OUR “INVESTIGATION INTO AMERICAN ART” ENDED in our last edition, at lease officially. Unofficially, it would be good if every American were to continue with his own personal inquiry. As Jaime Torres Bodet [SEE DOCUMENT II.2.1] said in response to our survey, that those “who have not searched their conscience to find answers to these important questions are—in artistic terms, at least—living a part-time life, a borrowed life as it were.” In this search, as in all such searches, we find fragments of what we were looking for as well as new things to investigate. The latter could be more valuable than the former as nothing makes up for partial [success] more than those new unexpected findings.
Not as many friends as we would have wished accompanied us on this exploration of our cultural possibilities. The survey is a type of journalistic endeavor that has few supporters in informed sectors. It has descended into the same plane of disdain as interviews and competitions. Almost every writer who thinks he “has arrived” begins by not responding to surveys, not granting interviews, and not attending competitions. In reality we are a little unfair to these surveys. They are meant to encourage a group of writers to rethink certain topics. But are they rigid? A questionnaire is not rigid except for those dogmatic souls who believe that truth can be found in the “yes, father” and “no, father” of catechisms. José Antonio Ramos [SEE DOCUMENT II.2.5] gave proof of the ease with which an agile spirit can move through a questionnaire when he gave the most personal and emotional response to our “Investigation”. . . . It is no small thing to have brought together a dozen collaborators to this issue, an old one to be sure, but updated by the unanimous desire to present our spiritual profile to the world with lines as distinct as those of geography. If our survey has created or recreated the problem of American art for more than one man on the continent; if, apart from those responses given for publicity, more than one reading of [“1928” and] “1929” has answered the questions posed with inquisitive gravity, then our purpose was fulfilled. . . .
[José] Martí identified the problem when he said that in America “the struggle is not between civilization and barbarism, but rather between false scholarship and nature.” Our literature is full of both good and bad scholarship. Our true talents are not applied to the interpretation of our landscape, affairs and men, but rather to the fastidious confection of more or less elegant pastiches. It is not that we lack an American instinct, or our own vision, or that our senses have ceased to be passionately moved by these lands. It is that [the task] is given to men of letters (the bad thing about America is that it places “the man of letters” in opposition to “the man of men”), and thus we scorn our ability to be moved deeply by things. We do not possess primitive man’s prolific wonder before the sunset or the reflection of the moon on the Amazon; instead we renounce everything that is spontaneous in us in order to adopt the European patterns we learned at the academy, at university, or in a book.
The American concern to which we allude in our “Investigation” is deeper and more dear, more deliberate if you will, although this word comes already tainted by intellectualism. In truth, we must now concern ourselves with becoming a new breed of American, if our America would —as [Jorge] Mañach [SEE DOCUMENT II.2.8] said—“The Americas still wish to make a substantial contribution to the task of the worlds. Not to be adjectival and dispensable; not to live a borrowed life.” This is not simply a question of aesthetics, but of the highest cultural policy. In established nations that are already firmly structured, this problem does not exist. But [it does exist] for new countries, where all efforts should be directed toward the creation of a strong national character. There are two paths to creating our own culture: [we could] spontaneously give birth to geniuses, who in each generation would undermine the great European tradition by making themselves part of the spiritual foundations of our world, or we could shape our personality with modest, yet genuine contributions. It is obvious that this second path is more viable than the first. If a genius were to arise, he would leave his mark; but we cannot ask our “golden middling men” to renounce all dangerous emulation in order to impose their own personal contributions.
American culture cannot be said to exist while the thought and art of its natives are subordinate to Europe; that is, while they copy states of mind, lifestyles, and ethical, political and social opinions alien to the American conscience or even in conflict with it. Europe will not be able to look upon us with respect while we live spiritually beneath their tutelage. . . . Europe cannot be interested in listening to itself as it echoes through our mountains. America, for its part, cannot be so lacking in initiative that it renounces its own work and slavishly emulates Europe. Now the time has come for transatlantic ships sailing from our ports to carry forth the spiritual treasure of America, just as galleons once left laden with its gold and silver. . . . A Spanish musicologist, Adolfo Salazar, wisely surmised the problem. “Under what conditions—one might ask—would the cure of American exoticism be beneficial to Europe?” And the response: “Only when America is considered exotic and not an extension of Europe.” Why should we not begin by becoming exotic to each other? It is a very sad thing for our dignity that European artists and critics should be the ones to remind us of our duty not to continue as mere extensions of Europe.
And for us not to remain so, we must take up the cause of America. Even more: America must move us “to the guts of our soul,” to use [the Basque writer and philosopher Miguel de] Unamuno’s expression. At every moment, but above all, at the moment of creation. Because we usually feel ourselves to be Americans at every moment, except at the moment of artistic birth. And so our tree, the flam-boyán, continues to seek its self-satisfaction in our lands!
. . . . That which is human seems to be the result of immersion in what is your own, in that which is traditional. When [Ricardo] Güiraldes wrote his Don Segundo Sombra, Argentina was thrust onto the world stage, not in a leap of abstraction, but carried forth on the pampero wind, firmly human, whole, full of character. He achieved a great human creation based on the Argentine man, and the humanity of Don Segundo Sombra can be found in its universal Argentine character. Christ became a man in order to be God. We must become every day more nationalistic in order to be more cosmic. By loving our own, we will love other peoples as well. I do not believe another formula for universalism exists.
The “American essence” reveals itself, always present within the fortunate range of our physiognomy. Inner characteristics engender patterns of thought and feeling and common ideals and aspirations. [These are] ties stronger than language, race, geography, and history. Above all there is a marvelous equality before destiny, the most powerful of connections. The peoples living South of the Rio Grande must adopt a common continental attitude before such problems as Yankee imperialism—our common enemy—, the question of mestizaje—be it from the mixture of the indigenous or black races with the Spanish, Italian, or the Chinese—and also with respect to the European or North American interpretations, which are generally defective due to a lack of knowledge or excessive greed. This attitude would be advisable as much for Americans from the Antilles as for those from Tierra del Fuego. . . .
In short, we want an art of the people for America, but not an art of the common people. Popular art is traditional, intimately joined to that which Unamuno calls “the eternal tradition” of the people. We should nourish ourselves on this tradition instead of taking the risk of living a parasitic life. . . . Popular art is not common, although these two notions can become confused, especially among the common people. Martín Fierro is popular. The latest tango by Martínez or Pérez is trivial.
An American art that does not have its roots firmly in the people, whatever technique it might employ, would be adventitious. One would have to search for its roots in Paris, Rome, or Moscow. Would this imply narrow-mindedness, isolation? Quite the contrary: [it implies] free concurrence. To focus narrowly on your own belly button evolves into sterile quiescence. And what America needs is militancy, struggle. . . . Only an opposition of contrasts can make our Americanism stand out. Thus I cannot conceive of any attitude other than an ambitious and intelligent curiosity toward the European influence.
We must rid ourselves of that childish fear of becoming diluted in the vastness of the universe before which we feel we must build a wall of stone and mortar. Forget about any new walls of China. The whole world is small before our youthful curiosity. All of it fits into the quiver of the Native or the peasant. We must not fear bleeding to death in the world; our youth guarantees a constant abundance of red blood cells. . . . We must open the doors so that the air may circulate: both inside and out. In this as in many other cases, Martí pronounced the rule: “We must make our republics part of the world, but our republics must remain our foundation.”