My Art, My Life

by Diego Rivera

  “Sunday Dream,” as my mural was called, utilized such personal and national memories. In the center stood I, a boy of ten, a frog and a snake peering out of my jacket pockets. Beside me, a skeleton in woman’s dress held my hand, and my boyhood master, José Guadalupe Posada, famous for his drawings of skeletons, held her other hand under his arm. Frida, as a grown woman, stood behind me, her hand on my shoulder. On the right side of the mural, I also painted Lupe Marín beside our two adult daughters. Above them were portraits of historical figures representing the social classes of Mexico.

  One of the key scenes in my “Dream” was a portrait of Madero triumphantly proclaiming the success of the revolution against Díaz and speaking out against the corruption of the new bourgeoisie to a crowd in the park. On one side of the mural., I painted Cortés, his hands dripping with blood, beside figures representing the Inquisition at its work of torture and death; the traitor Santa Ana, surrendering the keys of Texas; and above him, the people’s hero, Benito Juárez. holding up the liberating constitution of 1857.

  Another of my portrayals was an average President of the Republic, with a composite executive face in which some saw the features of Calles, some recognized those of Ávila Camacho and others, including that gentleman himself, those of Miguel Alemán. The partisans of these politicos, feeling that I had caricatured the physiognomies of their heroes, vilified the mural.

  But the chief target of its antagonists was a brief quotation from a recorded statement by Ignacio Ramírez, which I reproduced on a scrap of paper held in his hand. It occupied a space no more than two inches high and read: “God does not exist.”

  The statement was not my own, as many people thought, but had actually been made by Ramírez when a student before an assembly of students and faculty at the Academy of Letrán, located at the south side of the park. The academy was then headed by Father Lacunza, later Archbishop of all Mexico. Ramírez had taken the position that mankind could progress only through mutual aid, and this rendered the idea of supernatural aid an absurdity.

  The faculty of the academy, most of them priests, had sought to prevent Ramírez from speaking. But Father Lacunza had overruled them in the interest of freedom of thought and expression. He had allowed Ramírez to deliver his address, which caused wild excitement in the audience.

  Father Lacunza had gone further. He called for a unanimous vote to enroll Ramírez as a regular member of the academy, maintaining that Ramírez deserved this honor for the brilliant logic and scientific knowledge he had displayed. “Besides,” he said, “God himself has permitted the birth and growth of a creature endowed with such a superior mentality. All-powerful God, if he wished, could have confounded the boy’s dialectical prowess.”

  Ramírez had delivered the lecture, Father Lacunza informed the audience, from notes made on scraps of paper, because he had been too poor to afford fresh paper. Consequently, the torn scrap Ramírez held in his hand in my mural, as well as the declaration itself, had historical authority.

  If certain people had not been deliberately seeking to provoke a scandal, this detail would have aroused little notice. It had been on the wall in the preliminary charcoal sketch for over six months without any objection being raised.

  The chief agitator in the attack on “Sunday Dream” was Torres Rivas, Manager of the del Prado Hotel. Like Pani before him, he dreamed of becoming a Mexican Rockefeller. Scion of a formerly wealthy family which had lost its money with the downfall of Díaz, Rivas sought a way of cashing in on his pretentious but otherwise worthless titles, which were almost his sole possessions.

  Rivas did not wield enough power to achieve his dream alone, but he found a powerful ally in Rogerio de la Selva, President Alemán’s personal secretary and commander of Alemán’s private guard. Selva discerned his employer’s features in my composite presidential portrait, and acted, he said, to protect the President’s dignity. He was aided by corrupt journalists whom he used as his mouthpieces.

  On his authority as Alemán’s secretary, Selva mobilized a private civilian army of the student sons of the nouveau riche. These privileged hoodlums entered his service as a means of advancing in their political careers. In varying disguises, including the regalia of Jesuits and Knights of Columbus, they organized demonstrations against my painting and me, chanting through the streets:

  “Does He exist?”

  “Long live Jesus Christ!”

  “Death to Diego Rivera!”

  Some went so far as to throw stones through the windows of my studio in San Angel and my home in Coyoacán.

  Taking advantage of the uproar, Rivas used this occasion to ask the Archbishop of Mexico to confer his benediction upon the new hotel building and upon my mural. As Rivas anticipated, the Archbishop refused and Rivas added this fact to his argument.

  A nephew of Rivas, seeking a thrill and who knows what favors from his uncle, plotted more direct action. With three schoolmates belonging to Los Conejos, a secret fraternity of clerical and reactionary students, he stole into the hotel dining room and scratched out Ramírez’s provocative quotation.

  At the time, friends of mine and I were attending a banquet given to honor Frances Toor for her excellent writings on Mexican folklore, and Fernando Gamboa, head of the city’s Plastic Arts Department, for his work in collecting valuable Mexican paintings.

  When news of the vandalism was brought to me at the banquet, I got up at once to protect my mural. My friends, feeling that the best answer to the act was a protest demonstration right in the Prado, followed me into the street.

  Señor Rivas’ nephew’s action constituted more than an attack upon my artistic property rights. At that time, together with Orozco and Siqueiros, I was an executive director of the board of the Fine Arts Department. An important part of the board’s responsibility was to protect painters and their works from unwarranted attacks. Consequently, this wanton defacement of my mural was symbolically an outrage against the rights of every artist.

  The cream of Mexico’s intellectuals, young and old, marched into the Prado in a picturesque protest demonstration. While I set to work restoring Ramirez’s quotation, Orozco, Siqueiros, and the bitterly eloquent popular writer Revueltas harangued the startled hotel guests.

  The uniformed police did not dare to intervene, but some plainclothesmen were sent over to watch us. They remained motionless, probably having been instructed to do nothing unless there was violence.

  “Operation Schoolboy” having failed, a government-employed carpenter was called upon a few days later to repeat the mutilation. This poor devil was given the alternative of carrying out the unpleasant assignment or losing his job. As he was instructed, he scratched out not only the offending quotation but also my face in the painting.

  Again I repaired the damage.

  In the final analysis, every official concerned in this affair failed in his obligation not only to enforce the established laws applying to the protection of artistic property and freedom of expression, but in maintaining official dignity and authority. The two separate acts of vandalism directly challenged the Fine Arts Department, the Ministry of Public Education, the Attorney General, and the President of the Republic. Yet not a single public official showed the courage to act as his duty required. Instead there were apologies and pretexts, and a few officials tried to buy me off with well-paying commissions to paint portraits of the wives of prominent Mexicans. An architect who held an important office in the Ministry of Public Health proposed that I change Ramírez’s “God does not exist” to the single word “Confidence.” I refused to permit this ridiculous and craven travesty upon historical truth.

  For a long time after the two assaults, the newspapers filled columns with scurrilous attacks upon me. The fact that I wasn’t lynched by an overstimulated mob was assuredly no fault of theirs. They tried their best.

  The hotel owners, balked in their vandalism, finally hit upon a safe, typically hypocritical “moderate” solution; they covered my mural with a movable scr
een. Made of white nylon, the screen could be pulled aside for any distinguished guests who desired to see the notorious painting. And, as it turned out, these guests invariably gave large tips to the hotel guides—a boon to employer-employee relations.

  CARDINAL DOUGHERTY DEFENDS

  A FEW MONTHS after this “solution” has been effected, Dennis Cardinal Dougherty, Archbishop of Philadelphia, came to Mexico City, accompanied by about forty other distinguished Catholics who were making a pilgrimage to honor the Virgin of Guadalupe. Cardinal Dougherty took lodgings in the Hotel del Prado. One of his first requests, after checking into his room, was to see my mural. He apparently liked it so much that he returned to look at it fourteen times afterwards.

  Upon learning of the Cardinal’s repeated visits to my mural, the stockholders of the hotel began to feel extremely uneasy. Meeting together to discuss this unforeseen development, they decided to ask the Cardinal to join them in viewing the mural once more. What this was supposed to accomplish, I never could figure out.

  The Cardinal replied that he would be happy to see the work again.

  My esteemed friend Carlos Obregón, architect of the Prado, witnessed what transpired between the Cardinal and the owners in the hotel’s dining room that day. I first heard the story from Carlos Chávez, General Director of the Fine Arts Department, who had heard it from Obregón. Afterwards Obregón himself confirmed what Chávez had told me. In addition, two participants, a hotel executive and one of the stockholders, recounted their observations to me. Each of these reports agreed with the others.

  After the screen was removed, the Cardinal turned to his hosts and thanked them for the opportunity to study my mural once more. “I like this Rivera painting very much,” he said. “I have always had a special taste for mural paintings. Why? Before the Good Lord graced me with the inspiration to become His servant, I had dreamed of becoming a mural painter myself. After having attained my priesthood, I usually spent my vacations in travel, seeking out, studying, and enjoying murals. Therefore it is no wonder that I am familiar with the work of Rivera both here and in the United States, and I must tell you how much I have always appreciated and revered his art.

  “I would also like to say that not only do I consider this mural the best Rivera has done but that it is also one of my favorites among all murals. In fact, I think it is as good as any mural I have ever seen anywhere in the world. I also happen to know the writings of Señor Ramírez and have admired the truly Catholic mind of Father Lacunza, head of the old Academy of Letrán. He was not only a beacon of the Mexican Church but of the entire world of Catholicism where ‘Catholic’ retains its meanings of ‘universal’ and ‘tolerant.’ ”

  At this, panic and consternation showed in the faces of the stockholders and especially on that of the Prado’s manager, Torres Rivas, who saw his prestige plummeting. In a desperate effort to rehabilitate himself, he risked interrupting the Cardinal.

  “But Your Eminence, His Eminence, the illustrious Archbishop of Mexico, had denied his benediction to the hotel because of the blasphemous phrase painted by Rivera into his mural.”

  The Cardinal stopped Rivas with a motion of his hand. “In the first place, the sentence quoted by Señor Rivera is a historical quotation and entirely unrelated to the Church itself. In the second, it alludes to an incident which only proves how open the mind of a fine man of the Mexican Church was as long ago as 1836; of course I refer to Father Lacunza. The defamatory acts and attitudes shown in the recent attacks upon this work of art, created by a man receiving his talent directly from God Himself, are in my opinion not only a violation of the most important concepts of the Catholic Church, but in opposition to the policies laid down by His Holiness, the Pope.

  “You perhaps know that in augmentation of my position as a Catholic Archbishop, under the guiding jurisdiction of His Holiness, I have also been appointed by the College of Cardinals as Chief Director of the Santo Oficio, the supreme theological body of the Church. You can easily understand that I am well versed in many matters concerning the Church and its ministers. The situation which followed upon Rivera’s execution of this work is deplorable. In my opinion, the Archbishop of Mexico allowed himself to be used in a plot, just as the devil tempted Our Lord Jesus Christ centuries ago.

  “I am also aware, Señor Rivas, of the part you personally played in this ill-conceived affair, bringing not only yourself but many other Catholics of good faith to act in a manner which departs from the meritorious standards ordained by His Holiness, the Pope. Those who co-operated with you in desecrating a worthy work of art do not deserve the right to call themselves Catholics, and the blame falls upon you. You have also instigated people outside the realm of the Catholic Church to commit the same desecration.

  “For these reasons, Señor Rivas, despite your publicized protestations that you are a good Catholic, I must inform you that absolution for your act requires much penance on your part. What you have done not only maligns the good name of the Catholic Church but is disruptive of civilized life in general.”

  When the Cardinal had done speaking, Torres Rivas was in tears. He sat down quietly in a chair, his head bowed, covering his face with trembling hands.

  Before leaving, the Cardinal turned briefly to the other men in the group. “Gentlemen, I refuse to offer any opinion regarding the matter of the benediction of this building simply because I have great respect for the Archbishop of Mexico. In my country, however, no priest of Christ has ever given his benediction to any commercial building or enterprise.”

  Whereupon Cardinal Dougherty nodded, signifying his intention to depart. His hosts, shocked into speechlessness, silently followed him out of the room.

  One thing more. Many Mexican newspapers and magazines were given this story but not one dared to publish it, probably because it might place me in a favorable light. United States press correspondents in Mexico similarly failed to consider it “news.”

  AFTERMATHS

  As A CURIOUS AFTERMATH of the Prado affair, a Mexican representative of a well-known American private detective agency, mainly employed in guarding the lives and property of millionaires from the States, laid a unique proposition before me. He approached me indirectly through my dear friend Dr. Arenal (sister-in-law of Siqueiros), who relayed the offer. This gentleman declared that his firm would give me five years of complete protection for myself, my paintings, and my property, in return for permitting my name to be listed as one of his company’s clients.

  To Dr. Arenal, he explained that he was making his proposal through her because his organization had ascertained that between her and myself there existed a high degree of mutual felicity. Its reports about our relations, in fact, indicated that no one else at the time was dearer to me than she. Calmly ignoring this last, Dr. Arenal refused to broach the matter with me unless she learned the true motives for the company’s generosity.

  Her visitor then replied, “We have estimated that the publicity received by the del Prado Hotel through Señor Rivera’s mural was worth $3,230,000 at prevailing space rates. This is about half the value of the entire plant together with all its furnishings. We are convinced that to have Rivera as one of our clients would be a publicity asset. We have asked you to be our intermediary as a way of proving to Señor Rivera that we are accurately informed about his private life. Thus,” the man concluded smugly, “he will have a free demonstration of our efficiency.”

  When Dr. Arenal relayed the offer to me, I rejected it at once. The relationship between Dr. Arenal and myself by which he “proved” his agency’s merit was simply nonexistent. I wish it had been otherwise. Dr. Arenal is an intelligent, charming, and beautiful woman, but alas, she has never been to me what her “well-informed” visitor declared.

  The Fine Arts Institute, which had done nothing to protect my rights in the fracas over “Sunday Dream,” meanwhile organized a retrospective exhibit of the work I had done in the last fifty years. The idea was hit upon, I am sure, as a means of pacifying and com
pensating me. The directors of the Institute may also have expected that, because of changing art trends, the show would prove a flop. If so, they must have been very much disappointed. From the evening of the premiere to its close, a continuous stream of enthusiastic viewers literally jammed the Palace of Fine Arts, which housed the show.

  While I was preparing for the exhibition, I gave Frida another bad time. I had fallen in love with the movie actress Maria Felix. I not only planned to center my show around a life-sized portrait I had painted of her, but I took steps toward a second divorce. Frida suffered deeply. And needlessly, as it turned out. For Maria not only refused to marry me, but for reasons of her own, having nothing to do with our personal relations, refused to lend me her portrait for the exhibit.

  So I was left with my injured feelings, one blank wall, and a wife who was miserable and hurt. Within a short space of time, however, everything was well again. I got over my rejection by Maria. Frida was happy to have me back, and I was grateful to be married to her still. And the painting I used in place of María’s portrait attracted far more attention than the latter would have. It was a tremendous, provocative, life-size nude of the poetess Pita Amor.

  In all respects, the show which opened in the summer of 1949 was a huge success. Collectors from all over the world loaned their Riveras, including, oddly enough, Nelson Rockefeller and Mrs. John D. Rockefeller, Jr. It was gratifying to think that in spite of our past differences, the echoes of which had reverberated around the globe, the Rockefellers still considered me an artist worthy of attention.