they shall not pass

My early morning free association Google search took me to an interesting place today, one very close to my family history. Looking for some good photojournalism exhibits to check out this weekend, I came across Shots of War: Photojournalism During the Spanish Civil War. While I was very familiar with Robert Capa's series, and his famous "Death of a Loyalist Militiaman," I did not realize that this particular period of time was such a turning point for war photography. Newly intrigued, I began looking into what other information might be found, specifically, information about the Abraham Lincoln Brigade, the group of American volunteers that fought as part of a larger anti-fascist, anti-Franco International force. And much to my surprise and joy, I found this photograph of my great-Uncle, who served as a Lieutenant after stowing away on a large freighter in late 1937, violating U.S. neutrality laws to join the fight. This photo is just one of almost 2,000 that The Tamiment Library & Robert F. Wagner Labor Archives has online. Their archives include the works of the 15th International Brigade Photo Unit, under the supervision of Harry W. Randall, Jr., covering the ALB's daily activities, combat missions, and portraits. It's incredible stuff, and I can't wait for the opportunity to sift through it more closely.

Thinking about this time as a whole, you also realize what a wealth of creative expression--in forms never seen before--was coming out of the period. And it was art and writing that was alive with relevance, often literally, coming from the frontlines. There was, of course, Hemingway, who I rather not consider much in this space. But, there was also George Orwell, who went to Spain in 1936 to report, but wound up joining the militia; and Pablo Neruda, who acted in a diplomatic role as well as serving in the International Brigades, while still finding time to write his stunning collection of poems entitled España en el Corazón about the war. And the tragedy of Federico Garcia Lorca, whose writings, opinions, and sexual preference earned him "enemy of the state" status, which resulted in his brutal murder at the hands of Franco's falangists. And the art. Picasso's Guernica, Miró's "Black & Red Series," the graphic power of the political posters, and even by the children.

It all has me wondering where the writers and artists of this time are. And why they seem to have so little say. Can anyone imagine Rick Moody or Jonathan Franzen taking up arms in Darfur or even just going there to bear witness? To use their (sometimes questionable) talent for something other than the hope of their next NEA grant? Franzen who sends his characters to "hip" places in Europe while holing up in his apartment for close to a year? And Moody, who could only think to write about his trip to D.C. on 9/11? Are we really to be satisfied with the too-clever-by-half McSweeney's (thankfully, no, not all of us) and the end of irony? Flower puppies and elephant dung? Is this really it? Perhaps I've missed some movement somewhere, but if so, they're keeping a very low profile. I understood (to a degree) the paralyzed silence after September 11. But, it seems to me that those who complain about the lack of good fiction, art, and music, etc., are missing the point. Artists no longer consider their voice outside of their own heads, and don't want to take a stand from their position in this world. In interviews, Franzen has even said as much:

"The way I understand things now, the culture serves the novelist, the novelist doesn't serve the culture. If I happen to choose to weave various strands of our contemporary social fabric into the story I'm telling, I do it because it helps the characters feel alive and vital to me, not because I think the novelist has some duty to report on society. What matters is that the book work as a book."

Every generation has had its creative dissidents, from WWI to Vietnam. I'm not just referring to the lack of American artists, either, it's worldwide artistic ennui and navel-gazing, our current "intelligentsia" prefer to preen and pick at each other. I never read or hear of any outrage (and lord knows there's no shortage of things to be outraged about) resulting in action or a point of view that isn't framed by "IMHO." And now that Lewis Lapham is leaving Harper's, there really is no hope. Distressing, really.

For his efforts, upon returning from Spain, my Uncle became a fugitive. He wound up in hiding for the rest of his life, from the FBI and various other government groups. He worked as a printer and signmaker, moving frequently, living on the most remote farms or hunter's lodges in the mountains of upstate New York. Usually off dirt roads, a mile from his nearest neighbor, in towns with names like Deposit. He died in 1981. He never liked his picture taken, and until today's find, there were just two that I knew of. The one shown above, where he is trying to hide behind me, taken in 1973, and another of him in Spain that was published in the book The Lincoln Battalion, by Edwin Rolfe back in 1938. I'm hoping that while going through the collection at Tamiment that I find some more.

"Painting is not done to decorate apartments. It is an instrument of war."
-- Pablo Picasso