My Art, My Life

by Diego Rivera

  Ironically, the President Alemán of my heretofore objectionable composite portrait was swayed by the overwhelming public ovation to declare over the radio that I was a true artistic genius! I found this evaluation by Mexico’s chief executive most amusing—a farcical dénouement of the upheaval which had preceded it. Shortly afterward, the Mexican Government presented me with the National Prize for Plastic Art.

  As for my “blasphemous” mural, its status, until recently, remained quo. It stood in its original place on the wall of the Prado dining room screened off from the general public every day except Sunday, when it was permitted to be viewed from 10:30 A.M. until noon. Then, and only then, those who wished could study the work at their leisure. Perhaps the rule obtains; I do not know.

  In 1956, of my own free will, I decided to change Ramírez’s objectionable phrase, as a minor contribution to the cause of international and national unity (97 per cent of my countrymen are Catholic). I ordered “God does not exist” be replaced with the phrase, “Conference of Letrán, 1836.” I felt that in the intervening eight years’ time I had proved my position. I posted my wishes in the matter from the Soviet Union during my second visit to that country.

  UNDERWATER

  EARLY IN 1951 I received the most fascinating commission of my career—to paint not only my usual type of mural but one which would also endure though submerged under clear water. Unfortunately, I did not succeed in developing paints that would resist the action of water.

  At the bottom of a large reservoir, I painted varieties of protoplasmic life. These evolve, on the lower portion of the perpendicular walls, into more complex forms, culminating in a nude man and woman, the final creations of “Water, Origin of Life.” As part of this mural, I represented the workers, architects, and engineers who built the new Lerma Water Supply System, which included this reservoir. I was very proud of this creation. But in the spring of 1956, the project engineer noted that the colors were deteriorating. I don’t know how long it will be before sediment and flowing water obliterate the mural completely. I feel unhappy over the prospect of its fading away.

  As another part of the decoration of these waterworks, I did a vast horizontal mural in relief of an ancient Aztec god emerging from the slime. I was so pleased with this combination of painting and sculpture that I used the technique again in my decorations for the stadium in University City. The chief figures in this relief mural were a man and a woman racing with a white dove to a child, symbolizing the development of the physique for the purposes of peace.

  ANOTHER STORM

  IN THE LATTER PART of 1951, a new storm broke around one of my paintings. In order for it to be understood at all, I have to sketch the prevailing political and personal landscape.

  At the beginning of the administration of President Alemán, the composer Carlos Chávez, Director of the Fine Arts Institute, made plans for an exhibition of Mexican art in Europe. Chávez had the typical Mexican sense of inferiority in matters artistic, and corresponding awe toward the culture of the Old World. His hope was to impress the Old World with what the New World could produce and thus establish an international reputation for himself as well.

  Chávez’s associate in this undertaking was Fernando Gamboa of the Plastic Arts Department. Gamboa expected to gain recognition for himself as a promoter of the Mexican plastic movement in international art. He also had a more immediate purpose from which he hoped to gain—to publicize the good name of Alemán.

  Alemán was at this time ambitious to receive the Nobel Peace Prize. He also fostered hopes of ultimately succeeding Trygve Lie as Secretary General of the United Nations.

  The instigator of these dreams was the Swedish millionaire Axel Wenner-Gren. Through a stock transfer during World War II, Wenner-Gren had turned over control of Swedish steel production to the Nazis. His claim was that he had done this to save his country from invasion. The brothers Maximino and Manuel Avila Camacho, the latter President of Mexico, had, however, overlooked this questionable episode in the millionaire’s career because of his willingness to invest in Mexican industries, and welcomed him to Mexico. When Alemán took over the Presidency from Avila Camacho, he also inherited the friendship of Wenner-Gren, who promised to promote Alemán at the Swedish Academy and in the United Nations, in both of which he claimed to have influence.

  The exhibition of Mexican art planned by Chávez to be held in Stockholm would provide a marvelous backdrop for the scene of Alemán receiving the Peace Prize. And, of course, Chávez and his assistant, Gamboa, would bask in the reflected glory. They could see themselves receiving titles and decorations, not to mention money. But there was one feature of the plan which they and Alemán overlooked—Wenner-Gren was disliked by most of the decent people in Sweden.

  Also, unfortunately for them, at the moment when votes were taken for the Peace Prize, dozens of people were killed in the streets of Mexico by machine guns manned by the mounted police comprising Alemán’s personal military guard. The sound of the chattering weapons and the cries of the innocents could be heard even above Alemán’s call for peace in Korea. No wonder he was balloted out of the running, despite the fact that his was the only name which had been officially submitted.

  Chávez’s plan for the art exhibition, however, did not die with Alemán’s personal hopes. Its locus was shifted to Paris. And when the time came, Señor Gamboa and his tall, lovely American wife were dispatched there with vast treasures of Mexican art to court the approval of Mother Europe.

  As to my involvement in all this: I was requested to paint a movable mural which, after being shown in the exhibition, was to be mounted in Mexico City’s Palace of Fine Arts alongside my second “Rockefeller” mural.

  When I received this commission from the Fine Arts Institute, I was told that I had complete freedom of choice in style and subject matter. Pleased by this expression of confidence, I planned to show my gratitude by authorizing the work to be displayed not only in Paris but wherever else it might be welcome. I began to organize a collection of some of my other paintings with this in mind.

  However, I soon came to suspect that all was not as it should be. The commission allowed me only thirty-five days to work on the mural before it was sent out. Had anyone hoped to give me insufficient time to complete it, he need not have waited much longer. Examining my contract, I found none of the standard clauses regarding the failure of either party to carry out its commitments.

  Nevertheless, I went ahead with my part of the bargain. My subject matter would complement and carry forward that of the Rockefeller mural. In the latter, I had portrayed my premonitions concerning the second World War, most uncannily as it turned out, in an actual battlefield scene and in a prophecy of atomic fission. In the new fresco, against a background of hangings, burnings, shootings, and an atomic explosion, I meant to show the movement for peace which could end the threat of a third World War.

  On the very first of the thirty-five days, Chávez came to see me to set the exact dimension of my mural. As I outlined my theme, Chávez expressed his pleasure at being able to show an example of my type of painting together with such contrasting types as Tamayo’s abstractions and Siqueiros’ historical allegories.

  In the foreground of my mural, I explained to Chávez, I would portray those friends of mine who had been most active in collecting signatures for the peace petition. In addition, I said, I would include monumental portraits of Stalin and Mao Tse-tung proffering pen and peace treaty to John Bull, Uncle Sam, and Belle Marianne. I explained that in these representations of the Russian and Chinese leaders, I hoped to create symbolic figures to correspond with those of Great Britain, the United States, and France.

  Chávez was all honey and congratulations on this initial visit. But after I had worked steadily on my mural night and day for several days, I sensed a growing coolness on Chávez’s part. He began to express doubt about how the painting would be received in Europe.

  It was not, however, until the mural was nearly finished tha
t Chávez interposed the question of whether the French government itself might not take offense and cancel the entire exhibition. For that reason, Chávez explained, it was necessary for him to confer with the Minister of Education.

  Chávez reported the minister’s decision to me. My work would not be sent to Paris but exhibited only in the Palace of Fine Arts. I insisted upon the fulfillment of my contract, particularly the clauses guaranteeing me freedom of expression.

  Chávez did not answer my protest; instead he initiated a debate in the press concerning the “unwise” point of view represented in my mural. As a result, the Minister of Education adjudged my painting not only unsuitable to be shown abroad but also unacceptable for display in the Fine Arts Palace, on the ground that my subject matter would probably offend some of the big countries with which Mexico maintained amicable relations.

  I sent out an inquiry to determine whether the ambassadors of these presumably sensitive nations—Great Britain, the United States, and France—had voiced any protest thus far, but received no satisfactory reply. This left me with no recourse but to secure the individual reactions of these personages personally. The French Ambassador told me his wife had seen the mural and found nothing objectionable in it; as representative of his government, he was certain that it would take the same view. I called upon the British Ambassador and, through the first secretary of the British embassy, who had seen my painting several times, I was given a similar favorable reply.

  This left only William O’Dwyer, the American Ambassador, to be heard from. It happened that at this time I was invited to a tea party given by the wife of President Alemán. Among the guests were the American Ambassador and his wife, Sloan Simpson, as well as my old friend Carlos Chávez.

  In time the conversation lighted on my mural. Mrs. O’Dwyer rhetorically asked whether my depiction of an atomic explosion in the background wasn’t too realistic and whether I had represented American soldiers in it with sufficient sympathy. She felt my painting judged her country too harshly.

  When the party was over, Chávez, who had heretofore treated me more like a brother than a friend, relayed Mrs. O’Dwyer’s doubts to the Minister of Education, who in turn went to see Alemán, already prejudiced against my mural by his wife. Alemán, however, tossed the matter back into the laps of the Minister of Education and Chávez, who now began playing an absurd game, using me as the ball.

  Chávez came to tell me that my mural might easily ruin the entire exhibition. However, he would insist that it be shown in the Fine Arts Palace or hand in his resignation.

  The bitterness of my retort offended Chávez grievously. He reopened the controversy in the newspapers, hoping, I am sure, that the harassment would keep me from finishing my mural on schedule. But I worked harder than ever and was actually done even before the deadline. I then immediately held a public showing of the work, so that if anything wrong were seen in it, I could revise.

  Never before had a painting of mine been so enthusiastically received by the Mexican people, and particularly by the workers and peasants. Despite the fact that there was little publicity, a crowd of more than three thousand came to look at the mural between 7:00 P.M. and midnight of that first evening. Many diplomats from Latin American countries were among the visitors.

  During the showing I had the honor to receive the ambassador of the Soviet Union and the ministers of Poland and Czechoslovakia. They all congratulated me warmly, as did the President of the Mexican Peace Committee and numerous other intellectuals and politicians. Neither Chávez nor any other official of either the Fine Arts Institute or the Ministry of Public Education put in an appearance.

  However, when the show was over, some friends of mine overheard Chávez and several of his cronies plotting in a restaurant to dismantle my painting and to ask Alemán for assistance in their scheme. These friends relayed the information to partisans of mine who were guarding the painting in the Fine Arts Palace. The following day thirty troopers of Alemán’s personal security force moved into the room adjoining the one where my painting was on display.

  Frida and some of my friends, sensing trouble, urged me to leave the palace. I was terribly tired, for I had been painting for three days and nights without stopping to sleep or rest. My dear friend Dr. Ignacio Millán told me that if I didn’t let up I would certainly have a nervous breakdown. Yet I was reluctant to leave; I knew that as long as I remained at my post, it would be difficult to carry out any action against my mural.

  But Frida, who had left the hospital in a wheelchair, finally persuaded me to come away with her. She feared that violence would be used and, with the odds against me, that my life was in jeopardy. I could offer no counterarguments. Many ruthless and inhuman crimes had been effected by the people who were now ranged against me. The murders they had committed were explained away either as gangster attacks or as fatalities resulting from the victims resisting the police.

  So I went home and to bed. In the following week, I was so sick and depressed that everyone thought I would die. But thanks to Frida, I rallied and little by little regained my will to live.

  When Chávez learned that I had left the Palace, he hastened to it and ordered the police commander to have his men cut the painting down from its stretcher. Upon the latter’s refusal to commit such a felony, even at the risk of losing his job, Chávez, the famous composer and official conservator of Mexican art, heroic Chávez, with the Stalingrad Symphony or possibly the Eroica ringing in his ears, himself took knife in hand and attacked my painting. Not wanting to appear less courageous than Chávez, one of my helpers, in hopes of delaying the vandalism as long as possible, cried out that while Señor Chávez might be very expert in directing an orchestra, he wasn’t the best man to dismantle a painting. This only encouraged Chávez’s lieutenant, Fernando Gamboa, to offer his own talented hands in aid of his superior, the genius composer. As soon as the painting had been cut down, Chávez gave the order to roll it up. This done, he commanded that none of the people working in the Palace of Fine Arts follow him. He personally escorted the rolled-up canvas, borne by a pair of troopers, out of the building. Only Gamboa, his equal in courage, was permitted to go along. The canvas was taken to the basement, where it was stored in a secret place. The business was carried out as if it were of the most tremendous import—as if my painting of an atomic explosion were the atom bomb itself.

  The next day, before sunrise, Gamboa left Mexico City incognito, heading in the direction of an archeological center of pre-Hispanic ruins. Chávez, too, left the scene of his doughty deed and, certain he would receive unending favors from his master Alemán, hurried to his home in Acapulco.

  Anticipating an inquiry, Maestro Chávez had already concocted a story for the press, which must rank among the worst Hollywood movies and the trashiest crime novels. According to this tale, fifteen masked men had invaded the palace late at night, cowed the night watchman into silence with machine guns, and then cut down my painting and run off with it.

  Poor Miss Llach, Chávez’s secretary and chief of the administrative department of the Institute, brought this “news” to me in my house in Coyoacán together with a check for 30,000 pesos, which represented the balance due me of the stipulated fee of 50,000 pesos. Naturally I refused to accept the check. I also refused to permit her to leave the house before my lawyer, Alejandro Gómez Arias, could come to make an official record of the “facts” as she had stated them. Arias, a distinguished orator and man of letters, took down Miss Llach’s recitation. At the end of it, he declared that in his opinion, not only had my rights under the contract and my artistic rights in general been violated, but that I could claim damages for the theft of my painting as soon as the criminals were found.

  Furthermore, Arias declared, the case would have to be put in the hands of the Attorney General, since the Institute was no longer responsible, the robbers evidently having had no connection with its authorities. Whereupon Miss Llach declared that she herself felt a bit dubious about Chávez’s ve
rsion of the crime. She personally refused to assume any responsibility in connection with it.

  Arias then summoned a notary public to make these last statements of hers official, and then presented the case to the Attorney General. This gentleman immediately assigned two of his agents to study the matter further. He advised Miss Llach not to leave her office in the Fine Arts Palace until after the investigation had been completed.

  Two hours later I was summoned to the Attorney General’s office. Some policeman and a notary public were in attendance.

  Meanwhile, Miss Llach may have succeeded in communicating with Chávez and he, his feet chilling, had advised her to tell the truth. Perhaps, good woman that she really was, she had decided that she had had enough of dissimulation.

  In any case, in the presence of a representative of the Attorney General, the policemen, and me, Miss Llach retracted her original story—Chávez’s story. Instead she told the truth, that the painting had been cut down from its stretcher, rolled up, and hidden somewhere in the palace. She said that the act had been performed on orders received from the highest authorities of the Institute. Who precisely had issued these orders? The Minister of Education? Miss Llach answered in the negative. Señor Chávez? The answer was again “No.” There was only one highest authority left, the President of the Republic. But at this point, Miss Llach broke down and, in tears, declared that she had been commanded by Chávez not to name names under any circumstances. To this extent the matter was clarified and the entire shameful responsibility for the act placed with the Institute of Fine Arts.

  After leaving the Attorney General’s office late in the afternoon, I arranged a meeting with other painters who had been greatly agitated by my experience. It was decided that we convene a press conference the following morning at eleven o’clock in the home of Siqueiros’ sister-in-law. Representatives of all the daily papers and reviews, and many foreign correspondents, came and were given the whole story. They sent out their dispatches right from the house, and their accounts made headlines in the afternoon papers. Excelsior even brought out an extra edition.