Guernica, Dave Boling, (Picador)
This is a
carefully researched novel about Basque village life in the 30's seen through
the eyes of three generations, culminating in the atrocity that was Guernica.
Picasso's presence is woven throughout, and the novelist makes him neither hero nor villain, but
simply what he is; an artist who lives with the ambiguity of his own life story
and the politics of his time. His painting of the raids on Guernica (which is
brilliantly repulsive in conception and creation) is an example of art as moral
outrage and political protest - and of how the representation of human anguish
when it is well done as in Picasso's Guernica, is potent not by its power to
attract, but by its power to repel. The medium conveys exactly human recoil
from the evil the painting depicts.
It’s an interesting
thought, that art, so naturally identified with the creation of beauty, grace
and human loveliness, is equally potent in depicting ugliness, violence and
human suffering. There are some paintings that are hideous both in their
content and in their execution, and that makes them great art because they
compel attention to the human experience of that which dehumanises, degrades
and violates. In class last year when looking at artistic representations of
Jesus on the cross, there were several images which students found repulsive,
even upsetting, there was “no beauty that we should desire him”. Crucifixion is
utter unremitting cruelty, and some artists refuse to surround such inhumane
infliction with light or hope or theological concessions. Likewise, Picasso in
his painting of the atrocity of Guernica, was unsparing of the sensitivities of
the public viewers of his art. There are times when art speaks truth, the
representation of a subject contributes to its reality, the medium successfully
conveys the message, the viewer is forcibly confronted with what we would
rather not see and think, and thus moral judgement is demanded by the stark
uncompromising portrayal of moral evil.
There is no
comfortable distance from which to view Picasso’s Guernica. It is an offence,
searingly effective, and the depth of negative reaction to its images and
overall composition is precisely the intent – a jolt in the nerve centre of our
moral perceptions and political complacency. This novel doesn’t operate at this
kind of level, at least not self-consciously. But by giving human face and
character to the villagers, by drawing us into the family life of the Basque
people, and by making us care for the outcomes in the stories of their lives,
such personal and moral reactions are inevitably evoked. Near the end, there is a beautifully conceived insight into how human beings deal with loss and love. It comes as a comment on how two men coped with the violent deaths of their wives and children in the bombing raid:
"...if you lose someone you love, you need to redistribute your feelings rather than surrender them. You give them to whoever is left, and the rest you turn towards something that will keep you moving forward."
So the novel is a romance and a lament, a celebration of human courage and consolation, an affirmation of the love that humans have for each other and the finite miracle of love that survives brutal death; but all this set against the chronic capacity of human beings to hate, or worse, to not care about the consequences for other human beings of military action and political violence. And Picasso's painting, now an iconic image, an artistic monument of 25 feet by 12 feet, ensures that the name of a the small historic town of Guernica is not forgotten. And Picasso's poignant image of the dove flying over broken weapons of war is also a necessary and urgent reminder that human creatvity, industry and reason, can also be persuaders and builders of peace. This is a fine novel, about a remarkable painting, a flawed artistic genius, and an act of human barbarity that changed the nature of war.
The book ends with the following few lines. It isn't a spoiler to quote it. The opposite in fact, it's an invitation to read the book, and enter with moral imagination the experience that inspired a masterpiece of poltical protest, moral outrage and symbolic resistance to war.
Picasso is sitting in his favourite cafe in Paris. He is approached by a German officer.
"One officer who considered himself culturally advanced approached the artist as he sipped his coffee at a table beneath the green pavement awninga. The officer held a reproduction of the mural Guernica, barely larger than a postcard size.
'Pardon me', he said, holding the card out. 'You did this didn't you?'
Picasso put his cup delicately on its saucer, turned to the picture, then to the officer, and responded, 'No. You did.'
Comments