Paleography training comes in useful with the microfilms at the BNE
After sitting in on an exceptionally fun morning class about Ayala's story "El Inquisidor" (which I maintain is not really about the Inquisition at all, but rather about various unfortunate mid-twentieth century events that involved conversion and true believers), and hurrying to do a quick but happy yoga practice (I'm practicing going into headstands with one leg at a time straight instead of squeezing my knees into my chest first), I stopped for a quick salad for lunch, and then hit the BNE in the afternoon. I was most shocked to find that there was an actual line to check in (only about four people, but still), and further startled to see that the statues of Isabel II and the statue on the right (who I can't remember but might Zorrilla or someone similarly modern) are under scaffolding at the moment. Humph.
Although the BNE is usually pretty empty in the afternoons I was startled to find that the two "modern" microfilm machines were being used when my microfilm arrived (and not by the red bearded gentleman who had been using the other one all last week), so I was forced to use the "old" machines that don't print. Not a problem. What was a problem was that after fifteen minutes of plugging in machines and switching out parts the nice white-coated librarian (like a lab technician in her white coat) apologized and said none of the old machines were fully working, and I could either advanced the roll by hand, or go over to "revistas" and see if they had a free machine. I elected to advance the machine by hand, and was rewarded after about two minutes by one of the new (e.g. working) machines becoming free. I planted myself in front of it, and tried to not envy the guy next to me who was transcribing onto a laptop what looked to me like a ridiculously clear and easy to read text that looked like a drama of some sort.
I realize that my rudimentary paleography training comes in very handy (yes, I know it's a bad pun) when going through the microfilm of Alberti's notebooks, partly because there is a technique for puzzling out handwriting. When I think I recognize a letter I have to remind myself to look for another example that is clear, and compare the two to see if I'm making an assumption about how Alberti wrote "a" or "s." And I also have to be willing to go letter by letter at times, and sometimes to recognize that Alberti, writing in his native language, used scribbles that were essentially abbreviations of words that he already knew. (I do think it would be easier to puzzle out in English because my word completion skills are better in English.) It's also amazing to me how many different types of handwriting Alberti had. Some are absolutely clear, and look like computer fonts almost. Some are a bit sharp and scratchy but pretty legible. And some are total scribbles. I'm trying to fight the conviction that the most interesting pieces of writing are in the least legible hand.
You will have realized from all of this that I have actually found something of interest. Not, alas, directly naming my authors by name. But a poem (undated of course, but my guess is from the early 1940s) about a "Yankee in the Prado Museum" which is a very funny complement to the writing of Langston Hughes and Canute Frankson about Spain's art treasures, and even more so a wonderful response to Arthur Schomburg's essay "In Quest of Juan de Pareja" (which is indeed about a "Yankee in the Prado.") As always, Americans have the choice of being the villains or the butt of a joke, and this poem falls into the latter category, and is actually quite funny. The awestruck American is stunned by "tantas joyas" in the Prado, but especially impressed by Goya. He is embarrassed by the "Maja desnuda" (which he wants to cover up), bored by Goya's self-portrait, and alarmed by what Alberti calls "Los fusilamientos del 2 de Mayo" which I think of as just the "3 de Mayo." The alarm comes from thinking that a young Spaniard is about to escape from the picture and defend himself "with ferocity." This is if nothing else a fascinating interpretation of the Tres de Mayo, which strikes me as highly original, since I've heard the central figure with his outflung arms there described as Christ-like, or pleading, or even triumphant, but never "feroz." If the poem dates from the time of the Civil War (when María Teresa León was busily organizing the drive to save the pictures in the Prado by moving them away from the bombings) that maybe explains the determination to see what Goya pretty clearly intended as a total defeat as actually really not being about to get shot by a firing squad but in fact a heroic defense. If it's from the 1940s (which seems likely based on the rest of the notebook), it's an odd and very personal interpretation, which may or may not reflect the American's stupidity as much as Alberti's actual opinion. (A lot of the notebooks have poems dedicated to Pablo Picasso, and also a lot of sketches that are pretty clearly influenced by Picasso, so Alberti definitely would have known of how Picasso adapted the Tres de Mayo for Guernica, though as a committed communist he probably didn't approve.)
In any case, it's amusing to speculate whether Alberti may have intended his more or less friend Langston Hughes as the model for the "Yankee in the Prado" and even more fun to see how Spaniards imagine Americans looking at their history. It's so wildly different from the way Americans mostly do look at Spain. I'm not quite sure how to work this into the thesis, but I think it may have a place.
One faithful blog reader tells me that the BNE entries are like watching someone fishing. By that I gather he means incredibly boring, so my apologies if these entries are like listening to someone talk about debugging and recompiling code. Sooner or later I'm going to get something beyond a tin can on my fishing expedition. But for the moment, this poem is enough.
Tomorrow is my long day at the university, and Thursday is a mysterious unspecified puente when the BNE is probably closed, so I may not get back until Friday. But I'm inching along.
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