Journalist and educator Ricardo Rojas (1882–1957) was among Argentina’s most vocal proponents of cultural nationalism during the early decades of the twentieth century. In 1924, he completed editing and subsequently published Eurindia. Ensayo de estética sobre las culturas americanas, a fundamental treatise on Latin American art and aesthetics. In this book, Rojas proposes land, race, and tradition as the basis for a unified aesthetic that synthesizes the particularities of Latin America culture, or what he loosely calls Eurindia, a term that emphasizes the culture’s intricately connected European and Indian roots and histories. The following selection of excerpts highlights Rojas’s preoccupation with the problem of cosmopolitanism; his differentiation of Latin American and Argentinean culture from that of Europe; and his proposal of America as a “cosmic melting pot” that foreshadows José Vasconcelos’s 1925 essay La raza cósmica (The Cosmic Race) [SEE DOCUMENT IV.1.2]. Prior to its publication first in Spain then in Argentina in 1924, the text for Eurindia originally appeared as installments published in the Sunday supplement of Buenos Aires’s La Nación in 1922. This translation is from the book’s unaltered first Argentinean edition [Ricardo Rojas, Eurindia. Ensayo de estética sobre las culturas americanas (Buenos Aires: Librería “La Facultad,” J. Roldán y cía., 1924), 62–79].
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. . . There is in Argentina’s evolution [as in other countries of the continent] a certain organic connection between the land, the people, the tradition, and the culture. . . . Finding its origin, nature, and destiny in all those areas accelerates a culture’s autonomy.
[My study] . . . has led me to identify four traits that make up our essential nature—indigenous or American, colonial or Spanish, European or cosmopolitan, and national or Argentine.
These four traits have generated fragmentary symbols. Within the culture of the country, those symbols have, in turn, appeared simultaneously in the fields of politics and art, which has led to a synchronism of homologous forms. . . . From all of the above I have deduced maxims that I have called “continuity of the tradition,” “unity of the culture,” and “correlation of the symbols.” These maxims also explain the regional culture of other countries in the Americas, an area that is covered by “the law of homologous forms in the Americas.”
Those who are unaware of these differences in the connections or indeed of such connections in the inner consistency of apparently capricious forms will be unable to understand our social nature. The new school will have to be founded on the basis of that awareness, not as a philosophical, literary, or artistic school, but as one that functions as a catalyst so that our American consciousness can organize its own culture, and so that the art of the Americas can find its own free expression in terms of the essential nature of its land, its people, and its tradition, gathered together into a single, autonomous ideal.
The Eurindia aesthetic is not a product of my own imagination; it has been suggested to me by our historical experience, and illuminates the future with the light from the past—history will be our guide in the work we produce in the future.
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. . . [History] itself is a rich trove of traditions; for centuries our literature has looked almost exclusively to history for its subject matter. Contemporary artists seeking to connect with the spirit of our people should consult this source if they wish to define the place they occupy in the evolution of our culture. Of course, history could not in and of itself satisfy the full magnitude of their creative aspirations. . . .
It is no easy feat to express—through art—the landscape and the people of the Americas. A long apprenticeship is required for those who would become skilled in the art of seeing and expressing virginal subjects or examples. One begins by practicing and then painstakingly improving as one works to express the aesthetic ideal of the many generations in whose footsteps one walks. Now and then a genius will appear before his time, but the archetype is usually preceded by a gradual development across a pool of artists over a period of time. Dante, Shakespeare, Cervantes, Michelangelo, and Wagner all had their predecessors.
I don’t believe that nature and life in Argentina are something completely new; but the artistic works produced so far barely give us a fragmentary view, and their expression is incomplete. The artist should certainly refer to those works but must then improve on them. The artist should act like a tree—putting down deep roots in Latin American soil, drinking deeply of the traditional sap, absorbing the light of his own environment, and yielding fruit that expresses the beauty of the reality from which he draws his inspiration.
Art is not something sporadic or trivial; it has a serious historical function. Nothing is gained by superficial expressions of cosmopolitan life, the whims of exotic imitations, or personal vanity. An artist must subscribe to a tradition of some kind, and it seems logical that he should choose his country’s tradition as his own. Argentinean artists should experience a conjugal relationship with their land; they should contemplate, observe, and meditate on local subjects, and they will see that beauty and pain look different in this context and that, for the believer, aesthetic pleasure is bound to the ineffable emotion of one’s first possessions. If this be not so, let us hear from the poets, musicians, architects, painters, and sculptors, indeed from all the artists of the new school; let them tell us whether the aesthetic emotion of their work filled their souls with the civic pride that comes from contributing to the highest undertaking of one’s people and with the virile pride enjoyed by those who procreate in virgin flesh.
Art springs from two universal sources: one is nature, the other is life. Nature is everything that exists in the external world; life is nature reflected in the internal world of consciousness. There are forms and rhythms in both sources. But between them—that is, between the artist and reality—there is a third element: the cultural milieu to which the artist belongs; that is both a facet of reality as well as the environment of the soul. This is the historical aspect that the doctrine of Eurindia refers to, without denying the essential sources of nature and life.
The two spiritual pillars of Eurindia are emotional spontaneity and creative freedom—but with one caveat, which is its preference for the natural world of the Americas and for local life.
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The existence of schools, theories, and dialectical suggestions about art can be explained by the artist’s need to anchor himself and his attitude as he finds himself buffeted by the whirlwind of historical forces. The artist has to know who he is, where he comes from, where he is going, and where he fits in the cultural scheme of things. My goal in writing Eurindia was solely to help the people of the Americas to solve those problems, which are matters that all thoughtful Americans should consider.
Problems of this kind are more easily solved by European or Asian artists because they work in an environment of ancient, homogenous cultures. Not so for us, where the novelty of art and the cosmopolitan nature of daily inspiration can be disorienting for even the strongest among us. Many centuries of human life and activity here in the Americas could reproduce conditions found on other continents; but, in discussing these matters I am searching for a way to shorten the historical process. The phenomena analyzed in this book suggest the possibility of finding some way to do so.
I have used the literary canon as an indicator of Argentine thought because this is the most comprehensive record and because these works revealed the social origins of what once seemed to be my own personal ideas. I then explored the other art forms and found in them the same principles that can be found in poetry.
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Though written in a European language, our poetry reveals traces of our four essential traits, along with their images, feelings, and ideas. Do I wish to evoke indigenous life? All I have to do is say: guadal [bog], pampa [pampas], travesía [crossing], cóndor [condor], ombú [ombu], rancho [shack], pucará [fortress], malón [foray], vidalita [melancholic song]. Do I wish to evoke colonial life? All I have to say is: Lima,1 Potosí,2 cabildo [town council], monopolio [monopoly], galeón [galleon], hidalgo [nobleman], tapada [woman], villancico [Christmas carol], regatonero [retailer], virrey [viceroy], alcalde [mayor]. Do I wish to evoke cosmopolitan life? All I have to say is: puerto [port], ferrocarril [railroad], rascacielo [skyscraper], tranvía [tram], Universidad [university], gringo,3 conventillo [tenement], cinematógrafo [cinematographer], hotel. Do I wish to evoke the fatherland? All I have to say is: Mayo,4 Caseros,5 libertad [liberty], federalismo [federalism], república [republic], montonera,6 mazorca,7 romanticismo [romanticism], caudillaje [leadership], and so on. These words can be used to evoke landscapes, men, institutions, feelings, and ideals in a brief expression of life.
The mystery of logos, summarized in this way, is expressed in poetry and is very common in all the arts. Literary works that have become symbols of these traditions—poems, plays, and novels—share certain forms with architecture, painting, sculpture, music, and dance, as we have already seen. Perceiving the social connection between these traditions and the aesthetic connection between their various symbols is another responsibility of every American artist. All arts are a language, either of pure images or of pure emotion. . . .
Artists who feel this way should join together to create a social version of the aesthetic unity of Latin American life. This bonding will in no way diminish the individual creativity of those involved; it will, rather, increase the historical power of their work. Once our artists have established this brotherhood, united by Eurindian ideals, we will be on the threshold of a new era in the history of our culture.
An affirmation of this fundamental doctrine does not, by any stretch of the imagination, imply any form of hostility toward foreigners. The Roman word “hostis”— the etymological root of the word “hostility”—has no place in an Argentine’s vocabulary; the pilgrim is welcomed here in the spirit of “hospitus” [hospitality] and is offered a place to stay. The doctrine does, however, suggest hostility toward cosmopolitan hybridism, sterile individualism, and a sterile, wayward life of the soul; all of which tend to be—frequently are—characteristics of Criollos who have been rendered heartless by the pursuit of imitative pedantry.
I recognize, however, that this doctrine—which is an expression of the essence of what it means to be Argentine—involves a risk; there is a chance that it might attract those with sentimental feelings about patriotism whose only contribution is a regressive brand of politics in the realm of action and, in the realm of contemplation, a rudimentary form of art. To protect itself from either, Eurindia includes both native and foreign expressions, expanding the definition of native to embrace all of the Americas. It includes them in order to differentiate and assimilate them, keeping what is essential and fruitful and eliminating the rest. These disciplines are devoted to meditation and study, whose goals are progressive and creative.
I believe that it is a mistake to select just one facet of the Latin American tradition and imagine that it can represent the whole nation. The essential spirit of the country cannot be represented by the Indian, the Gaucho, or the Spaniard. Simple patriotism, which has no experience in these complex matters, might be influenced by individualistic hallucinations and, as has happened more than once, be inclined to promote a romanticized view of the Indian, a naïve portrayal of the Gaucho, or an affected version of Spanish.
The romantic view of the Indian was popularized over forty years ago in Brazil through the work of [Antônio] Gonçalves Dias, [José de] Alencar, and [Carlos] Gomes. This trend was imitated in the River Plate countries where there were pseudo-classical precedents to be found in Siripo by [Manuel José de] Labardén and Molina by [Manuel] Belgrano. In this same region it inspired a few essays by Esteban Echeverría and Juan María Gutiérrez; and it later expired after the publication of perhaps the final descendant of the line: Tabaré by the Uruguayan Zorrilla [de San Martín, Juan]. All these depictions were imprecise, lacking any authentic archeological color, or were a hybrid of the Spanish influence in terms of technique.
Naïve portrayals of the Gaucho also became popular, fueled by European romanticism. Martín Fierro, by [José] Hernández, the major work of a popular genre, introduced urban readers to the character of the Gaucho, whereupon some city writers set about mimicking the book in prose and verse. Some copied the form of the original; others imitated the spirit of the poem. Hence the appearance of Juan Moreira, a novel by Eduardo Gutiérrez; Solané, a play by Francisco Fernández; and Cuentos, a collection of stories by Fray Mocho, plus a number of comic sketches by Criollo authors—all of which were but incipient works of limited literary merit.
The affected version of Spanish was a logical reaction to the anti-Spanish sentiment of the Independence and the cosmopolitan influence of immigration. The popular corruption of the Spanish language and the lack of classical depth in our own romanticism prompted this academic reaction, which lacked both spontaneity and truly American roots. There was a certain anachronistic colonialism in this attitude. We were expected to speak the purified language of the Golden Century. Grammar teachers (most of whom were Spaniards) were the arbiters of a new rhetoric. Foreign feelings provided the substance, and stereotypical idioms supplied the form. We were introduced to an affected form of Spanish by [Carlos María] Ocantos in Misia Jeromita or La Ginesa, novels that he called “Argentine” but which were actually Spanish or simply colonial.
Eurindian disciplines seek to recast the legendary mystery of the Indian, the Pampas-style excitement of the Gaucho, and the idiomatic genius of the Spaniard into an aesthetic sense that includes them all as well as something universal that is embedded in the traditions of art and in the reality of life itself.
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The spiritual factory of the fatherland is symbolized here by a Shrine. The universe of its social realities (landscapes, men, and institutions), and the history of its collective ideals (science, liberty, and beauty) have all been wrought into our books. Thinkers and poets have forged this monument, which took centuries to erect. They all brought their keystone or picturesque icon in a spirit of devotion to the inspiration of the place, and left each one where it belongs, from whence it cannot be moved. The edifice as a whole appears to have been the result of an intelligent plan, more intelligent by far than the mind of man. Eurindia has explained, so far, the outlines of the plan and the hidden meaning of its allegories. But that is not enough, because it is but the first step in this process of initiation; an intellectual apprenticeship that is expressed in antinomies, in cycles, and in laws. We must advance even further, entering into the realm of our aesthetic emotions. This is what we learn when we enter this Shrine.
As in the atrium of some Arab mosques, there is a tree and a fountain at the door to our temple: the tree of life and the fountain of purification. The neophyte who has grasped the totemic mystery of the tree (another one of our symbols, which has already been explained), reaches the fountain of ablutions which allows one to forget what must be forgotten. The neophyte then passes beyond the porch and walks through the nave of the ideal basilica.
Each nave is like a vaulted hall, with vast spaces and enormous columns whose arrangement is inspired by ideograms. The corners are like Hindu pagodas, profusely decorated with universal symbols. There are hints of every style imaginable, but there is nothing that does not allude to American traditions. Human figures carved from gigantic monoliths, as in the Egyptian temple at Ipsambul [or Abu-Simbel], or like atlases in caryatids and architraves; animal bodies, monstrous fetishes, icons of outlandish beauty, placed in metopes as the Greek used to do, or in plinths in the manner of the Assyrians, or in cornices and capitals in the Gothic style. A new penumbra infuses the colossal masses; the exterior light is filtered through the elaborate windows, bringing significant images to life; and, in spite of such variety, the vast space is dominated by the Indian unity of the allegories, just as must have happened in the legendary temples of Palenque and Uxmal.
The human figures are, of course, impressive. In the nave of the primitives: the Peruvian Incas, the Indian chiefs, the Gaucho leaders. In the nave of the colonials: the Spanish conquistadors, the Christian evangelists, the founders of cities. In the nave of the patriots: the liberating heroes, the revolutionary tribunes, the organizers of the republic. In the nave of the moderns: the governors, the wise men, the artists. . . .
The neophyte recovers from his initial astonishment as he walks and contemplates all that surrounds him. He is filled with an interior light, its brilliance bathing the immense stone walls and the rare forms. Finally, all is unity and harmony in the eyes of his soul.
This basilica’s rites are derived from a religion of beauty. The Shrine itself is a monument to moral harmonies, symbolized by the visual arts. On the high altar there is a Book that explains its plan and the meaning of its forms; the neophyte who has read this Book has deciphered the poem of color and stone. He must now attend the liturgical ceremony of the arts of rhythm. For this purpose there is, in a specific place in the crossing, a magical throne bathed by the light from the cupola. From there the neophyte has an uninterrupted view of all the different spaces and the various images. Huge frescoes are painted on the walls: landscapes of the pampas, the jungle, and the mountains; portrayals of customs, historical events, and traditional characters. An ineffable music begins to play, and an olive-skinned woman, swathed in multi-colored veils, begins to dance before the throne, like Salome before the Tetrarch. . . . The woman dances a ritual of the Sun. Her gestures communicate the tradition, while the song expresses the most profound parts of our history. The symphonic poem alternates between pastoral feelings and anguished or picaresque erotic themes, followed by a hymn that culminates by extolling heroism in full pantheistic crescendo. The naivety of the folkloric melody is accentuated by the harmonization of learned intonations that are increasingly free and original. . . . The rite ends when the neophyte claims to know the meaning of Eurindia, whose truth is concealed in the mystery of art.
The aesthetic I am suggesting does not mean to impose monastic laws on art or on the country. The country should remain open to outside influences, as it once was, but should also be open to its children’s aesthetic contemplation. Art is free, as it once was, but is also emancipated by a yearning for a new sense of beauty. The secret of Eurindia should not be sought in things but in souls.
We already knew how and where to contemplate the beauty of other countries. A detailed history, learned critique, and secular glory guided the neophyte to the sacred sites of the ancient form of worship. For the new form of worship—a little schismatic, a little heretical—we were in need of a different initiation.
Eurindia does not deny the ancient law and its prophets; it actually finds support in them and—just as the Gospels were added to the Old Testament—suggests that they be added to what Europe teaches us and also to what the Americas can teach us.
The artist is a minor god, a lord of space and time, who can contemplate the whole universe at his leisure. According to one Maestro, he is free to take his inspiration where he finds it: in all of humanity, in all of history. He may gaze upon exotic or archaic vistas; he may subscribe to a classical or a romantic style of expression. Would he like to be a pointillist, an expressionist, an ultraist? He is free to be so. . . . But there is one thing that he cannot deny, and that is his own nature, which binds him to the racial group to which he belongs. In this sense, the artist is a demigod in chains. The genius is always a titan, but he is in shackles, high on the peak of a mountain, which is his country. . . . This mystery of our individual and collective being is what our American artists should search for in the tradition of the Americas. . . .
My Shrine, thus, symbolizes a place of meditation and contemplation. Latin American life, with its landscapes, its particular types, its customs, its feelings, and its ideals, is anchored there by virtue of its spiritual vision. Its geographical reality and its historical forms appear to be determined by its art. The initiate who has entered the Shrine meditates on what he finds there and senses stirring within him the intuition of a new aesthetic interest.
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1
Lima, capital of the Viceroyalty of Upper Peru, maintained a close relationship with Buenos Aires, its counterpart in the Viceroyalty of the River Plate. During the struggle for independence, the Argentine general and statesman, José de San Martin (1778–1850), declared Peru’s independence on July 28, 1821, in Lima, and took power, bestowing upon himself the title of Protector.—Ed.
2
The Imperial Villa of Potosí, in what is now Bolivia was—due to the wealth of its mineral deposits (of silver and tin)—the main trading center in what was at that time the Viceroyalty of the River Plate.—Ed.
3
In the River Plate region, “gringo” means foreigner in general and “Englishman” in particular.—Ed.
4
The Revolución de Mayo (May Revolution) overthrew the colonial Viceroyalty and appointed a Primera Junta (The First Assembly) on May 25, 1810, the date that marks the dawn of Argentine independence. —Ed.
5
The village on the outskirts of Buenos Aires where General Urquiza defeated the troops commanded by Juan Manuel de Rosas, which put an end to the latter’s dictatorship (1852).—Ed.
6
In Argentina, “montonera” is the word for guerrillas.—Ed.
7
In South America, “mazorca” is a despotic form of government junta.—Ed.