum plantea cómo las universidades pueden llegar a ser utilizadas como instrumentos para establecer e impulsar un “habitus”. Schrum, a su vez, sugiere que las universidades se pueden utilizar como herramientas diplomáticas para promover programas e, incluso, culturas. (Shrum 129). Al mismo tiempo, Schrum sugiere que el desarrollo administrativo de universidades en vías de desarrollo evidenció la presencia de mecanismos establecidos por las universidades estadounidenses a finales de los años 50 (Schrum 127). Las ideas presentadas por Schrum nos ayudan a entender el poder que tienen las instituciones académicas para influir y establecer doctrinas que promuevan ciertos comportamientos e ideologías. Sin duda alguna, NYU es una institución reconocida mundialmente. Este reconocimiento es precisamente lo que le permite ubicarse en una posición de influencia.

El hecho de que NYU haya fundado un centro cultural para el estudio del hispanismo, junto a instituciones como Yale o Harvard, nos muestra la importancia y el interés hacia el mundo hispano que existía entre los fundadores durante esa época. Aunque para algunos es fácil comprender las razones por las que el estudio de España es esencial en el continente americano, muchos podrían no comprender del todo cuál es el afán por conservar la historia hispana en una institución como NYU. Es interesante destacar que la población latina e hispana tiene una gran presencia en la ciudad de Nueva York; constituye cerca del 30% de la población total (“NYC 141

Census”). Por otro lado, una quinta parte de la población total de NYU es considerada latina o hispana (“NYU at a Glance”). Por eso, la existencia de un centro cultural dedicado al idioma español y la cultura hispana es una gran motivación para que estas personas valoren su historia y aprendan más de ella.

En general, los centros culturales son vistos como incubadores de conocimiento donde a través de invitados y de sus mismos miembros, obtienen la habilidad de expresarse libremente y contribuyen a los estudios en los que se enfocan. En mi opinión el centro cultural KJCC logra su cometido pues permite acceder, a todos aquellos que lo desean, a una rica experiencia cultural e histórica del mundo hispanohablante, mientras fomenta el interés y la enseñanza en NYU, una de las instituciones más influyentes hoy en día.

Bibliografía New York City Census. Red. “NYU at a Glance”. NYU. Red. Payne, Stanley G. “El Hispanismo y La Hispanofilia: Una Perspectiva Histórica”. Vínculos De Historia. Red. Schrum, Ethan D. The Instrumental University: Education in Service of the National Agenda after World War II. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2019.

“The King Juan Carlos I of Spain Center”. NYU KJCC | The King Juan Carlos I of Spain Center, 21 agosto. 2015. Red.

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Trascendiendo disciplinas:

la perspectiva del artista en la Academia María José Urrutia Introducción En la época de los ochentas la Universidad de Nueva York, bajo la dirección de John Brademas, empezó a formar centros dedicados al estudio y enseñanza de distintos países y culturas del exterior. Uno de estos centros fue el King Juan Carlos I of Spain Center, que fue inaugurado en abril de 1997 ante la presencia del Rey y la Reina de España. El centro fue el resultado de una campaña extensa para presentar a académicos, estudiantes y al público en general el rico mundo cultural de España y Latinoamérica. Su apuesta –crear una mayor consciencia sobre el mundo hispanohablante basada en los estudios intersdisciplinarios– llevó a formar una nueva generación de hispanistas. Por ello, se convirtió en un lugar de gran valor cultural para la comunidad universitaria y de la ciudad de Nueva York. Hoy en día, el centro organiza muchos programas, mirando siempre hacia el futuro mientras busca servir a una audiencia cada vez más amplia.

Las cátedras cumplen un rol vital en esta búsqueda por obtener nuevas audiencias y aumentar el alcance académico del centro. Aportan un mundo de conocimiento y experiencia que el centro optimiza para abrir más puertas y así establecer conexiones con más estudiantes y miembros de la comunidad. En su labor interdsiciplinaria, el mundo del arte ha sido una de las áreas de enfoque principal del centro en sus primeros veinticinco años y esto se refleja en el liderazgo de individuos como el conocido artista visual multimediático y curador de exhibiciones Francesc Torres, quien fuera el King Juan Carlos Chair in Spanish Culture and Civilization en el año 2005-2006. Más recientemente, en el año académico de 2019-2020, el King Juan Carlos Chair fue otorgado a Cristina Pato, gaitera, pianista y compositora de música de renombre mundial proveniente de Galicia. Ellos no son académicos, pero fueron elegidos para ocupar dichas cátedras en un espacio académico. Este texto es una reflexión que examina más a fondo el rol y las perspectivas que traen los artistas al mundo académico y cultural.

La esencia del artista Pero, ¿qué es un artista? El concepto del arte es amplio y subjetivo, asimismo, lo que cada persona considera arte varía dependiendo a menudo de los gustos personales y opiniones. Se podría 143

definir a un ‘artista’ con esta generalización: una persona con los talentos y las habilidades de conceptualizar y realizar trabajos creativos. ¿Qué son trabajos creativos? La respuesta es infinita: pinturas, dibujos, fotografías, prosa, filmografía, escultura, actuación, música, danza.

Por supuesto, es de mucha importancia que los artistas posean la habilidad y el deseo de embarcarse en el arduo proceso de imaginar, diseñar y fabricar los objetos, fotos, imágenes, palabras e ideas que constituyen su corpus de trabajo. Aquí encontramos una gran similaridad entre académicos y artistas, específicamente entre las personas que ocupan una cátedra en un centro cultural. Cada cátedra debe aportar una visión al Centro durante su tenencia, ideas que deben ser visualizadas y eventualmente realizadas en una serie de conferencias en el Centro y clases para estudiantes de la Universidad de Nueva York. Imaginar, diseñar y fabricar –exactamente el proceso que ocupa a los artistas.

El artista en una cátedra académica Aún teniendo en cuenta estas similitudes entre académicos y artistas, estas profesiones poseen diferencias. Como dice Francesc Torres: I am not an academic [...] Artists function differently when it comes to articulating knowledge. (“Francesc Torres Interview Footage”) Efectivamente, un artista interpreta y comunica el conocimiento de modo diverso a un académico. Cristina Pato, en sus conferencias durante su tiempo como King Juan Carlos Chair, se enfocó mucho en traer a músicos para hablar de temas como los genes del cerebro o la sustentabilidad cultural. De hecho, la Dr. Pato mostró a lo largo de su posición cómo el arte está presente e impacta diferentes conceptos, incluyendo la educación. En temas como la memoria cultural y la responsabilidad social, muchos pensarán que el arte no tiene nada que aportar a esos temas, pero la Dr. Pato y Francesc Torres demuestran lo contrario.

En la conferencia titulada, “An Invisible Ancestry and the Unquiet Genes of the Brain”, Cristina Pato establece una conexión entre el Alzheimer y cómo “a culture or a nation chooses to remember its past”. Así como las personas pierden sus recuerdos al padecer de Alzheimer o demencia, hay países enteros que pierden su memoria cultural –la Dr. Pato menciona a España como un ejemplo. Ella establece una conexión hermosa entre la música y el cerebro, y explica cómo hay caminos neurales que recuerdan partes de instrumentos o notas específicas. Relaciona la memoria al impacto de la música en las culturas del mundo, y subraya cómo esta puede ayudar a las sociedades a reencontrarse con el pasado. Estas son las conexiones y enseñanzas que la Dr. Pato puede hacer debido a su formación y el lente con el que mira al mundo –el lente de una 144

artista. Tal y como ella dijo, se trata de un lente diferente al de un académico, pero es igualmente poderoso y perspicaz: [It’s about] helping to redefine the role of artists in academia. [...] There is a power in not fitting in—and the role of an artist in academia and society is more powerful than we think it is. (“ATRIUM”) Cátedras como las de Cristina Pato y Francesc Torres han aportado un nuevo aire al King Juan Carlos I of Spain Center –y al mundo académico de la Universidad de Nueva York en general.

Artistas que tal vez no encajarían en la academia son hoy más necesarios que nunca. No solo es necesario para abrir el paso de artistas en el mundo académico, sino también para abrir las mentes de estudiantes y miembros de la comunidad a pensar fuera del status quo sobre las culturas y sociedades del mundo.

Bibliografía “ATRIUM: Voices from the KJCC Presents Christina Pato”. NYU KJCC, 2 julio, 2021. Red. “Francesc Torres Interview Footage”. YouTube, YouTube, 7 diciembre. 2021. Red.

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Paisaje interior,

con fondo de King Juan Carlos Center Vicente Sánchez Biosca I La sensación de vulnerabilidad extrema ha venido siempre en mí acompañada de un océano de presagios, de una lectura compulsiva de detalles, de una proliferación inmediata de rituales de exorcismo. Mi viaje a NYC, cuando en enero de 2013 me disponía a tomar posesión de la cátedra del KJCC de NYU, acumulaba una carga de sufrimiento todavía inconcluso y esa forma de aflicción anticipada que llamamos aprehensión. La conexión en Madrid falló y, mientras contemplaba mi enorme maleta girar en solitario sobre la cinta transportadora de devolución, alguien me entregó un bono para un hotel cercano. Concluí –o creí concluir– que las señales admitían poco equívoco: era una llamada al regreso. Mas lo propio del carácter obsesivo es la incertidumbre, la duda después de la decisión y la espera de un nuevo signo que contradiga el anterior. Cuanto más absurdo y paralizante, más esperanza de claridad. Innecesario es decir que aguardé, atrincherado en una inacción que, en realidad, era dar alas al destino. Una vez en esa habitación sin vistas ni atributos, no osé abrir el candado de la maleta; se me antoja que ni siquiera coloqué el equipaje del derecho, como si aguardase que siguiera su propio camino sin mi ayuda.

Al día siguiente, volaba en dirección a Nueva York. Las figuras que un disparatado mendigo inventado por Paul Auster trazaba sobre las calles de Nueva York en el libro que me acompañaba hicieron telúrico el paisaje al que iba a ingresar. No era Nueva York un lugar nuevo para mí, claro, pero, siempre que lo había recorrido, sus recodos e iconos habían estado cubiertos –¿enterrados?– por capas que los sepultaban. Un film –Angel Heart– arrasó mi primer paso por la ciudad, marcando cada rincón oscuro con un susurro que solo yo podía oír y que me estremecía.

Y también una habitación iluminada de Times Square, donde algo satánico ocurría fuera del alcance de los ojos del espectador y que, cual reguero de pólvora, invadió mi sueño de la ciudad entera. Hubo otras huellas, literarias las más de las veces, pero prefiero callarlas ahora. Puedo, eso sí, confesar que todas ellas arrojaban una plomiza lluvia negra sobre la urbe. Sin embargo, ahora –en aquel ahora que era el invierno de 2013–, el dolor no era un efecto onírico suscitado por el 146

cine ni la literatura; no era un temblor de ficción. Era una pérdida íntima abrasivamente lenta, donde la generación que me precedía se precipitaba en el abismo y ese valle que fue una vida en común, se alejaban. Todo había sido anunciado, por supuesto; todo salvo su aciaga y pasmosa lentitud y la fangosa inhumanidad que llevó aparejado el proceso. Duraba ya más de un año y había de prolongarse –en un descenso hasta la sima– mucho más.

II Nueva York me recibió con un manto de nieve que la hacía a la par preciosa e inocente, pues tornaba irreconocible cada detalle de sus edificios, sus calles, incluso sus árboles. La bondad angélica de Jo Labanyi me acogió con un té en La Laterna di Vittorio y unas provisiones para el primer fin de semana. Sus palabras serenas y realistas al atolondramiento suave y perezoso que entraña cualquier largo viaje dieron un bosquejo de vida a mi silencio y sequedad interiores. Por supuesto, ella desconocía mi drama. Pero así sucede con las gentes que nos hacen el bien en el momento preciso. El fin de semana transcurrió entre nubes. Al lunes siguiente, Laura Turégano, Luis Pérez, Cristina Colmena me hicieron sentir, con una naturalidad que en nada restaba sorpresa, que ya era parte de algo y que existía una hoja de ruta. La Bobst Library, un despacho, mi apartamento en el número 2 de Washington Square Village fueron acompasándose con nuevos lugares que me dieron cobijo y calor y que, como en todo descubrimiento, siempre son más pequeños y modestos de como los habíamos imaginado. Las periódicas descargas eléctricas cada vez que tocaba un objeto metálico me devolvían a la realidad cuando me atrevía a ensimismarme.

Conquisté el espacio como leí que lo habían hecho los soldados en antiguas guerras: palmo a palmo, acera a acera, montón de nieve a montón de nieve. Lo hice desde la paralizada humildad de los temores que me atenazaban. Film Forum se convirtió en el escenario diario de mis tardes y parte de mis noches, siempre iguales y siempre distintas. También lo fue el Anthology Film Archives. Subir al primer metro me tomó casi un mes –o así creo recordarlo–, pero sí visité, como si fuese por primera vez, decenas de lugares que ya había visto. Los lugares nunca son los mismos si uno es consciente de que no lo es. Aquí cada zarpazo sobre un libro, la inmersión en una sección nueva del laberinto de la biblioteca, un aparato nuevo del gimnasio, un ensayo de las cheerleaders en Cole’s, ese ciclo infinito del Hollywood de 1933 que colmaba de brillos la Gran Depresión con una atmósfera deslumbrante y vagamente triste, esos asientos desgastados del Anthology y los cafés que rodeaban Washington Square, incluidos los sillones de los edificios que uno descubría que pertenecían a NYU solo si alzaba los ojos y detectaba la banderita con su antorcha colgada y el inequívoco color violeta. Todo esto consumó una batalla de trincheras que, 147

a fin de cuentas, se libraba a seis mil kilómetros de allí, donde se partía mi alma en dos trozos de vida.

Ese palmo a palmo me pareció una toma de posesión de la isla: no porque se la arrebatase a nadie, sino porque esa idea aristotélica (quizá hipocrática) de catarsis se fue extendiendo por mis adentros convenciéndome de que trascendía algo mi banalidad cotidiana. Tan sencillo y tan común. Y lo sé porque nada de ese descubrimiento (desvelamiento) volvería a producirse ni a ser recordado cuatro años más tarde cuando regresé durante un largo período a sus mismas calles para una investigación. Lo supe siempre: no se había apagado Nueva York; se había apagado mi luz. Tal vez por eso, recordar el deslumbramiento tiene algo de epifanía.

III Mis clases se trabaron con mis lecturas, mis periódicos encuentros con Jo, y con esa otra figura que identifico con el Nueva York generoso: Stuart Liebman. Siguieron otros amigos que iban creciendo tan poco a poco como inexorablemente: más paradas de metro, más recovecos, no todos visibles. No hay mejor reconocimiento que ver bajo una luz nueva aquello que ya se ha visto. ¿No es así como observa París quien hoy se enfrenta a las fotografías casi fantasmales de Eugène Atget? En suma, Nueva York me perteneció. No más de lo que pertenece a cualquier otro que lo desea, tal vez; pero contuvo (en la anfibología de esta palabra) mi calvario y las estaciones que lo formaron fueron momentos de una intensidad cercana a la plenitud. Fue, pues, mía sin dejar de ser de otros en el alborear de la primavera de 2013. Inútil añadir que me sentí curado.

Inútil también decir que no lo estaba. La aflicción retornó (siempre lo hace) y dejó las marcas de sus garras para siempre. Pero eso importa poco: fui libre entre las cuatro paredes inmensas de la isla cuando no lo esperaba y de la que había tratado, iluso, de escapar. ¡Bendita obsesión, prodigio de la duda! Disfruté cada paso, cada café, cada sillón en cuyo fondo leí con pasión algunas páginas de mis libros errabundos, recién retirados y quizá jamás concluidos. Un día, concluyendo mis clases de inglés, cenamos en Carmine’s, junto a Times Square. Todo era inmenso, pero lo inconmensurable era la sensación de haberme ganado pertenecer a algo. Ese lugar en el que había hecho cola para conseguir entradas de algún musical, disfrutar de unos neones que, reconocibles en el mundo entero, quizá ya no podían competir con algunos de Tokio o de Shanghai, se había convertido en mi pequeño hogar. Me movilicé, saltando del abandono y la pereza, para que mi familia (amada y breve familia) viera, desde el túnel que preparé, la ciudad.

Llegó –dije– la primavera. Debió hacerlo sin ruido. Lo sé porque la nieve se desvaneció y los árboles y el parque volvieron a ser reconocibles (para mí ya solo lo serán con la nieve que los 148

oculta). Tampoco porque músicos y cantantes, jugadores de ajedrez y paseantes atravesaban ya sin arrastrar sus botas por Washington Square. Lo sé, en realidad, porque la ropa de abrigo pesaba y los interiores expulsaban a las gentes, las horas caminando por el high line estimulaban a seguir sin freno y porque los pies se hinchaban, aunque nada instaba a regresar a las profundidades de uno de aquellos sillones que tanta felicidad me habían entregado antaño.

IV Poco he dicho –ingrato de mí– de la institución que me regaló esta dicha: el King Juan Carlos Center de la New York University. En realidad, todo cuanto he nombrado (y aun lo que he omitido) se lo debo a ella y, como las obras tienen nombres, a Jo Labanyi en primer lugar. La generosidad de Stuart Liebman tiene reminiscencias de aquellos grandes hombres de antaño (y soy consciente de que el término –muy francés y nacionalista, por cierto– es políticamente dudoso), que ya escasean hoy. Más tarde, apenas unos días después de que, entre calores, abandonase el gimnasio Cole’s (años más tarde en obras) y derramase débilmente lágrimas estudiando la inminencia de mi partida y la retirada del sueño, recordaría dos días preciosos que se proyectarían, más allá de sordideces y retornos al duro banco del mundo, a un futuro que hoy, pasado y sellado, juzgo entre lo más íntimamente sagrado de mi universo intelectual. Mejor evocarlo.

Entre mis cometidos como chair holder del KJCC se contaba la organización de un symposium. Jo Labanyi me otorgó, no solo libertad, sino su ánimo y apoyo, para concebirlo.

Pensé con ella en algo que al final se denominaría The Desire to See. The Production and Circulation of Images of Atrocity. No me atraía concebir un mundo hispano ni latino separado del resto del mundo, con sus especialistas y sus certezas. Soy dubitativo, pero no conformista.

Por eso, no llegué a ser hispanista de pro ni historiador de pro, ni filólogo de pro, ni en realidad nada de pro en toda mi vida. Ahora sí puedo asegurarlo, porque ya no cambiará. Me atraía la comparación, el reto, como desde mi juventud me atrajeron los viajes débilmente organizados (también por manifiesta incompetencia) con la guía Lonely Planet en la mano, la más elemental guesthouse, que se traducía en una insuficiente visión de las ciudades y los monumentos (me avergonzaba no haber visto o no recordar haber visto algo que cualquier viajero a estos lugares mencionaba a las primeras de cambio). Algo se hermanó aquí o, como dicen los enólogos, se maridó: busqué en –y me beneficié de– mis leales amigos y otros académicos: Jo Labanyi, Stuart Liebman, Ben Kiernan, Marita Sturken, Allan Thomson, Daniel Hernández-Salazar. El Simposio fue un éxito para mí. Ignoro todavía –la honestidad debe ser preservada– si lo fue para los demás.

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Pero sé que, de las entrañas de aquellos días, de aquellas conversaciones, la visión de las imágenes que recorrieron el salón de actos del KJCC y de su larvada agitación interior que recogían a su paso las rodadas por Rithy Panh que jamás había logrado dejar de invocar en mi interior, mi rumbo cambió.

Mi retorno a España estuvo marcado por toda la sordidez de la que se compone la vida (la soledad, el dolor, la muerte, la ausencia, el remordimiento incierto –no es un oxímoron–).

En cambio, mi búsqueda trató de hallar algo cuya intensidad emotiva se hallase a la altura de mi aflicción y que la desbordase: una suerte de redención que no puede esconder el egoísmo de la que nace. Camboya, atravesada por los horrores perpetrados por los Jemeres Rojos en menos de cuatro años, me ofreció el paisaje que anhelaba: una sonrisa budista y una crueldad sin fondo, una contemplación idílica y una aceleración del gran salto hacia adelante. Pero, sobre todo, un lugar que contenía todos mis lugares interiores: pequeño (¿a escala humana, es decir, del sufrimiento humano?), donde los cuerpos se retorcieron de dolor un día y donde sus huellas se resistían a desaparecer. Allí pude morir unos años más tarde. Tampoco es esto una metáfora. Era lo más verosímil, pero el destino no lo quiso.

V Desde enero de 2013, entre dos despachos, una biblioteca, un apartamento y varios cafés, este componente material que había instilado mis viajes desde mucho tiempo atrás se hizo más evidente. Un pudor hacia el ridículo lo camufló, pero no logró hacerlo desaparecer. De ahí nacieron mis libros Miradas criminales, ojos de víctima. Imágenes de la aflicción en Camboya (2017) y mi reciente La muerte en los ojos. Qué perpetran las imágenes de perpetrador (2021). Yo hubiese deseado que naciesen otras cosas que por ahora quedan sepultadas, en fragmentos inseguros, entre mis archivos, inconclusas quién sabe si para siempre. Pero la figura del perpetrador de crímenes de masa –en el fondo latente en todo cuanto me ha inquietado a lo largo de mi vida– tomó forma y ya ha salido a la superficie.

Cualesquiera que sean los logros y los fracasos académicos y humanos, me es imposible contemplar todo esto sin el KJCC y sin Jo Labanyi, a quien me une a la vez el cariño y el remordimiento de no haber cumplido un antiguo compromiso de trabajo en común. Reconozco que no puedo ver mi transcurso intelectual y vital como un proceso de mejora y progresión. Pero no me lleva esta incapacidad a verme envuelto en un círculo que retorna compulsivamente al lugar de origen. Me veo más bien preso –condenado y a veces disfrutando del reconocimiento– de una serie desordenada de rimas –asonantes unas, consonantes otras– que conforman 150

estrofas no sistemáticas, pero tampoco carentes de sentido. Mi Camboya, es decir, la de mis conversaciones con Rithy Panh, las horas pasadas en los archivos del Bophana Center, las que pugné por acceder al DC-Cam, a tratar de atravesar el río crecido que daba acceso al primer lugar de tortura que dirigió Duch (M-13), en las celdas estrechas de Tuol Sleng o mirando a la cara durante largos minutos rostros que se asomaban a la muerte inminente en el museo o los archivos del Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, son indisociables del Java Café donde pasaba horas enteras frente al monumento a la independencia, los paseos en tuk-tuk, las lecturas frente al Tonlé Sap o el bello jardín de la casa de madera de Helen Jarvis a orillas del Mekkong. Todas estas mudas de mi Phnom Penh y de Battambang, Angkor, Sihanoukville, entre otros, riman con los viajes a Varanasi, Katmandú, Birmania o a Sudáfrica, en compañía de Elena, a Ho-Chi Minh City o, ya con mi hija Adriana (prendada de Nueva York desde la primera mirada), por Tokio, Kyoto, Shanghai o Indonesia. Pero igual que saltan por encima del tiempo, algunos de estos hilos que llamé rimas atraviesan las calles de Nueva York, como si de un túnel se tratase. Treblinka, Sobibor, Chelmno, Maidanek, Auschwitz-Birkenau, Sighet, la Toft und Söhne Stiftung de Erfurt, diligentes y profesionales fabricantes de los hornos crematorios, Mauthausen, Bergen-Belsen, Buchenwald, Núrenberg, Sachsenhausen, Terezín, Dachau y tantos otros lugares estuvieron periódicamente en mí aparentemente ajenos a esos meses de 2013. Y, sin embargo, también ellos están atravesados, en el maelstrom del tiempo, por ese invierno y primavera de 2013 en el KJCC. Un crisol de vida, imperfecto y por eso genuino: no lo contiene todo, no da sentido a todo, pero reluce e ilumina.

El KJCC fue en mi vida un interludio en el que se condensó una redención imperfecta; un túnel con ramificaciones por el que pasan algunas de esas cristalizaciones del mundo que tiene la vida: una nota manuscrita, una ‘visión’ de futuro, un reencuentro con lo olvidado. Que la vida no me haya redimido tras aquella plenitud no resta un ápice de valor a lo que debo a aquel tiempo. Precisamente porque pude sentir que lo que ocurría en mí era obra de una conquista mía (modesta, banal, imperceptible) que vibra en ese año en que Rafa Nadal regresó a las pistas cuando se le creía acabado y una muchachita nepalí me servía mi café matutino en un modesto café en una esquina de Washington Square.

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de los cuadernos de Nueva York Llegamos a Nueva York -Imma y yo- el 15 de enero de 2012, hoy hace exactamente 10 años.

No tengo cámara fotográfica y, aunque todo el mundo me había dicho que no podría sobrevivir ni un día sin él, tampoco tengo -tuve- móvil. Al igual que tantos otros presuntuosos como yo -nada original-, llevo siempre encima un cuaderno en el que tomo toda clase de notas, escritas -a veces “caligrafiadas”- o dibujadas: museos, librerías y bares son lo que más abunda. Prefiero la anotación o el dibujo a la fotografía, sobre todo en estos tiempos en los que la fotografía no cuesta nada -aunque, en verdad, siempre que alguien toma una fotografía con su móvil, está trabajando gratis para la más poderosa de las compañías, para el gran monopolio. Ahora, en fin, fotografiar es olvidar. Escribir o dibujar, en cambio, significa obligatoriamente detenerse, observar, pensar, reflexionar, aunque sea un poco y, de un modo u otro, depositar cuidadosamente lo visto, oído, pensado o reflexionado en algún estrato de la memoria al que siempre podremos regresar con la memoria misma -si no es que es la memoria la que, por su cuenta, nos regresa, puesto que con la anotación o el dibujo no todo está ya hecho. Decía Bernardino de Laredo, sobre las tortugas, que son “animales que se encierran dentro de sí, y cuando están encerrados obran guardando su vida en muy callada quietud”: ¡qué gran metáfora para aspirar! Sea como fuere, estos cuadernos, en definitiva, tan poco insólitos -con sus interpolaciones y licencias, tortugas incluidas, que ustedes tendrán que adivinar si es que quieren perder el tiempo con ellos-, son lo que son: cosas míasbonitos recuerdos de los meses felices, llenos de suerte, en que vivimos en Washington Square.

Sobre todo, recuerdos de todas las amigas y de los amigos que tanto nos mimaron mientras estuvimos allí -empezando por mi querida Jordana, claro está.

Juan José Lahuerta 15/01/2022

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Punto y aparte Cristina Pato Comenzó como comienzan todos los cursos, de manera tranquila y a su vez frenética. Pero nada de aquel final de aquel verano nos hacía ver que ese iba a ser un curso diferente. Un curso que nos cambiaría la vida a todos. Sin distinción.

Recuerdo que, en septiembre de 2019, llegué a mi nueva oficina con la emoción de poder contribuir a un lugar nuevo, con la intención de tender puentes entre las disciplinas y los temas en los que había trabajado durante los últimos años. Pero también con la esperanza de poder aportar todas esas cosas intangibles que, de alguna manera, intentamos aportar aquellos que nos dedicamos a las artes. A través de las actividades que había diseñado para mi estancia en el King Juan Carlos I of Spain Center, quería hacer una reflexión sobre el rol de los artistas en el mundo académico y en la sociedad, sobre cuáles son los valores que nos suelen llevar a ser invitados como artistas en residencia, sobre lo que significa habitar una disciplina en la que tienes que estar constantemente escuchando, renovando, adaptando, colaborando e innovando. Con la idea de terminar mi estancia reflexionando, en público, sobre la relación entre las artes y la responsabilidad social. ¿Pero quién nos iba a decir a nosotros que esa última reflexión pública, la del 5 de marzo de 2020, iba a ser también la última ocasión que tendríamos de vernos, abrazarnos y emocionarnos en directo con la música y las palabras de mi mentor, el violonchelista Yo-Yo Ma? Sin distancia social. Sin mascarilla. ¿Quién nos iba a decir que el mundo se pararía de repente y que una pandemia nos haría cuestionar todos los pilares en los que sostenemos nuestra existencia…?

En realidad, lo que quiero decir es que ahora, mirando atrás, ese curso del 2019-2020 parece que sucedió hace una década. Personalmente ya no soy la misma que era cuando llegué al KJCC, ni siquiera sabría cómo definirme en este momento, pues una de las cosas que aprendí durante estos dos años es que todas esas vidas que desarrollaba fuera de los escenarios (la docencia, la escritura, la producción) eran también mis pasiones, y que, aunque mi vida pública era como artista, la verdad es que no echaba en falta mi relación con la música, más bien todo lo contrario. Esa pausa obligada en el calendario me hizo entender que quizá mi futuro ya no estaba en el centro de la disciplina, sino en la intersección que se crea entre la música y la sociedad.

Por eso hoy, al releer los materiales relacionados con mi estancia en la Cátedra de Cultura y Civilización Española, siento que quizá ya había comenzado ese viaje antes de que llegara la pandemia, y que el hecho de haber tenido que parar justo en ese momento, justo después de aquella charla sobre cultura y responsabilidad social, hizo de ese evento una circunstancia vital. Esa pausa que comenzó como un paréntesis acabó como un punto y aparte, y me ha llevado a entender que esa última reunión en el KJCC marcaría un antes y un después en lo que significa, a nivel personal, haber habitado la música para ahora aprender a vivir fuera de ella. Pero siempre con ella.

Nueva York, enero de 2022

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Cambios de responsabilidad e influencia Nicole Bula Imagina un lugar centrado en el estudio de España y el hispanismo. Un lugar que reúne a expertos de diferentes campos profesionales de varias partes del mundo. Mejor aún, imagina un centro creado sólo para estas personas. Un lugar donde pueden venir y enseñar a los estudiantes universitarios sobre sus pasiones. Es increíble pensar en un lugar así, pero es aún más increíble verlo con tus propios ojos.

He visto personalmente el impacto positivo que tiene el King Juan Carlos I of Spain Center (KJCC) en cada persona que entra por sus puertas. Personalmente, me tomó por sorpresa cuánto iba a afectar mi vida. Como persona recién llegada a la ciudad de Nueva York y estudiante de primer año en New York University (NYU), creía que el propósito del centro era reconocer los trabajos y el impacto de la comunidad hispanohablante. Sin embargo, estaba equivocada porque rápidamente aprendí que es mucho más que eso. Qué mejor lugar entonces para comenzar esta historia que en 1993, antes de la fundación del KJCC. Años antes de que yo naciera, un joven académico de Cambridge, Inglaterra, se fue a vivir a Nueva York por primera vez como profesor visitante en NYU. El nombre de este profesor era Paul Julian Smith y la intención de su investigación como chair del KJCC era “to bring French theory and Hispanic studies and later cinema and visual culture because it was not studied so much at that time within the literature department” (Smith. Entrevista)1. El Profesor Smith obtuvo su BA en literatura española y francesa en Cambridge, Inglaterra, así como su doctorado en literatura española e italiana. En lo que respecta al cine, el Profesor Smith siguió la recomendación de su colega de Cambridge, Jo Labanyi (directora del KJCC, 2007-2014), para obtener un certificado en estudios cinematográficos en el British Film Institute, donde aprendió a analizar películas plano a plano y a través del montaje. La mezcla de la literatura y el cine en sus estudios me hace reflexionar sobre el papel universal del cine en un contexto académico. Para explicar esta conexión, el Profesor Smith ha observado que “in general visual culture is part of everyday life in a way that maybe text isn’t because television and fashion, for example, are integrated into daily life in a very immediate way. And literature is somewhat separate” (Smith)2. Así, me pregunto si esto afecta el 1.. “acercar la teoría francesa y los estudios hispánicos y más adelante el cine y la cultura visual porque no se estudiaba tanto en ese momento dentro del departamento de literatura” (Paul Julian Smith. Entrevista Personal. 13 de diciembre de 2021). [Todas las traducciones son de la autora del trabajo] 2.. “en general, la cultura visual es parte de la vida cotidiana de una manera que tal vez el texto no lo sea. La televisión

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peso de los textos frente a los elementos visuales en el aprendizaje, ¿son más o menos valiosos? ¿O sólo se puede medir caso por caso, individualmente? Lo cierto es que esa interdisciplinariedad trae consigo no solo nuevas avenidas de investigación al campo de la literatura y la cultura sino también preguntas importantes sobre la jerarquía de poderes y saberes en las distintas disciplinas académicas. ¿Qué rol juegan las cátedras del KJCC en la constitución, organización y distribución de saberes?

Las cátedras del KJCC influyen mucho en las disciplinas y las metodologías que practican los estudiantes en sus seminarios, dado que vienen de campos de estudio muy distintos y variados.

Por ejemplo, el Profesor Smith explica que como profesor en NYU “there weren’t many students that had a background in how they would study film. So I thought that it was something I had to promote [...] I had PhD students in England who wanted to work on queer issues in Spain and very little had been written. So I thought, well, I could write about that and then I can help them by establishing that this is a subject” (Smith. Entrevista)3. De allí nació Leyes del deseo: Cuestiones de la homosexualidad en la escritura y el cine españoles 1960-1990, en el que el Profesor Smith aborda la homosexualidad en textos autobiográficos, novelas, investigación de archivo y películas.

Es clave, en la actualización del estudio académico, tener a profesores como Paul Julian Smith que tomen la iniciativa de ayudar a establecer el cine como una disciplina dentro del campo del hispanismo en la universidad; estar dispuesto a escribir y enseñar sobre temas en los que nadie más se ha enfocado es una meta muy difícil y, al mismo tiempo, muy valiosa para los estudiantes y la universidad en general. Esto me hace pensar mucho en el tipo de intereses que podrían tener otros profesores y cómo impacta eso en sus enfoques a la hora de enseñar.

Dos décadas más tarde en Nueva York, casualmente, Jo Labanyi conoció a Montserrat Armengou Martín (periodista y documentalista de investigación española) en un congreso organizado sobre la represión y las víctimas del franquismo. A diferencia del Profesor Smith, quien fue profesor visitante antes de la creación del KJCC, Montserrat Armengou Martín fue escogida para la cátedra en Cultura y Civilización Española del KJCC en 2016, cuando el KJCC ya era un centro establecido en NYU. Armengou Martín nació en Barcelona, Cataluña y estudió Ciencias de la Comunicación con especialidad en periodismo. Luego en la Universidad aprendió sobre audiovisuales mientras hacía colaboraciones para periódicos como El País. En 1980 ingresó en

y la moda, por ejemplo, se integran en la vida cotidiana de una manera muy inmediata. Y la literatura es algo separado” (Paul Julian Smith. Entrevista Personal. 13 de diciembre de 2021) 3.. “no había muchos estudiantes que tuvieran experiencia en cómo estudiar cine. Entonces pensé que era algo que tenía que promover[...] Tenía estudiantes de doctorado que querían trabajar sobre temas queer en España y se había escrito muy poco sobre eso. Entonces pensé, bueno, podría escribir sobre eso y luego ayudarlos estableciendo que esto es un tema” (Paul Julian Smith. Entrevista Personal. 13 de diciembre de 2021).

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los servicios informativos de TV3, la televisión de Cataluña, y desarrolló su carrera profesional en televisión. Primero se enfocó en noticias diarias y luego ya en otros formatos de reportajes y documentales. Mientras desarrollaba su trabajo en el mundo televisivo, seguía haciendo colaboraciones con la prensa y escribió seis libros. Dado este trasfondo, es importante tener en cuenta el proceso de selección al nominar a un catedrático para el KJCC y qué exactamente se necesita para sobresalir como candidato. ¿Cuáles son las características que se buscan para cada uno de las cátedras del centro?

Una de las responsabilidades del catedrático en el KJCC es organizar un seminario académico, es decir, al ser nominado hay que proponer ideas de cursos para los estudiantes de NYU. Entiendo el reto que tuvo que enfrentar Armengou Martín al crear todo un curso sin experiencia previa como profesora, a pesar de que ella explica que “eso no fue un impedimento. Al contrario, lo que se buscaba era esa mirada fresca y quizá práctica [...] que cada uno de nosotros pudiéramos proponer nuestra estancia en Nueva York con una propuesta absolutamente libre” (Montserrat Armengou Martín. Entrevista). Esto explica por qué vienen al centro catedráticos con perfiles tan diversos. La idea es incluir varios tipos de educadores para crear riqueza y diversidad en el KJCC. La flexibilidad de NYU promueve un ambiente que trae como resultado los beneficios de estar abiertos al aprendizaje a través de la visión y conocimiento de personas con intereses completamente distintos.

El Profesor Julian Smith, por ejemplo, tiene sus propios puntos de vista sobre lo que la gente puede aprender académicamente al explorar distintos formatos visuales: “[...] people think that television is ephemeral, that it doesn’t last, but that’s not true” (Paul Julian Smith.

Entrevista.)4. Esto es especialmente cierto porque los materiales visuales comunican y modulan la percepción de modos distintos; las diferencias tienen implicaciones a nivel generacional. La televisión inconscientemente tiene un gran efecto en la forma en que pensamos y tomamos decisiones porque desde jóvenes vemos y aprendemos con la televisión. Esta es la razón por la que me encanta la idea de estudiar dicho medio –las imágenes son universales, los formatos también, pero cada cultura los utiliza de forma diversa. El campo de la cultura evoluciona con las perspectivas que traen los distintos catedráticos que vienen de visita a la universidad.

De la misma manera que los estudiantes aprenden de sus profesores, los profesores a su vez también aprenden del intercambio con sus estudiantes. En relación a la estancia del Profesor Smith como catedrático en NYU, Smith notó que “to be in the Americas and to see a European director where your link is through the Spanish language [...] is significant because [someone like]

4.. “[...] la gente piensa que la televisión es efímera, que no dura, pero eso no es cierto” (Smith, Paul Julian. Entrevista Personal. 13 de diciembre de 2021).

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Almodóvar is popular in some Latin American countries, but not in others” (Smith. Entrevista)5.

Por lo tanto, lo que aprendió el Profesor Smith de sus estudiantes fue cómo ver a Almodóvar desde un ángulo latinoamericano. En los años noventa, Gran Bretaña y Estados Unidos eran más receptivos a temas queer que en España. Obviamente, fue difícil para el Profesor Smith como extranjero intentar pedir ayuda en España para sus investigaciones porque era un país donde en ese momento los temas queer básicamente no existían en la academia española.

Lo mismo ocurre en nuestras clases hoy en día, donde muchos estudiantes no tienen un gran conocimiento sobre los problemas importantes del mundo. Por ejemplo, como catedrática en NYU, Armengou Martín recuerda “el desconocimiento de la situación de las víctimas en España.

En España después de la muerte del general Franco, el dictador que protagonizó una dictadura sanguinaria y feroz durante cuarenta años hasta pocas semanas antes de su muerte en 1975, se seguía condenando a muerte a gente en España [...] Estaba enterrado ahí el dictador como un gran homenaje. Sería impensable pensar que hubiera un gran mausoleo, un monumento a Hitler, cerca de Berlín” (Montserrat Armengou Martín. Entrevista). La Profesora Armengou Martín hablaba del gran monumento en el Valle de los Caídos, que queda a sesenta kilómetros de la capital de España. Honestamente, yo también soy parte de la masa de gente que no es consciente de la situación e injusticia que todavía existe en España. Y la única manera de modelar la reparación para las víctimas es aceptar la responsabilidad como la Profesora Armengou Martín ha hecho en su trabajo con el KJCC, y ser un altavoz para la transmisión de la situación de estas personas.

Tal vez, la realidad de cómo podemos ver el impacto de las cátedras del KJCC no es solamente analizarlos a ellos sino también a sus estudiantes. Como estudiantes somos responsables sobre qué y cómo vamos a contribuir a nuestra sociedad usando lo que aprendemos en el aula.

Así, no importa la forma en que aprendemos sobre los problemas del mundo; lo que sí es clave es que aprendamos a reconocer problemas en todas sus formas tanto en la literatura como en el cine, el periodismo o los documentales. De este modo podemos servir a nuestras comunidades y tener allí impactos positivos no importa cómo decidamos utilizar nuestros conocimientos. ¿Cómo vas a aprovechar lo que has aprendido en tu educación para cambiar tu mundo?

Bibliografía Armengou Martín, Montserrat. Entrevista por Nicole Bula. 15 de diciembre de 2021.

Smith, Paul Julian. Entrevista por Nicole Bula. 13 de diciembre de 2021.

5.. “estar en América y ver a un director europeo cuyo vínculo contigo es a través del idioma español es [...] significativo porque Almodóvar es popular en algunos países de América Latina, pero no en otros” (Smith, Paul Julian.

Entrevista Personal. 13 de diciembre de 2021).

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El documental com a eina de reparació Montse Armengou Martín Mai un cafè robat a unes atapeïdes agendes havia tingut un resultat tan important per la meva vida. No, no parlo de l’inici d’una relació personal o amorosa -bé, en el meu cas això es va produir amb una cervesa, no pas amb un cafè!- sinó del que va ser la proposta de la doctora Jo Labanyi d’optar com a chair al NYU KJCC. Jo coneixia el centre per ella, quan l’any 2006 va organitzar conjuntament amb James Fernández el seminari The Politics of Memory in Contemporary Spain. Allà ens vam reunir algunes de les persones que, des de diferents àmbits, treballàvem pel rescat de la memòria històrica a Espanya i la reparació de les víctimes del franquisme: Julián Casanova (Universidad de Zaragoza), Gina Herrmann (University of Oregon, que va tenir la gentilesa de parlar del meu treball a la ponència “The documentary films of Montse Armengou and Ricard Belis: The Labours of Memory”), Andrés Soria (Universidad de Granada), Emilio Silva (Asociación para la Recuperación de la Memoria Histórica), Francisco Ferrándiz (Universidad de Extremadura) o l’artista català afincat a Nova York Francesc Torres.

A aquell seminari vaig poder constatar la magnitud de la tragèdia de les víctimes directes i indirectes del franquisme: el mite de la transició espanyola seguia funcionant a la perfecció. Els assistents es quedaven estupefactes quan se n’assabentaven que associacions privades i voluntàries (com la que va fundar l’Emilio Silva per recuperar el cos del seu avi afusellat sense judici i a sang freda pels franquistes) grataven camins i cunetes de tota la geografia espanyola mirant de trobar alguns dels milers de desapareguts de la guerra civil. No eren víctimes de combats, no, sinó víctimes d’una repressió ferotge que es va cebar especialment en la població civil. El seu delicte? Senzillament no pensar com els feixistes que s’havien alçat el 1936 contra la República democràticament escollida a les urnes. Aquests voluntaris invertien caps de setmana i vacances sense cap mena d’ajuda del govern espanyol per tornar la dignitat als desapareguts i les seves famílies.

El públic també quedava astorat quan els parlava de la meva investigació sobre els nens robats durant el franquisme per separar-los de les seves famílies “rojas y republicanas”. O quan explicava en el meu llibre i documental “El comboi dels 927” que aquell tren va ser el primer d’Europa occidental que va traslladar població civil -famílies senceres, avis, pares i fills-, des d’Angulema (França) al camp de concentració de Mauthausen (Austria). Eren refugiats 168

El documental como herramienta de reparación Montse Armengou Martín Nunca un café robado a unas apretadas agendas ha tenido un efecto tan importante en mi vida.

No, no hablo del inicio de una relación personal o amorosa –bueno, en mi caso esto sucedió con una cerveza, no con un café– sino de la propuesta de la doctora Jo Labanyi de optar a chair para el NYU KJCC. Yo conocía el centro gracias a ella, cuando organizó conjuntamente con James Fernández el seminario The Politics of Memory in Contemporary Spain en 2006. Allí nos reunimos algunas de las personas que, desde diferentes ámbitos, trabajábamos en el rescate de la memoria histórica en España y en la reparación de las víctimas del franquismo: Julián Casanova (Universidad de Zaragoza), Gina Herrmann (University of Oregon, que tuvo la gentileza de hablar de mi trabajo en la ponencia “The documentary films of Montse Armengou and Ricard Belis: The Labours of Memory”), Andrés Soria (Universidad de Granada), Emilio Silva (Asociación para la Recuperación de la Memoria Histórica), Francisco Ferrándiz (Universidad de Extremadura) o el artista catalán afincado en Nueva York Francesc Torres.

En aquel seminario pude constatar la magnitud de la tragedia de las víctimas directas e indirectas del franquismo: el mito de la transición española seguía funcionando a la perfección.

Los asistentes se quedaban estupefactos cuando se enteraban que voluntarios y asociaciones privadas (como la que fundó Emilio Silva para recuperar el cuerpo de su abuelo fusilado sin juicio y a sangre fría por los franquistas) escarbaban caminos y cunetas de toda la geografía española intentando encontrar a algunos de los miles de desaparecidos de la Guerra Civil. No eran víctimas de combates, no, sino víctimas de una represión salvaje que se cebó especialmente en la población civil. ¿Su delito? Sencillamente no pensar como los fascistas que se habían alzado en armas en 1936 contra la República democráticamente escogida en las urnas. Estos voluntarios y voluntarias invertían fines de semana y vacaciones –sin ayuda del gobierno español– para devolver la dignidad a los desaparecidos y sus familias.

El público también se quedaba atónito cuando les hablaba de mi investigación sobre los niños robados durante el franquismo para separarlos de sus familias “rojas y republicanas”. O cuando explicaba en mi libro y documental “El convoy de los 927” que aquel tren fue el primero de Europa occidental que trasladó población civil –familias enteras, abuelos, padres e hijos–, desde Angulema (Francia) al campo de concentración de Mauthausen (Austria). Eran refugiados

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republicans espanyols exiliats a França. Estem al 1940 i les grans razzies contra els jueus encara no han començat a aquell país. O que a 60 km escassos de Madrid existeixi el Valle de los Caídos, un mausoleu dedicat al dictador Francisco Franco. Us imagineu això mateix a Berlin, un homenatge permanent a Hitler?

No, la transició espanyola no havia estat ni exemplar ni modèlica. Havia convingut vendre-la així i molts països -Estats Units el primer- van col.laborar a crear aquesta imatge, posant per sobre els seus interessos econòmics i els equilibris geoestratègics en detriment dels drets més fonamentals de les víctimes: veritat, justícia i reparació. Em va impressionar l’interès de l’audiència nord-americana, el fet que se’ns convidés a xerrades per mig mon quan a Espanya pràcticament se’ns ignorava, la riquesa de seminaris com els que organitzava NYU -que no tenia cap empatx en convocar i barrejar gent de disciplines molt diverses, tant de l’àmbit acadèmic com de fora-, que fossin els departaments d’espanyol i portuguès de les universitats nord-americanes els més interessats en aquesta qüestió...

Explico tot això per posar en relleu la valentia i el compromís de NYU en aquell moment. I el de la Jo Labanyi en fer-me la proposta deu anys després de venir al NYU KJCC. Jo havia fet classes a la universitat de manera esporàdica, perquè el meu lloc estava sobre el terreny, entrevistant víctimes i familiars de víctimes – que per tant també son víctimes-.

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republicanos españoles exiliados en Francia.

Estamos en 1940 y las grandes razzias contra los judíos todavía no han comenzado en aquel país. O que a 60 km escasos de Madrid exista el Valle de los Caídos, un mausoleo dedicado al dictador Francisco Franco. ¿Se imaginan esto mismo en Berlín, un homenaje permanente a Hitler?

No, la transición española no había sido ni ejemplar ni modélica. Se había convenido venderlo así y muchos países –Estados Unidos el primero– colaboraron para crear esta imagen, poniendo por encima sus intereses económicos y los equilibrios geoestratégicos en detrimento de los derechos más fundamentales de las víctimas: verdad, justicia y reparación.

Me impresionó el interés de la audiencia norteamericana, el hecho de que se nos invitara a charlas por medio mundo cuando en España prácticamente se nos ignoraba, la riqueza de seminarios como los que organizaba NYU –que no tenía ningún empacho en convocar y mezclar a gente de disciplinas muy diversas, tanto del ámbito académico como de fuera–, que fueran los departamentos de español y portugués de las universidades norteamericanas los más interesados ​​en esta cuestión...

Explico todo esto para poner de relieve la valentía y el compromiso de NYU en ese momento. Y el de Jo Labanyi al hacerme la propuesta diez años después de venir al NYU KJCC. Yo había dado clases en la universidad de manera esporádica porque mi sitio estaba sobre el terreno, entrevistando a víctimas

No tenia doncs un perfil estrictament acadèmic.

Però la Jo, novament amb la seva claredat, em va dir que volien aire fresc. I que quina millor manera que mostrar aquella realitat a través dels meus documentals. Sabia que allò era només era una proposta, quedava un dur procés de selecció. Però un gener de 2017 arribava a “the big city” per encetar una de les aventures personals i professionals més grans de la meva vida. Us estalvio detalls personals de la meva estada, l’experiència de viure la riquesa de la ciutat que “never sleps” i em centraré només en l’experiència d’un semestre titolat “Documentary and the Recovery of Historical Memory”.

Per què aquest títol? Doncs perquè crec fermament que el documental és una eina de reparació de les víctimes de conflictes en absència de polítiques d’estat, allò que els francesos anomenen “devoir de memoire”. I la trista realitat d’Espanya era -i és- encara que hi ha un deute de justícia i humanitat amb les víctimes del franquisme i els seus descendents.

Malgrat haver tingut governs d’esquerres amb majoria absoluta, malgrat alguns darrers passos per fer justícia -com la retirada de la tomba de Franco del Valle de los Caídos-, el cert és que Espanya té un forat negre en la seva qualitat democràtica i es diu reparació i justícia amb les víctimes. I malgrat l’absoluta llibertat de càtedra d’una universitat com NYU, i malgrat que alguns dels plantejaments del meu seminari no agradessin a alguns representants espanyols

y familiares de víctimas –que por tanto también son víctimas–. No tenía un perfil estrictamente académico. Pero Jo, nuevamente con su claridad, me dijo que querían aire fresco. ¿Y qué mejor manera que mostrar esa realidad a través de mis documentales? Sabía que eso era solo una propuesta, quedaba un duro proceso de selección. Pero un enero de 2017 llegaba a la “big city” para empezar una de las mayores aventuras personales y profesionales de mi vida. Os ahorro detalles de mi estancia, la experiencia de vivir la riqueza de la ciudad que “never sleeps” y me centraré sólo en la experiencia de un semestre titulado “Documentary and the Recovery of Historical Memory”. ¿Por qué ese título? Pues porque creo firmemente que el documental es una herramienta de reparación de las víctimas de conflictos en ausencia de políticas de estado, lo que los franceses llaman “devoir de memoire”. Y la triste realidad de España era –y es– que todavía existe una deuda de justicia y humanidad con las víctimas del franquismo y sus descendientes. A pesar de haber tenido gobiernos de izquierdas con una mayoría absoluta, a pesar de algunos últimos pasos para hacer justicia –como la retirada de la tumba de Franco del Valle de los Caídos–, lo cierto es que España tiene un agujero negro en su calidad democrática y se llama reparación y justicia para con las víctimas. Y pese a la tranquilidad que da la absoluta libertad de cátedra de una universidad como NYU, y a pesar de que algunos de los planteamientos 171

del moment -amb un govern espanyol presidit per un Partit Popular que no havia trencat vincles amb el franquisme-, la meva tesi no era una opinió, sinó una evidència.

Perquè abans d’aportar unes dades vull deixar clara la meva postura. Soc periodista i reivindico aquest ofici com un compromís, com una manera d’intervenir en el món per fer-lo una mica més just i solidari, fins i tot -com diu un amic meu, Xavier Giró, professor de la Universitat Autònoma de Barcelonauna manera de fer política encara que no ens n’adonem. No crec en el periodisme objectiu, imparcial, neutral, que no es “mulla”. Busqueu l’asèpsia a un quiròfan -i de vegades ni allà, perquè les infeccions hospitalàries son de les més mortíferes-, no en el periodisme. Això sí, l’única línia vermella que no es pot traspassar és la del rigor. I per això, en virtut del rigor, aquí van algunes dades.

Espanya és el segon país del mon en nombre de desapareguts en fosses comunes després de Cambodja. Espanya és un país on cada dia milers de persones intenten trobar els seus familiars desapareguts. Espanya és un país on els nens van ser robats a les seves mares, primer com a forma de repressió política, després com a repressió moral -contra mares solteres- i finalment va esdevenir un gran negoci que es va allargar fins a les portes del segle XXI. Espanya és un país amb milers d’afectats per poliomielitis que es van infectar entrats els anys 60 quan ja hi havia una vacuna -per 172

de mi seminario no gustaran a algunos representantes españoles del momento –con un gobierno español presidido por un Partido Popular que no había roto vínculos con el franquismo–, mi tesis no era una opinión, sino una evidencia.

Antes de aportar unos datos quiero dejar clara mi postura. Soy periodista y reivindico este oficio como un compromiso, como una forma de intervenir en el mundo para hacerlo un poco más justo y solidario, incluso –como mi buen amigo Xavier Giró, profesor de la Universidad Autónoma de Barcelona– una forma de hacer política aunque no nos demos cuenta. No creo en el periodismo objetivo, imparcial, neutral, que no se “moja”. Busquen la asepsia en un quirófano –y a veces ni allí, porque las infecciones hospitalarias son de las más mortíferas–, no en el periodismo. Eso sí, la única línea roja que no puede traspasarse es la del rigor. Y por eso, en virtud del rigor, aquí van algunos datos.

España es el segundo país del mundo en número de desaparecidos en fosas comunes después de Camboya. España es un país en el que cada día miles de personas intentan encontrar a sus familiares desaparecidos.

España es un país donde los niños fueron robados a sus madres, primero como forma de represión política, después como represión moral –contra madres solteras– y finalmente se convirtió en un gran negocio que se prolongó hasta las puertas del siglo XXI. España es un país con miles de afectados por poliomielitis que se infectaron entrados

cert, la del nord-americà Jonas Salk, lliure de patent- perquè la dictadura estava invertint els diners en construir el Valle de los Caídos.

Espanya és un país on milers de nens van ser víctimes d’abusos sexuals i explotació laboral als internats franquistes. Espanya està en el punt de mira d’organitzacions com l’ONU, Amnistia Internacional, Human Rights Watch o el Consell d’Europa per no derogar la llei d’amnistia del 1977 que va deixar milers de torturadors i assassins lliures i al carrer. Espanya és el lloc que inhabilita jutges que han buscat la reparació, com Baltasar Garzón. Espanya és el país on els seus ciutadans han d’acudir a la justícia internacional – com la querella argentina contra els crims del franquismesi volen obtenir una satisfacció a les seves demandes.

Ningú ha estat ni jutjat ni condemnat per totes aquestes atrocitats. Els quaranta anys de dictadura van fer a la perfecció la seva feina de repressió, un règim que poques setmanes abans de la mort del dictador Francisco Franco encara signava sentències de mort. Però i la democràcia, què han fet més de quaranta anys de democràcia per les víctimes?

Davant d’aquesta situació de paràlisi deliberada i intencionada per part de l’estat, d’aquest “establishment” de dretes i esquerres que mira cap a un altre cantó, vaig plantejar el curs i les diferents xerrades obertes que vam organitzar. Volia demostrar com els mecanismes de memòria i reparació han hagut

los años 60, cuando ya había una vacuna –por cierto, la del estadounidense Jonas Salk, libre de patente– porque la dictadura estaba invirtiendo el dinero en construir el Valle de los Caídos. España es un país en el que miles de niños fueron víctimas de abusos sexuales y explotación laboral en los internados franquistas. España está en el punto de mira de organizaciones como la ONU, Amnistía Internacional, Human Rights Watch o el Consejo de Europa por no derogar la ley de amnistía de 1977, que dejó a miles de torturadores y asesinos libres y en la calle. España es el lugar que inhabilita a jueces que han buscado la reparación, como Baltasar Garzón. España es el país donde sus ciudadanos deben acudir a la justicia internacional –como la querella argentina contra los crímenes del franquismo– si quieren obtener alguna satisfacción a sus demandas.

Nadie ha sido ni juzgado ni condenado por todas estas atrocidades. Los cuarenta años de dictadura hicieron a la perfección su trabajo de represión, un régimen que pocas semanas antes de la muerte del dictador Francisco Franco todavía firmaba sentencias de muerte.

Pero, ¿y la democracia, qué han hecho más de cuarenta años de democracia por las víctimas?

Ante esta situación de parálisis deliberada e intencionada por parte del estado, de ese “establishment” de derechas e izquierdas que mira hacia otro lado, planteé el curso y las diferentes charlas abiertas que organizamos. Quería demostrar cómo los mecanismos de memoria y reparación han 173

d’emergir més enllà de l’estat, com en absència de polítiques governamentals que donin satisfacció a les demandes -no econòmiques, sinó morals i de justícia- de les víctimes i els seus descendents, diferents sectors s’han mobilitzat. Aquest fracàs de l’estat per crear mecanisme per a la veritat, justícia i reparació han forçat actuacions extraordinàries per part de la societat civil: periodistes, organitzacions civils, acadèmics o directors de documentals han contribuït a recopilar material, evidències i testimonis que denuncien les crueltats de la dictadura franquista, una de les més llargues i sanguinàries de la història.

De manera generosa i desinteressada van col.laborar un munt de persones: els periodistes Miquel Ramos, Richard Schweid i John Lee Anderson, el relator de l’IONU Pablo de Greiff, el president d’Amnistia Internacional España Esteban Beltrán, els professors Vicenç Navarro (The Johns Hopkins University), Ludger Mees (Universidad del País Vasco), Aránzazu Borrachero (CUNY), Luis Martin Cabrera (U. San Diego), Soledad Luque (Asociación Todos los niños robados son también mis niños), Jordi Guixé (EUROM/Universitat de Barcelona), etc, etc, etc.

Molta gent va ser clau en que les meves xerrades obertes al KJCC fossin un èxit i que, malgrat la bonança d’una primavera que ja s’anunciava als jardins de Manhattan, centenars de persones preferissin tancar-se a un auditori de Washington Square per patir amb crims 174

tenido que emerger más allá del estado, como en ausencia de políticas gubernamentales que den satisfacción a las demandas de las víctimas y sus descendientes –no económicas, sino morales y de justicia–, diferentes sectores se han movilizado. Este fracaso del estado para crear mecanismos para la verdad, justicia y reparación han forzado actuaciones extraordinarias por parte de la sociedad civil: periodistas, organizaciones civiles, académicos o directores de documentales han contribuido a recopilar material, evidencias y testimonios que denuncien las crueldades de la dictadura franquista, una de las más largas y sanguinarias de la historia.

De forma generosa y desinteresada colaboraron un gran número de personas: los periodistas Miquel Ramos, Richard Schweid y John Lee Anderson, el relator de La ONU Pablo de Greiff, el presidente de Amnistía Internacional España Esteban Beltrán, los profesores Vicenç Navarro (The Johns Hopkins University), Ludger Mees (Universidad del País Vasco), Aránzazu Borrachero (CUNY), Luis Martin Cabrera (U. San Diego), Soledad Luque (Asociación Todos los niños robados son también mis niños), Jordi Guixé (EUROM /Universidad de Barcelona), etc, etc, etc.

Mucha gente fue clave para que mis charlas abiertas en el KJCC fueran un éxito y que, pese a la bonanza de una primavera que ya se anunciaba en los jardines de Manhattan, cientos de personas prefirieran encerrarse en un auditorio de Washington Square para sufrir

desconeguts del franquisme i solidaritzar-se amb les víctimes. Persones com Laura Turégano (associate director KJCC), la directora de documentals Cèlia Novis, la professora Jordana Mendelson (NYU) o la gran promotora de la llengua i la cultura catalana Mary Ann Newman van ser claus en l’èxit i difusió d’aquestes jornades.

Però sobretot he de donar les gràcies als meus alumnes, els que em van permetre marxar amb molta tristesa de Nova York però amb la sensació – i potser és supèrbia per part mevaque gràcies a ells havia pogut fer d’altaveu de les víctimes, que la seva injustícia i la seva lluita s’escampava pel mon gràcies a ells i al NYU KJCC. Gràcies i només em queda una pregunta (deu ser per allò que soc periodista i no puc evitar el vici de preguntar): es pot

con los crímenes desconocidos del franquismo y solidarizarse con las víctimas. Personas como Laura Turégano (directora asociada del KJCC), la directora de documentales Celia Novis, la profesora Jordana Mendelson (NYU) o la gran promotora de la lengua y la cultura catalana Mary Ann Newman fueron claves en el éxito y difusión de estas jornadas.

Pero sobre todo tengo que dar las gracias a mis alumnos, los que me permitieron marcharme con mucha tristeza de Nueva York pero con la sensación –y quizás es soberbia por mi parte– que gracias a ellos había podido hacer de altavoz de las víctimas, que su injusticia y su lucha se esparcía por el mundo gracias a ellos y al NYU KJCC. Gracias, y solo me queda una pregunta (será porque soy periodista y no puedo evitar el vicio de preguntar): ¿Se puede repetir? ¡Hasta siempre!

repetir? Fins sempre!

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Two Views of the KJCC Jo Labanyi As I began to write these reflections on my two experiences of KJCC—as holder of the King Juan Carlos I Chair of Spanish Culture and Civilization in Fall 2002, and as the center’s director from 2008-2014—I realized that the two experiences gave me rather different views of the institution. If, as a guest for one semester, the center’s activities seemed to happen effortlessly, as though things could not be any other way, it was only when I became director that I realized how much work was needed behind the scenes to make everything seem easy—and that the success of its various events was by no means guaranteed. I quickly learned that the apparent effortlessness of its activities was due to the efficiency and imagination—a perfect combination for any administrator, and particularly for one responsible for running a cultural center in a city that regards itself as the cultural capital of the world—of the center’s Associate Director, Laura Turégano.

Before the Fall of 2002 I had only made short visits to New York; It was a privilege to live for four months in a sublet studio in NYU faculty housing in Washington Square Village and also have an office in the KJCC building on Washington Square. The fact that my office was not in the Department of Spanish and Portuguese turned out to be something of an advantage; I found that graduate students would make their way to my office to talk about things that they felt uncomfortable discussing in the department itself, where their professors might overhear them. I have remained in touch with one of those students to the present day. Teaching a graduate class in the Department of Spanish and Portuguese—one of my duties as holder of the KJC Chair— was a stimulating experience as my first introduction to the enthusiasm of American students for class discussion (in contrast with British students’ shyness about speaking in front of their peers).

I had been asked to teach a graduate class on Spanish cinema, since cinema was not part of the department’s curriculum at the time (it is now taught by several faculty members, I should add).

I find the topic I chose (“Historias violentas”) somewhat unimaginative in retrospect, but it did allow us to watch some gripping movies. Being able to hold the screenings in KJCC’s auditorium, with large-screen projection facilities, was an enormous advantage when it came to analyzing the films’ visual techniques; in recent years, students have become too accustomed to watching movies on their laptop, where it is hard to spot visual details, and where the concept of cinema as a social experience is lost. The highlight of the semester was being given a budget by KJCC 176

to organize a speaker series around the topic of my graduate class, open to other students and faculty and, most importantly, to the public. This was a marvelous opportunity to meet in-person scholars of Spanish cinema whose work I admired and continue to admire today. The speaker series made the class into a collaborative project—the best kind of learning experience one can wish for.

The speaker series also introduced me to the challenge of fielding questions from a mixed academic/public audience whose levels of prior knowledge varied widely, from expert to novice, and whose agendas were often unexpected—far more difficult than fielding questions at an academic conference. But the Q&A sessions were also highly rewarding, and at the receptions after the talks one would often discover that some incredibly interesting people had been a part of the audience. The post-event receptions at KJCC are (or were, before Covid-19 forced its activities online) proverbial for their conviviality and, as I quickly discovered, a key reason why colleagues from the various universities in and around New York City would attend events—as much for the intellectual and social exchange in the atrium over a glass of wine and the inevitable chorizo and manchego, as for the talk or film screening itself. Indeed, most of the contacts that I made during my semester at KJCC in Fall 2002 were via its receptions, which functioned as a kind of community center for those interested in Spanish-speaking cultures, at whatever level.

I was not aware at the time that, during that Fall 2002 semester, I was (or so I deduce retrospectively) being examined as a potential hire for NYU’s Department of Spanish and Portuguese, but when that invitation came, I accepted it with great pleasure, largely because I had benefited so much from my earlier semester at KJCC. It was in my second year as faculty in the department (in 2008) that I was asked to direct the center, taking over from James Fernández who had built up the center’s programming over the previous 12 years and deserved a wellearned rest. That was when I discovered two things. The first was that, to run a cultural center in a city like New York, one must compete with a plethora of world-class institutions for an audience. Before the start of every event, there was the heart-stopping moment of wondering if anyone was going to come (they always did, but usually at the last minute and not always in the numbers one would have liked). I learned from this that programming needs to be varied and of sufficiently wide interest to attract a decent-sized audience. This led to the prioritization of panels of speakers from a range of institutions (academic and otherwise) and preferably from different disciplines or language areas, whose presence together in the same space was more or less guaranteed to make something happen. I also learned quite quickly that including speakers from different specializations—whether from different NYU departments or from external cultural 177

institutions—brought in new audience members from their own constituencies (and might even bring in a bit of financial sponsorship). The events I remember with the most pleasure are those that were held jointly with the departments of History, Judaic Studies, Photography and Imaging, or the Institute of Fine Arts; and even beyond the academy with institutions such as the Americas Society, MoMA, the International Center of Photography, embassies and consulates of Spain, Mexico, Peru, to name a few. Those collaborations allowed me to meet wonderful people who I would otherwise never have known.

Being exposed to these institutions provided an opportunity for me to learn that running a cultural center in New York is not like running one in London (I had previously directed the Institute of Romance Studies at London University’s School of Advanced Study, whose main function was to run conferences and other activities relating to the Romance Languages). In New York, the slightest cultural upset is likely to hit the headlines of the country whose sensibility has been offended, whereas in London (particularly if the event is of an academic nature) it would probably pass unnoticed. My first semester as KJCC Director put me on a very fast learning curve when the poster for a Venezuelan Film Festival caused major diplomatic offense (I will not go into details about what caused the offense nor the nature of the fallout, except to say that it snowballed and had quite serious consequences). That was not the only diplomatic incident that occurred during my tenure as director. What I learned from those experiences is that, when running a public-facing institution—particularly in a cultural spotlight like New York—one has to find a delicate balance when organizing activities with the purpose of stimulating a free exchange of ideas and being considerate to not offend political or other sensibilities.

As a visiting professor based at KJCC in the Fall of 2002, I was blissfully unaware of either of these challenges: the careful planning and outreach needed to attract an audience, and the need for political sensitivity. However, there was one thing that both experiences had in common: my enjoyment of the various film festivals organized by the center–largely thanks to the contacts and hard work of Laura Turégano–and also to a number of graduate students who organized festivals of films from their own country (and found the sponsorship to make them possible).

Never, at any other time of my life, have I watched so many movies. And, of course, I benefited tremendously from meeting the successive holders of the KJC Chair and of the Andrés Bello Chair of Latin American Culture and Civilization who were based at KJCC during my time as director, several of whom would become long-term friends.

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An Interview with Dr. James Dunkerley Zaskia Torres

Dr. James Dunkerley has been a professor at Queen Mary University of London since 1986.

Throughout his career, he has edited for the Journal of Latin American Studies and currently serves on the editorial boards of Government and Opposition and Norteamérica. Between the years of 1998 and 2008, Dr. Dunkerley directed the University of London’s Institute for the Study of the Americas. In 2009, he served as the Andrés Bello Chair of Latin American Culture and Civilization at New York University’s (NYU) King Juan Carlos I Center (KJCC), and subsequently was appointed Officer of the Order of the British Empire (OBE) for services to UK-Latin American relations in 2010.

During his time as Andrés Bello Chair, Dr. Dunkerley taught the graduate course “Ideas and Power in Spanish America” at NYU’s Center for Latin American and Caribbean Studies (CLACS).

Over the semester, he organized a series of public talks titled, “Behind the Name,” and delivered two public lectures at the KJCC titled, “Where is Carlos Montufar?: Scenes of Sensibility in the Scientific Life of Alexander von Humboldt” on September 22, 2009 and “Andrés Bello and the Role of Scholarship in Nation-Building” on November 17, 2009. Additionally, on December 1, 2009, he organized and participated in a panel on Bolivia titled, “The Elections and Democracy in Historical Context” in conjunction with Dr. Sinclair Thomson, Dr. Brooke Larson, and Dr. Laura Gotkowitz.

On December 6, 2021, I interviewed Dr. Dunkerley on his reflections and experience as the 2009 Andrés Bello Chair. Throughout the interview, I asked him a series of questions pertaining to his own personal research of Latin America before delving into the role of the KJCC as a tool of cultural diplomacy within the context of international relations.

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Interview Transcript Torres: Can you describe your scholarly journey through the years?

Dr. Dunkerley: My scholarly journey is slightly peculiar in that I come from a military family; and that’s how I started out. I realized pretty soon I wasn’t cut out for the Royal Navy and I wanted to do research. I went to the University of Oxford and did my research degrees there, which as you know, is a pretty old fashioned traditional university so perhaps the transition wasn’t as radical as I feared. I went to St. Anthony’s College at Oxford University’s collegiate university with what you might call a “liberal arts college’’ aspect, even inside the great, huge university. This was reassuring to me because it meant that I could meet a lot of fellow students, many of whom at St. Anthony’s came from what used to be called the “third world.” There were area studies centers, such as Latin America, Africa and the Middle East and that’s when I got to meet a lot of Latin Americans for the first time. My first degree had nothing to do with Latin America but rather with history and, more specifically, medieval history. One thing I should say is that I went to Oxford to study as a postgraduate in 1974. As a student of history, one immediately thinks, “this is the year after the coup in Chile and the overthrow of Allende.” And so, to be honest, it was a strange experience for me with that family military background. I found myself in solidarity campaigns, looking off to refugees and hearing terrible stories of people who got out of Chile. So it was a radicalized beginning as well as an orthodox, traditional beginning.

Torres: How would you describe your experience as the Andrés Bello Chair?

Dr. Dunkerley: At NYU, there’s a wide range of intellectual political opinions with a deep reach in terms of disciplinary enterprise and exploration. I was for the first time really mixing with other specialists in the country that I really hadn’t known most about. I was particularly drawn by Sinclair Thompson’s and Brooke Larsonand’s work. At the KJCC, I got to meet a lot of new people and had very interesting conversations.

Torres: In retrospect, did the role of the Andrés Bello Chair affect your own personal research and interests? Did your years as the Andrés Bello Chair influence your publication of “Andrés Bello and the Challenges of Spanish American Liberalism”? If so, how?

Dr. Dunkerley: Completely! If you’re a Latin Americanist in London, you can’t avoid Bello. I mean, he hasn’t got statues in quite the same way as Simón Bolívar and Francisco de Miranda, but he’s not that kind of a guy either. However, his intellectual stamp is there and he made a great deal of use of his time in London. It was easy to study him here at one point because he’s got a massive amount 180

of writing; however, there is still more to find out about him. I believe that foreign policy is, still, founded by Andrés Bello. I venture to say, although people may think I’m being a little biased, it has elements of European and soft power approaches.

Torres: Out of all the events you helped organize and participated in during your time as chair, can you describe one in particular tailored to the study of Latin American and the Spanish speaking world?

Dr. Dunkerley: Yes, [“The Elections and Democracy in Historical Context”]; Bolivia has historically been understudied, even after Evo Morales. It was studied as a subset of Chavismo and the Left in general. A lot of people came to look at Bolivia as another example of a regional movement, rather than a deep study of the country itself, which is a complex place–not just because of the important indigenous languages, societies and cultures prior to the Hispanic Republic.

Which of course, Evo and the masses did a lot to revive, venerate and make us respect in ways that we probably hadn’t done so far. Having the opportunity to talk with other people from different universities in different disciplines really broadened my knowledge and perhaps more than my knowledge, my interest and curiosity. By the time I left the KJCC, I had a lot of notes! My time there really fed into my intellectual scholarly experience for the next few years.

Torres: What do you think is the role of Latin Americanists in a center that focuses on Spain and the Spanish speaking world? Do you consider yourself a Latin Americanist?

Dr. Dunkerley: That’s a very good question. It inevitably involves dealing with the relations between Spain and Latin America, which have not always been smooth. I think that interaction between an ex-colonial power and its ex-colonies in a scholarly environment like the KJCC, where they are equals, there are a lot of lessons to be learned. Those lessons are more readily delivered in places like the KJCC such as opportunities for discussions, conversations and public debate. I no longer consider myself a Latin Americanist but I used to be one, and I went to the center as one. But, although I’m a historian by training, I really believe, and this is particularly to Bolivia, I remember someone telling me this 30 years ago, “that if you study Latin America, you have to go there and if you’re going to go, you need to study original sources.” As you get into your sixties, that’s very hard to do, and it’s particularly hard to do [at] 12,000 feet! People who don’t work in archives don’t understand the dangers of dust and if you are at a high altitude in the Andes, it’s especially challenging. However, I love to be a researcher in theory and in practice at Sucre, Bolivia where the national archive is.

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Torres: Throughout our course, Institutions, Archives, and People, we learned about the various roles with which the university is associated. One in particular is its ability to serve as a tool of cultural diplomacy, as a means of soft power in larger-scale political negotiations (Schrum, 217). What role does a center like the KJCC play as a mediator for economic and political relations between the West and the Spanish speaking world?

Dr. Dunkerley: Yeah, that’s a very good question. And I don’t think there’s a very clear cut off because in mediation it becomes increasingly difficult to distinguish the input from the output.

Now, one thing that’s really important is that the visitors [at the KJCC] got a taste of addressing a different audience, often an audience that was not used to ideas outside of social sciences; so it was a learning curve for us. It was really important that we were able to see how our ideas wouldn’t just be transmitted to the people, but to other scholars who would actually percolate through into networks that would affect policy or will at least be heard. I work and live in London, which I think it’s true to say now, every single Latin American country has an embassy, but this wasn’t always the case. Sometimes there would be, particularly Central America, a need to find someone to talk to. I used to specialize in Central America and Bolivia–I don’t do that so much now–and people needed to know about that. Of course, the British don’t have embassies in all of the Central American states and indeed, under the conservative governments at the beginning of the 21st century, they closed five embassies down which is absolutely scandalous. But then they realized that they were closing down sources of information that they needed to understand, not just local conflicts, but the source of refugees. It may surprise you to know that many years before, in 1982, in the uproar to the Falklands War, the British taskforce had one serving servicemen who could speak Spanish. So they had real problems intervening in all sorts of things like radar, radio signals, and so on and so forth. These things have changed a lot and it’s due, I think, to some appreciable degree, perhaps not an overwhelming degree, to the fact that Latin American studies and the study of Spain has entered into the mainstream scholarship in this country in a way that had not been 40 years ago.

Torres: To follow-up, do you think that institutions such as universities or centers like the KJCC hold as much weight as embassies do in terms of diplomatic relations between countries?

Dr. Dunkerley: Yes, in the sense that when we’re talking about soft power on a wider spectrum of possibilities (after the end of the Cold War it took some time to happen) I’d say by the mid nineties, the importance of soft power was being increasingly recognized. Prior to that, if you wanted to talk about international relations, you basically had to talk about diplomacy or military affairs.

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From the 1990s onwards, the embassies remained obviously very pertinent in terms of government to government relations but, government to government relations were not as dominant in international relations as they had been under the Cold War or immediately after the Cold War. It was recognized by many states that they didn’t need to send people to visit places like the KJCC, and other places in the global north. If you think about it, it’s pretty obvious with the possible exception of Mexico, Brazil, and Chile to some degree, these places didn’t have the resources to send scholars north to acquire anything other than a very short experience. They couldn’t really situate themselves down, to learn about the North. Scholarly visitors at a center is important and I think that makes a real difference. Really at my time in New York, at NYU, I just got to meet so many people whose work I had read, whose scholarship I admired, and with whom I would never otherwise have the opportunity to have a conversation.

Torres: In the context of international relations, many countries are at war with others either physically or politically. In the case for Spain, Catalonia’s independence is a rather contentious one. When it comes to representation within a center, whether it’d be leadership positions, guest speakers, or events, should a center maintain neutrality during disputes between or within countries? How can a center facilitate discourse without establishing bias? In sum, what role does a center such as the KJCC play in matters of international relations?

Dr. Dunkerley: I think we should all respect freedom of speech in practice as well as in theory.

When we are dealing with contentious issues like this one, which is not just a recent issue but also a historic one. For my generation, which was born in the years after World War II, the memories recounted to us, particularly by my Spanish and Catalan friends, were very vivid. It’s easy to mouth platitudes about free speech, but one has to remember that it has to stay within the law and it shouldn’t advocate violence. It’s very easy for people who are not involved in such conflicts to forget the undertones, the nuances, the implications of statements that might, to an outsider, appear super innocent–and they’re not. Yes; it does take an Olympian sense of freedom to say, look, let’s keep free speech, let’s do our best to practice it, and let’s avoid the advocacy of violence. In recent years, that has been achieved but inside Western Europe, the Iberian Peninsula has suffered some pretty close calls–we ought to be aware of that as well.

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Torres: This takes me to my last question. The KJCC’s mission states: “To promote research and teaching on Spain and the Spanish-speaking world at the university, and to mount free public programs for a general audience that highlight the history, politics and cultures of the Spanish-speaking world.” Do you believe that the KJCC today is serving and carrying out its mission?

Dr. Dunkerley: These days, I tend to work outside of Latin America but my impression is yes.

The KJCC is one of the few centers in the North where there really is, as the mission says, an engagement not just in politics. You’d expect politics to be the main subject and international relations. I know you are a student of international relations, but when you start to get between history and culture, then you get interactions that truly add value. And so, I was impressed when I was there 12 years ago. My distinct impression now is that the tremendous tradition has been kept up by the great scholars and directors in the context of a university that has remained a world leader for a very long time.

Bibliography Dunkerley, James. “Andrés Bello and the Challenges of Spanish American Liberalism.” Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, vol. 24, 105-125, 2014. Web. Frank, David John, and John W. Meyer. “The University and the Global Knowledge Society,” 2020, 1-20. Web. Medina, Alberto. “Stories and Politics of Hispanism.” Revista Hispánica Moderna, vol. 74 no. 1, 2021. Web. Schrum, Ethan. “The Instrumental University,” 2019, 126-63. Web. Tenorio-Trillo, Mauricio. Latin America: The Allure and Power of an Idea.

Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2017.

Trigo, Abril. “Los estudios transatlánticos y la geopolítica del neo-hispanismo.” Cuadernos de Literatura, vol. no. 31, 2012,16-45. Web.

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A Very Very Personal Account of Catalan Culture at NYU Mary Ann Newman In academia, certain kinds of institutions, standard-bearers of distinction partially predicated on exclusion, propose to mold you in their form of excellence, to produce the most perfect version of you in the likeness of their marque. Other academic institutions derive their excellence through a more generous and porous spirit and invite you into their fold, where you explore and form yourself under their tutelage. New York University is the latter kind of institution—a sort of greenhouse where people who might not meet anywhere else find each other. Where pods form, tendrils shoot out.

In 1980, a program in Catalan studies could have only been contemplated at a place like New York University, a mildly chaotic institution with the capacity to absorb and nurture a new idea. Franco had only died in 1975, the Spanish Constitution had just been approved in 1978, and the Catalan Statute of Autonomy had become law in December 1979. The notion of Catalan culture as an exportable field of knowledge was unlikely, at best. It would require a concurrence of individuals—like Xavier Rubert de Ventós, John Brademas, John Coleman, Haydée Vitali, Robert Lubar—and many acts of imagination.

In 1978, Xavier Rubert de Ventós, the most formidable and most generous contemporary Catalan philosopher, was a founding fellow at Richard Sennett’s nascent Institute for the Humanities. I was starting my doctoral studies at that time. In a long perambulating conversation from Soho to the East River, Xavier and I discussed Eugeni d’Ors. The seed Xavier planted was followed by a paper in John Coleman’s European Classics class, a summer at the Biblioteca de Catalunya, and an application for a Fulbright under the umbrella of NYU that took me as a Fellow to Barcelona.

The kernel of the idea for the Catalan Studies Program, housed at NYU from 1983 to 1986, was planted there by the cultural officer of the American embassy in Spain. In Fall 1980, he invited the dozen scholars of the Fulbright cohort in Barcelona to lunch at Agut d’Avignon, the newest, most elegant restaurant in Barcelona (as the dollar had been devalued that year, this was a delightful respite from our usual 50 pesseta menus). He called me the following day. He wanted to support the State of the Autonomies (the new federal system in Spain) by establishing exchange programs between universities in the Autonomous Communities and their 185

U.S. counterparts. It was then he asked if I would like to help with the exchange program for Catalonia—would I ever!

Home for the Christmas holidays, I told my mentor and dissertation director, Dr. Haydée Vitali, about the proposal. She informed me, in turn, that the new President of New York University was Dr. John Brademas, the Democratic House Whip who had been swept out

“Catalan Studies Week,” March 21-25, 1983.

Program designed by NYU office of graphic design.

of office on Ronald Reagan’s coattails, who had done his doctoral dissertation on the anarcho-syndicalist movement in Catalonia and Andalusia in the 1930s.

The stars were aligning.

Back in Barcelona, more plotting with Xavier Rubert de Ventós. Xavier was not only a brilliant thinker; he was also a cultural activist, curious, generous, and responsible for founding and supporting countless projects—the Col.legi de Filosofia, among others, home to Jordi Llovet, Josep Ramoneda, Pep Subirós, Eugenio Trias, et al.—and sponsoring innumerable individuals in their careers.

And a consummate Catalanist. As we waited for word from the cultural officer, I went back to my research.

On February 23rd, 1981, on my way home from the Biblioteca de

Catalunya, I stopped at a kiosk for cigarettes. There, I heard the last broadcast that would be transmitted on the Spanish airwaves announcing that a Civil Guard had taken over the Congress of Deputies in Madrid and was holding the deputies hostage. I hurried home. The danger to the young Spanish democracy of a coup was plain. I listened to the BBC on short-wave radio until the wee hours. Around 3 a.m., King Juan Carlos disavowed the coup and the tanks in Valencia and the rebel Civil Guards were drawn back. The coup was averted.

But nothing would be the same. A few weeks later, when the dust had settled, I called the cultural officer, hoping to pick up the thread of his idea for a university exchange program.

He responded, “No, Mary Ann, we can no longer support the State of the Autonomies. Now we 186

must throw our support behind Spanish democracy.” The repercussions of the coup reached even as far as a merely budding idea.

I went to Xavier’s house to share the terrible news. He was unperturbed. He said not to worry, that he would talk with Pasqual. The Pasqual in question, Xavier’s inseparable childhood friend, was Pasqual Maragall, the first Deputy Mayor under Narcís Serra, who was the first democratically-elected Mayor of Barcelona after Franco. Soon after, Felipe González, the President of Spain, would tap Serra to be the Minister of Defense, and Pasqual Maragall would become acting Mayor of Barcelona.

A new project was launched—The exchange program between the Universitat de Barcelona and New York University migrated under the umbrella of the City Hall of Barcelona.

With the support of John Brademas and the Rector of the UB, Dr. Antoni Badia i Margarit, and with funding from Barcelona and the U.S.-Spain Fulbright Commission, the program, known in Barcelona as the Càtedra Barcelona-New York and in New York as the “Catalan Studies Program at NYU,” was off and running.

The first explosion of Catalan culture in New York took place from March 21-25, 1983 and featured a concert by Raimon with Pete Seeger; a lecture on Gaudí by George Collins; the screening of four brilliant Catalan films including Ocaña, retrat intermitent by Ventura Pons; and a colloquium on Catalonia in Modern Spain featuring John Brademas, Pasqual Maragall, and Xavier Rubert de Ventós, among others.

In the Fall, the program was launched. Master’s level courses counted toward an M.A. in Humanities; undergraduate Catalan language courses counted as language credits. Between Fall 1983 and Spring 1986, the program hosted a dozen notable visiting professors, from Martí de Riquer in literature to Ignasi de Solà Morales in urban planning and Mary Nash in women’s studies. There were lectures and special events with politician Miquel Roca, musician Barbara Held, artist Eugènia Balcells, and poet David Rosenthal, who at the time was singlehandedly translating the greatest works of Catalan literature, from Mercè Rodoreda to Tirant lo Blanc.

The program’s funding ran out in Spring 1986, and Professor Mary Nash’s course on Feminism in Catalonia was the last to be offered. But surely the most lasting contribution of the program to the field of Catalan studies—a tribute to the importance of the basic sciences and humanities to cultural diffusion—was the transmission of the Catalan language through its classes. The launching of the Catalan studies program coincided with the start of doctoral research on Miró by Robert Lubar at the NYU Institute of Fine Arts. Already fluent in French, in two intensive semesters he perfected his command of spoken and written Catalan and in the ensuing years came to be one of the world’s authorities on Joan Miró.

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Surely Robert’s scholarship was enhanced by the opportunity to learn the language formally; this was by no means a given in 1983. Under his influence, the importance of acquiring Catalan language research skills was passed on to his mentees, who became the brilliant scholars Professors Jordana Mendelson and Miriam Basilio of NYU, and Senior Curator Ann Umland of the Museum of Modern Art—a tendril from the Càtedra Barcelona-Nova York.

I went on to teach at Williams, Bard, and Middlebury College. The tender plants of the Catalan Studies Program went unattended, and the relationships lay fallow. Then, In 1997, the same year that the King Juan Carlos Center was inaugurated, Pasqual Maragall left the mayoralty.

He would spend the Spring 1998 semester that year between the University of Rome, La terza, and New York University as Distinguished Visiting Fellow at the King Juan Carlos Center. I was his liaison with the university.

With James Fernández, the Director of the KJCC, Thomas Bender, and Mitchell Moss, Pasqual would organize a symposium called “A World of Cities and Regions” bringing mayors from all over Latin America, Spain, and the United States. With Professors Tony Judt and Katherine Fleming of the Remarque Institute, he organized a seminar on “Devolution of Power to Regions and Cities: A Road to European Citizenship.” Though this was not strictly related to Catalan studies, it was Europe from a deeply Catalan, deeply Maragallian perspective. His work planted new seeds and a new set of tendrils began to grow in the years following this event.

The desire to implement the European Union ideals of devolution and subsidiarity— bringing the government closer to the people—which Maragall had explored in the Remarque symposium, would inform his decision to run for the Presidency of Catalonia in 1999. He lost that time. The effect of the Hondt Method—much like that of our Electoral College—prevailed, and Maragall won in votes and lost in seats. In 2003, in coalition with Esquerra Republicana and Iniciativa per Catalunya-Verds, Maragall became President of the Generalitat after twenty-three years with a single President, the Honorable Jordi Pujol.

President Maragall invited me to work in his Department of Foreign Affairs, but I asked to work at the very new Institut Ramon Llull, founded in 2002, to spread Catalan language, literature, and culture abroad. From that privileged vantage point, I observed that a sea change was taking place in Catalan culture in the United States. The Lincoln Center Film Society, under Richard Peña of Columbia University, was proposing a major retrospective of Catalan cinema.

Curator William Robinson of the Cleveland Museum of Art was gathering a grand exhibition of Catalan art in conjunction with the Metropolitan Museum: Barcelona and Modernity: Gaudí, Picasso, Dalí. Joseph Melillo, of the Brooklyn Academy of Music, wanted to devote a Next Wave Festival to Catalan performing arts. A new generation of institutional directors, like Robert Lubar 188

at NYU, understood Catalan culture and were in a position to begin featuring it.

In light of this, I wrote a report for President Maragall about the timeliness of establishing a Catalan cultural center in New York. It was logical to approach the King Juan Carlos Center and the Center for European and Mediterranean Studies. Professor Katherine E. Fleming, our ally for the symposium at the Remarque Institute, welcomed the proposal and the door was opened for the Institute Ramon Llull to establish the Catalan Center at New York University.

I moved back to New York to direct the Center, assisted by Maria Litvan, a Catalan dramaturge living in New York with her finger on the pulse of many young artists. The Center took off in Spring 2007 with a beautiful show at the Bobst Library called A Mediterranean Mirror: Catalan Law in an International Context, which exhibited books from the collection of the Col.legi d’Advocats de Barcelona. In a felicitous juxtaposition, it was accompanied by an extraordinary show of posters from the Spanish Civil War.1 Barcelona and Modernity: Gaudí, Picasso, Dalí opened at the Metropolitan Museum on March 7. On April 19 and 20 we celebrated it with a symposium at the King Juan Carlos Center, offering the context of literature, music, and urban planning in the Barcelona of the time. We brought together a stellar cast: Antoni Pizà, Jaume Subirana, Margarida Casacuberta, Juanjo Lahuerta, Xosé Aviñoa, Jordi Falgàs, Robert Lubar, Miriam Basilio, with a memorable closing session by composer Benet Casablancas.

In founding the Catalan Center at NYU, we were able to be a lightning rod for Catalan cultural initiatives. We both developed programs of our own and enhanced initiatives from other institutions. Early on, for example, Tate Modern Curator Mark Nash was doing a retrospective of Pere Portabella’s films at the Museum of Modern Art. He approached the King Juan Carlos

1. Images can be found here.

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Center to do a round table. Laura Turégano called us, and the round table evolved into a symposium that brought Portabella together with critic Jonathan Rosenbaum, his champion

since the 1970’s. They met in 2007 for the first time. In the 1970s, Portabella’s passport had been confiscated by Franco for his having financed Buñuel’s Viridiana and he had been unable to attend the original New Directors event at the MoMA. The title of the symposium, “Pere Portabella: A Catalan Master Filmmaker in New York (At Last!)” is a subtle nod to this absurd delay. The symposium opened with a dialogue between Rosenbaum and Portabella and closed with a dialogue by Richard Peña. In between, there were discussions by Santos Zunzunegui, Fèlix Fanés, Marcelo Expósito, and Mark Nash himself.

In the Fall 2007 semester alone, in addition to the spotlight on Pere Portabella, we presented a conversation with Marc Recha about his film Pau i el seu germà; a reading and discussion of the new translation of the poetry of Jacint Verdaguer, by Professor Ronald Puppo of the Universitat de Vic, with Antoni Pizà, our beloved colleague and Chair of the Foundation for Iberian Music at the CUNY Graduate Center, who had been cultivating his own greenhouse for many years now. In December, to celebrate Francesc Torres’s major exhibition at the International Center for Photography, Dark Is the Room Where We Sleep, we organized “Dark Rooms of Memory: Visions of Trauma in the Work of Francesc Torres,” with Francesc himself and Arthur 190

Danto, the great art critic, with curator Kristen Lubben as moderator.

In the ensuing years, we presented independent scholar Anthony Bonner’s magnum opus The Art and Logic of Ramon Llull: A User’s Guide with an extraordinary cast of commentators (March 2008) from Friedrich Pukelsheim of Heidelberg commenting on the mathematics of elections in Llull’s writings (still relevant to our elections, including the Hondt Method and the Electoral College, it seems this is a theme), and Paul Freedman, Harvey Hames, Ibtissam Bouachrine, Montserrat Piera, and Anthony Bonner himself, of course, all addressing diverse aspects of Llull’s Logic. We celebrated with the Institut Ramon Llull the 100th anniversary of Mercè Rodoreda and the 30th of the North American Catalan Institute, the professional organization of Catalan scholars in the United States, which brought together the finest North America-based Rodoreda scholars: Kathryn Everly, Jo Labanyi, Enric Bou, Joan Ramon Resina, Jaume Martí-Olivella, Roser Caminals-Heath, Marta Marín-Dòmine. In keeping with the objective of the Catalan Center of showcasing Catalan artists working in the States, the event closed with a concert by Catalan jazz musicians Alexis Cuadrado and Oscar Peñas.

In the spring of 2009, The Catalan Center showcased both On Translation: Miedo/Jauf, a film by Antoni Muntadas on the exploration of fear on the northern and southern shores of the Mediterranean, and Memoria negra, a documentary by Xavier Montanyà on the legacy of Spanish colonization in Equatorial Guinea, in conjunction with Benita Sampedro of Hofstra University.

There was additionally a concert and a conversation by Douglas Riva on his Enric Granados scholarship and the excavation of the lost Granados score for Cant de les Estrelles, and the many vicissitudes that kept it from being played: the Spanish Civil War, bad blood in the Granados family, fire, flood, and more.

In 2010, when the Institut Ramon Llull organized a concert by Benet Casablancas at the Miller Theater at Columbia University and Jaume Cabré was Visiting Scholar at the Càtedra Coromines at the University of Chicago, the Catalan Center contributed to both events by offering an additional platform to these two principal Catalan artists. Our role was often to supply the context of an artist’s work to deepen understanding of their performance or practice.

This role as a magnifier was particularly gratifying, as our presence in New York allowed for conduits to be constructed, both overground and underground. Our ascription to the Center for European and Mediterranean Studies gave us the breadth to collaborate with the Irish House at NYU on a comparative look at Barcelona and Dublin as Destination Cities, exploring “Tourism, Immigration, and Urban Transformations.” Or with the AIA-Center for Architecture on programs with Josep Anton Acebillo or Enric Geli. Or with the IEMed, the European Institute of the Mediterranean, on questions of migration. Catalan studies, endeavors, scholars, 191

practitioners, artists, and, occasionally, gadflies were highlighted alongside their American or international counterparts. We were a touchstone for Catalan Culture in the U.S. and came to be known as an ally for any beautiful and provocative proposal. This extended to the political world, as well. Throughout its tenure, the Catalan Center proudly hosted Pasqual Maragall, Josep-Lluís Carod-Rovira, Josep Saura, and Ernest Benach. In our final semester we hosted, together with Princeton University, the Institut Ramon Llull, the Consulate of Spain, under the direction of Consul Ferran Villalonga, and the Delegation of Catalonia to the U.S., under the direction of Dr. Andrew Davis, a standing-room-only talk by former President Jordi Pujol, one of the last events to take place under our umbrella.

Many, many more events took place during the brief lifetime of The Catalan Center.

In our final semester we explored groundbreaking documentaries, the invention of creative documentary, developed under the tutelage of Josep Balló at the University Pompeu Fabra. But what is invisible—the roots that made their way underground—are the many conversations offside, the budding projects, and the opportunities for complicity. The international network of scholars, and the local networks of artists and friends. The embrace of New York and New Yorkadjacent institutions, from the U.N to Philip Johnson’s Glass House, to the MoMA, to Robert Wilson’s Watermill Center. And that is just the start. It was truly a place of imagination.

Between 2007 and 2011, perhaps the most important achievement of the Catalan Studies Program at New York University, with the support of the Institut Ramon Llull and the proverbial generosity and intellectual freedom fostered by New York University, was the creation of a rich, open-ended intellectual community. I have been talking about tendrils and shoots, but perhaps for this stage we might take recourse to the tropes of forest ecology, the roots and spores that run underground, storing information for future use, assuring that nothing is lost and that new plants will emerge where others wilted.

This is a paean to all the people mentioned in the article and to the many more who traveled along with us who are not mentioned. It is fortunate that the work of Catalan Studies at New York University is carried on by Robert Lubar, Jordana Mendelson, Miriam Basilio, and Sara Nadal. It is providential that Elsa Úbeda continues to provide the opportunity to study Catalan at Columbia University. Catalan scholars like Wadda Ríos-Font at Barnard and Aurélie Vialette at SUNY Stony Brook, all the extraordinary colleagues at the North American Catalan Society, and translators like Sharon Feldman, Hillary Gardner, and many more carry the torch of Catalan culture in the U.S. The work of Catalan culture in the U.S. goes on—only the canopy is gone.

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Una reflexió sobre la meva estada al KJCC (tardor 2016) Josep M. Muñoz Les coses mai no passen perquè sí. I això que en aterrar a Washington Square, l’agost del 2016, jo venia amb la sensació que aquella extraordinària oportunitat acadèmica que se m’oferia era un d’aquests regals inesperats que molt de tant en tant –no fos cas que t’hi abonessis– et fa la vida. Però, just en arribar i alçar el cap –un moviment que a Manhattan esdevé connatural – vaig adonar-me que existia una connexió, un lligam amb aquell lloc, que m’arribava com si provingués d’un cable telegràfic estès per sota l’oceà. Amb tota seguretat, jo havia estat abans en un dels edificis alts que tancaven un dels costats de la plaça. Concretament, al penthouse de l’aleshores president de NYU, John Brademas. Un home d’una enorme simpatia, dotat de “l’entregent” – aquell terme francès que un dels nostres més grans escriptors, Josep Pla, havia volgut naturalitzar en català, tot aprofitant la proximitat lingüística. El diccionari Larousse en dona alguns sinònims en francès: “diplomatie”, “doigté” (que ve de “doigt”, dit), “savoir-faire”.

Ara mateix no sabria situar amb tota exactitud la data, però es tractava sense cap mena de dubte d’un dels meus primers viatges a Nova York –possiblement el primer– que vaig fer acompanyant l’aleshores alcalde de Barcelona, Pasqual Maragall. Eren els anys immediatament previs a la celebració dels Jocs Olímpics del 1992, i arreu hi havia molta curiositat per saber què faria Barcelona. A Amèrica, a més, l’interès es va acréixer des del moment que es va saber que la ciutat designada a prendre el relleu de la torxa olímpica per als Jocs d’estiu del 1996 era Atlanta, GA. Jo aleshores formava part del Gabinet de l’Alcaldia (ho traduíem per Mayor’s Office) i solia acompanyar Maragall en els seus viatges fora d’Europa. Van ser un anys d’aprenentatge, al costat d’una figura política diferent, única i irrepetible. En aterrar l’avió, ell podia donar-te, amb un gest que traduïa una desgana només aparent, l’exemplar de la New York Review of Books que havia estat llegint durant el vol, i on, per exemple, havia estat subratllant profusament un article de Vaclav Havel. No cal dir que jo, en tornar a casa, el primer que vaig fer és subscriure’m a la NYRB, l’empremta de la qual seria inevitable trobar, al cap d’uns pocs anys, en L’Avenç – la revista que dirigeixo des de fa més de vint anys i que és la que, de fet, em va portar de nou a Washington Square, al King Juan Carlos Center, el 2016.

La party que el president Brademas va organitzar per honorar la visita de Pasqual Maragall 194

A Reflection on My Stay at the KJCC (Autumn 2016)

Translated by Mary Ann Newman Things never happen just because. When I landed in Washington Square in August 2016 I had come with the feeling that the extraordinary academic opportunity being offered to me was one of those unexpected gifts that life very occasionally—not something you should get used to—gives you. But as soon as I lifted my head—an innate movement in Manhattan—I realized that there was a connection, a link to the place that reached me as if it came from a telegraph cable stretched under the ocean. It was clear that I had been in one of those tall buildings that lined one side of the square before. Specifically, in the penthouse of the then president of NYU, John Brademas. A very charming man, endowed with entregent—that French term that the great Catalan writer Josep Pla had wanted to import into Catalan, taking advantage of the linguistic overlap. The Larousse offers some synonyms in French: diplomatie, doigté, savoir-faire, all of which came together in Brademas’s “people skills.”

I can’t pinpoint the exact date right now but surely it was one of my first trips to New York—possibly the first—that I made with the then-mayor of Barcelona, ​​Pasqual Maragall. These were the years immediately preceding the 1992 Olympic Games, and there was a lot of curiosity everywhere about what Barcelona would do. In America, moreover, interest had only grown since it was announced that the city designated to take over the Olympic torch for the 1996 Summer Games was Atlanta, GA. I worked in the Mayor’s Office and used to accompany Maragall on his travels outside Europe. Those were years of apprenticeship, alongside a different, unique, and unrepeatable political figure. When the plane landed, he might hand you, with a gesture of only apparent reluctance, the copy of the New York Review of Books he had been reading during the flight, and in which he had been copiously underlining an article by Vaclav Havel. Needless to say, when I returned home the first thing I did was subscribe to the NYRB, the imprint of which would be inevitable, a few years later, upon L’Avenç—the magazine that I’ve been editing now for over twenty years and the journalistic enterprise that actually took me back to Washington Square, to the King Juan Carlos Center, in 2016.

The party that President Brademas organized in honor of Pasqual Maragall’s visit to New York had, to my recollection, an air of great sophistication—starting, of course, with the 195

a Nova York va tenir, en el meu record, un aire

apartment itself, a duplex with a terrace

molt sofisticat –començant és clar per l’àtic,

overlooking the city. Over the course of the

un dúplex amb una terrassa amb vistes sobre

informal dinner—we would perch wherever

la ciutat. En el curs del sopar –informal, mig

we could—I talked for a while with Diandra

sèiem allà on podíem– vaig estar parlant una

Luker about a family perhaps related to the

bona estona amb Diandra Luker, d’una família

Kennedys (it could be a false memory, to add

no sé si emparentada amb els Kennedy (potser

glamor?) who, at the time, was the wife of

és un fals record, per afegir-hi glamur?), i

the actor Michael Douglas, with a fabulous

que aleshores era la dona de l’actor Michael

house in Mallorca. It was, you will forgive

Douglas, i tenien una casa fabulosa a Mallorca.

the cliché, the closest thing to a Woody Allen

Era, disculpeu el tòpic, el més semblant a una

movie I’ve ever experienced. And that is saying

pel·lícula de Woody Allen que jo havia viscut

a lot, coming from Barcelona and those years

mai. Això, venint de Barcelona i dels anys

when we adored Allen. With a few words

que adoràvem Allen, és molt dir. En uns mots

of gratitude, Pasqual Maragall responded

d’agraïment, Pasqual Maragall va correspondre

to the reception given to him by Brademas

a la rebuda que li havia fet Brademas dient que,

that, if life were fair, the United States would

si la vida fos justa, els Estats Units haurien de

be governed by the “Greeks:” everyone

ser governats pels “grecs”: tothom va entendre

understood that it was an allusion to the

que era, també, una al·lusió al candidat del

Democratic candidate Michael Dukakis who

Partit Demòcrata, Michael Dukakis, que feia

had recently lost the 1988 election to George

poc que havia perdut l’elecció del 1988 contra

Bush, Sr.

George Bush pare.

Però jo ja sabia qui era el “grec” John

But I already knew who the “Greek” John Brademas was because one of the first

Brademas, perquè un dels primers llibres

books I had read on the history of the Spanish

sobre la història de la Guerra Civil espanyola

Civil War even before I entered the University,

que jo havia llegit abans fins i tot d’entrar a

borrowed from my grandfather’s library, was

la Universitat, manllevant-lo de la biblioteca

his pioneering study of Spanish anarcho-

del meu avi, era el seu estudi pioner sobre

syndicalism, largely centered on the case of

l’anarcosindicalisme espanyol, molt centrat

Catalonia, and published in Spanish in 1974

en el cas català, i que es va publicar en castellà

(Anarcosindicalismo y revolución en España,

l’any 1974 (Anarcosindicalismo y revolución

1930- 1937) in Joaquín Romero Maura’s

en España, 1930- 1937), en traducció de

translation. The book covered the material

Joaquín Romero Maura. El llibre era el fruit de

of Brademas’s dissertation in the early 1950’s

196

la tesi que Brademas va fer, a primers dels anys

as a Rhodes Scholar at Oxford University,

1950, com a Rhodes Scholar a la Universitat

for which he had had the opportunity, if I

d’Oxford, i per a la qual havia tingut

remember correctly, to interview significant

l’oportunitat, si ho recordo bé, d’entrevistar

characters from the notable nucleus of

personatges significats de l’important nucli

anarchist exiles who were living at the time in

d’exiliats anarquistes que hi havia aleshores a la

the French city of Toulouse.

ciutat francesa de Tolosa del Llenguadoc.

Moltes vegades, un fil, només cal

Often one only needs to pull on a thread to reveal the entire seam. Here

estirar-lo. I et porta lluny. En aquell cas, de la

the thread leads you from the failed 1936

revolució mancada dels anarcosindicalistes del

revolution of the anarcho-syndicalists, through

1936, de la devastadora derrota a la Guerra

the devastating defeat of the Civil War and

Civil i de l’experiència amarga de l’exili,

the bitter experience of exile, to the greatest

a la més gran operació de consens ciutadà

operation of citizen consensus around the

orquestrada a l’aleshores jove democràcia

1992 Olympic Games, orchestrated by the

espanyola, com van ser els Jocs Olímpics del

then still-young Spanish democracy. An

1992. Una operació on el més important no

operation in which the most important

eren els Jocs en ells mateixos, que presentàvem

element was not the Games themselves.

–sense cap problema per part nostra a l’hora

We shamelessly presented them as a simple

d’afirmar-ho– com una mera “excusa” per

“excuse” for the extraordinary urban

a l’extraordinària transformació urbanística

transformation of the city of Barcelona ​​after

de la ciutat de Barcelona, després d’anys de

years of neglect and speculation, which

negligència i d’especulació, i que va permetre

allowed us to recover a civic “pride” the

recuperar un “orgull” cívic del qual la ciutat

city badly needed following the endless

anava molt necessitada després de la llarga

humiliation endured under General Franco’s

humiliació a què l’havia sotmès la dictadura del

dictatorship.

General Franco.

En abaixar el cap, doncs, a Washington

So when I lowered my gaze to Washington Square, I immediately understood

Square, vaig entendre de seguida el sentit

the deep meaning of my stay at the King

profund de la meva estada al King Juan Carlos

Juan Carlos Center, founded by the good

Center, fundat per obra i gràcia –ajudat,

offices, and fueled, no doubt, by the “people

sens dubte, pel seu “entregent”– de John

skills” of John Brademas who had passed

Brademas (que havia traspassat aquell mateix

away that same summer of 2016. When

estiu de 2016). Quan la Jordana Mendelson i

Jordana Mendelson and the then director of 197

l’aleshores directora del KJCC, Ana Dopico,

the KJCC, Ana Dopico, asked me to identify

em van demanar que identifiqués un tema

a topic for the postgraduate course I was to

per al curs de postgrau que havia d’impartir

teach—and for the symposium I had the

–i eventualment per al simposi que tenia la

magnificent opportunity to organize—I was

magnífica oportunitat d’organitzar– vaig trobar

delighted. I found it almost natural to propose

gairebé natural proposar-los un curs el propòsit

a course whose purpose was to analyze, from

del qual era analitzar, des d’una proximitat

a temporal proximity that perhaps physical

temporal que tal vegada la distància física ens

distance would help us to compensate, the

ajudaria a compensar, els dos moviments que

two movements that had closed, with all

havien tancat, amb tot el seu simbolisme i

their symbolism and potential, the stage of

potencial, l’etapa de reconstrucció democràtica

democratic reconstruction that the approval of

que a Espanya havia obert l’aprovació de la

the 1978 Constitution had opened in Spain.

Constitució del 1978: em refereixo, és clar,

I am referring, of course, to the movement

al moviment dels “indignados” (un nom en

of the “outraged,” the indignados (a name in

castellà que va obtenir ressonàncies en altres

Spanish that resonated in other languages ​​

llengües i contextos) i al moviment que, a la

and contexts) and to the movement that,

manera d’Escòcia, propugnava la independència

along the lines of Scotland, advocated for

de Catalunya respecte d’Espanya. Tots dos

the independence of Catalonia from Spain.

moviments sorgits d’una mateixa conjuntura,

These two movements arose from the same

entorn a 2010-2011, amb lligams no sempre

historical moment, around 2010-2011, with

explícits i evidents, però efectivament existents,

links that existed but were not always explicit

entre tots dos, i que sacsejaven de forma

and obvious. They caused a significant shock

important el tauler polític i social espanyol.

to the Spanish political and social chessboard.

Quan vaig arribar al KJCC, el seu retrat encara

When I reached the KJCC, the portrait of

presidia la “portrait room”, però Juan Carlos

Juan Carlos still presided over the conference

ja havia abdicat com a rei d’Espanya, i la

room. He had already abdicated as King of

unanimitat del relat que s’havia imposat després

Spain, and the unanimity of the narrative

del 1978 i d’una Transició que, malgrat les seves

that prevailed after 1978 of a Transition,

mancances, s’havia presentat com a “modèlica”,

which, despite its shortcomings, had been

ja s’havia esquerdat d’una manera important i

presented as a “model,” had already suffered an

no sabíem dir si irreparable.

important rupture and no one could predict if

Del trimestre de tardor del 2016, de la inquietud i preparació dels meus estudiants, 198

it was reparable.

I remember with tremendous

de la magnífica oportunitat de presentar la

satisfaction the Fall 2016 term, from the

“qüestió catalana” que va significar el simposi

curiosity and preparation of my students,

que vaig poder organitzar gràcies a l’escàs però

to the extraordinary opportunity to discuss

competent personal del KJCC, en guardo

the “Catalan question” represented by the

un enorme record. Jo sabia que el curs que

symposium that I was able to organize thanks

proposava tenia unes connotacions que no

to the minimal but very competent staff of

escapaven a ningú i que potser, fins i tot, feien

the KJCC. I knew that the course I proposed

arrufar les celles a algú altre. Per això, de tota

had implications that were clear to everyone

aquella experiència, breu i intensa, el que

and that perhaps even furrowed a couple of

guardo com un tresor més apreciat és el clima

brows. This is why, of all that brief and intense

de llibertat intel·lectual que vaig trobar a NYU,

experience, what I retain as my most esteemed

i la seva indiscutible adscripció al principi de

treasure is the climate of intellectual freedom I

llibertat de càtedra. Un principi sobre el qual

found at NYU and its indisputable devotion to

es fonamenta la democràcia, que vaig poder

the principle of academic freedom. A principle

veure com era defensada amb una immediata i

on which democracy is based, and which I

alarmada mobilització per part de professors i

was able to see defended with immediate and

estudiants de NYU (alguns, com una estudiant

alarming mobilization by NYU professors and

meva, amb llàgrimes als ulls) l’endemà mateix

students alike (some, like a student of mine,

de la victòria de Donald Trump en l’elecció de

with tears in their eyes) the day after Donald

novembre de 2016, que vaig viure en directe a

Trump’s victory in the November 2016

Nova York, i que va esdevenir una demostració

election I experienced this for myself in New

més, si és que em calia, que la Universitat és,

York, and it became one more demonstration,

abans que res, el lloc on es construeixen els

if I have any need of it, that the University is,

ciutadans lliures d’un país lliure. Gràcies, NYU.

first and foremost, the place where the free

Moltes gràcies i llarga vida al KJCC.

citizens of a free country are shaped. Thank you, NYU. Thank you very much and long life to the KJCC.

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Diplomacia, inclusión y Cuba:

la directora Ana Dopico en el KJCC Devon Vazquez Forester Cuando yo era joven, no existían alrededor de mí centros culturales latinxs, no existía siquiera esa identidad. Uno era, quizá, ‘hispanic’. En la universidad o en mi carrera de doctorado de literatura comparada no había otros latinos de EEUU… eso vino muy tarde.

Al hacerme profesora, y después directora del centro, me di cuenta del poder convocatorio del centro, su capacidad de crear comunidad. Al hacer comunidad, al poder convocar a otros pensadores en espacios universitarios, uno puede ayudar a nutrir el desarrollo intelectual y personal de estudiantes, de colegas. Y al abrir esas puertas a una comunidad más amplia en la ciudad, cambiamos nuestro rol, y nuestra labor, reconociendo que las comunidades latinas hacen su historia y su teoría y su arte más allá de la universidad. Creo que es fundamental poder tener donde te puedes reconocer a ti misma, o a ti mismo, y poder crear una comunidad. Tratamos de hacer eso en el King Juan Carlos Center... crear espacios donde la gente pueda hablar, pueda reconocerse entre sí, pueda reconocer que los espacios elites no excluyen las comunidades que pretendemos representar. Es muy importante… es una responsabilidad de la institución… abrir las puertas al público un poquito más.

Estas son las palabras de Ana Dopico, directora del King Juan Carlos I Center de 2014 a 2019, en una entrevista sobre su trabajo como directora del centro. Dopico nació en Cuba y creció en Miami. Estudió historia y literatura comparada y se doctoró en Columbia University en Nueva York. Comenzó su carrera en NYU como profesora de los departamentos de español y de literatura comparada. Dopico aportó esa experiencia personal y ese entrenamiento intelectual al convertirse en la primera directora latina del centro. Durante su tiempo como directora, la profesora Dopico intentó ampliar el rol de la comunidad latinx para que formara parte central de la programación y las cátedras del centro. La profesora Dopico asumió el cargo durante una etapa crucial de la historia en la que el Presidente Barack Obama restableció relaciones con Cuba. Este cambio en el discurso político y las relaciones interamericanas le dio a Dopico la oportunidad de responder con algo que se necesitaba en el nuevo panorama político: un espacio para indagar las consecuencias de la reapertura y las consecuencias populares, diplomáticas, culturales y económicas.

En enero de 2015 Ana Dopico, junto a la profesora Jill Lane, directora del Center for Latin American and Caribbean Studies (CLACS), las profesoras Arlene Dávila y Ada Ferrer y 200

Meg Satterthwaite, la Directora del Center for Human Rights and Global Justice (CHRGJ) en la Facultad de Leyes de NYU, solicitó y ganó una beca de la Fundación Mellon para crear la serie Cuban Futures Beyond the Market: Geopolitics and Interpretive Infrastructures in the Humanities, Social Science and the Law.1 Aunque identificaron que el enfoque del público en las nuevas relaciones con Cuba estaba centrado en la economía, Ana Dopico y su equipo querían enfatizar la vida cultural, la vida diaria y la experiencia cubana más allá de las lógicas del mercado. En su informe escrito sobre la serie, Ana Dopico reflexiona sobre este hecho: “In spring of 2015, our team immediately began to carefully consider where our best and most meaningful interventions and dialogues might lie and how to assemble a network of participants from Cuba, the United States and beyond who would help change the narrative”. Por esta razón, el Centro organizó una variedad de eventos en las áreas de los medios y la representación, la experiencia afrocubana, el estado del campo de los estudios cubanos y el papel de Cuba en el contexto latinoamericano.

Uno de los eventos más grandes que Dopico organizó como directora del centro, independiente del seminario Cuban Futures, fue la conferencia del 21-22 de abril del 2016 titulada: Storytelling the Revolution: Narrative and Latin American Revolutionary Politics. La Cátedra Andrés Bello en ese momento la ocupaba el escritor Jon Lee Anderson, quien trabajó con el Centro para traer a más de 25 autores, activistas, profesores y periodistas de investigación para hablar sobre las revoluciones en América Latina durante los últimos 50 años. Cada panel se dedicó a uno de los siguientes países: Cuba, Colombia, Argentina, Chile, América Central y México y Venezuela. Estos paneles incluían a académicos de todo el mundo, entre ellos: María Jimena Duzán, periodista colombiana, experta política y anfitriona del programa nocturno Semana en Vivo; Jean-Marie Simon, escritora, fotógrafa y representante de Human Rights Watch, quien se ha enfocado en el estudio de Guatemala; Gilberto Padilla, ensayista cubano, profesor y director de Colección G y Tamara Adrián, abogada venezolana que sirve como Presidente del Comité del Día Internacional contra la Homofobia y Transfobia y mantiene una posición como consejera del WHO y PAHO. Estos panelistas y muchos más se reunieron en el auditorio del KJCC y pasaron muchas horas hablando sobre cómo las narrativas sobre la revolución han cambiado, cómo las suposiciones se han formado en nuestras imaginaciones y cuáles podrían ser las nuevas vías de conversación. Este evento ciertamente mostró los esfuerzos realizados por Dopico, Anderson y su equipo para darles a las conversaciones del KJCC perspectivas internacionales y crear un punto de encuentro entre el centro y un público más amplio.

1.. Ana Dopico, Ada Ferrer, Jill Lane, Arlene Dávila y Meg Satterthwaite fueron las creadoras oficiales del seminario del NYU Mellon Sawyer Series.

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En septiembre de 2015, Dopico tuvo el honor de nombrar al galardonado periodista Juan González a la Cátedra Andrés Bello, el primer puertorriqueño y primer latino en ocupar el cargo. En el KJCC, González organizó conferencias y eventos sobre The Puerto Rican Debt Crisis, Rebel Latino Writers in American Journalism y The Struggle for Latino Studies and American Higher Education (Communications). Para Dopico: One of the most significant achievements of my tenure was the naming of Juan González as Andrés Bello Chair. His presence and programming, which included material on the Young Lords and Puerto Rican Debt and a public dialogue with Lin Manuel Miranda and Sonia Manzano, were key to opening the Center to Latino audiences.

El diálogo con Lin Manuel Miranda y Sonia Manzano atrajo a 700 estudiantes, artistas y miembros de la comunidad al Skirball Center for the Performing Arts para hablar sobre la comunidad de artistas latinos (ATRIUM: Voices from the KJCC Presents Juan González). Juan González dirigió conferencias perspicaces e interesantes sobre temas relevantes para la comunidad latina, atrayendo así a una mayor audiencia para aprender sobre estudios latinos a través del KJCC. Como parte de su enfoque en Cuba, Dopico presentó Towers, Letters, and Ferris Wheels: Alternative Spaces for Cuban Writing. Esta mesa redonda se centró en los desafíos de escribir y publicar literatura en Cuba y la historia de los espacios existentes para los escritores y sus obras dentro y fuera del país. Los participantes incluyeron a Reina María Rodríguez de La Habana, una poeta defensora de un espacio cultural alternativo en Cuba y muy conocida por “La azotea de Reina”, un espacio de reunión de escritores en su casa. Otros participantes fueron Oscar Cruz, de Santiago de Cuba, autor, editor de la revista literaria La Noria y receptor de elogios internacionales en literatura; y, una vez más, el ensayista y profesor de La Habana, Gilberto Padilla. Dopico presentó el evento y Walfrido Dorta, el becario postdoctoral del Mellon Sawyer Seminar, moderó el evento, el cual exploró las dificultades de publicar literatura en Cuba en la era digital. La discusión reunió a voces cubanas sobre asuntos cubanos. Ana Dopico comentó en su entrevista sobre la importancia de establecer vínculos con académicos en Cuba: Estos efectos no se pueden cuantificar fácilmente, pero cuando una investigadora, una escritora, una artista, un cineasta, una pensadora cubana/o visita los Estados Unidos, esto activa una red de académicos de Cuba, grupos comunitarios o instituciones. Esa visita –y las conexiones y la comunidad que se va armando– permiten una circulación de ideas y de diálogo que de otra manera no sería posible. Es profundamente importante establecer esos intercambios, facilitarlos y normalizarlos para así ir ampliando el conocimiento público sobre Cuba en EEUU. Pero todo cambió con la elección de un nuevo presidente en 2016, el Presidente Donald Trump.

202

Trump vio las nuevas políticas diplomáticas como parciales y volvió a los Estados Unidos a un estado de aislamiento de Cuba. Dopico comentó sobre este tema en su entrevista: Después de la elección de Trump, el horizonte de posibilidades que estaba cambiando con respecto a Cuba se fue nublando. Poco a poco, se hicieron más difíciles los vínculos que habíamos hecho, las colaboraciones, los intercambios institucionales. Los vínculos, los viajes, las invitaciones, las visas para viajar, todo se hizo más difícil. Y a medida que cambiaban las cosas, los cubanos también respondían con sus propias dificultades.

Pero ¿traer académicos, o artistas? Sí, se puede invitar. Pero casi siempre se hace a nivel individual y nos encontramos con más esperas, más dificultades… En el momento de apertura de Obama, parecía que todo era posible –y se cerró. Y se cerró de una manera totalmente arbitraria y horrible. Al cerrarse la vía política se cierra todo un mundo de conocimiento, de relaciones humanas, de colaboraciones. Se cierran posibilidades, se cierran investigaciones, exposiciones, proyectos en común, desaparecen momentos de posibilidad y sufren también las amistades y relaciones personales y nuestra propia capacidad para imaginar el mundo.

Estas dificultades políticas que en este caso cancelaron la apertura de relaciones con Cuba, también pusieron en relieve el rol de NYU como institución global y la diplomacia y las políticas que las directoras de centro tienen que enfrentar. Sebastiaan Faber, profesor de los estudios hispánicos en Oberlin College, explora este asunto en su artículo “Scholars, Spies, and Other Agents: U.S. Hispanism and the State”. Faber señala: If they are lucky, [scholars] receive double the state support and recognition... More often, however, they are likely to be caught between competing loyalties or, worse, subject to suspicion, surveillance, and harassment from both sides. Modern nation-states, it seems, have tended to consider the academic fields that study their own history and culture— either practiced domestically or abroad, by national or foreign scholars—as a potential generator of status and prestige and, therefore, as extensions of their foreign policy and even a kind of shadow diplomacy… Still, while states value scholarly knowledge about other countries, they also seem to harbor a stubborn distrust for the individuals who generate that knowledge.

De esta manera, el KJCC supera su estatus como una institución de exploración e investigación para entrar a formar parte de la diplomacia estadounidense y en esta posición hay reglas con las que la institución está obligada a cumplir.

Esta característica de las instituciones globales tenía un sentido primordial para Ana Dopico y el KJCC. Como Dopico dijo en su entrevista: “Me empecé a dar cuenta del poder de las instituciones en hacer posible una historia o cancelarla. Y para Cuba eso es muy importante porque la historia de Cuba es muy polarizada”. Así, Dopico logró traer a cubanos a Nueva York, dándoles la oportunidad de compartir sus historias y proporcionando un espacio para nuevos 203

diálogos, pero al mismo tiempo se vio truncada en su actividad debido a la política. Mientras que el panorama global siempre cambiará, sigue siendo esencial que las instituciones hagan lo que puedan, cuando puedan, para crear espacios de conversación y aceptación.

La idea de que NYU y el KJCC deben ser lugares de investigación global, se remonta a la creación de la Cátedra del King Juan Carlos, al centro mismo y al promotor de ambos, el entonces Presidente de NYU John Brademas.

Brademas, un especialista en estudios españoles, representante del Congreso y presidente de NYU, creía en expandir el alcance global de la Universidad a través del estudio de otros países, culturas e idiomas. Bajo su dirección, se prestó especial atención a los programas entre NYU y otras instituciones en todo el mundo que servían como avenidas para la diplomacia.

Brademas compartió regularmente con el público su ideología acerca de la necesidad de poseer un conocimiento global, y fue la idea principal de su charla “International Education”, la que presentó ante un público que incluyó al Rey Juan Carlos I, porque la charla sirvió para introducir la cena para anunciar la cátedra que llevaría su nombre, y el Presidente de Argentina Raúl Alfonsín. Brademas estableció: The events of tonight and tomorrow mark a significant moment in the history of New York University and, I like to think, in the relationship between the peoples of the United States and Spain. For the presence with us of Their Majesties King Juan Carlos I and Queen Sofia of Spain symbolize not only the many contributions that Spain has made… but also to the rising importance of Spanish-speaking peoples in the life of the United States and of this city… We have, moreover, welcomed to our lecture halls and classrooms some of the most eminent writers and thinkers of twentieth-century Spain as well as of Latin America (Brademas).

Mientras que las conexiones formadas por Brademas sucedieron principalmente entre las altas élites sociales, podemos entender la iniciativa de Ana Dopico de crear un espacio para la discusión sobre el tema cubano como una continuación de los mismos valores fundamentales creados por Brademas y que son una parte integral del KJCC, pero con su propio alcance a voces más diversas.

El corazón de la misión del KJCC es retenido por Dopico, pero ella agregó una expansión muy necesaria de la accesibilidad al Centro. En su entrevista enfatizó: …poder dirigir el centro me dio la oportunidad de pensar en un público, en gente que no está incluida por el proyecto élite de la universidad y empezar a trabajar en lo que dicen ‘public scholarship’… cosas para ampliar y abrir las puertas al público un poquito más. …traer un público que no ha venido a una universidad, democratizar los espacios, descolonizar los espacios de la universidad... por ejemplo [para personas como] mi abuela, que nunca fue a la universidad.

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La dedicación a hacer un espacio para el estudio de otros países, traer académicos al campus e impactar la diplomacia americana se refleja igualmente en John Brademas y Ana Dopico, con su compromiso de conectar la universidad con el mundo hispanohablante. Ambos han impactado profundamente en el proceso de hacer de NYU una institución donde puedan llevarse a cabo conversaciones y conexiones entre diversos países.

Ana Dopico dirigió el KJCC hacia una transición impulsada por su inclusión de una nueva audiencia de latinos, cubanos y neoyorquinos locales que formaron comunidad en el centro.

Dopico proporcionó un espacio necesario a los que querían discutir y aprender sobre la relación cambiante con Cuba y los afectados por ella y creó conexiones diplomáticas entre el KJCC y Cuba a través de su dedicación a su estudio. La terminación de su proyecto por el gobierno llama la atención al papel de una institución cultural y universitaria y a cuáles pueden ser los límites que se le imponen, pero aún así, Ana Dopico logró unir a las personas y crear nuevas comunidades en el King Juan Carlos I Center.

Bibliografía Ana Dopico. Entrevista en la clase de NYU Instituciones, archivos y personas. 9 noviembre. 2021.

ATRIUM: Voices from the KJCC Presents Juan González. Youtube. Red. Brademas, John. Washington, D.C. to Washington Square. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1986.

Communications, NYU Web. Columnist and Author Juan González Joins King Juan Carlos I of Spain Center at NYU. Dopico, Ana. (2018). Grant Report Mellon Sawyer Seminar at New York University Cuban Futures Beyond the Market: Geopolitics and Interpretive Infrastructures in the Humanities, Social Science and the Law. Faber, Sebastiaan. “Scholars, Spies, and Other Agents: US Hispanism and the State”. Revista His pánica Moderna, vol. 74, no. 1, 2021, 47–59. Red.

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Centros culturales contemporáneos y el desmontaje de la jerarquía naturalizada Rachel Moorman-Minton Las universidades han compartido un papel central en el establecimiento de jerarquías y límites de conocimiento que influyen no tan solo en los que estudian en ellas, sino a través de las normas culturales que promueven a nivel global. En el caso de una universidad como NYU, hay básicamente dos niveles de preguntas que podríamos hacernos al pensar en el KJCC, un centro cultural dedicado a España y al mundo hispanohablante. ¿Cuáles son los objetivos diplomáticos y económicos de los países que representa? ¿Qué representación y acceso tienen las poblaciones cuyas historias aparecen en las colecciones y programas de la institución? Si una institución intenta crear un centro cultural –especialmente si está dedicado al mundo hispanohablante que es producto de siglos de represión de lenguas, culturas y formas de vida– es necesario tomar como objetivo central una representación justa y equitativa de toda la población.

Hay razones muy pragmáticas para dedicar un centro al estudio del mundo hispanohablante. La mayoría de este hemisferio habla español y la población hispanohablante en los Estados Unidos está creciendo, especialmente en una ciudad como Nueva York. Una de las misiones institucionales de la Universidad de Nueva York es incluir distintas perspectivas internacionales en la experiencia educativa. Además, intenta establecer normas globales para la excelencia académica. NYU se encuentra en una posición muy ventajosa para trabajar con estos objetivos porque se ha posicionado como un ejemplo de la universidad “instrumental”, evidenciado en sus exitosos sitios globales que la han ayudado a conseguir una presencia internacional casi sin rival (Schrum). Este prestigio global es un privilegio, pero es también una enorme responsabilidad.

Frank y Meyer cuestionan las suposiciones que respalda la universidad, incluyendo la idea de que el conocimiento sea coherente y unificado y de que exista un conocimiento universalmente verdadero. Estas ideas le dan más importancia a la universidad por su papel en la difusión del conocimiento, creando un ciclo de refuerzo del poder universitario. Eduardo Restrepo llama la atención sobre la fuente de estas ideas occidentales sobre el conocimiento: la colonialidad.

Es decir, la clasificación y valorización del conocimiento tiene sus raíces en la colonización y ha resultado en un mundo académico eurocéntrico. Históricamente ha existido, dentro de las instituciones culturales, una agenda de represión. Joan Ramon Resina comenta: “cultural agents 206

are, therefore, encouraged to repress not only the link between cultural universality and violence but even the historical traces of the latter” (Resina 163). Una institución contemporánea debe, por lo tanto, como eje central deconstruir estas jerarquías de conocimiento y la examinación de la subyugación colonial presente en la historia del mundo hispanohablante.

Por eso, la pregunta central que se debe considerar en relación con el establecimiento de una institución cultural dentro de una universidad es: ¿se puede considerar la suma de los contenidos de una institución como representativa de la población que se propone representar?

Es una pregunta que tiene varios niveles de análisis y en la práctica no hay recursos ni tiempo en un centro cultural para investigarlos todos. Pero si esta pregunta se encuentra en el centro de la organización de los archivos de una institución, dicha institución puede adelantarse continuamente hacia mejores representaciones de la historia y la cultura que celebra. Es una pregunta que promueve investigaciones sobre el legado del colonialismo en las instituciones contemporáneas.

De hecho, es necesario preguntarse sobre la categorización del mismo tema de estudio, según plantea James Fernández cuando señala que: The places assigned to ‘Latin America’ and ‘Spain’ in Hispanic studies are linked in complex ways and are subject to constant shifting. These places are neither natural nor necessary; they cannot be designated as coordinates of latitude and longitude, nor as branches and sub-branches of a genealogical tree (Fernández 136).

Fernández llama la atención al hecho de que los lugares estudiados con el hispanismo no tienen una conexión intrínseca, por eso hay que cuestionar los contenidos del centro cultural.

Es importante reconocer quién está siendo representado en la colección y desde qué punto de vista. No se puede pensar solo en los objetos físicos, sino también en la programación, los conferenciantes invitados y los empleados del centro cultural. ¿Qué historias reciben prioridad? ¿Se está presentando una versión eurocéntrica de la historia? ¿Se le da prioridad a la historia de la asimilación en América Latina? Hay que tratar de recuperar las “luchas que [se] habían sumergido en el olvido” (Restrepo 10).

En un mundo más y más interconectado (algo que transcurrió en parte a través de las universidades), el papel de la universidad no debe ser educar desde un punto de vista de autoridad completa sobre los límites del conocimiento y de la historia. Aunque las universidades fundan centros culturales, en ocasiones, por razones diplomáticas y muchas veces económicas, también existe el imperativo moral de presentar de forma justa a la población que intenta representar. Si un centro cultural intenta ser representativo del mundo hispanohablante, lo más importante es que se aproxime a esa representación de forma crítica.

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Bibliografía Communications, NYU Web. “About NYU”. NYU, New York University. Red. Fernández, James D. “’Longfellow’s Law:” The Place of Latin America and Spain in U.S. Hispanism, circa 1915”. En Kagan. Richard L Spain in America: The Origins of Hispanism in the United States. Illinois: University of Illinois Press, 2002.

Frank, David John y Meyer, John W. “The University as a World Institution”, en The University and The Global Knowledge Society. New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 2020.

Resina, Joan Ramón. “Whose Hispanism? Cultural Trauma, Disciplined Memory, and Symbolic Dominance”. En Moraña, Mabel. Ideologies of Hispanism. Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 2005.

Restrepo, Eduardo “Decolonizar la universidad”. En Barbosa, Jorge Luis y Pereira, Lewis.

Investigación cualitativa emergente: reflexiones y casos. Sincelejo (Colombia): Cecar, 2018.

Schrum, Ethan. “Instruments of Technical Cooperation’: American Universities’ Institution Building Abroad”. En The Instrumental University. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2019.

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Cómo revitalizar una institución cultural bicentenaria Miguel Caballero Vázquez Entrevista con Luis Arroyo, nuevo presidente del Ateneo de Madrid En mayo de 2021, ganó las elecciones a la Junta de Gobierno del Ateneo de Madrid un grupo de personas que se habían hecho socias recientemente con el fin de revitalizar esta institución cultural bicentenaria. El Ateneo nació en 1820, al calor del liberalismo decimonónico. A pesar de sus importantes carencias originales (exclusión de las mujeres, elitismo), fue clave en la creación de una esfera pública democrática en España desde entonces hasta la II República. Sin embargo, en los últimos años el Ateneo ha ocupado una posición secundaria en la vida cultural de la capital y del país. El grupo que recientemente ha asumido su gobierno le diagnosticaba una muerte lenta por irrelevancia si no había un giro radical en su gestión y programación, para volver a convertirlo en cumbre de la excelencia en los debates artísticos, científicos y culturales. Los socios de las candidaturas opuestas, con muchos más años de pertenencia a la institución, acusan a este grupo y a su nueva Junta de Gobierno de retratar injustamente al Ateneo como una institución en decadencia y de querer modificar el reglamento para patrimonializarla.

Esta entrevista con el nuevo presidente del Ateneo, Luis Arroyo, busca aclarar esta situación. Se hace, además, en el contexto de otro aniversario, el del veinticinco cumpleaños del Centro Rey Juan Carlos I de España de la Universidad de Nueva York. El objetivo es indagar en la política de las instituciones culturales para conocer el nuevo proyecto del Ateneo en el momento en que se da su cambio de gobierno y las celebraciones de su segundo centenario, y que esta conversación sirva, por contraste, para reflexionar sobre el aniversario del Centro Rey Juan Carlos I de España. Algunos de los temas que están en debate son el lugar de la sociedad civil organizada en la promoción cultural, la definición de servicio público, la caracterización de la excelencia, y el lugar de la empresa privada en la financiación de las instituciones culturales.

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Caballero Vázquez: En mayo de 2021 se celebraron las elecciones de la Junta de Gobierno del Ateneo de Madrid y ganó el Grupo 1820 que usted encabeza. Usted es sociólogo y se dedica a la comunicación política. Le acompañan personas del mundo de la empresa, de la universidad y de las artes. ¿Cómo se forma este grupo?

Arroyo: Todo empieza en una conversación familiar con mi hijo, que es abogado y economista de 26 años, y mi pareja [Pepita Marín, CEO de We Are Knitters y miembro del Consejo de Administración de PRISA], una empresaria dieciocho años menor que yo y, por lo tanto, cercana en edad a mi hijo. Ambos compartían la insatisfacción por la situación actual de los debates públicos, los cuales están polarizados, simplificados, saturados por las redes sociales que no aclaran nada. En ese contexto proponen la creación de un grupo de debate, y más adelante se nos ocurre la idea del Ateneo. Como me he dedicado a la comunicación política, yo ya conocía esta institución, aunque de paso. La he visitado cuando he acompañado a ministros y presidentes [Arroyo ocupó diferentes puestos en los gabinetes de comunicación de los ministerios del gobierno de España del presidente del Partido Socialista José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero (20042011)]. Así que decidimos visitarla los tres, y nos hicimos socios inmediatamente.

Queríamos reconstruir ese espíritu de debate y comenzamos a llamar a gente de confianza para compartirles la idea y animarlos a que se hicieran socios del Ateneo. Si uno quiere tener un impacto en una institución como esa, la única forma es contar con un volumen de socios importante que respalden el proyecto. Esa posibilidad está en el reglamento, se trata de una casa muy democrática, todo se decide por mayoría. En el grupo inicial estaban, por ejemplo, el diplomático Juanjo Herrera de la Muela, que fue consejero de asuntos culturales del consulado de Nueva York durante varios años. Otro diplomático, Carmelo Angulo. El que fuera Secretario de Estado de Cultura, José María Lasalle. La actual directora del diario El País, Pepa Bueno.

Buscábamos también gente de distintas generaciones, porque cuando llegamos nosotros la media de edad de los miembros del Ateneo era de 70 años.

Caballero Vázquez: ¿Cuáles son las prioridades de su proyecto?

Arroyo: En un principio, nosotros formamos un grupo de doscientas personas, con el objetivo claro de entrar en la organización, que era la forma más efectiva de revitalizar el Ateneo. Somos altruistas, pero no idiotas. Para cambiar las cosas sabíamos que debíamos estar en la Junta de Gobierno. Necesitábamos una masa crítica que ganara las elecciones limpiamente. Claro, la dirección anterior se dio cuenta y reaccionaron con temor. Pero también es verdad que es una institución fascinante y muy democrática, y que nadie nos dijo que no. Lo que sí hicieron fue 210

subir la cuota de inscripción de 60 a 100 euros. Perjudicaron a algunos jóvenes, pero a nosotros no nos afectó demasiado. Cuando ganamos las elecciones, la bajamos a 50 euros. Pepita y yo llegamos hasta esta victoria electoral tras un largo año de trabajo intenso, de muchas horas y algo de dinero. Tenemos la suerte de que nuestras profesiones nos permitieron contar con ese tiempo, y que los medios de comunicación y algunas instituciones se interesaron por nuestro proyecto.

De lo primero que hicimos fue nombrar a un gerente, pues esta institución tiene dos siglos y nunca ha tenido uno. Los empleados estaban locos, no sabían a quién responder. Esta figura del gerente es clave porque maneja el día a día de la institución. Nos llegaron ciento treinta y siete currículums. Entrevistamos a siete, y la plaza fue finalmente para Raúl Asenjo, que venía de ser Asistente de Dirección Artística del Teatro de la Zarzuela.

Caballero Vázquez: ¿Qué diagnóstico hace, pues, de la historia del Ateneo y de su situación actual?

Arroyo: El Ateneo fue la institución cultural más relevante de Madrid y en buena medida de España desde finales del siglo XIX hasta la Guerra Civil. El edificio que hoy ocupamos es de 1885, un momento de esplendor. Nace vinculado al liberalismo, pero al liberalismo clásico decimonónico, no al de hoy, de personajes como Macron o Esperanza Aguirre. Siempre ha habido una preponderancia de lo progresista entendido en un sentido amplio. Era un lugar que practicaba la libertad de creencias, de expresión y de discusión. Y por supuesto era el lugar de la excelencia y de la vanguardia. Yo no puedo compararme con los presidentes del Ateneo de esa época porque eran figuras ilustrísimas e invitaban a conferenciantes de primera categoría. En el Ateneo dieron conferencias Einstein, Marie Curie, la Madre Teresa de Calcuta. Han intervenido todos los presidentes de la República y de los gobiernos democráticos. De hecho, después de la guerra, y, aunque Falange controlaba el Ateneo, la institución siguió manteniendo relativamente viva la llama de cierta pluralidad. Franco la usó para justificarse ante los Estados Unidos desde la evidencia de una asociación que presentaba como libre, aunque esa libertad tuviera muchas limitaciones. Pero sí es verdad que en los años 40-50, para el contexto en que estaba, era una institución que se mantenía viva. También hay sospechas de que pudiera ser un escondite de nazis, aunque eso aún no está confirmado. No obstante, en los últimos años sí que vivía un período de decadencia, y por eso nuestro proyecto es recobrar esa excelencia que lo caracterizó en el pasado.

Caballero Vázquez: Su candidatura y su incipiente gestión han recibido críticas de otros ateneístas que llevaban más tiempo en la institución. Primero, le reprochan la campaña que ha hecho mostrando un Ateneo no democrático, cerrado y decadente, cuando en realidad la victoria de su grupo en las 211

elecciones, dicen, muestra precisamente que el Ateneo sí era una institución abierta, en el que incluso socios recientes pueden llegar a acumular mucha influencia y capacidad de gestión. Segundo, que de alguna manera está intentando patrimonializar el Ateneo, privatizarlo, a través de cambios en el reglamento que harían pasar al Ateneo de un modelo social a uno corporativo. ¿Cómo responde a esas críticas?

Arroyo: Yo trato de ser objetivo. Es cierto que nos encontramos tres crisis al llegar: carencia de socios, quiebra económica y crisis de gobierno. Se demuestra por datos. A principios de los años 80, el Ateneo tenía siete mil socios. Cuando llegamos nosotros hace un par de años, contaba sólo con unos mil ochocientos. Son números objetivos, incuestionables, que hablan de la pérdida de interés y relevancia. Los socios se van muriendo y no se renuevan. Además, de esos mil ochocientos, en las juntas participaban unos quince o veinte. Y, con todo mi respeto para todas las profesiones, no eran precisamente catedráticos, sino gente que llevaba allí muchos años y que había hecho del Ateneo un modus vivendi. Es muy atractivo, porque claro, es un lugar con salas históricas, en el que uno se siente conectado a grandes personalidades del pasado. Ese grupo vio nuestra llegada como una amenaza a su modus vivendi, y es comprensible, yo lo entiendo. Pero es que al Ateneo si no se le da vida, se muere. Ellos presentaron cuatro candidaturas y nosotros presentamos una y ganamos casi por mayoría absoluta.

Con respecto a la crisis económica, el Ateneo tiene una deuda de un millón y medio de euros con la Administración debido a unas obras que se llevaron a cabo hace una década y que no se justificaron correctamente. Ahora estamos negociando esa deuda con el Ministerio de Cultura. Además, tenemos unas pérdidas de entre cien mil y ciento cincuenta mil euros anuales.

Las subvenciones, cuotas y alquileres no dan para cubrir todos los gastos. Con respecto a la crisis de gobierno, nosotros no somos dictadores, pero es verdad que en las juntas cada mes se montan unos buenos follones, gente que arranca el micrófono, que nos insulta. Si hasta la figura del gerente cuestionan. Es lamentable.

La otra crítica es la de privatizar el Ateneo. Lo primero que hay que entender es que el Ateneo es, y ha sido siempre, una sociedad absolutamente privada. Eso quiere decir que, aunque tiene importantes subvenciones y ha sido nombrada bien de interés cultural, pertenece exclusivamente a sus socios y rinde cuentas ante ellos en las juntas que se celebran cada mes. Antes de ser Junta de Gobierno, nosotros fuimos socios dos años y asistimos a las juntas generales. Hay que entender también que este modelo de junta mensual funcionaría bien para la alta burguesía del siglo XIX o para personas más ociosas en la actualidad, pero que es un ritmo que casi nadie puede aguantar hoy en día. Aun así, hay que dejar claro que donde antes eran veinte personas 212

en las reuniones, ahora somos entre ciento veinte y ciento cuarenta, de las cuales ochenta son nuestras y por eso ganamos las votaciones. Si es una dictadura, es una dictadura de la mayoría.

Pero somos muy flexibles a la hora de aplicar el reglamento.

Es cierto, no obstante, que queremos cambiar ciertas reglas. Un proceso de transformación de una institución cultural como ésta es lento. La Junta de Gobierno está formada por once miembros. Se renuevan seis un año y cinco el año siguiente. Ahora mismo el Grupo 1820 tiene seis miembros en la Junta de Gobierno, pero gobernamos junto con otro grupo que tiene cinco.

Esto de los dos grupos está bien como idea, pero es muy inoperante, te instalas en la continua crisis de gobernanza. Por eso quisiéramos una modificación del reglamento para que se eligieran juntas de once miembros con mandatos estables de cuatro años. Con mandatos tan cortos como los de ahora, además, es que nadie se fía de ti para poder pedir dinero, invertir en tu proyecto.

Me parece de sentido común alargar esos mandatos y que sean de grupos de once. La situación de ahora mismo implica estar todo el tiempo de campaña, con gobiernos muy inestables.

Caballero Vázquez: Sí puede verse en los últimos eventos organizados que el Ateneo está abierto a colaborar con empresas como Mahou. Estoy pensando en los eventos de “La caña del Ateneo”. ¿Cómo concibe, entonces, la relación entre el Ateneo y las empresas privadas? ¿Es la promoción de la cultura de empresa algo que también está interesado en promover el Ateneo?

Arroyo: Lo que hace especial al Ateneo es que es una sociedad privada, que pertenece sólo a sus socios. No tiene grandes benefactores corporativos. Es verdad que recibe subvenciones de las instituciones públicas y esto va a seguir siendo así. Pero también es cierto que la mayoría de las grandes instituciones culturales tiene grandes sponsors corporativos, como el Centro Rey Juan Carlos I de España de la Universidad de Nueva York, que tiene a La Caixa [El Centro Rey Juan Carlos I de España tuvo como sponsors fundadores a corporaciones como Caixa d’Estalvis i Pensions de Barcelona, Caja de Ahorros y Monte de Piedad de Madrid, The Coca-Cola Foundation, Fundación Coca-Cola España, Fundación Ramón Areces, Fundación Tabacalera, S.A., Grupo Endesa, Iberdrola, S.A., Morgan Stanley Group, Pfizer Inc, RENFE, y Telefónica de España, S.A., y a donantes individuales como Milton y Carroll Petrie, y el embajador de Estados Unidos en España George Argyros. Tras la fundación del Centro, gracias a estas donaciones, es la Universidad de Nueva York la que cubre la mayoría de los gastos del funcionamiento del Centro.] Nosotros vamos a colaborar con empresas, pero las empresas no van a estar en la Junta de Gobierno. Las decisiones las van a seguir tomando los socios. Ahora, es ridículo que se pueda alquilar una sala a Telefónica para un evento por seis mil euros y sin embargo no podamos hacer 213

un acuerdo con Telefónica para que nos pongan el wifi a cambio de colocar una plaquita en el edificio que señale esta colaboración.

Nunca nos vamos a llamar Ateneo Mahou, pero sí podemos albergar eventos de Mahou como “La caña del Ateneo”. Eso sí, la empresa tiene que informar de a quién invita a esos eventos para que nosotros demos el visto bueno y nos aseguremos de que el evento nos beneficia a ambos, a la institución y a la empresa. Por ejemplo, vamos a colaborar con Mutua Madrileña, que nos va a reparar la biblioteca, porque se encuentra en un estado lamentable. Y vamos a trabajar también con El Corte Inglés, que nos va a proporcionar la decoración de la casa, porque la excelencia hay que cuidarla también en el ambiente. Ya no estamos en el siglo XIX donde los socios eran alto burgueses que pagaban de su bolsillo. Ni vamos a pedir dinero a los alto burgueses de hoy en día.

Pero sí necesitamos patrocinadores para que esos proyectos se lleven a cabo.

Caballero Vázquez: Cuenta el escritor Agustín de Foxá (con cierto espanto, porque no era precisamente un liberal) que en los años 30 se impartían en el Ateneo conferencias sobre vegetarianismo, psicoanálisis o derechos humanos. ¿En qué sentido asumirá ahora las manifestaciones culturales más vanguardistas del momento, como ya hizo en el s. XIX y principios del XX? Es decir, ¿qué lugar les dará, por ejemplo, a las propuestas de cultura feminista, antirracista, el movimiento trans, o el ecologista en su agenda cultural?

Arroyo: El Ateneo tiene que estar a la vanguardia. En los últimos tiempos se hablaba mucho de los muertos y muy poco de los vivos. Es decir, se hacían muchos actos sobre el XIX, sobre Galdós, sobre la República, y todo eso está muy bien porque también es una manera de reivindicar la historia bellísima del Ateneo. Pero, insisto, hay que estar a la vanguardia. Elevar el nivel de la conversación desde la Junta de Gobierno y desde las Secciones. El problema es que nuestro grupo quizás se ha relajado un poco y en las recientes elecciones a Secciones los otros grupos se han organizado mejor y han ganado muchas. Nosotros nos hemos quedado fuera de algunas importantes. La Sección de Literatura tiene que traer a las vanguardias literarias, pero no hemos ganado nosotros esa Sección y, sinceramente, tampoco confío mucho en como ha quedado configurada.

Nuestra propuesta es recuperar el concepto de cátedra de finales del XIX y principios del XX. Traer al Ateneo a diez maestros, diez figuras de vanguardia de cada Sección. Pero no de vanguardia madrileña o española, sino mundial. Por ejemplo, desde la Sección de Arquitectura traer a diez maestros de la arquitectura mundial y que en esa lista haya un equilibrio nortesur, hombres-mujeres, jóvenes-mayores. Ahora mismo estamos trabajando en una Cátedra de 214

Derechos Humanos para traer a diez maestros de ese campo. En el cine, imagino trayendo a Tarantino y Woody Allen, a los directores coreanos que están haciendo un trabajo interesante, a la última directora africana que esté despuntando. Son cátedras caras, pero estamos inventando una fórmula para que los maestros lo tengan fácil para venir. Les damos un período de seis meses para que elijan fecha, los queremos rodear de un grupo de alumnos distinguidos, que se reúnan con autoridades.

Cosas de sentido común. La excelencia es un criterio subjetivo, pero es imprescindible que al Ateneo lleguen los ilustres. La excelencia llamará a la excelencia. Es un proceso lento, claro. Por eso necesitamos también períodos de gobierno más largos. Necesitamos estabilidad de gobierno para recuperar lo excelente.

Caballero Vázquez: ¿Qué lugar imagina para el Ateneo dentro de Madrid, primero de su barrio, el Barrio de las Letras, y segundo en relación a otras instituciones culturales vecinas como el Instituto Cervantes, la Casa de América, La Casa Encendida, El Círculo de Bellas Artes, El Matadero, etc.?

Arroyo: El Ateneo es la representación de la sociedad civil más pura. La Casa Encendida hace un trabajo fenomenal, pero está controlada por una fundación. El Instituto Cervantes pertenece al estado español y no vamos a competir con ellos en impartir clases de español, obviamente. El Círculo de Bellas Artes es probablemente la institución más parecida a nosotros, pero tiene en el patronato a autoridades y corporaciones que sí mandan mucho. Los socios pintan poco en las grandes decisiones. El objetivo es que el Ateneo conserve esa identidad de sociedad civil con la que nació. En el preámbulo de su creación, en 1820, se estipula que el objetivo es proporcionar ilustración de manera altruista a través de las artes, las ciencias y las letras. Era un club de hombres, porque al principio eran todos hombres, que se reunían para cultivar la conversación, la literatura, el debate, el disfrute. Seguía el modelo británico, pero era menos elitista, más plural y más pobre, pero de una belleza espectacular. Gente que se reúne porque sí. Es obvio que luego cada uno tenía su vanidad, pero fundamentalmente venían a reunirse y a ilustrarse. Eso lo tienen La Casa Encendida y El Matadero, pero ambos cuentan detrás con instituciones privadas o públicas. Aquí no, aquí somos socios individuales. El Ateneo es perfectamente compatible con todas estas instituciones y de hecho tenemos relaciones excelentes con todas ellas, sobre todo con el Círculo. Con el Instituto Cervantes menos, pero también. Hace poco me llamó Luis García Montero para ver si podíamos colaborar acogiendo una ceremonia de entrega de premios de derechos humanos, y por supuesto lo hicimos.

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Caballero Vázquez: El Grupo 1820 hace referencia a la fundación del Ateneo en su nombre. ¿Qué rol tendrá la celebración del bicentenario en el nuevo posicionamiento del Ateneo?

Arroyo: Es cierto que el Bicentenario se celebró formalmente en el año 2020. Se constituyó una comisión presidida por uno de los socios más antiguos, el abogado Antonio Garrigues. Pero se hizo casi nada, fue un acto muy deslucido, en el que ni el alcalde de Madrid estuvo presente.

Además, cayó la pandemia, lo que condicionó muchísimo el trabajo. Por eso, nada más llegar nosotros a la Junta de Gobierno hemos solicitado una enmienda a los presupuestos del estado para declarar el bicentenario bien de interés público, lo que implica una desgravación muy importante.

Y lo hemos conseguido. Tenemos buenas relaciones con el ministerio y la enmienda se aprobó por unanimidad.

Además, el estado es generoso con las fechas y nos ha dado tres años. Vamos a celebrar un bicentenario a la altura de lo que el Ateneo se merece. Renovar algunas de las estructuras del edificio para hacerlo más seguro frente a los incendios. Llevaremos a cabo mejoras en el Salón de Actos, redecoraremos La Cacharrería y la Galería de Retratos. Incluiremos retratos de mujeres, porque sólo existía el de Emilia Pardo Bazán. Hace poco incorporamos el de Carmen Laforet, que nos lo ha pagado Acción Cultural Española con motivo del centenario del nacimiento de la escritora. ¿Sabes que Laforet escribió parte de Nada en la biblioteca del Ateneo? Se vienen también los de Clara Campoamor, María Zambrano, Victoria Kent, Carmen Martín Gaite, Carmen de Burgos, Blanca de los Ríos. Y Almudena Grandes, claro. Los camerinos del salón de actos están llenos de muebles. Hay que habilitarlos para que cuando llegue un pianista se sienta cómodo. Son cosas muy obvias, de sentido común. Pero claves para recuperar la excelencia.

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“Orientalism” in the Alhambra:

Examining Western Perceptions of the Alhambra and the Fountain in the Court of the Lions Maya Mau “The Orient was Orientalized not only because it was discovered to be ‘Oriental’ in all the ways considered commonplace by an average nineteenth-century European, but also because it could be—that is, submitted to being—made Oriental.”

Edward Said, Orientalism, 1978.

Introduction Based on its historic relationship to the rest of Europe, one might mistake the famed Alhambra in Granada for being located in the Middle East. When Charles V arrived at the Alhambra in the sixteenth century, he built a palace next door to establish dominance over it, conveying that he was powerful enough to do anything he wished to his surroundings (Brothers 79).

Three centuries later, Washington Irving used the word “Oriental” to mystically refer to the palace’s features, creating an image of the fortress as dilapidated glory, a metaphor for the Muslim presence in Spain (Irving, “The Court of Lions”). Throughout the history of Alhambra scholarship, visitors have emphasized its anomalousness and defined it by its relationship to the West. Lack of scholarship about the Alhambra in Arabic contributes to the cultural biases that permeate the field (Robinson lecture). This prevents the West from understanding the Alhambra as possessing an identity unrelated to its relationship to Christian Europe, thus contorting the Western perception of the Alhambra.

The Alhambra has captured the imagination of Christian European visitors since its creation. It is in a unique position as the biggest Islamic structure in Western Europe, a relic of the Granada which once flourished as a Muslim stronghold on the Iberian peninsula. As such, almost all scholarship on the Alhambra is from the perspective of scholars with a Western educational background. Many researchers have fallen into the trap of letting biases about Islamic culture distort their analyses of the Alhambra’s history, art and poetry. Throughout history, Western visitors have described the Alhambra as a structure to be dominated, exoticized, placed in a European context rather than understood as possessing an independent identity. Therefore— despite the preservation of its design, artwork and poetry—the Alhambra has historically been 217

resigned to an existence of being “Orientalized,” a phenomenon described in Said’s famed Orientalism. The sixteenth and nineteenth century approaches differ, however, in that sixteenth century visitors imposed Western and Christian styles on the Alhambra and its landscape. Later, nineteenth century visitors would choose to emphasize the Alhambra’s decayed grandeur as a sign of a decayed East for the rest of the world to see. The “Orientalist” lens through which visitors have traditionally analyzed the Alhambra has deep roots which continue to skew scholarship in the contemporary era.

“Orientalism” Edward Said’s Orientalism revealed intense biases within Western scholarship of non-Western cultures. In Orientalism, Said details the dynamic between the “Occident” (the West) and the “Orient” (the East). He developed his theories to describe the relationship between Europe and the Middle East, which applies to the Alhambra, as Granada and the Middle East share Islam as their dominant religion.

Orientalism was revolutionary because it forced Western scholars to consider the biased lens through which they and others perceived and interpreted non-Western culture. Said draws distinctions between three different registers of the word “Orient”: the academic field, the style of thought based on East v. West, and the Western style of having authority over “the Orient” (Said, “Introduction”). The first usage describes Eastern Studies in Western universities, encapsulating the study of Islamic art such as the Alhambra. The second use explains that, from the perspective of Western scholarship, the “Orient” is everything that the “Occident” is not.

The romanticization of the Alhambra, as a means of establishing a difference from Western architecture, demonstrates this binary perspective. The last-mentioned employment of “Orient” explains how the West perceives the “Orient” and its history as defined by its submission to the “Occident” (Said 14). As such, Said believes the West conceptualizes everything relating to Eastern culture through an “Orientalist” filter, consciously or not, even though aspects of the East possess identities that can be understood in their own contexts.

Other scholars have noted the effect of “Orientalism” on discussions of the Alhambra, revealing the limitations of the West’s interaction with Muslim Spain. In “Versions and Visions of the Alhambra in the Nineteenth-Century Ottoman World,” McSweeny notes that the Alhambra has been “digested,” “interpreted,” and “displayed” for the purpose of Western entertainment (McSweeny 46). In “Orientalism and Architectural Culture,” Bozdogan discusses how nineteenth century architects drew meticulous sketches of the Alhambra for the purpose of recreating it in the West (Bozdogan 54). For example, a lion court was replicated for the 1900 Paris Exposition (Irwin 175). This reveals a shortcoming in Western thought: Western audiences have been unable 218

to understand Eastern art in the culture in which it was created, instead falsely assuming that it was created to entertain the West. This perspective positions the West as superior to the East.

In Orientalism, Said describes “the web of racism, cultural stereotypes, political imperialism, dehumanizing ideology” which people of Islamic heritage are subjected to if members of Western civilization (Said 25). By virtue of (in the eyes of the West) being relegated to an existence of Western entertainment, the Alhambra has historically received attention from the West through such a lens. This has characterized the way in which the West has documented the Alhambra through artwork and literature, also affecting how the rest of the Western world romanticized the palace and its history. Said’s theories are therefore highly relevant to analyzing the scholarship of the Alhambra.

The Sixteenth Century Approach to the Alhambra The approach of Charles V to Granada and letters from Andrea Navagero, a Venetian ambassador who visited the Alhambra in 1526, show that the “Orientalist” approach to the Alhambra and Granada is deeply ingrained in history. In “The Renaissance Reception of the Alhambra,” Brothers describes the way in which discussions surrounding the Alhambra have been “anchored” by comparisons to Italian and Spanish art since the sixteenth century (Brothers 80). The manner in which Charles V renovated the Alhambra so that he could admire it while satisfying his needs and desires reveals his attitude that the palace existed to please him rather than to serve as a significant relic of Spanish Muslim culture. His grandparents, the Catholic monarchs Ferdinand and Isabella, had lived in the Palace of the Lions (and the Palace of Comares) under the same conditions as the Nasrids had, showing that it was well fit for human habitation (Willmert 157).

However, between 1528 and 1533, Charles V added living spaces to enable access to areas of the Alhambra which he liked the most, especially the Court of Lions. As the centerpiece of the Court of Lions and arguably its most iconic feature, the fountain’s accessibility was facilitated through Charles V’s renovations. Though he did not cause damage in creating access to the Court of Lions, neither did he engage with the artwork (Brothers 84), reflecting an attitude that the art done by Islamic artists should be made accessible to a Catholic monarch, but that such imperialistic leaders are not obligated to understand the art’s cultural roots. The partly Italian Renaissance style in which Charles V decorated his rooms further establishes his imperialist mindset. By altering the Alhambra to suit his needs, Charles V asserted his power over the fountain in the Court of Lions, one of the Alhambra’s most iconic features.

Charles V subsequently built his own palace next to the Alhambra, dominating its landscape and further revealing his intention to alter Granada without care for its cultural background. The palace that he and his wife, Isabella of Portugal, built was done in a classical 219

Greek and Roman style, which was in vogue in Europe at the time (Loukomski 119). The optics of building a Renaissance-style palace next to an Islamic cultural relic speaks for itself; Charles V believed that he was improving, rather than merely appreciating, the Alhambra’s landscape by altering it, leaving his imprint as a Catholic monarch who lauded Greco-Roman style. The palace has received a lot of attention in the context of the Italian Renaissance but less so in relation to Granada (Brothers 80.). This is due to the fact that, from a Western perspective, the palace’s importance comes from the fact that it Westernized the surroundings of the Alhambra.

By building the palace, Charles V left his mark on Granada, literally surrounding Alhambra with European culture (Ripollés 1065). Thus, the act of creating the Alhambra established Charles V’s dominance of the Alhambra, Catholic dominance of Islam, and “Occidental” dominance over the “Orient” (in Said’s terms). The trend of framing Charles V’s palace and the Alhambra in terms of European style and history is consistent with the phenomenon of “Orientalism” that Said described.

Andrea Navagero’s approach to the Alhambra also reveals an imperialist mindset.

Though Brothers describes Navagero’s descriptions of the Alhambra as “factual content” from a “well-educated humanist,” Navagero’s bias still shines through his writing (Brothers 79).

When Navagero looked at and wrote about the Alhambra, he described it in terms of features he knew of from classical literature. These comparisons may well have been valid, but to focus on the resemblance of the Alhambra to European art entails a neglect of its identity as Islamic art. Navagero writes that the Alhambra is only missing “someone to appreciate it, and enjoy it,” revealing his inability to comprehend the Alhambra in the context in which it was created (Brothers 81). When he visited Granada in 1592, there were few changes since the Christian reconquest of 1492, meaning that it is unlikely that the still-numerous Muslim population did not appreciate or enjoy the Alhambra (Brothers 79). It is unclear whether Navagero was referring to appreciation of the Alhambra up-close or from afar, but his statement nevertheless neglects the fact that the Muslim population of Granada still valued the Alhambra. Like Charles V’s “Orientalist” imperialism, Navagero’s writings show how the Alhambra can serve Christian and Western purposes and thus a lack of appreciation for the Alhambra’s Islamic roots.

Together, the treatment of the Alhambra by Charles V and Navagero reveals that they approached the Alhambra with an imperialist frame of mind, considering how best to leave their mark at the expense of, and without particular care for, Nasrid history. In line with ideas from Said’s Orientalism, their interactions with the famed Islamic fortress reveal their perspective that Islamic art is intended to provide entertainment to Catholic spectators rather than exist independently in a Granadan context.

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The Nineteenth Century Approach to the Alhambra Three centuries later, Gerhardt’s paintings of the Alhambra and Irving’s Tales of the Alhambra reveal that the “Orientalist” approach to the Court of Lions continued to prevail in the nineteenth century. Both used depictions to create an image of a fantastical, crumbling palace with remnants of art that was once glorious. Together, they were foundational to nineteenth century Europe’s perception of the Alhambra, as most people never visited Granada.

Gerhardt’s paintings, c. 1861, portray a skewed version of the Court of Lions, using unnatural colors to illuminate the fountain and create an atmosphere of mysticism. Gerhardt drew the Court of Lions both at night and day. In his painting at nighttime, he uses a dark palette along with light colors to illuminate the fountain. In this way, he emphasizes how natural light illuminates the beauty of the Court of Lions (Robinson presentation). This has the effect of romanticizing the Alhambra, framing it as picturesque remains of a once-glorious palace. In his painting of daytime, he uses earthy colors to depict the landscape as disheveled and unkempt (Robinson presentation). However, pictures reveal that in reality the light hits the courtyard evenly. This suggests that Gerhardt intentionally depicted the Alhambra differently from what he saw, seemingly using his artwork to convey the misfortune of the Nasrids.

Irving took a similar approach to the Court of Lions in Tales of the Alhambra, published in 1832. The collection of stories recounts Irving’s interactions with eccentric characters who he encountered when visiting the Alhambra. In his sketch entitled “The Court of Lions,” Irving writes, “Through the ample and fretted arch of the portal I behold the Court of Lions, with brilliant sunshine gleaming along its colonnades and sparkling in its fountains” (Irving). By emphasizing the visual impact of nature, specifically sunshine, on the fountain (and colonnades) in the Court of Lions, Irving uses tools similar to Gerhardt to illuminate specific qualities and create an aura of mysticism. Irving later writes, “It needs but a slight exertion of the fancy to picture some pensive beauty of the harem, loitering in these secluded haunts of Oriental luxury” (Irving). He pointedly uses the word “Oriental” to describe the “luxury” which once prevailed in the Court of Lions, showing his inability to remove his Western-centric perspective from his portrayal.

Many scholars have examined the romanticism with which Irving wrote about the Alhambra and compared it to other “Orientalist” concepts and accounts. In “Orientalizing Southern Europe?” Bolufer describes Tales as an example of representing the relationship between the “Orient” and “Occident” as that between a sensual woman and rational man (Bolufer 463). Thus, through Bolufer’s lens, Irving emphasizes natural illumination and the word “Oriental” to posit the Alhambra as a seductive feminine in contrast to the Christian viewer’s masculine susceptibility. In “Introduction” of The Alhambra, Grabar discusses Irving’s 221

retrospective recounting of the way in which Boabdil, the last Nasrid ruler, dramatically wept as the Catholic monarchs and their entourage entered the Alhambra and gazed at the brilliant inscriptions and painting with awe (Grabar 18). This image of the Alhambra created by Irving and his contemporaries shaped its “Orientalized” image that was developing in the Western Christian world. In “Romance of the Moor” from The Alhambra (2004), Irwin describes the “picturesque” nature of the characters in Irving’s vignettes, saying that this “alerted the English Reading world to the glories of the Alhambra” (Irwin 138, 150). From Irwin’s standpoint, Irving saw the decadence of Spanish Muslim culture as leading to its downfall in a dreamlike fashion.

Irwin noted the tendency of Protestant observers to compare past glories to a run-down present, as Irving did through his writing (Irwin 139-41).

Gerhardt’s and Irving’s approach to the Alhambra involved altering reality to impose a spiritual atmosphere on the Court of Lions through visual and literary depictions. Their projection of preconceived notions and attitudes on the Alhambra shaped the way in which the rest of Europe visualized the Court of Lions, thus perpetuating the “Orientalist” attitude with which the Alhambra was perceived.

Conclusion The sixteenth and nineteenth century approaches are both characterized by Western dominance over the Alhambra and the fountain in the Court of Lions, a phenomenon described in Said’s Orientalism. However, they vary in several ways. The sixteenth century approach is about noninteraction with the palace’s roots and physical alteration. Charles V and Andrea Navagero’s imperialist frames of mind led Charles to leave his mark on its surroundings, imposing the point of view of empire on the Alhambra without care for its contextual importance. The nineteenth century approach, on the other hand, is distinguished by artists’ alteration of the Alhambra and iconic features, such as the fountain in the Court of Lions. Specifically, they used language and visuals to exaggerate the Alhambra’s physical condition and depict Granada’s downfall. This then shaped the Alhambra in the imaginations of other Europeans, who appropriated the Granadan style to develop other designs that served Western interests.

This historic mindset of “Orientalism” continues to pervade the work of scholars in the contemporary era who study the Alhambra, but has the palace been relegated to a mere existence of being exoticized and glorified without being understood, as Said proposed the entire “Orient” has? In the conclusion of The Alhambra, Grabar advances the question as to whether the Alhambra is actually magnificent or if it has merely been over-exoticized in the imaginations of the Christian world due to the tradition of describing it in an “Orientalist” fashion, concluding that both are accurate (Grabar 203).

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Evidently, it is possible to escape the trap of biases into which historic visitors fell. For example, the inscriptions (and translations) give the Alhambra a means of speaking for itself.

These inscriptions come straight from the Muslim scholars who were peripheral to power during the Alhambra’s construction. In “The Court of Lions” in Reading the Alhambra, Puerta provides translations, the type of script and objective information about the courtyard. For example, when he discusses the fountain, Puerta shares factual information such as the number of verses etched onto the fountain’s bowl (12) and the generally agreed-upon author’s intentions (Ibn Zamrak honored Muhammad V) (Puerta 168). By focusing on facts, Puerta does not contribute to the fallacious Western perception of the Alhambra. Additionally, the architectural design provides first-hand insight into the minds of those who commissioned and created the Alhambra. For example, in “The Eye of Sovereignty,” Ruggles describes the way in which the view from the tower across from the Lindaraja garden spacially connected the Court of Lions to Muhammad V’s living quarters. The bowl is carefully placed and carved, its surroundings intricately and symbolically designed to revolve around it. The architecture speaks for itself in revealing that everything was painstakingly placed for the use of the Nasrid rulers who would reside in the palace.

It is the descriptions and analyses of the poetry and artwork that lead Western audiences away from the Alhambra’s Muslim significance. By relying too much on preconceived notions of Granada as a Spanish Muslim regime that fell from grace, scholars have been unable to understand its importance from the point of view of the people who conceived of and created it. With a lack of scholarship in Arabic about it, the Alhambra’s Islamic origins have thus far prevented it from being completely accurately studied in the context of the Granada that it was created in, thus submitting itself to being “Orientalized,” just as Said proposed. However, as scholarship of the Alhambra has evolved towards more self-awareness, the preservation of its text and artwork creates potential for more exploration into what the Alhambra meant, both in the context in which it was created and what it can tell us about the Muslims’ presence in Europe.

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Bibliography Bozdogan, Sibel. “Orientalism and Architectural Culture.” Social Scientist 14, no. 7 (1986): 46–58. Web. Brothers, Cammy. “The Renaissance Reception of the Alhambra: The Letters of Andrea Navagero and the Palace of Charles V.” Muqarnas 11 (1994): 79–102. Web. Grabar, Oleg. The Alhambra. The United States of America: Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data, 1978.

Irving, Washington. “The Court of Lions.” In Tales of the Alhambra. 1832. Reprint, Project Gutenberg, 2015. Web. Irwin, Robert. “The Romance of the Moor.” In The Alhambra, 133–86. Harvard University Press, 2004.

Loukomski, Georges. “The Palace of Charles V at Granada.” The Burlington Magazine for Connoisseurs 84, no. 494 (1944): 119–24. Web. McSweeney, Anna. “Versions and Visions of the Alhambra in the Nineteenth-Century Ottoman World.” West 86th: A Journal of Decorative Arts, Design History, and Material Culture 22, no. 1 (2015): 44–69. Web. Puerta Vílchez, José Miguel. “The Palace of the Lions.” In Reading the Alhambra: A Visual Guide to the Alhambra through Its Inscriptions, First edition., 147–71; 206–35. Granada: The Alhambra and Generalife Trust; EDILUX, 2011. ARTH 1132: FWS: Seeing, Reading, and Writing the Alhambra, Professor Cynthia Robinson, Cornell University.

Handout.

Ripollés, Carmen. “Relocating the Spanish Renaissance: Charles V, the Torre de La Estufa in the Alhambra, and the Islamic Past.” The Electronic Sixteenth Century Journal: The Journal of Early Modern Studies 50, no. 4 (2019): 1063–1100. Web. Robinson, Cynthia. “CORNELL FWS Washington Irving.” Powerpoint Presentation, Cornell University, September 2, 2021.

Robinson, Cynthia. Lecture. ARTH 1132 FWS: Seeing, Reading, and Writing the Alhambra, Cornell University. 18 Nov 2021.

Said, Edward. “Introduction.” In Orientalism. 1978. Reprint, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul Ltd., 2014. Web. Willmert, Todd. “Alhambra Palace Architecture: An Environmental Consideration of Its Inhabitation.” Muqarnas 27 (2010): 157–88.Web.

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Cultural Power and Memorial Art:

Kiluanji Kia Henda’s “Plantation - Prosperity and Nightmare” Yagmur Akyurek In the central downtown area of Ribeira das Naus in Lisbon, Portugal, there stands a public art piece memorializing enslaved persons in Portuguese-colonized lands. The memorial was built with a budget of 180,000 euros and was made to mimic a plantation. The artist behind the piece, Kiluanji Kia Henda, built 540 black aluminum sugar canes, each one three meters high. Between the canes, there are regular intervals for visitors to walk through and in the center is a small amphitheater and meeting ground intended for street shows, music performances, academic dialogues, and theater readings. The memorial, which was erected in 2018, also has an Interpretive Center, used for exhibits, lectures and discussions, with regular programming, and an educational service that includes guided visits.

There are some fundamental questions one must ask when considering the erection of a monument: why was the monument built, by and for whom, where and how to display it, and how does its very existence call into question the tenets of public commemoration? In this case, the memorial was commissioned by the local government of Lisbon. Djass, the Lisbon Association of Afro-descendents, proposed the memorial to the Participatory Budgeting of Lisbon, and it then won the City Hall arts initiative. Is it the government’s place to decide where and when individuals must engage or re-engage with historical legacies? Is a public engagement with these themes more conducive to healing and change than a private one? What is the relationship between institutional power and the construction of public memorials?

Kiluanji Kia Henda’s “Plantation – Prosperity and Nightmare” was the first slavery memorial to be built in Portugal. The Angolan artist says he intends to “address the memory of slavery as the presence of an absence” (Kia Henda). The area in which the memorial stands, apart from being a bustling downtown neighborhood, was identified by historians as a zone where ships docked after having transported enslaved people who had been abducted from Portuguese-occupied African territories. The history of this particular strip of land will go unknown to many, and in this way, the memorial functions as a sort of nonsite, a reckoning displaced, a looming erasure.

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In Portugal, conversations about slavery and cultural recognition of systemic racism are sparse due to the country’s unique form of denial. Beatriz Dias of Djass says: There is an entire fabrication around the discoveries that reify some of the national identity myths. The myth of Luso-tropicalism, that the Portuguese are a people with a natural propensity for miscegenation, a capacity for dialogue and mixing with indigenous populations from occupied African countries, the myth of Portugal’s civilizing mission, that Portugal played a crucial role in the civilization of populations, contributed to them being able to come out of the darkness, the obscurantism they were in and to be enlightened, to rise up to the level of European civilization, fighting primitivism and making those people more technologically developed, more civilized, and, above all else – and I think this is the deepest root of Portuguese denial – the idea that Portuguese colonialism was a benign colonialism, and that, therefore, Portugal was a good colonizer. (Dias) Portuguese cultural institutions, then, no doubt work in actively shaping and disseminating this national denial. How can cultural institutions better shape communal ethos, and how do we see monuments as part of a broader reckoning with how cultural power is acquired?

There is cultural power in the connections between symbols and systems of justice. A continued melding of the institutional, the communal, the symbolic, and the personal undercut official narratives while making room for unacknowledged histories. The memorial as a public art piece, with its disruption of the urban design, presents the space of the monument as divided instead of homogenized, revealing the oppositions in society which institutions work to hide.

It seems, then, that public art memorials open up the landscape for cultural change in broad, compelling ways. Noel Carroll, a philosopher of contemporary art, asks: But if art, properly so called, must be intended primarily to aesthetic experience––experience valued for its own sake and not for social utility––where does that leave memorial art, art dedicated first and foremost to discharging social functions, art that would not succeed on its own terms if indeed it was valuable primarily or exclusively for the intrinsic value of the experience it afforded? (Carroll) I believe that memorial art is a key participant in the continuous reconstruction of our collective future. It reminds present generations of the events and values that created the current social order and honors the people who were victim to state sanctioned violence, colonialism, and slavery.

When building a piece built to ensure meaningful interaction with these ideas of memory, subjugation and historical legacy, an aesthetic connection to the materiality of the piece can only strengthen the relationship between viewer and memorial. In Kiluanji Kia Henda’s memorial, the act of walking between each metal sugar cane and being able to trace its linear layout serves as a blend of simulation and real, bearing sensory witness to notions of memory, slavery, and labor.

The cold, sterile nature of the aluminum elicits the ‘nightmare’ quality of Portugal’s past, while the 226

vertical positioning of the sugar canes points upwards towards a beckoning future. The memorial as an art piece is able to do what most historical structures can not: interrogate what we’ve inherited from the past through physical, visual, and interactive methods.

In section 94 of Minima Moralia, Theodor Adorno writes, “the coming extinction of art is prefigured in the increasing impossibility of representing historical events” (Adorno 143). Perhaps the real question is not how art can represent historical events, but how it can forge new histories.

At its base, art is a force for contemplation. Monuments and statues occupy important capital in a city’s cultural domain though they don’t always serve as sources for such reflection. A purely utilitarian statue of a leader tries––and fails––to represent figuratively the body of the man as a way to reveal the legacy of the man, often offering little outside of simulacrum. Beatriz Dias of Djass speaks to the future of cultural institutions: We want to create a museology community where curatorship of the exhibitions are made in partnership and coordination with associations that are locally based and with the Afro-descendent social movement, in a way that will not only allow us to construct a fluid dialogue with the communities, but also a robust narrative that confronts the national hegemonic narrative, where these communities are always depicted as subaltern in the production of knowledge and we want to dispute this narrative. (Dias) The plural multiplicities of identity and history must be acknowledged in cultural dialogues.

Monuments and memorials may mark places to look and gather, but more importantly they must point to what people must do. Sites of cultural power—like the statue, monument, memorial, public art piece—must enact communal change through public engagement.

Bibliography

Adorno, Theodor W. Minima Moralia: Reflections from Damaged Life. London: Taurus, 1951.

Carroll, Noël. “Art and Recollection.” Journal of Aesthetic Education, vol. 39, no. 2, University of Illinois Press, 2005, 1-12. Web. Navarro Fernandes, Gisele. “In Conversation with Beatriz Dias. Memorial in Lisbon: Recovering History That Was Made Invisible.” Contemporary &. Web. “Slavery Memorial in Lisbon Will Be Completed in the 1st Quarter of 2021.” VerAngola, 9 Nov. 2020. Web.

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Pequeños nativos y bellezas renegridas:

The Museum of the Old Colony de Pablo Delano Nelson Rivera

Cartel para la exposición realizada en el Atrio del King Juan Carlos I en 2017

Excepto la caricatura, todas las fotos que aparecen en este artículo pertenecen a la instalación conceptual de Pablo Delano, The Museum of the Old Colony, como se realizara en el Atrio del King Juan Carlos I Center en NYU en 2017.

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¿A qué temer? ¿A qué se teme? ¿Quiénes son los yanquis para temerles? ¿Por qué temerles?

–Pedro Albizu Campos, 8 de abril de 1950, Cabo Rojo.

TUSA. –Macha Colón

En una caricatura publicada en 1898 en el Cincinnati Post, observamos una fila compuesta por criaturas sub-humanas, entre las que se destaca una que bosteza aparatosamente durante la lectura de un texto titulado “How to Become a Good American”. Este espécimen aparece identificado como “Puerto Rico”. La imagen sintetiza la percepción que de los puertorriqueños se tiene en los Estados Unidos. La imagen también concreta el reto que a partir de 1898 enfrentarán los puertorriqueños, y particularmente los artistas, de crear una autoimagen fidedigna para impugnar las falsificaciones degradantes del colonizador. Ante la imposición de la dictadura colonial, los artistas puertorriqueños responderán con la celebración de su cultura, con una definición propia en oposición a la del colonizador, con la creación de estrategias pictóricas útiles en la lucha por la descolonización.

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Estos creadores post 1898 levantan su trabajo sobre una sólida zapata. La clase artística e intelectual puertorriqueña de entre siglos fue una sumamente culta, con figuras excepcionales tales como Eugenio María de Hostos y Ramón Emeterio Betances, por mencionar tan solo dos intelectuales y activistas de alcance internacional, entre tantos otros. Para el 1898, el arte en Puerto Rico ya había experimentado la presencia de dos grandes maestros sin parangón en el resto de Latinoamérica, José Campeche y Francisco Oller. El primero ya pintaba en San Juan antes de la fundación de los Estados Unidos de América. Al segundo le toca vivir el trauma de la invasión y la subsiguiente imposición de un gobierno militar. Para este momento, sin embargo, Oller era un artista maduro que, además de haber dado la obra fundacional del arte puertorriqueño, El velorio (1893), ya había creado escuela. Por ello, los artistas de las décadas subsiguientes no desarrollarán su obra en un vacío, que no sea aquel de la ausencia de instituciones que apoyen su quehacer.

Para contrarrestar la imagen fabricada por el conquistador estadounidense de la “criatura sub-humana puertorriqueña”, los artistas ofrecieron respuestas de una variada creatividad. Por un lado, una obstinada celebración del paisaje y el paisanaje; por otro lado, un persistente diálogo formal con todas las variantes del arte occidental, en una irrebatible demostración de que el arte puer-

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torriqueño forma parte de esa tradición. Añádase a lo anterior la constante introducción en pinturas y esculturas de figuras y eventos históricos como testimonio de una voluntariosa colectividad que rehúsa anularse. En todas estas manifestaciones plásticas advertimos la misión consciente de negar la imagen colonizadora de una colorida islita tropical poblada por “nativos” salvajes e ignorantes.

Al mismo tiempo, se reitera la necesidad de mirarnos sin las gríngolas impuestas por el invasor. En esas celebraciones de los puertorriqueños que es nuestro arte, se hace obligatorio compartir el espacio crítico, para devolverle a los espectadores la responsabilidad de las imágenes, en un proceso de descolonización del pensamiento.

Una ojeada somera a nuestro arte del siglo veinte revela una postura crítica hacia la existencia de los puertorriqueños, inmersos en un degradante sistema colonial. Menos urgente, sin embargo, es

la mirada hacia el colonizador. Si bien encontramos imágenes en las que aparecen figuras –usualmente monstruosas– de poder estadounidense, el énfasis está puesto en las consecuencias de ese poder sobre los puertorriqueños, no en los poderosos. La diferencia aquí es significativa. Recordemos que en dos de las obras más valiosas de la crítica colonial –Discurso sobre el colonialismo de Aimé Césaire y Retrato del colonizado de Albert Memmi– sus autores inician la discusión con sendos retratos del colonizador, antes de abordar a sus colonizados congéneres. Ambos escritores reconocen que, puesto que es el colonizador quien crea al colonizado, no se puede retratar a éste último sin retratar antes al primero. En el arte puertorriqueño, sin embargo, no son frecuentes estos retratos. La diferencia podría deberse a que tanto Césaire como Memmi dirigen sus obras a lectores mayormente 231

europeos, por lo cual devolverle al colonizador su propia imagen es un proyecto crucial; el arte puertorriqueño, en cambio, está creado para un público mayormente puertorriqueño, por lo cual definir a los congéneres resulta una tarea mucho más urgente que la de ocuparse de los invasores.

Para nuestros artistas, colocar un espejo frente al colonizador para que éste pueda reconocerse, no ha sido una prioridad.

Hasta ahora. La situación es conocida: los “aborígenes nativos” se apropian de la cámara del antropólogo para documentarlo. Es esa la estrategia utilizada por Pablo Delano en su instalación fotográfica The Museum of the Old Colony. En vez de retratar y denunciar al colonizador, el artista se silencia y le cede la palabra al imperialista, para que éste manifieste su racismo, su sexismo y misoginia, en toda su ostentosa arrogancia. Delano se apropia de las fotografías tomadas en Puerto Rico por estadounidenses a principios del siglo veinte y las coloca en su “museo”, para revelar la mentalidad del colonizador tal cual éste la define. Como resultado, en las imágenes presentadas por Delano se cumple la sentencia de Césaire, cuando escribe que la colonización “trabaja para descivilizar al colonizador, para embrutecerlo en el sentido literal de la palabra, para degradarlo, para despertar sus recónditos instintos en pos de la codicia, la violencia, el odio racial, el relativismo moral” (15).

El artista colonial no tiene necesidad de denunciar nada, pues el colonizador, borracho en su prepotencia, a través de sus fotos y textos acusa abiertamente y sin complejos su propia degradación y miseria.

Pablo Delano es un artista nacido, criado y educado en Puerto Rico, y residente en los Estados Unidos. Por décadas ha realizado un trabajo sólidamente plantado en sus raíces puertorriqueñas, cuyo consumo ha sido usualmente estadounidense con poca presencia en la isla.

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El hecho de que su trabajo haya estado dirigido a un público extranjero quizás explica el que, contrario a sus colegas en Puerto Rico, Delano decida volcar su mirada hacia los colonizadores. Como forastero, posee una distancia crítica que le permite observar aquello que para un estadounidense no sería evidente, mucho menos aceptable. Delano se encuentra aquí ante una poco envidiable tarea, la de ventilar los trapos sucios de sus conciudadanos, tan renuentes a aceptar sus miserias, tan dados a

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pensarse como “buenos vecinos” con benévolos designios. Exhumemos aquí las palabras del general Nelson A. Miles, al dirigir la invasión a Puerto Rico en 1898: “Esto no es una guerra de devastación, sino una guerra que proporcionará a todos, con sus fuerzas navales y militares, las ventajas y prosperidad de la esplendorosa civilización”. Para Miles, para el poder estadounidense, la invasión es un “regalo” a los puertorriqueños, por estimarse ellos como “pueblo civilizador”, “dádiva” a la humanidad.

Quitarle la venda a esa deplorable ceguera, mostrarle al emperador que efectivamente anda desnudo, es la faena que Delano se ha impuesto.

The Museum of the Old Colony utiliza una estrategia muy conocida del arte puertorriqueño, aquella manejada por Oller en El velorio, en la que el artista entrega a los espectadores la tarea de ensamblar partes autónomas, en lo que en otras ocasiones hemos llamado una estrategia descolonizadora. Descolonizadora, porque entrega el poder decisional a los espectadores en vez de imponerlo desde afuera; descolonizadora porque estimula a sus espectadores –quienesquiera que éstos sean– a utilizar recursos críticos usualmente adormecidos; descolonizadora, porque aspira a que el mismo opresor reconozca su crimen e inhumanidad, en un proceso no muy distante de las estrategias de lucha de un Gandhi. Como en el caso de Gandhi, este proceso resulta poderoso para el colonizado, quien al reconocer las desgracias e inferioridad moral del colonizador, puede entonces despojarse de 235

su temor a enfrentarlo.

La selección de fotografías que hace Delano para su “museo” muestra la imagen que el hombre blanco construye de aquellos que considera son inferiores y de su propiedad. El retrato que de ellos hace es, inevitablemente, el suyo propio. Estas imágenes son el autorretrato involuntario e inconsciente del opresor, quien en su prepotencia no exhibe pudor alguno al destapar su miseria moral, mostrarse racista, sexista, misógino. Particularmente penosas resultan las imágenes de los niños, a los que el invasor les reserva su más maligna mirada.

A estas imágenes, se le añaden los textos. La presencia de textos escritos ha sido constante

en el arte puertorriqueño. (Casi como si no tuviéramos fe en las imágenes y confiáramos más en la palabra.) De las plegarias de agradecimiento caligrafiadas por Campeche en sus pinturas, a la denuncia del colonialismo por Oller en su retrato de Baldorioty de Castro, a la extensa producción de grabados y portafolios literarios (Lorenzo Homar, Antonio Martorell, Consuelo Gotay), hasta la producción más reciente (Elsa Meléndez, Osvaldo Budet), el arte puertorriqueño ha incorporado el texto en una apuesta a la palabra como instrumento de reafirmación de una historia común. The Museum of the Old Colony de Delano se une a esa tradición, con un nuevo giro: las palabras, al igual 236

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que las imágenes, son las del colonizador. Las mujeres son descritas como “dusky belles” y “muscular half-breeds”; a otros sujetos se les describe con frases tales como “little natives” y “Spanish white trash”. El poder utiliza esas palabras a partir de su prejuicio de que los colonizados, por causa de una supuesta “simpleza” e “insuficiencia” intelectual, no podrán comprenderlas. La instalación de Delano da al traste con tal desvarío, pues transforma las armas del agresor en instrumento de su propia fulminación, para así hacer cumplir el dictum, “odia la opresión, teme al oprimido”.

Las fotos escogidas por el artista para su instalación/ready-made ofrecen también otras revelaciones. Desde los ejemplos iniciales, la violencia aparece como basamento de todo un orden de vida.

Las imágenes de la comunidad puertorriqueña son apuntaladas con aquellas en las que se muestra cómo el ejército y la marina estadounidenses, junto a la policía insular, mantienen a raya a los “nativos”. El paisaje, la educación, los eventos sociales, la existencia toda, quedan bajo el hecho concreto de la represión. No hay estado colonial sin violencia, y en esta instalación la violencia define la vida colonizada de los puertorriqueños, cuyo destino parece ser negarse a sí mismos, para convertirse en servidumbre del conquistador.

The Museum of the Old Colony es un proyecto artístico de investigación histórica que ha estado en desarrollo durante varios años. Cada presentación que Delano hace del mismo cambia, 238

tanto en la selección de imágenes como en su cantidad y ordenación. Se han expuesto dos versiones, en Trinidad y Tobago y en Argentina. La versión que ahora se exhibe en el Centro Rey Juan Carlos I de España, en New York University, prescinde del espacio de la galería de arte para ocupar los pasillos y salas de estudio, como invasión de la cotidianidad de aquellos que utilizan ese espacio. De este modo, Delano nos recuerda que la violencia del coloniaje, el racismo y el sexismo, continuamente nos acompaña. En estos neoliberales tiempos de juntas de control, mantenernos vigilantes y en actitud crítica es la misión de esta pieza, que Delano añade a la preciada tradición de arte anti-colonial puertorriqueño.

Obras citadas: Césaire, Aimé. 2006. Discurso sobre el colonialismo. Madrid: Akal.

Méndez Saavedra, Manuel. 1992. 1898: La Guerra Hispanoamericana en caricaturas. San Juan: Gráfica Metropolitana.

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Publicado en 80grados, 10 de marzo de 2017.

Publicado (en inglés) en el catálogo de la exhibición The Museum of the Old Colony, Hampshire College Art Gallery, 2018.

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Creative Writing and Investigations 242

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Poemas David Rosales Loisaida El Lower East Side, Loisaida, como dicen los neoyorquinos.

Una esquina de San Juan en Nueva York con sus empanadas de carne, de plátano, de hongos importados.

La capital del delicatessen judío, el campeón del bocadillo de pastrami, con pepino encurtido, pan de centeno.

El barrio que huele a la basura de un apartamento abandonado, lleno de hormigas rojas y moscas oportunistas.

Que huele a galleta dulce atrapada en la chaqueta de un adolescente A mí, me gusta el olor, porque cuanto peor huele, más baja la renta.

El vientre de la isla, donde se extienden cuatro avenidas al este se extiende abajo, con las torres plateadas rodeadas por los edificios de ladrillos medio desintegrados.

Donde el hombre mexicano de la bodega sabe todo, A lo mejor te ve, cuando compras un chicle antes de una cita.

A lo peor te ve, cuando solo deseas un chopped cheese a las cuatro de la mañana.

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La orquesta de la ciudad El soundtrack de Nueva York de verdad no incluye a Frank Sinatra ni a Jay-Z Cuando dejas los Airpods en casa te das cuenta que la ciudad canta Con el honk de las bocinas El rumble de los camiones aparcados El beep. beep. beep. del camión de basura.

El wee-oo wee-oo de los bomberos

Los sonidos de la gente suenan como

El cling cling del timbre de la bici

las flautas y trompetas

dándole una advertencia al peatón

“Excuse me sir, could you spare…” dice el vagabundo

Todo en su ritmo irregular a sus horas impredecibles “Bueno, sigo trabajando” Algunos días forman el ritmo perfecto Otros, es una sinfonía del desastre,

dice el constructor con su casco amarillo y los pantalones manchados

de la distracción

“No way cabrón”

de esconder mis orejas en la almohada

dice el puertoriqueño con su cigarro y su Spanglish Los olores entran para completar la estética Como el arte de un álbum La sal del harbor mezcla con el swish de las olas El vino en el restaurante de afuera que pasas en el camino El olorcillo de humo en las calles ocupadas En total forma una orquesta, los semáforos y las leyes son el conductor del gran teatro de la ciudad de Nueva York.

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La especie invasiva ¿La ciudad no tiene naturaleza?

Su base de roca y sus edificios cubren las colinas, la ciénega con plantas acuáticas, ramas, cangrejos azules, ostras, tortugas de Diamondback terrapin, notarías por la forma de diamantes de su caparazón.

La Isla de los Gobernadores, el defensor de la bahía El ojo de aire fresco en una nube de contaminación.

No se dan cuenta que la isla de Manhattan Se formó en cuadras con rascacielos grises precisamente porque era tan perfecta, Como Lycorma delicatula, La mosca azul y roja con puntos, La maté con un squish bajo mi bota, Su sangre como una banana pudriéndose, Porque es una especie invasiva.

Desde que los humanos llegaron a la isla, Las tortugas se fueron a una esquina en Jamaica Las otras especies casi han desaparecido, Eran la comida famosa de Nueva York, ya no comemos ostras del Hudson Los peces tienen plástico en las branquias, metal en el corazón.

No estoy seguro de quién es la especie invasiva.

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Queer Excesses of Professional Wrestling Hazel Bolivar In 1957, Roland Barthes published Mythologies, within which an essay titled “The World of Professional Wrestling” opens by asserting that “the virtue of all-in wrestling is that it is the spectacle of excess” (23). The essay that follows this evocative opening line has served as a foundational text in analyses of the performance of professional wrestling and has directed scholars to grapple critically with the significance and symbolic meanings within the physical grappling of wrestling.

The relationship between the mythic spectacle of ancient theater and the modern-day spectacle of professional wrestling Barthes lays out provides useful insight into the unique intricacies of the performance and business of professional wrestling, and the way a spectator can relate to viewing such a performance. Barthes’ naming this spectacle as “excess,” however, leads me to create a connection between the spectacular performance of professional wrestling and the excessive category of queer, and in doing so I wish to inquire how performance in professional wrestling may generate new possibilities for queer performances and performers.

Contemporary LGBT independent wrestling shows, such as Game Changer Wrestling’s (GCW) event titled “Effy’s Big Gay Brunch,” serve as a solid base to anchor an analysis of these possibilities. Yet, looking to these events I do not strive to uncover in which ways professional wrestling can be made queer by LGBT practitioners. Instead, I find queer potentialities hidden in plain sight within various elements of professional wrestling, from the grandeur of the characters and costumes, to the violent yet carefully intimate movement of bodies, to the new relationships a spectator can have to the brutality in the ring as it reflects the brutality of the world. All of these sites of the excess of the wrestling spectacle offer the potential to be read as sites of queerness that can be mobilized not only for the good of enriching the lives of LGBT wrestlers and wrestling fans, but also for the reimagining of the wrestling ring as a potential battleground for the advocacy of queer life.

The mythic position of the professional wrestler that Barthes explores points to the symbolic position they take, both through their embodiment as a character and their position within the circles they inhabit. On October 10, 2020 at the Marion County Fairgrounds in Indianapolis, GCW hosted the first ever Effy’s Big Gay Brunch, an independent wrestling event made to celebrate and highlight the work of LGBT professional wrestlers. The main event on the match card was a clash between Sonny Kiss, a gender fluid wrestler currently signed to the major promotion All Elite Wrestling (AEW), and Cassandro, perhaps the most well-known exótico wrestler, which can be defined simply as a performer in Mexican lucha libre who wrestles in drag.

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The story behind this matchup is summed up by queer wrestler Billy Dixon while commentating the match when he notes that “Cassandro is wrestling the product of his hard work”; in other words, this match symbolized a meeting between a legendary veteran in the realm of LGBT wrestling history, and a contemporary legend who embodies a carrying of the torch that Cassandro’s career ignited to light up the possibilities for LGBT wrestlers to exist visibly within the ring. A lineage appears, then, as Sonny Kiss energetically makes his way to the ring in glittering pink, feminine ring gear followed by Cassandro, who steps to the ring to Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive,” his arms regally spread apart and dressed also in a glittering pink robe. Confetti surrounds him as Billy Dixon on commentary exclaims “leyenda, leyenda, leyenda.” As fans bow down to Cassandro making his way to the ring, in celebration of the ways in which his career pioneered the widening of queer visibility in wrestling, one element of professional wrestling’s queer excess opens up – the potential for mobility through being a professional wrestler.

Anthropologist Heather Levi focuses her work on the cultural significance and phenomena of lucha libre in Mexico, and in many works within her research explores the unique positioning of the exótico within professional wrestling. To begin to understand the gendered significance of the exótico inhabiting lucha libre, one must recognize the seemingly incommensurable difference between the symbolic position of homosexuality within culture and the representation of machismo in lucha libre. If to embody machismo is to succeed in performing the role of the masculine, and lucha libre, in an oversimplified and not fully accurate definition, serves culturally as a site of competition between men seeking to prove their masculinity at the expense of their opponents, then homosexuality does not fit cleanly into the realm of lucha libre.

This is because, when it comes to the homosexual subject, there is a cultural belief that “the man who allows himself to be penetrated... is guilty of having failed to defend himself, having allowed himself to be exploited” (Levi, World of Lucha Libre 152). In this openness to penetration and thus openness to the feminine, the symbolic homosexual seemingly fails at even qualifying to compete within the ring of lucha libre, yet exóticos like Cassandro “disrupt the identification of gender-crossing with penetrability and submission” (Levi, Fighting Queens 276). As a result of this disruption, “in the arena, the gender work of the joto is transformed into the gender play of the exótico. Like the masks worn by other wrestlers, the exótico’s drag conceals his personal, quotidian identity behind a mythic one” (Levi, Fighting Queens 282). Drag in this realm becomes one of many means of creating a type of character, much like the rudos/heels (bad guys) or técnicos/faces (good guys), yet character building is not the only function that the exótico plays. By carving a space within the machista realm of lucha libre for the symbolics of homosexuality to compete, the 248

exóticos both challenge the assumed powerlessness of homosexuality and femininity against the machismo that punishes them, as well as create new possibilities for LGBT people to move socially.

Given the success of exóticos, such as Cassandro, and of those who followed in his footsteps, including Sonny Kiss, “the exóticos represent lucha as a means of upward mobility for themselves as homosexuals” and as such “lucha libre [offers] a way past the limited options available to them” (Levi, Fighting Queens 281). This new potential for mobility is reminiscent of the work and new possibilities within drag culture, much like Dorian Corey says in Paris is Burning in regard to categories such as ‘executive realness:’ “In real life, you can’t get a job as an executive... [but] in a ballroom, you can be anything you want... you’re showing the straight world that ‘I can be an executive. If I had the opportunity, I could be one because I can look like one.’” I make this analytical connection to drag balls because of the shared capability of LGBT independent wrestling spaces and drag balls to assert the importance and capability of its members. The celebration of Cassandro as he makes his way to the ring as a legend is reminiscent of the legendary status placed onto houses and mothers/fathers within drag spaces, and highlights the world making potentiality within professional wrestling for people of minoritarian subjectivities to advocate for their importance and find a space where their performances are celebrated. Much like those walking in the “executive realness” category, there is a negotiation at play for homosexual subjects to embody the masculinity they are kept out of, yet instead of centering the capability of passing within the realm of masculinity, the exótico chooses to wear a costume that is in excess of masculinity yet still assert their capability to take up space in a machista performance.

Levi points to the agency at play in the performance of the exótico by stating that “they ‘really’ wrestle, and, rejecting the outward signs of manhood, they still claim the power to challenge the masculinity of ‘other’ men. They ‘have pants’, but they opt to wear a dress to the arena” (Fighting Queens 282). With this agency, wearing glitter, and standing as legends within the space they enter, Cassandro and Sonny Kiss are capable of stepping into the squared circle to begin with, yet once they hear the sound of the bell, new forms of queer excess emerge as they compete and move their bodies.

Unlike the competition of a sport such as martial arts, where the object of the match is to test one’s skills against another, the performance of professional wrestling is an intimately collaborative choreography between the participants that has embedded in it an emphasis on care and pleasure. It is often thought within the competition of a wrestling match “between two machos, [that] the winner, in the words of one spectator ‘makes [the loser] his woman’. In this sense, lucha libre provides a spectacular affirmation of the equation between being a man and being on top” 249

(Levi, Fighting Queens 278). This masculine embodiment of “being on top,” is not one that is forced, rather, “in wrestling, a man who is down is exaggeratedly so, and completely fills the eyes of the spectators with the intolerable spectacle of his powerlessness” (Barthes 24). To fulfill this spectacular imperative of professional wrestling, the participants must engage in “selling” the moves of their opponent.

“Selling” is a professional wrestling term for exaggerating the pain that one is in so as to convey the story of the match and to convey to the audience the power of their opponent. Sonny Kiss and Cassandro scream out in pain, wince, and struggle throughout their match, as is customary for a professional wrestling match, and since this is a general practice in professional wrestling, it may seem that no difference is made when Sonny Kiss and Cassandro engage in it, and perhaps there is not, yet there is an intimacy that is made more apparent for me in their choreography of simulated violence. On violence in professional wrestling, Barthes notes that “only the image is involved in the game, and the spectator does not wish for the actual suffering of the contestant; he only enjoys the perfection of an iconography. It is not true that wrestling is a sadistic spectacle: it is only an intelligible spectacle” (27). This creation of the wrestling spectacle is done with special care so as not to inflict permanent corporeal harm, which is an act that can be read within itself as a practice of care between bodies in motion and the pleasure taken in using bodies to create an affective performance for spectators; this performance, then, is one I read as a site of excessive feeling and potential queer practice.

The performance of a match is not only generative through the creation of narrative, but through the intimacy that can be present between the performers as they utilize their bodies skillfully and painfully for the spectators looking on. An analysis of the experience of the body is then necessary to gain further insight into the ways in which the excesses of professional wrestling can open up new possibilities for queer practice, which is where a reading of Amber Jamilla Musser’s work in Sensual Excess: Queer Femininity and Brown Jouissance within the context of the professional wrestling spectacle provides potential avenues to find new meanings within wrestling. Two important frameworks Musser offers that enable alternative understandings of Barthes’ conception of wrestling being a “spectacle of excess” include her focus on deep listening as it relates to the Lacanian psychoanalytic concept of feminine jouissance, as well as her use of Lacan to conceptualize brown jouissance. The psychoanalytic concept of jouissance is utilized in Musser to define different relationships between subjects and objects as they come together. Feminine jouissance is a form of jouissance that Musser defines as a relation that centers “being with the Other, a process that includes dwelling in the opacity of Otherness” (79). The Other (which Musser relates throughout 250

her analysis to motherhood) here stands in contrast to the sovereign subject, and I assert that within the realm of the wrestling match, there is a certain Otherness that can be attributed to an opponent within the ring, when the relationship between opponents is not one based in domination, as is often thought to be the case in readings of lucha libre, but rather of intimacy.

Musser, while analyzing a sex scene within a narrative film between an unwitting mother and a daughter, notes that the scene “does not consist of dialogue until the end, which means that its choreography is one produced through deep listening, which, I argue, is what characterizes this form of feminine jouissance. [The character] gets pleasure from attending to the m/Other’s body and learning its rhythms. She is open to the Other’s alterity” (79). In some ways similar to the performance of sex, the performance of wrestling is one that is in many ways improvisational in terms of which specific moves occur, and the choreography is illegible to the onlookers because of this fluidity of movement during a match. Wrestlers simulate violence in a way that inspires an affective response from their spectators, and there is a sense of pleasure that can be read in this sensual use of bodies towards affective ends.

Returning to the match between Cassandro and Kiss, a move that can serve as an example of this relation is a “suicide dive” that Cassandro performs onto Sonny Kiss. A “suicide dive” is a professional wrestling move that requires the performer of it to run from one end of the ring to the other, and jump through the ropes, diving onto their opponent. The move requires careful coordination between the two wrestlers because the opponent must be in the right place so as to catch the person performing the dive and soften their impact onto the floor. Kiss catching Cassandro can be read plainly as a practical means of keeping both performers safe, yet there is a weight I read into this act given the relation they have to each other.

There is a certain motherhood that Cassandro embodies within his legendary status in the history of the exóticos, similar to the status of a house mother in the drag scene, and this match serving as a celebration of his career and the way in which his work paved the way for wrestlers such as Kiss also point to this mother status. Kiss’s catching of Cassandro, and Cassandro’s ultimately winning the match, can be read as an obligation to an Other, a kinship in the context of the match that challenges a reading of an individualized sovereign subjectivity within the performance. This intimate care is even more imperative given the age of Cassandro, as a commentator during the match read into the pained look on Cassandro’s face while entrapped in Kiss’s hold as “all [of ] the miles Cassandro has traveled, all of the injuries.” There are two facets to the performance of professional wrestling that are opened through Musser’s conception of deep listening: first, the careful and intentional use of a body in order to produce the pleasure of creating a performance 251

that generates feeling for spectators, and second is the intimate consideration for each other’s bodies so as to preserve them and their ability to continue the work of performing. These elements point to an excess of intimacy and of feeling between performers in a wrestling ring, yet this excess can be further analyzed within the context of Kiss and Cassandro’s positionalities as queer of color performers.

In a 2014 article for The New Yorker profiling the career of Cassandro, William Finnegan documents the story of Cassandro entering the business of professional wrestling as a gay man and becoming a legendary exótico. In reflecting on his childhood, Cassandro “remembers being brutally punished, at a very young age, for playing patty-cake, a girl’s game, with a like-minded boy at school. His parents, particularly his father, were mortified by his effeminacy” and as a result, “boys in the neighborhood, including [his] own relatives, used [him] as a sex toy.” This brutal violence and objectification are commonplace within the realm of queer of color life, a life that is demarcated by threats and acts of violence and abjection. Therefore, it may seem strange at first why one who inhabits the realm of “queer” and “of color” would give themselves over to a performance that inflicts pain onto the body and makes on the visual object of violence and harm when the world that they inhabit already push them to brutal margins of exitance.

Musser, in her analysis of feminine jouissance, continues to develop the concept by putting it into conversation with abjection, or of understanding the body as inhabiting a racialized objecthood that denies a body subjectivity. This relationship between feminine jouissance and abjection makes possible an understanding of what Musser calls brown jouissance, which is “about pleasure, abjection, and embracing alterity—either one’s own or that of the Other. When we see the ways that brown jouissance is related to both feminine jouissance and abjection, we see that it can reveal modes of pleasure that can attach to experiencing” (88). Within brown jouissance there is “a space where there is pleasure in embodiment and the radical possibilities that being an object provides” (87). This embracing of abjection and alterity must be understood, however, as being agential in its practice. The performance of professional wrestling has particular possibilities within it for queer of color participants because it can create a new relationship between to existing within a brutal world by having the performance within the ring be one that allows the performer to have agency over the violence they participate in and their use of their body and the care they have for other’s bodies. While describing a match he saw Cassandro compete in, Finnegan recounts that “Cassandro had cracked a rib. But it was such a ridiculously dangerous dive that he could hardly expect to come away from it unhurt. He later admitted as much to me. ‘I just felt like I had to do something special, like I’d let the crowd down.’” Cassandro’s willingness to risk his body for the 252

crowd highlights that though there are new relationships to brutality possible for the performers of professional wrestling, the imperative for the performers is first and foremost for the spectators of the performance.

Brutality in the performance of wrestling is most dramatically on display in a genre of wrestling such as “extreme rules” or “deathmatches” or “lucha extrema,” among other names. What connects these types of matches is the use of weapons, including light tubes, barbed wire, and thumbtacks in order to perform levels of violence that exceed what is typical for a traditional match.

Within the context of Cassandro’s career, Finnegan writes of an experience he had watching a lucha extrema match in Ciudad Juárez, remembering that “after half a dozen matches, broken glass from the light tubes was everywhere, and the blood pouring off the wrestlers was real. It was hard not to see the festivities as a communal exorcism, considering what Juárez has endured in recent years—a scorched-earth street war between rival drug cartels that killed more than nine thousand people in one four-year stretch.” This connection between the brutality of the performance and the brutality that surrounded the geographical location of the match make more apparent the stakes at play in the performances of violence within professional wrestling and make more legible the reasons why performers put their bodies in harm’s way in order to enact these affective spectacles.

The work of the professional wrestler reminds me of the way in which Barthes concludes his essay on professional wrestling by asserting that “in the ring, and even in the depths of their voluntary ignominy, wrestlers remain gods because they are, for a few moments, the key which opens Nature, the pure gesture which separates Good from Evil, and unveils the form of a Justice which is at last intelligible” (32). The justice that is unveiled, however, can be a means of collectively mourning the injustices faced by minoritarian communities by presenting within the ring, at least for a moment, agency over the display of unjust brutality.

Looking more closely to the lucha extrema match in Ciudad Juárez, it is important to consider who the victims of such violence are in order to understand more deeply how it is that the display of brutality in a wrestling match is capable of enacting an exorcism of the pains of such violence. Melissa Wright, in her essay “Necropolitics, Narcopolitics, and Femicide: Gendered Violence on the Mexico-U.S. Border,” puts into context the governmental responses to the murders in Ciudad Juarez, which include a large number of women who are targeted as workers in the public sphere. The brutality of the women killed by femicide is made more painful by the responses of the government and its officials, who rationalize their murders by stating that “girls who live double lives often end up dead; that was a normal chain of events, so the lack of investigations and convictions was not a problem given that there was not anything wrong with the violence” (714).

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Women are blamed for their deaths by the state and considered disposable as a result, a disposability that is often attached to womanhood, queerness, blackness, and minoritarian identity in general terms. Professional wrestling, through the exorcism Finnegan describes, has the potential to soften if only for a moment an audience’s relationship to brutality by intentionally inhabiting a performance of brutality with all of the agency afforded to the performers by being on a stage and embodying within themselves both the excessive legendary characters they play, and the abjected target of brutality they intimately understand. Within this agency is also the capability to present within the wrestling ring, a space where the exótico can “appropriate and undermine the manhood of their opponents. They defend themselves, the one thing of which maricones are, by definition, thought to be incapable” (Levi, World of Lucha Libre 157). Through these performances it is possible for homosexual or feminine performers to gain power and agency through their performances that allow them to creatively utilize the same machismo that brutalizes them to negotiate new relationships to the brutality they are subjected to, not only for themselves, but for the audiences who come to witness the spectacle of excess.

As is true with various mediums of performance, professional wrestling has the capability to be utilized by queer performers as a means of advocating for themselves and their power.

Wrestling, however, has within its excessive nature many possibilities for queer embodiments and performance. Through the agential possibilities of creating new communities and legends within the space of independent wrestling promotions, the physically intimate embodiments that are at play and the relationship between spectacle and audience, the queer potentialities that surround professional wrestling offer an unconventional means for minoritarian subjects to engage in a practice that offers alternative means of mobility where often few are present. I know that for myself as a queer wrestling fan, my viewing of professional wrestling in all of its excess offered for me new ways to imagine myself as powerful, even when the performers where not necessarily queer in identity. I remember when I was a child dressing up as the professional wrestler The Undertaker for Halloween, with a long wig and black trench coat. Perhaps in looking back at pictures of myself in that costume, I can recognize that though I would be almost a decade away from coming into my queer identity, my love for wrestling offered me a means of understanding the power of performance and of world building. I hope then, as LGBT independent wrestling promotions grow, and more queer performers enter major promotions, such as Sonny Kiss, more queer people will find a love for the excesses of professional wrestling, and perhaps even see within its excess a celebration of their own queerness.

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Bibliography Barthes, Roland. “The World of Wrestling.” Steel Chair to the Head: The Pleasure and Pain of Professional Wrestling, by Nicholas Sammond, Duke University Press, 2005.

Project MUSE. Web. “Effy’s Big Gay Brunch.” FITE, Flipps Media Inc., 10 Oct. 2020.

“Effy’s Big Gay Brunch 2.” FITE, Flipps Media Inc., 10 Apr. 2021.

Finnegan, William. “The Man Without a Mask How the Drag Queen Cassandro Became a Star of Mexican Wrestling.” The New Yorker, 1 Sept. 2014.

Levi, Heather. “A Struggle Between Two Strong Men?” The World of Lucha Libre: Secrets, Revelations, and Mexican National Identity, by Heather Levi, Duke University Press, 2009.

—. “Lean Mean Fighting Queens: Drag in the World of Mexican Professional Wrestling.”

Sexualities, vol. 1, no. 3, 1998, 275–285.

Musser, Amber Jamilla. Sensual Excess: Queer Femininity and Brown Jouissance. New York: New York University Press, 2018.

Paris Is Burning. Dir. Jennie Livingston. The Criterion Collection, 1990. Web. Wright, Melissa W. “Necropolitics, Narcopolitics, and Femicide: Gendered Violence on the Mexico-U.S. Border.” Signs, vol. 36, no. 3, 2011, 707–731. JSTOR. Web.

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Nevvie J.D.

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There’s a spiny pink seashell on the windowsill that emits the caressing calm of the sea when you press it close to your ear. It’s the loveliest little shell, and that’s why I put it on my windowsill and didn’t let it get tossed into the pile of rocks and shells that we’ve collected over time. Mother used to love collecting rocks and shells, and she always used to tell us that we should spend our time at the beach finding keepsakes and collecting memories instead of swimming. I think that she was often worried about us swimming ever since the Incident. She used to worry about us sometimes! And Father does now, too. But at least he doesn’t let his worry keep us from going into the sea when the opportunity presents itself on lazy summer days when the air is humid and tense, and there’s the feeling of work to be done before fall kicks in and no time to do it.

Next to the seashell, there’s a joint figurine of the Three Kings clutching their presents in their arms, their thin bodies cloaked in traditional dress. They stand sort of hunched over, as though they’re looking down to an imaginary baby Christ laying beside the Virgin Mary in the manger.

I always thought they looked rather forlorn for a trio of people looking at our Savior. But I don’t know too much about it, because Father never wanted us to look into religion too much anyhow.

Behind the Kings, I keep a little pendant with the letter “N” on it. I would never let Mother see because I know it would have made her depressed and anxious all over again. There’s no string in the pendant, I never got the chance to add one. I made it myself, can you believe that? Charlie is always saying I should delve more into the world of art and creativity because science isn’t for girls, but I get so tired of all these friendship bracelet packets when I don’t have anyone to make anything for. But I made the little pendant as a little birthday present, and I added a little letter “N” so that it would be personal.

Mother sold our beach house last year. A lovely, quaint beach house situated somewhere on the East Coast. I don’t imagine us going back to that beach again, even though Father complains that the only place he’s ever felt untroubled is sitting on the porch of our old house. When he said that, I thought for sure that Mother would make her typical disapproving face—it’s the one she makes whenever Father says something that contradicts a decision of hers—but she just smiled sadly and agreed that it had been one of her favorite places in the world as well. She brought me to help her close up the house and gather all our things. Father’s always working on something or other, and it involves a lot of yelling over the phone. I can’t remember where Charlie was that day, but he must have been somewhere because Mother never liked to hire a babysitter unless the person was known by the family very well—I guess she wouldn’t want to take any more chances like last time. I am glad I got to see the house once before we left forever and left our set of keys under the mat by the front door.

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We all had our own rooms in our old beach house—three stories, more spacious than you could imagine. When we arrived after the long drive, I wasted no time and marched straight up the staircase to my room, the first door to the left with a heavily bejeweled door that spelled out my name in sticky white gems. The inside of my room was the same as it always had been, except I suppose some dust had begun to settle down on different pieces of furniture. My duvet was a bright, shimmery pink even though I told Father I’d wanted a pale green, like the green that the walls in my room back in the city are painted.

I didn’t want much from the room, to be honest. It was all pink and frilly, and there were little games for little girls and an assortment of pink tutus and pink tiaras and pink slippers with pink unicorns dancing on their sides. There was always a fuss about pink, and Charlie says that pink is what my favorite color should be, but I don’t really understand why my favorite color should be anything. I don’t think I really have a favorite color, anyhow. It seems odd, but choosing a favorite of anything is always a troublesome subject for me, and even with colors I can’t make a firm decision between blue or green. But those are boys’ colors, Charlie protests whenever the subject comes up.

He seems to think a lot about colors, and a lot about a good many other things as well. But I don’t blame him for placing my choices under his observant eyes, because every now and then I would catch him sitting on the pink bedspread under the pink canopy in my old room at our old beach house. Sometimes he looked like he wanted to say something to me about it, back when we used to sit together in the pink armchair next to the pink lava lamp. I think he must have known that I’d seen him in my room and he wanted to explain himself. But he never did say anything. Perhaps one day he will.

All I really wanted from my old room was to get the little brown box from under my bed.

This box had acquired a very tall layer of dust by the time we arrived. Mother bought it for me at a fair a few years ago, one of those school fairs where they have activities like painting boxes.

I thanked her for the box, thanked her many times over since I know that Father believes that showing gratitude is the correct thing to do, but I never did paint it. I saw the other children sitting at the table making messes with paint and stickers and those plastic, sticky jewels that you can put on things—I saw this and I knew I just didn’t want to have a box that looked all messy and disorganized. Charlie didn’t get a box because Father says that painting isn’t anything for a boy to get into unless it’s a hobby or a side project. Father never has time to paint, and I wonder if maybe he’s jealous that Charlie had a chance to.

There wasn’t all that much in the box, just a few things that I would prefer not to have displayed on the windowsill in my room back home. There was a beautiful little magnet of a 258

mermaid, closing her eyes and listening to the waves rippling out in the sea (or at least that’s what I thought she was doing, I’m sure Charlie would have had a different opinion). There was a red golfball from the time we played mini-golf as a family for Charlie’s birthday a few years ago. It rolled away from the course and I picked it up and hid it in my pocket and pretended to have lost it. I wanted to keep it, keep it like Mother kept rocks and shells. There was this quartz stone that Father says helps headaches if you put it on your forehead and lay down on your back. There was a little butterfly hair clip that I found when I went diving in the ocean, and it has precious gems embedded in it. I’ve never and never will wear it in my hair—it never seemed right to do so before, and it’s impossible to do so now. But it was a wonderful little thing to look at.

And then there’s the letter. The letter “N” from our Christmas collection. We keep a letter for everyone in the family, and they all fit in this giant sleigh ornament. The letters are made out of the same material that wine corks are made out of, I think—at least, they feel like the same material.

Father has a collection of wine corks in a drawer in the kitchen, the one next to all the sharp and dangerous knives, and when he isn’t home I like to look at all of them and look at their faded labels.

Some have names of wine companies, others are just numbers or years, and others have pictures of grapes or other wine-related things on them. I don’t know what makes them so collectible, but Father likes to place greater sentimental value to inanimate objects now, I suppose.

I made sure to inspect all my irreplaceable items before putting them back in the brown box and shoving the box into my backpack in the hallway while Mother was gathering things from other rooms. She always takes a while packing, and Father always makes it a big joke, but I don’t mind waiting because Father says that patience is a good way to discipline oneself. So I sat in the miniature rocking chair in the living room and waited. There were some nice board-games on top of a bookshelf, but none that I ever enjoyed playing as a family. Father always gets upset when he loses, and Mother never understood the point of the games and made jokes about how ridiculous the idea of playing games is. I stared at the board-games that we rarely ever played and wondered if the new owners would use them when they settled down in our home like the dust in my room. I wonder if they would end up selling the house, too, if some sort of curse will start to follow the house. I like to think that I know all about curses because I’ve read about them in the chapter books that Mother brought home for me when she used to stop by the library after a long day of work. She always encouraged us to read, but Charlie doesn’t like it. He didn’t like the books that Mother brought home for him and so she stopped bringing them for him.

Mother came down the stairs later that afternoon with a lot of rouge dabbed on her cheeks.

Her face looked painted over, resembling a perfect little pink doll—or at least, that’s what I thought 259

when I saw her coming down the stairs. She was carrying some clothes in her arms and her legs were all wobbly. Father says that it’s impolite not to help someone when their body has turned unstable, especially a lady, but I didn’t run to help Mother because I felt as though I was in some sort of trance. She walked over to the dining room table and I finally decided to stand up and accompany her in case she was still feeling wobbly. She didn’t say anything to me, but she began to tremble slightly and I remember the sight of her bottom lip quivering. The rest of her face remained placid and calm, caked in a protective layer of porcelain makeup. Without saying a word, she handed me some of the clothing in her arms and I started to fold it. Father taught me how to fold and said that every good girl must learn the skill at some point in time if she wants to be respectable. Charlie always asks me to fold for him when we go on trips because he never learned how. I don’t mind, I actually think it’s quite fun. It’s just a repetitive hand motion that doesn’t take much thought, and if I’m sly about it I can do it while watching TV, although Father would never let that happen if I did it when he was home. I think he doesn’t believe in multitasking.

All the clothing was a gentle purple color, a lilac or lavender shade, I couldn’t tell the difference. There was a dress in my pile that I used to wear to sleep before I grew too old for it, and there was a small hat that would fit the head of a small child. I watched Mother’s face carefully, inspecting it for wrinkles or creases as my hands methodically moved over her violet trinkets of the past. She didn’t make a sound, nor did her expression change. Her lip ceased quivering and she bent over her own pile of clothing, while her hands were folding the cloth just like mine were.

I’ve never painted my face with her makeup, but I know other children at my school who drown themselves in their mother’s cosmetics. They come with their puckered red lips and their outrageously shaded eyebrows and the boys all say how silly they look. Charlie asks me all the time why I’ve never attempted to plaster my face with Mother’s eyeshadow and lipsticks and eyeliner. He asks me so often I sometimes wonder if he’s actually asking me if I could put makeup on, and learn how to do it and do it often. But it doesn’t interest me in the least.

Mother took my pile of folded purple clothes and placed it on top of hers. She began to watch me as well, I seem to recall, looking at my face like I was looking at hers. Then, just before she reached for my hand to walk back out to the car and drive away forever, she stared right down into my brown eyes and whispered tenderly: “You are my little angel, you know that? My little angel.”

I didn’t look around the house one last time before we left that day, but I did ask Mother why she didn’t take any of her bottles of shells from the house. She didn’t answer. I stopped watching her then, it seemed rude to stare, as though I was intruding on her own personal 260

monologue. She locked the front door and put the keys under the mat, and walked me over to our black car (“Black’s the only practical color,” is what Father says). I knew it would be a long drive home, and I hadn’t brought a book or anything but I didn’t want to find myself waking up when the city lights poked holes through my windows and found the light-sensitive spots in my eyes. Mother didn’t want to listen to music—she never wanted to listen to anything on the radio, so we both sat quietly in the car. I wondered if this would be my car when I grew up, or if it would be Charlie’s, or if we would have to share it. I wanted to ask Mother if we could go to the beach before leaving, but she looked so much like an ancient China doll that I refrained from doing so.

She stopped the car on the side of an abandoned road and told me she had to run off and do something, and that she would be right back. I noticed that she was clutching the little lilac or lavender hat in one of her hands. She cracked open the window on my side and left me the car keys in case I got hot, but she told me very strictly not to wander into the road or do anything foolish.

She kissed me on the forehead and waved a hurried goodbye in my direction before running down the road. She disappeared from my sight in what seemed to be seconds.

I realized that she’d been wearing so much lipstick that there was a vibrant imprint of her lips on my forehead. I tried to rub it off with my sweatshirt, but the lipstick only smudged on my forehead and ended up leaving a mark on my sleeve. I slowly pulled the brown box out of my backpack, which lay humbly at my feet, and I retrieved the letter “N.” It felt smooth in my hands, and I let my fingers run over it. Charlie says I should paint my fingernails more often, but I’m only good at painting my left hand and I don’t like it when my right hand is a sloppy, unkempt mess.

I snapped “N” in half without thinking, and immediately was overcome with a crippling remorse. I shoved the pieces back inside my brown box and rapidly buried it in the bottom of my bag.

It was a very abandoned road, indeed, and I don’t think anyone drove or walked or ran past me the whole time I was sitting there. Father was furious when I finally got home, the kind of furious that gets very frightening because he turns very silent. Mother used to call that “internalizing,” and she said that it was just something that happened to everybody and that I shouldn’t think about it too much. Father didn’t say a word to me that entire evening, and Charlie seemed too confused and afraid to ask me any sort of question. He did sleep in my bed that night, though, and he ended up asking me with his impertinent, nasal voice: “But why didn’t you do anything?”

He never asked me that again after that night, and I don’t let my mind dwell on those inconsiderate words of his that often. When I think about our last day with the house, I like to 261

think more on images and actions. There’s this beautiful image I have of Mother running all the way down to the beach and slipping her shoes off, leaving them on the sand. As I go to sleep every night now, I watch her hesitate for a simple but profound moment before wading into the cold water and letting her body get used to the temperature. I can see her swimming out, far out, still clinging to the violet hat in her hand. I can see her head disappearing under the water, just like a mermaid’s would. I can see her head bobbing back up to the surface and looking towards the shore, her makeup now gone and poisoning the animals that swim past her decaying soul. But I’m afraid that I can’t see her sinking down again—the last thing I can picture is her shivering face looking towards the shore.

I suppose it must have been very difficult for her. I suppose that every night she was waking up in cold sweats; “Nevvie” whispered in her ears like an unstoppable, tormenting lullaby. I know this must have been what she was thinking of as the nights plunged forward, I know because “Nevvie” has been whispered into my ear, too—I assume it is some ghost or omniscient power. I believe that it must have come from my spiny pink seashell, the one on my windowsill that I picked up from the shore without having to look very hard for it on the day when I broke Mother’s specific instructions to stay in the car. It had been hours since she’d disappeared into the mist, swimming away to that rock that little Nevvie had had a goal of reaching, and I did so want to visit the beach once more. I still wonder why Mother decided not to take me with her, seeing as we both had the same destination in mind. Because, you see, I too wanted to sink beneath the chilly water just like a mermaid, but children are never allowed to go as far as they want with any activity or project, and someone prevented me from reaching the finish line just like they always do.

But I did get to keep my angelic little seashell, and I held it in my delicate fingers as the car with the flashing lights drove me back home to the city. And when I got my bag back, the one I had left in the car, I threw out the entire brown box immediately. I couldn’t seem to look at any of my old things, especially not my “N.” Some things just aren’t meant to be held onto forever, even if they make it their business to stay in your mind until the end of time, whenever that may be.

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En la esquina Lourdes Dávila A Mami Ya la había visto antes de que bajara la ventanilla por primera vez. Pasaba casi todos los días por la esquina, casi siempre sola, casi siempre bien vestida, casi siempre muy concentrada en guiar el carro, ensimismada en sus asuntos como todos los que negaban mi existencia, con un ensimismamiento falso de clase media atendiendo a lo suyo. Tenía esa edad indefinible entre los sesenta y los setenta y cinco y la soledad tardía de quien ha criado a muchos hijos que se han ido yendo con el tiempo. Debía ser bastante miope, porque llevaba espejuelos con lentes muy gruesos. Pero era bonita. Había algo en ella que, tras la cortina social impuesta, delataba tardes de relajamiento frente al mar, mañanas de café y periódico, intensas pasiones (legales), cariños profundos, risas y curiosidad compartidas con sus seres queridos. Algo en ella que parecía haber conquistado la casi imposible libertad de quien siguió siempre las reglas y un día cualquiera, sin darse cuenta (quién sabe, quizá sí se dio cuenta) descubrió el espacio entre regla y regla y lo atravesó para quedarse allí, imperceptible ante los demás. O quizá todo esto me lo invento hoy, ahora que escribo mientras escucho en la cama de hospital el adagio de violín de Samuel Barber, y la tristeza y la melancolía me la trae aquí, donde estoy irremediablemente solo en mi último viaje.

La había visto no verme, no vernos, es decir, que sabía que ya me había visto a mí, a mi esposa y a mis dos niños. Pero yo creo que al principio no quería verme. Yo por mi parte la negaba (imposible decir cuánto puede negarse a alguien en quien comienza a pensarse todo el tiempo), igual que a todos los otros que pasaban sin vernos, que nos convertían en monstruosidad al voltear la cara si nos fijábamos en ellos. ¿Y por qué no? Yo era definitivamente lo otro, el fracaso social, la enfermedad culpable de fin de siglo, el reverso de su vida perfecta, planchada y sin problemas. Ellos eran Alturas del Remanso, trabajos seguros, hijos responsables, cuenta de ahorros, inversiones, iglesia los domingos. Y aunque ahora escribo por ella, para ella, aunque ahora escribo porque tengo algo que decirle y no puedo irme sin decírselo, sé que al principio la odié secretamente como odié al resto: ellos eran los privilegiados, los que podían asumir indiferencia ante el dolor ajeno, dejándose llevar en el ir y venir constante del implacable tráfico de sus vidas. Ellos: injuriosa y nauseabunda repetición de una familia que me había abandonado en aquella esquina.

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Pero sin aquella esquina, sin todo lo que significaba aquella esquina, no la habría conocido, no la habría espiado en la luz mientras pasaba con mi lata de cambio y usaba a mi mujer y a mis niños para protegerme de mi vergüenza y manipular sentimientos. Una esquina es como cualquiera otra (lo sabré yo que jugué con tantas otras antes de terminar en aquella), pero esa peligrosa esquina marcaba el término entre la seguridad cerrada de la urbanización y la apertura vertiginosa de la avenida. Yo sabía que ese mínimo espacio –ese enlace entre el resguardo propio y la selva donde confluían el tránsito de la urbanización, el colmado, el mall, los cines, la panadería y demás– conjugaba la posibilidad momentánea de la pena. Ese no espacio había llegado a ser yo. Yo era el muchacho de la esquina. Ya no era David, hijo de una familia con dinero que alguna vez tuvo una vida perfecta, planchada y sin problemas, trabajos seguros, hijos responsables, cuenta de ahorros, inversiones, iglesia los domingos.

Y ella, ella solo era una mujer más que salía de su casa, una mujer más que iba de camino, que pasaba por la esquina y me veía sin querer verme, hasta que un día ya no pudo más y abrió la ventana. Yo por mi parte había perdido mi apuesta con mi esposa; una mujer sola en Puerto Rico, de unos setenta años, no le iba a abrir nunca la ventana a un muchacho con SIDA. Después de todo, podemos hacer cualquier cosa los drogadictos, ¿no? Quién sabe por qué se decidió ese día, quizá vio algo en televisión, quizá leyó algo en el periódico sobre alguna catástrofe, quizá leyó un libro muy triste o un libro muy alegre, quizá olvidó comerse su avena por la mañana y tenía un poco de hambre y de sueño, quizá pretendió reparar en ese momento algún recuerdo privado del pasado. O alguna carencia del presente. De qué vale especular. Ella abrió la ventana, me dio unos chavos, me pidió que me cuidara. Y quizá su voz, quizá simplemente el hecho de que hablara, de que me otorgara presencia con su voz, calmó de repente en mí años de odio y de cinismo. En ese momento, ante la necesidad de dinero y de dulzura, supe que algún día echaría al piso para siempre mi muralla.

No sé tampoco en qué momento ocurrió la inversión, no sé en qué momento fui yo el que empecé a preocuparme por ella, ahora que siempre bajaba la ventana al verme, ahora que siempre tenía preparado el dinero para darme, ahora que me preguntaba por mis síntomas, que me observaba perder peso, que era mi mejor y mi peor testigo. No sé cuándo pero le pedí también a ella que se cuidara, que no le abriera la ventana a nadie, que asegurara el pestillo de la puerta antes de salir de su casa. Pero mucho antes de que me ausentara por un tiempo de la esquina ya había comenzado a quererla, a imaginarla en su casa, en la soledad de sus días y tardes interrumpidas por algún viaje necesario o innecesario a alguna parte.

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Sé que cuando por fin regresé a la esquina, ya sin mujer (la muerte) ni hijos (el hurto familiar), era como si ella me hubiera estado esperando siempre, y qué maravillosa su sonrisa, ese día cuando abrió la ventana antes de lo usual (se veía que ella no cabía en sí de tanto esperar) para decirme que me había extrañado, preguntarme cómo estaba, y cómo de repente no me importaba ser sólo el muchacho de la esquina, porque ella estaba allí para nombrarme, para acariciarme con sus palabras. Sé que le expliqué lo del carposi, sé también que no tenía que explicarle nada porque las llagas eran dolorosamente visibles en mi frente y en la comisura de mis labios. Sé que comenzó a comprarme néctares porque se me hacía difícil beber, y los néctares no eran agrios, sé también que el primer día compartió lo que se había comprado para ella, pero ya después comenzó a comprarme cosas solamente para mí, pan sobao fresco de la otra esquina, jugos. Sé que comencé a coger la guagua más temprano, sé que ahora mi vida se iba en ese mínimo momento compartido en la esquina. Sé que un día le expliqué que me faltaban veinte pesos para un antibiótico que podía comprarme en la farmacia y ella sin más sacó los chavos como si le hubiera pedido un níquel, y esa noche en mi catre me lo tomé y lloré mucho mientras pensaba en ella.

Sé que un día en la guagua la vi montarse y me sorprendí mucho, después de todo ella era clase media (alta), carro automático con aire, pelo arreglado cada semana en el Beauty Parlor, uñas limadas y pintadas, zapatos de cuero, ropa elegante. Yo estaba sentado atrás, levanté los ojos porque la guagua parecía haberse detenido, y era porque ella estaba allí, una mujer no acostumbrada a coger guagua, forcejeando con su cartera y su monedero, buscando el cambio.

Impresionante cámara lenta donde ella se revelaba fuera de su medio, incómoda y nerviosa, sudada de pies a cabeza, como pidiendo un milagro. Me levanté con trabajo, la saludé y le pregunté si necesitaba algo, si podía completarle el cambio, pero después de un tiempo que a ambos nos pareció eterno, y mientras yo extendía mi mano con cambio suficiente para coger un taxi, ella encontró lo que le faltaba y me pidió que guardara mi dinero. Nos sentamos juntos, me bajé en la esquina, y la vi alejarse para siempre.

Sé que todavía pasará todos los días por la esquina. Sé que quizá algunos días se sentirá muy sola, que algunos días su familia irá a visitarla, a la hora del almuerzo, para irse después corriendo a su casa. Sé que de cuando en cuando se preguntará dónde estoy. Sé que nunca le agradecí del todo lo que hizo por mí. Pero lo que no sé es si ella sabe, supo, de alguna manera, que la quise mucho, que me fui orgulloso de que me considerara su amigo, de ser, para siempre, su muchacho de la esquina. Era eso lo que tenía que decirle: David la quiere y se acordará siempre de usted, le agradece el amor y la alegría con que sembró el espacio mínimo de su última esquina.

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Haitiana Angerville Bam-bo-le-an-te Chito, chito arriba la vid. ¡Oh! Bam-bo-le-an-te del vino.

A. dio a luz aunque nunca conoció el amor, embarazada como objeto de la lujuria, pobre hija ahorita pobre mamita.

Chito, chito arriba la vid. ¡Oh! Bam-bo-le-an-te del vino.

E. esconde sus ojos en el parque, mirando los árboles al lado de los niños, durmiendo debajo del tobogán nunca jamás será libre.

Chito, chito arriba la vid. ¡Oh! Bam-bo-le-an-te del vino.

I. dejó la escuela por deglutir unas pastillas, por repetir el mismo error de decir cuánto le gustaría sufrir.

Chito, chito arriba la vid. ¡Oh! Bam-bo-le-an-te del vino.

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O. fue despedido por robarle a los ricos, por trabajar duro hacia la depresión, condenando su propio espíritu al infierno.

Chito, chito arriba la vid. ¡Oh! Bam-bo-le-an-te del vino.

U. perdió la consciencia suya, antes de perder la vida suya, y el nombre y la memoria suyos, y el miedo de su propio bu.

Chito, chito arriba la vid. ¡Oh! Bam-bo-le-an-te del vino.

La hija naturaleza La Hija Naturaleza se quita la lagaña de los ojos mientras el mundo practica el amanecer con ella.

Hay tierras que oír, aguas que oler, fuegos que saborear, vientos que tocar y ver. Un

raspado del oído que te da picor pela las capas de la Tierra. Los granos de la mugre se derrumban los agujeros silbantes como las rocas gruñen hacia las colinas susurrantes. Las piedras tintinean en el barro con puntas así como la arena chisporrotea en una duna enorme. Los bosques de los árboles chirrían con “¡árbol cae!” así como las raíces se quedan sin aliento por los troncos tiritando. La aspiración de un olorcillo por una nariz inspirando las olas pequeñas de las aguas. Los ríos eructan mientras corren así como las cascadas sudan paradas. El hielo fuerza su excremento como una nube orina en sus chaparrones. Las gotas de lluvia hacen la miel en el perfume como los charcos flotan en la colonia de Padre Tiempo. Un giro rápido de la lengua chamusca la punta de la llama de un fuego. La piel es cenizas amargas como una quemadura es una chispa dulce. Una vela es una pimienta tímida como la cera es una sal fundida. El calor es un apretón de un limón como un humo es el arroz quemado. Un dedo está conchabado con un ojo para encontrar el viento. La brisa: el tornado. La respiración: la polución. El frío: la mordida. El oxígeno: el dióxido de carbono.

La Hija Naturaleza cierra sus ojos mientras el mundo practica el anochecer con ella.

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Por ti No hay nada como una huella que camine por ti cuando tus tobillos se tuercen y tus uñas del pie y tus juanetes penetran a cada paso. ¡Qué milagro tener rodillas que rozan por ti cuando tus muslos relinchan y tus piernas tiemblan y tus espinillas se fracturan!

Es bueno que los metales bailen por ti cuando tu ritmo pasa por el quirófano y tu pelvis se rompe bajo la presión y el meneo de tus caderas.

Es hermoso que la pared se levante por ti cuando tu columna se desmorona como una columna de polvo y tu espalda se dobla como una regla rota de madera. ¡Qué mágico tener puntas de los dedos que llevan las bolsas por ti cuando tus hombros se caen y tus codos mellan y tus palmas se ampollan!

No hay nada mejor que un féretro que envejezca por ti para que tú vivas hasta que mueras en un cuerpo que fue hecho para ti.

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La hora “Tu corazón late con la vida”.

No, mi pecho palpita por la hipertensión.

Es un copa de vino debajo de “Es la hora de desvestirte,

una catarata hirviendo.

pero quieres despellejarte,

Conoce solamente las incisiones

esperas desaparecerte”.

de los puntos, pero nunca aprende de

No, es la hora de arrancarse

las cicatrices de las incisiones.

la camisa de fuerza.

La caja torácica como la boca de

Quiero tener la piel del color

una serpiente asfixia y se traga todos

de la silueta de una sonrisa

los pulmones que ya se ahogan con

de medianoche.

el oxígeno e inhalan el fuego.

Espero viajar con el viento para esconderme en las fibras

“Tus ojos brillan con tu belleza”.

del camaleón.

No, mi cara huele a fealdad.

Sus

manchas

muestran

mi

condición

“Tu mente pinta sus sueños”.

monstruosa.

No, mi cerebro me hierra mis pesadillas.

Su sinuosidad es mi perversidad.

Sus demonios son mis fantasmas,

Los dientes se manchan como el barro.

Sus miedos son mis fobias.

La boca apesta como

Vandaliza las paredes con alucinaciones.

un mojado beso no solicitado.

Mi cabeza suda por la zozobra y

Mis labios son más tensos que

se entierra por la depresión.

el pinchazo de la pinza

Las neuronas se mienten a la cara y

para que una mueca alegre y

se apuñalan en la espalda

una sonrisa triste sean

con la aguja desafilada de

gemelas perpendiculares.

la conspiración que paraliza.

“Es la hora de ver más allá de su desnudez”.

No, es la hora de vestirme.

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Senior Honors Theses 270

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Senior Honor Theses-Spring 2022 Department of Spanish and Portuguese The award winning theses can be read online by clicking on the thesis title

Department of Spanish and Portuguese Award for Overall Academic Achievement and Originality in an Honors Thesis

Social Hygiene, the Ecophobic Unconscious, and Memory in La Reserva Ecológica Costanera Sur and Freshkills Park Rachel Moorman-Minton, Spanish Mentors: Jens Andermann and Mitra Rastegar

This thesis examines and compares the beliefs underpinning the formation of dump sites and the subsequent creation of park spaces at what is now the Reserva Ecológica Costanera Sur in Buenos Aires, Argentina and Freshkills Park on Staten Island in New York City. I focus first on the use of the spaces as dump sites, analyzing the discourse established by the respective governments about these sites. I then discuss the so-called parquización or “parkification” of the spaces that has taken place more recently, analyzing this transformation in light of broader urban park histories in both cities. I particularly focus on the view of the human-nature relationship expressed in the wastedumping and park-making actions, making use of the works of scholars such as Simon Estok, Susan Signe Morrison, and Andrés Barreda. I also discuss the surprising agency of the matter and how that impacted both government language and broader cultural beliefs about the sites. My thesis also touches on the way that memory of the spaces is inscribed and interpreted in their current forms, specifically regarding the intrinsic connection between the Reserva and the last Argentine dictatorship. Using the critical framework provided by Estok and other authors, I argue that at the root of all these spatial reconfigurations within the Freshkills and Reserva sites is the desire for control—over the material, the environment, the people of the city, and the very perception and memory of the sites—as well as the fear of losing it.

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Department of Spanish and Portuguese Award for for Distinction in the Honors Thesis

A Writer Who Translates: Federico Falco as Co-Author in His Translation of Deborah Eisenberg’s Your Duck Is My Duck Marguerite Alley, Spanish Mentor: María José Zubieta

In my thesis, I explore the confluence of creative writing and literary translation through the work of US short story writer Deborah Eisenberg, as translated into Spanish by Argentine short story writer Federico Falco. By examining, via close reading, the stories in Falco’s 2015 collection 222 patitos y otros cuentos alongside his 2020 translation of Eisenberg’s story collection Your Duck Is My Duck, I identify key syntactical and thematic differences that indicate moments where the translator asserts his visibility as a writer in the text, thus providing evidence for the subjectivity and creativity intrinsic to the act of translation. How does Falco’s own experience as a writer influence his interpretation and adaptation of Eisenberg’s work? Using a theoretical framework provided by scholars like Lawrence Venuti, Jeremy Munday, and Chantal Wright, I investigate the degree to which a writer’s creative voice and subjective experience influence their interpretation and adaptation of a source text, while also noting the ways in which changes in the publishing industry have brought the theory and practice of translation to the fore. Translated literature has recently gained more of a foothold in the English-speaking market through the work of independent and academic presses disrupting the hegemonic control of the major publishing houses. Translation theory, in turn, has also progressed to a point where the translator has become more of an acknowledged presence than ever before, as the line separating translation from creative writing grows ever thinner. Based on these factors, I conclude that modern translators, especially those with creative writing backgrounds like Falco, become something closer akin to co-authors, contributing to the construction of a hybrid work.

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How Social Mobilizations Impact Writing: Contemporary Mexican Feminism and the Tsunami Anthologies Sam Golden, Spanish Mentor: Laura Torres-Rodríguez

My thesis is focused on answering this question: How have the feminist protests in Mexico within the last few years impacted Mexican feminist writing? I am focusing on two anthologies of women writers: Tsunami (2018) and Tsunami II (2020). Gabriela Jáuregui is the editor of both, and also wrote the prologues for both collections. Between their publication dates, Mexico has seen an unprecedented intensification of women’s mass protests, collective actions, and strikes that have captivated the public debate and the collective imagination. In analyzing them, I have found the feminist writing to mirror these changes, especially in the form of a transformation from an individual notion of authorship and ownership to a collective subject and voice. The increasing feminist mobilizations have created a more expansive and experiential understanding of what “writing” can include: performance, songs, visual objects, gesture, graffiti, and more. These are all things that can be incorporated into protests, and many have been used creatively in protests in different parts of Latin America, especially in recent years. I am using the concept of one of the writers, Marina Azahua, to guide my analysis and construct an original theoretical framework: the concept of “gestural testimony”, or “testimonio gestual.” Using the ideas of philosopher Carrie Noland in Agency and Gesture, I am arguing that the second anthology gives more emphasis to other gestural, experiential, and collective forms of inscription.

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Regresar: Private Lives and the Shining Path Conflict in Perú, a film Deborah Shonack, Spanish Mentor: Enrique del Risco

Starting in 1987, the domestic terrorist group the Shining Path in Peru shifted its focus from the countryside to the capital, Lima, a shift that those living in Lima didn’t really feel until 1989. The Peruvian government’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission dedicated itself to investigating the human rights abuses committed in the decades of the eighties and nineties; its report, completed in 2003, was the product of an extensive research covering the start of the Shining Path, its activities throughout the period, and the impact the violence both from the Shining Path and the military had on different regions in Peru. While the Commission focused on reconciling with the violence and trauma of the Shining Path conflict, my interest lies in what people’s lives were like outside of the conflict, both in Lima and in Puno where the Shining Path had a greater impact. When hearing stories about this time from my family, what stuck with me the most is how much life my family was able to experience despite living in a country with ongoing conflict and violence.

As a filmmaker, the intersection of the horrors of the conflict and the daily life present in the oral histories I’ve heard from my family, of life continuing amidst conflict, greatly interests me. I’ve chosen to dive into this intersection through the exploration of friendship in my feature film script, which combines months of research on the conflict and life during 1986-1987 in Chosica, Lima, and Juli, with interviews with family members and family friends who have shared their experience about living through this time. With writing the first draft of this script, I explored what it means to lose a friendship in the midst of conflict.

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Raising Resistance: Women’s Histories of Abortion, Infanticide and Estupro (Rape) in Late Colonial Mexico (1690-1821) Ingrid Trost, Latin American Studies.

Mentors: Rebecca Goetz, Zeb Tortorici

This thesis analyzes five criminal cases of alleged abortion, infanticide, and gender-based violence in approximately the final century of Spanish colonialism in Mexico, 1700-1821. I argue that the desire for maintenance of the status quo on behalf of the state and community guided the process and outcome of criminal trials relating to the young female body and to reproduction. I trace the politics and enforcement of family and gender norms, intersections between the law and the young female body, and the impact of class and race on perceived criminality or culpability. My work intersects with critical historical scholarship on women, gender, abortion, and infanticide in colonial Mexico. Research by scholars such as Asunción Lavarín, Nora Jaffary, Richard Boyer, Kathryn Burns, Marisa Fuentes, and Tina Campt have proven to be indispensable. By presenting historical review in the context of close-reading case analysis, I demonstrate the practical impact of ephemeral and socially developed concepts like socially perceived honor, morality, and acceptable family structure. For example, in the case of Maria Thomasa Muro I trace how existing racial and gendered hierarchies in the early nineteenth century informed court procedure through invasive physical and emotional examination. Feminist and decolonial principles of narrative history-telling and varied methods of resistance guide my case analysis, thesis construction and presentation.

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Biographies Yagmur Akyurek is a senior at Gallatin studying the intersection of literature, linguistics, and visual culture, with an emphasis on how literary and visual narratives can inform a sense of place. Hailing from Massachusetts, she is interested in how communities are shaped by their surrounding physical environment. She enjoys writing poetry and crocheting Marguerite Alley (she/they) is a senior from Durham, North Carolina majoring in Spanish and minoring in creative writing. Their fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in New Ohio Review, The Louisville Review, Chautauqua, Pigeon Pages, Bodega, and elsewhere. They plan to pursue graduate studies in translation.

Johmmiry Almonte is an undergraduate Dominican Afro-Latinx student majoring in Social Work and double minoring in Spanish and Italian. She’s interested in the concept of unlearning preconceptions taught not only by ethnic homes but society as well; particularly preconceptions based on racism (including colorism and texturism), sexism (including machismo), homophobia and transphobia, among others. As a Washington Heights native, she’s witnessed the shift that gentrification has caused and the debilitating grip on the neighborhood’s core. Though there are currently various unsettled aspects of their life, they are certain of wanting to pursue poetry and become a poet.

Haitiana Munah Angerville is a CAS senior at New York University in Class of ‘22 where she majors in Romance Languages concentrating in Spanish and French; she also completed a minor in Web Design and Computer Programming. She has a love-hate relationship with her brain yet an obsessive affair with her mind. Creative writing, the love of language, and poetry all awakened in her when she picked up her first pencil, as she likes to believe. Reading, as of now, lulls her to sleep during the day and night, but she strives to be a more active, passionate and dedicated academic and leisure reader to spice up her life and her life’s work. She is proud to say that she also writes in English and bold to say the same in French. Haitiana’s goals after graduation are to explore literary translation; editorial roles and (self-)publishing; the science and research of learning in the classroom, online and by one’s self; and the world as she longs to travel outside of her Harlem, Manhattan, New York City bubble of a hometown to answer her multilingual calling.

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Montse Armengou Martín was the King Juan Carlos Chair in Spanish Culture and Civilization Spring 2017. Armengou is a distinguished Spanish journalist and investigative documentary filmmaker. She has worked at Televisió de Catalunya (TV3) since 1985. Through her work as a documentary filmmaker, Armengou has unearthed and presented new evidence about the social history of repression in Spain during the dictatorship of General Francisco Franco (1936-1975) in Spain. She is the co-director, with Ricard Belis of Los niños perdidos del franquismo (Franco’s Forgotten Children, 2002), Les fosses del silenci (Graves of Silence, 2003), and El convoy de los 927 (927 on the Train to Hell, 2004, about the Spanish victims of the Holocaust). More recently, she has directed two high-profile documentaries. Abuelo, te sacaré de aquí (2013) chronicles the history of the Valle de los Caídos (the “Valley of the Fallen”), a fascist mausoleum in the middle of Europe honoring dictator Franco and established as a representation of democratic reconciliation. Los internados del miedo (The Institutions of Fear, 2015) investigates and documents the abuse and enslavement of children in state-owned, catholic orphanages during the dictatorship and part of the democratic transition.

Armengou’s documentaries have received numerous awards, including Premio Nacional de Cultura de Catalunya; Grand Prix FIGRA (France); Best Director, Human Rights Film Festival, Barcelona, 2003; Prix Liberpress (Radio France International, Paris); Bronze Medal, New York Film Festival; Prix International du Documentaire et du Reportage Méditerranéen; Best Use of Archival Footage, Memorimage; First Prize, IFTA; and First Prize, Catalan Women’s Association.

Armengou’s documentary work has also been published in book form and has become a resource for human rights agencies and activists. Her work has been used, cited, and discussed by several United Nations units, including the Special Rapporteur on the Promotion of Truth, Justice, Reparation, and Guarantees of Non-Recurrence, and the Working Group on Forced Disappearances.

Elizabeth Baltusnik is a second-year student double-majoring in Urban Design & Architecture Studies and Spanish. She is focused on historic preservation and adaptive reuse through sustainable practices. During the Fall 2021 semester, Elizabeth enrolled in SPAN-UA 360: “Institutions, Archives, and People” which involved a special focus on university-supported centers and the King Juan Carlos I of Spain Center in particular. For her final project, Elizabeth chose to combine her two disciplines to research the historic building that houses the Center.

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Hazel Bolivar is a graduate of New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts, where she majored in Film & Television and minored in Gender & Sexuality Studies. She is particularly interested in television writing and exploring transgender identity through art and performance.

Nicole Bula is a freshman in the Film and Television program at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts.

Miguel Caballero Vázquez (PhD Princeton University, 2017) is Assistant Professor at the Spanish and Portuguese Department, Northwestern University. Currently finishing a book manuscript on monumentality, conservationism and iconoclasm titled The Monument of Tomorrow. Conservation and the Avant-Garde in the Spanish Civil War. He also has an online activist project on HIV-AIDS called ASS (Amor, Sexo y Serología), which he plans to turn into an academic project soon. He is interested in psychoanalysis, the relations between literature, philosophy and the arts, medical humanities, and museum studies.

Pedro Cardim (Lisbon, Portugal, 1967). Professor at the Department of History of the Universidade Nova de Lisboa, where he specializes in the history of the Iberian World between the sixteenth and the early nineteenth centuries. He is the author of numerous works on early modern Iberia, as well as on the Portuguese and the Spanish colonial rule in the Americas. His most recent publication (co-authored with Nuno Monteiro) is: Political Thought in Portugal and its Empire c.1500-1800, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2021.

Sam Cordell is a designer and photographer based in New York City. He graduated NYU’s Gallatin School of Individualized Study in 2021 with a major in Interdisciplinary Design, studying the intersections between cultural anthropology and the history of modernism in architecture and design. If he isn’t lost in an antique store searching for design inspiration, you can find him at the airport pursuing his deep passion for aviation working toward his Instrument Rating.

Lourdes Dávila is Clinical Professor and Associate Director of Undergraduate Studies in the Department of Spanish and Portuguese at NYU. She is also the founder and managing editor of Esferas. Her research is dedicated to the study of the intersection of photography and dance with literature and politics. Her first book, Desembarcos en el papel. La imagen en la literatura de Julio Cortázar was published with Beatriz Viterbo in 2001. She has published works on the writers Diamela Eltit, Eduardo Lalo, and Leonardo Padura, among others, and on the dancers 279

Martha Graham, José Limón and Marie Bardet. Lourdes danced with the Lucinda Childs Dance Company from 1992 to 2000, where she worked as assistant to the choreographer. She also danced with Ballets de San Juan, Joyce Trisler Danscompany and David Gordon. j.d. is a Puerto Rican writer, actress and singer born and raised in New York. She is a member of NYU’s Tisch Class of 2026, where she will study dramatic writing and psychology. Lead roles with Pied Piper Community Theater productions include The Tempest, Shrek!, Oklahoma, Baker Street Irregulars and, most recently, Urinetown, The Musical.

Pablo Delano was born in 1954, in the “unincorporated territory of the United States” known as Puerto Rico. He was raised on a hillside just outside the capital city of San Juan. As a child, he enjoyed climbing a huge Flamboyán tree and savoring a spectrum of fresh fruits including mangos, acerolas, and delicious pink guavas. After completing high school, he relocated to the U.S. East Coast to study art. He holds a B.F.A. from Tyler School of Art / Temple University and an M.F.A. from Yale University, both in painting.

In New York, he initially pursued a career as a painter, but quickly turned to photography, a skill he had learned from his father, the photographer Jack Delano. Photography seemed at that time to offer a more satisfying, interactive, and visceral connection to the world.

Various substantial projects grew out of his early work done on the Lower East Side, including commissions from the NYC Department of Cultural Affairs and the Ellis Island Immigration Museum. One unifying thread was a consistent interest in the life of Latinx and Caribbean communities.

In 1996, Delano accepted a teaching position at Trinity College, in Hartford, where a colleague offered the opportunity to travel to Trinidad and Tobago, in the Southern Caribbean.

Fascinated by that nation’s process of post-colonial nation building, he returned countless times over the next 10 years, ultimately producing a book of black and white photographs titled In Trinidad. During his first years at Trinity College Delano also began collecting archival images from Puerto Rico, and conceptualizing the project that would ultimately grow into his conceptual art installation titled The Museum of the Old Colony. In 2019, Delano was appointed Charles A. Dana Professor of Fine Arts.

James D. Fernández (Brooklyn, 1961) has been teaching at NYU since 1995. His research, teaching, publications and public humanities projects have focused on the conversion of 280

experience into narrative, whether in the genre of autobiography in Spain, historical accounts of US participation in the Spanish Civil War, or the tales told by Spanish immigrants and their descendants in order to make sense of their experience. His most recent work on Spanish emigration to the US in the late nineteenth- and early twentieth-centuries has resulted in a major exhibition, which is currently touring Spain: Emigrantes invisibles: españoles en Estados Unidos, 1868-1945.

Samantha Golden is graduating from NYU in May of 2022, double-majoring in Spanish and Psychology. Her thesis examines the relationship between contemporary Mexican feminist writing and protests. She will be starting law school in the fall of 2022, with hopes of becoming a lawyer to represent women who are domestic violence victims, trafficking victims, sexual abuse victims, and asylum seekers.

Odi Gonzales, born in Peru, is an award-winning poet, translator, researcher in Andean Oral Tradition (XVI-XXI centuries), and professor in Peru and the US. Gonzales is the author of seven poetry collections. He has also written research books, and a trilingual Quechua, Spanish, English Dictionary. Since 2008, Gonzales—Clinical Assistant Professor—teaches Quechua Language and Culture, and Antropología Linguistica Andina at New York University.

Jo Labanyi came to NYU in 2006 after a career in the UK. She is the founder of the Journal of Spanish Cultural Studies and of the Journal of Romance Studies. She was elected to the British Academy in 2005. She held the King Juan Carlos I of Spain Chair of Spanish Culture and Civilization at NYU’s King Juan Carlos Center in Fall 2002 and directed the Center from 2008 to 2014. A specialist in the cultural history of modern Spain, her fields of research are literature, film, gender studies, popular culture, memory studies, and the history of emotions. Her co-edited volumes include A Companion to Spanish Cinema (Blackwell, 2012) and Engaging the Emotions in Spanish Culture and History (Vanderbilt UP, 2016; Spanish translation 2018). Her most recent book is Spanish Culture from Romanticism to the Present: Structures of Feeling (Legenda, 2019): a collection of 24 essays from over her career. She remains fond of her contribution to Oxford UP’s Very Short Introduction series (Spanish Literature, 2010). Her co-authored Cultural History of Modern Literatures in Spain (Polity) will appear in 2022. She is currently completing a co-authored oral history of cinema-going in 1940s and 1950s Spain, and a monograph on 1940s Spanish cinema entitled “Reading Cinema under Dictatorship.”

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Juan José Lahuerta is the Director of the Gaudí Chair at the Barcelona School of Architecture, and he has been a professor in the Istituto Universitario di Architettura, in Venice, holder of the King Juan Carlos Chair of Spanish Culture and Civilization at New York University (2011-2012), Senior Curator of the Picasso Museum of Barcelona, and Chief Curator of the National Museum of Art of Catalonia. He has published books on art and architecture, among them Antoni Gaudí.

Architecture, Ideology and Politics (1992); Le Corbusier. Espagne. Carnets (2001); Religious Painting.

Picasso and Max Von Moos (2015); Photography or Life: Popular Mies (2015); On Loos, Ornament and Crime (2015); Antoni Gaudí. Ornament, Fire, and Ashes (2016), Arte en la época del infierno (2021). He is a member of the scientific committee of the Milan based review Casabella, and founder and director of Mudito & Co., an independent editing house based in Barcelona.

Jill Lane has been attending events at the King Juan Carlos Center since its founding, having received her PhD in Performance Studies from NYU in 2000. She returned to NYU as faculty in 2006, and is now Associate Professor of in the Department of Spanish & Portuguese and at the Center for Latin American and Caribbean Studies (CLACS), and is immediate past director of CLACS (2012–2021).

Maya Mau is in the Class of 2024 at Cornell University studying Industrial and Labor Relations with minors in Business, Information Science, and Law & Society. She was born in China but grew up in New York City. At Cornell, she is involved with activities at a social impact consulting club, the Mario Einaudi Center for International Studies, Cornell Law School, and will be serving as the Editor-in-Chief for the Fall 2022 semester of The Workplace Review, the ILR School’s undergraduate journal. Beyond the classroom and the workplace, she enjoys culinary arts, freelance journalism, politics, and travel.

Jordana Mendelson is Director of the King Juan Carlos I of Spain Center and a professor in the Department of Spanish and Portuguese at New York University. She is the author of Documenting Spain: Artists, Exhibition Culture, and the Modern Nation 1929-1939 (2005) and co-editor of Postcards: Ephemeral Histories of Modernity (2010) . She has curated or co-curated Miró i ADLAN (2021), Encuentros con los años 30 (2012), Revistas y Guerra 1936-1939 (2007), Other Weapons: Photography and Print Culture during the Spanish Civil War (2007), Margaret Michaelis: Fotografía, Vanguardia y República en la Barcelona de la República (1998). She serves on the advisory committee of the Archivo Español de Arte and Culture & History, is a member of the Editorial Board of Modernism/Modernity, and is currently the Editor of the Journal of Spanish Cultural Studies.

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Christine Mladic Janney is a documentary filmmaker and media anthropologist whose work explores photography, digital technologies, archives, race and ethnicity, and migration in Peru and the US. She holds a PhD in Sociocultural Anthropology and an Advanced Certificate in Culture and Media from New York University. Along with Ros Postigo and Juan Carlos Belón, she is a co-founder of the Centro de investigación y estudios para la fotografía (CIEFO, ciefo.org), an organization dedicated to the study, conservation, and dissemination of Peruvian photography.

Rachel Moorman-Minton is a senior at NYU, double majoring in Global Liberal Studies and Spanish with a minor in Teacher Education. After graduation, she is interested in working in an educational position in a GLAM (galleries, libraries, archives, and museums) institution or in nature education. Aside from her academic pursuits, she is an avid birder.

Josep M. Muñoz (Barcelona, 1959) is a historian. By profession, he is an editor, publisher and translator. He received his Ph.D. with distinction (Premi extraordinari de doctorat) in contemporary history in 1995 from the Universitat de Barcelona. He was a member of the cabinet of Mayor Pasqual Maragall (1987-1995) and Director of Cultural Services of the MACBA (Museum of Contemporary Art of Barcelona), 1995-1999. He is currently the Director of the cultural magazine L’Avenç (2000-present). Muñoz is the author of Jaume Vicens i Vives (1910-1960). Una biografia intel.lectual (1997) and editor of Els quatre presidents: entrevistes a Tarradellas, Pujol, Maragall i Montilla (2010) and Àlbum Jaume Vicens i Vives: 1910-1960 (2010).

Mary Ann Newman is a translator from Catalan and Spanish. She has published fiction by Quim Monzó, essays by Xavier Rubert de Ventós, and poetry by Josep Carner. For Private Life, a 1932 Catalan classic by Josep Maria de Sagarra (Archipelago Books), she won the Premi J. B. Cendrós 2017 from Òmnium Cultural and the North American Catalan Society Prize 2017. She was awarded the Creu de Sant Jordi in 1998. She is currently Executive Director of the Farragut Fund for Catalan Culture in the U.S., a member of the board of the Catalan Institute of America, and President of the Jury of the Premi Internacional Catalunya.

Cristina Pato is a musician, writer, educator and producer, and has been hailed as “a virtuosic burst of energy” by The New York Times. Her professional career is focused on exploring the role of the arts in society through teaching and producing. Cristina has served as artist-in-residence at New York University (NYU), Harvard University, and the University of California, 283

Santa Barbara. In addition, she collaborated for over fifteen years with The Silkroad Project, the non-profit organization founded by cellist Yo-Yo Ma. Since 2017, Cristina writes a weekly column titled “The Art of Restlessness” for Spanish newspaper La Voz de Galicia for which she was awarded the XVII Afundación Journalism Prize: Fernández del Riego. Cristina divides her time between New York City and Galicia and shares her life with photographer Xan Padrón.

Mary Louise Pratt is Silver Professor (emerita) in the Department of Social and Cultural Analysis and the Department of Spanish and Portuguese at NYU, where she taught from 2002-2014. Her most recent books, Los imaginarios planetarios (Editorial Aluvion 2017) and Planetary Longings (Duke UP, forthcoming 2002) reflect the transdisciplinary knowledgemaking discussed here.

Jorge Ribalta (Barcelona, 1963) is an artist, researcher, and independent editor and curator. He has had solo exhibitions in the Zabriskie galleries in New York (1994, 2000, 2005) and Paris (1996); Estrany-De la Mota (Barcelona, 1998); Casa sin Fin (Cáceres and Madrid, 2010, 2012, 2015); angelsbarcelona (Barcelona, 2012, 2016) and Elba Benítez (Madrid, 2019). In recent years his solo exhibitions have been shown in CRP Nord-Pas de Calais (Douchy-les-Mines, France) and Linea di Confine (Rubiera, Italia). His Monumento máquina was housed in 2015 and 2016 in the Centro Guerrero (Granada), the Fundación Helga de Alvear (Cáceres) and the Württembergischer Kunstverein (WKV) in Stuttgart.

Jorge’s retrospective Todo es verdad. Ficciones y documentos (1987-2020) is on display at the Fundación Mapfre, Madrid, from February until May 2022 and will be at the Museo de la Universidad de Navarra, Pamplona, from September 2022 to March 2023.

He has participated in numerous group shows, including: New Photography 10 (MOMA, New York, 1994), Fragments (MACBA, Barcelona, 1996), Sets and Situations (MOMA, New York, 2000), Playgrounds (Museo Reina Sofía, Madrid, 2014), La bestia y el soberano / The Beastt and the Sovereign (MACBA and WKV, Barcelona and Stuttgart, 2015), Ficciones y territorios. Arte para pensar la nueva razón del mundo (Museo Reina Sofía, Madrid, 2016) and the current Vasos comunicantes. Colección 1881-2021 (Museo Reina Sofía, Madrid, 2020).

Nelson Rivera is the author of Sucio Difícil: Piezas para el teatro (Isla Negra, 2005); Visual Artists and the Puerto Rican Performing Arts, 1950–1990 (Peter Lang, 1997); Con urgencia: escritos sobre arte puertorriqueño contemporáneo (EDUPR, 2009); Hinca por ahí: escritos sobre las artes y asuntos limítrofes (Callejón, 2016); Cathy Berberian: Entrevistas (Riel, 2019).

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Ana Leonor Romero is an Argentine historian. She holds a PhD in History from the Universidad de Buenos Aires (UBA). She is a researcher at the Instituto de Historia Argentina y Americana “Dr. Emilio Ravignani” (UBA/CONICET) and teaches at Universidad de Buenos Aires and at NYU Buenos Aires. Currently, she is the Director of the Journal PolHis, Revista Bibliográfica del Programa Interuniversitario de Historia Política. She is a member of Taller de Historia Global. Relaciones Transnacionales en las Américas (based at Universidad de San Andres), and takes part in the research project History of Parliaments in Latin America (based at University of Oxford). She has participated in several research projects and published articles in specialized journals. She has received the Emile Lousse Essay Prize 2016 (International Commission for the History of Representative and Parliamentary Institutions) for her article co-written with Laura Cucchi. Her current research focuses on the intellectual exchange between Argentina, Spain, and the United States and the role of Congress in Argentina at the end of the nineteenth century.

David Rosales is a writer, personal trainer, co-owner of Roman Fitness Systems, and editor of Pro Hockey Strength, the official website of NHL strength coaches. Originally from Vermont, David lives in New York City and studies at New York University’s Gallatin School. He loves books, pop-punk music, Vermont maple syrup, and heavy split squats. You can catch up with him at his website or on Instagram.

Vicente Sánchez-Biosca is a Professor of Communication and Visual Culture at the University of Valencia, Spain and held the King Juan Carlos Chair at NYU during the Spring semester of 2013. He held a Fulbright postdoctoral fellowship at the University of Wisconsin-Madison in 1991. He is the author of many books about the image (montage, the avant-garde, the Spanish Civil War, the Holocaust, and Cambodian genocide). Since 2016, he has directed a research group on perpetrators of mass violence. His latest book is La muerte en los ojos. Qué perpetran las imágenes de perpetrador (Alianza, 2021) in which he considers the visual production of those who are authors of violent acts or complicit with the performative value of those acts which produce the humiliation and dehumanization of their victims.

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Sophie Slade (she/her) is a senior at NYU graduating this May, 2022 with a BA in International Relations and Spanish, and a minor in Peace and Conflict Studies. She is also an MA candidate in International Relations through NYU’s Accelerated BA/MA Program. Her concentration is in bottom-up approaches to peacebuilding and international development, and their intersections with migration and border politics. She is passionate about Hispanic studies, culture, and dance, and hopes to incorporate them in her chosen career. She was also participant in Jordana Mendelson’s class “Institutions, Archives, and People.”

Francesc Torres (Barcelona, 1948) worked as an apprentice in his father’s printing workshop and trained as a graphic artist. In 1967, he moved to Paris to continue his art studies at the École des Beaux Arts and began producing work with a non-functional, industrial appearance and followed the strategies of Minimalism in its formal and material basis. He later worked on posters for the May ’68 movement of workers and students until it collapsed under the force of de Gaulle’s conservative government. He moved back to Spain to do his military service. Shortly after he moved to Chicago and then to New York, where he has lived since 1974. He has had numerous solo exhibitions in institutions such as the International Center of Photography (New York), the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía (Madrid), the Institut Valencia d’Art Modern (Valencia), Massachusetts Institute of Technology, List Visual Arts Center (Cambridge, USA), Sala Rekalde (Bilbao), Arizona State University Art Museum (Tempe, Arizona), Queens Museum of Art (New York) and the Herbert F. Johnson Museum of Art (Ithaca, New York).

Zaskia Torres is a second-year undergraduate student at New York University, double-majoring in International Relations and Spanish. In the fall semester of 2021, she enrolled in Jordana Mendelson’s course “Institutions, Archives, and People” where students researched how institutional histories are recorded, archived, and written with a special focus on universitysupported centers and the King Juan Carlos I of Spain Center at NYU. Zaskia’s final project consisted of an interview with the 2009 Andrés Bello Chair, Dr. James Dunkerely.

Ingrid Trost graduated from NYU in May 2022 with a BA in Latin American Studies. She served as the undergraduate representative at the King Juan Carlos Center for the 2021-2022 school year, as well as working as an associate editor for NYU’s Esferas since her first year. In her current work, she prioritizes increased access to and diversity in academic institutions.

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María José Urrutia is a senior at New York University studying International Relations and Public Health at the College of Arts and Science, as well as an MA Candidate for Bioethics at the School of Global Public Health. She also enjoys writing about culture, art, and films. She was also a participant in Jordana Mendelson’s class “Institutions, Archives, and People.”

Devon Vazquez Forester is a junior majoring in Spanish and Portuguese as well as International Relations. This past semester she enjoyed learning under the direction of Jordana Mendelson in the class “Institutions, Archives, and People,” focusing on the role of global institutions, learning about hispanismo, and researching past directors and chairs of the KJCC. Following the completion of her senior year, Devon plans to attend graduate school in pursuit of her passion for Latin American and Caribbean studies.

Thomas Zenteno is a transfer student currently in his fourth year as an SPS student pursuing a Bachelor of Science in Hotel and Tourism Management with a concentration in Marketing and Revenue Management at NYU.

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