II.1.7 DIGITAL ARCHIVE 832022
After returning to his native Uruguay from Europe in 1934, artist Joaquín Torres-García (1874–1949) devoted himself to developing and propagating his theories on Constructive Universalist art. Torres-García wrote Lesson 132 in June 1941, in between the 1940 dissolution of the Asociación de Arte Constructivo (AAC) and his founding of the Taller Torres-García in 1943. Here, he establishes that the process of finding America’s vernacular aesthetic expression is foremost one of self-awareness. Offering the poet Walt Whitman as an example, Torres-García argues that each artist must first locate himself in the context of America before articulating the unique structure of his vital craft. The text is part of Universalismo constructivo, an anthology of lectures the artist delivered during the early 1940s in which he established the theoretical foundations for a new American sensibility. The manuscript was first published in 1941 [“Lección 132. El hombre americano y el arte de América,” (Montevideo: Ediciones la Regla de Oro, June 1941)] and included in Universalismo constructivo of 1944 [(Buenos Aires: Editorial Poseidon)]. This version is excerpted from a 1984 reprint [Joaquín Torres-García, Universalismo constructivo (Madrid: Alianza Editorial), vol. 2, 726–32].
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VERY WELL THEN: the problem of art in the Americas is a momentous one whose resolution demands extraordinary ability, in every sense of the word. . . . So, with no further ado, to go straight to the heart of the matter, an overall solution might be as follows: a theory that expresses a general idea that, on one hand, embraces all the art produced everywhere on the continent and, on the other, includes, in appropriate proportions, everything local that should be included without negating the first requisite.
In terms of the first category, the American man and the art of the Americas would be governed by an abstract rule (a structural concept that would cover all aspects of the problem of the visual arts). In the second, appropriate criteria must be established to determine how the living should be combined with the rest in order to create a perfectly harmonious balance. This would encourage the local to contemplate the universal and would lead, in the short term, to the creation of great, powerful art and, in the long term, to the development of an art that is truly ours: the future art of the Americas. . . .
I know that we cannot change ourselves overnight or create a whole new structure of art on a whim; that is something that takes time and, sometimes, fortunate circumstances. In other words, we should not expect to create all this artificially. It is also true that we are well aware that, so far, we have done nothing but imitate. And that we must decide to do something different right now, or admit our impotence. We are therefore beginning to wake up to that idea; we are also aware that we are different from the Europeans, so we must take that into account as well. . . .
At a recent conference I referred to Walt Whitman as a pure example of the new man of the Americas. We should use that idea as a point of reference and a point of departure. . . . That is, we should forget about the Old World and devote all our hopes and energies to creating this new culture that must be developed here. We should forget about those artists and schools, forget about that literature and philosophy; we must purge ourselves, renew ourselves, and learn to think in terms of the life that now surrounds us. . . . If we hope to achieve those goals, then it is obvious that we must begin by embodying them; in other words, we must become that new spirit that we wish to see expressed in our works. We must therefore remake ourselves to some extent, and to do so we must begin by thinking differently because a new way of thinking can make us immune to outside influences. So, let us forget about authors and teachers who are no longer of any use to us, since there is nothing they can tell us about what we must discover within ourselves.
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How should we write? We must learn how. How should we paint? We must discover how. Let us have no more precedents and no more obstacles to creation and expression. We should let nothing scare us. The only thing we should be scared of is backsliding to what we have already learned—poor imitations, voluntary or involuntary plagiarism, European prejudice; we should be scared of the cozy support of all that is venerated and acclaimed. If we have occasionally criticized all that, it was out of pure petulance and because we had nothing with which to compete, and we still have nothing.
. . . And now I must warn you that no academic statement is a rule. A rule should be something eternal, universal; and, furthermore, it should be based on the structure of mankind (which, in turn, is based on the structure of the universe). This is the only rule we can accept. To plagiarize current European masters or to plagiarize those of classical times is the same thing—that’s not what we must do; what we must do is find the American man and the art of the Americas. So, with an abstract rule like this, an eternal, absolute rule as I mentioned, we can express the reality of our surroundings and the reality of our being.
. . . Do you write? Then speak to me about the language, about its structure (its construction), immerse yourself in words, search for rhythm, count, measure. And when you have absorbed all that you will, without realizing it, express what you see on the street and the ideas that occur to you as a result. Because those who write begin with words; words are their starting point, rather than reality, as some believe. And an art of our own must, above all, be based on our own structure.
Do you paint? Then speak to me most of all about the values of the visual arts; speak to me also about structure, whether based on mathematics or geometry or intuition, but always about construction. Speak to me about geometry, because we will only find our own voice if we start there rather than with reality. For this is where all this—this plastic event—will take shape, and we will use it to express its form. . . .
The American man and the art of the Americas are always considered the precedent, as though they could justify our art or our social life. If we eventually reject all that and approach everything anew, from a different perspective, and attempt to rebuild it as something different, we should never attempt it with a Pan American goal in mind. Because we are in a different business—not that we have anything against intercontinental politics of that kind. . . .
I am aware that there are currents that flow through the world and identify particular periods. It has always been so. And when a well-defined style appears, it is used everywhere and is adapted according to local realities. We can therefore not presume to ignore this worldwide current. But, what can we do? Well, we can do this: we can be part of the current, but we must not adapt whatever it brings as this or that author has done, but rather as though it were being used for the first time, according to our own system or method; in other words, in a way that is totally new and original.
As you can tell, I am talking about the same thing again—about structure. It does not matter whether we are discussing literary, musical, or visual arts, because creation arises from structure. We must first find the idea, which is the key to how we will construct, how we will structure a given situation; we must find the crux of the matter that will give the work its originality and its unity. And this must be our entire focus, as everything else is secondary. So, we must be constructive. And now, forgive me for referring to myself. This has indeed always been my only focus, and though I have worked in avant-garde areas I have never been tagged, as others have, with an “ism” of some kind, which has been acknowledged by more than one able critic. So, would it be possible for a painter who is exposed to the same current that influenced [Paul] Cézanne or [Pablo] Picasso to do something different with it, to explore the trend for his own purposes? What is he looking for? A way of making (since, what is art but using certain rules to make things?), which is in turn a structure that the painter must find. This is why I have said on other occasions that where there is no construction, there is no art. That is what distinguishes the creator. Very well then, if we go about it that way (as Whitman does), a new form of art will appear here in the Americas. . . .
Two artists stand on either side of a wall. They both seek the same thing, but each one, in his attempt to say the same thing, has found a different structure. They will produce two works that are essentially identical, but are different in terms of their architecture. Both works will have been constructed, and will therefore be powerful expressions of the visual arts. . . . Start by thinking for yourself. Analyze; observe. Be aware of things, and of yourself. And remember, above all, that artist means constructor (regardless of whether the artist is a poet, musician, architect, or painter). Yes, constructor. And then? You must remember that the first thing to know, the first skill to acquire is the art of construction (please forgive the pleonasm, since art and construction are the same thing). That way, when you take possession of the rule (a term which I believe includes the entire range of constructive science), then, and only then, will you be an artist. And that rule must be yours; that is, your abstract concept will have adapted it to your particular constructive need. Every great teacher had his own rule. And currently, which artist carries on [according to] his own rule? Well then, today, as we focus on the problem of art in the Americas, what we need more than anything else is that indispensable tool for our work. Without it, we will never come up with anything worthwhile. . . .
We don’t want to say, “Let’s destroy everything, let’s start a revolution, let’s create something new.” The future artist of the Americas will exist when each of us is prepared to do everything for himself: to draw water from the spring in his own bowl. Otherwise, there’s no point in painting typical scenes or local color, since a work like that will neither be yours nor belong to America. So, refuse to borrow from European methods or procedures. If you do that, what will you have? A void, nothing. Yes, undoubtedly, but that is where you must work, in that void. You have the rule (which will be yours), and the natural environment where you live (which is also yours), and [the worker] himself; that is how the artist of the Americas will come into being.
. . . Every country has its alphabet and its words; it also has the rhythm and music of its speech, which is the structure of its language. What creates this constructive rhythm? It is purely and simply the expression of something in the soul of the people, rising up from their most personal way of being. In other words, it is an expression of a vital, defining quality of a particular people. A similar structure will be found in their dances, their music, in their way of going about things. . . . But we must attempt something more than that; what we are seeking is the expression of a new man: the man of the Americas. It is not about folklore or local color, but rather something much larger that must include the thousand races of this new continent. And, for now, what can best define this man is that he looks to the future. He wants to be; he wants to grow. He knows that he will be and therefore is expectant. He trusts in his future. . . . A structure will therefore have to emerge from his desire, from his vital self, and not from his thinking—a new vision for a new world. He will need another dimension through which to see things, another proportion, another rhythm, another structural coordination. And as a result, his mind will have to define itself.
All this is taking place at deep levels, and no one can accelerate what time must create. One thing, however, must be done: if we cannot proceed positively, we can and we should proceed negatively: let us eliminate everything we have acquired, everything we have borrowed, let us create a void, as I mentioned earlier. Because, though we know who we are not, we do not know who we are. For now, to be nothing is more interesting than pretending to be something we are not. We have that void. Let us temporarily begin to build in it, using logical, universal forms in which, little by little, the essential will be ignited. The poet’s (or musician’s) little room, the painter’s studio, are now naked. There is nothing on the table but the tools of their trade. The poet, the musician, and the painter stand before the open window, looking into the distance, waiting for news from . . . who knows where.