MUSINGS: Robert Capa & the Act of Memory

In our increasingly transient, ephemeral age, the act of actively remembering, of going out of our way to remember, precisely and deliberately, is more important than ever. In this way, maybe remembering can be one of our greatest acts of resistance. 

Transcript

Anyone who knows of the Spanish Civil War has heard of Robert Capa; almost all photographers - Spanish Civil War or not, also know of him. Capa was a foundational figure for photojournalism, in particular during the Spanish Civil War, where his photo of the Falling Soldier captured - in theory at least - the moment that Federico Borrell Garcia was shot in the head. Theories have emerged in the recent past which questioned whether the photo was potentially staged, but irrespective, there is little doubt as to Capa’s broader significance. 

More recently, however, another controversy has emerged, this time relating to another famous photo of his, one which focuses on the Madrid site of one of his most important pictures. The photograph shows the outside of a house in the working-class Vallecas district of Madrid. All around is rubble, and the facade of the house is pockmarked from ordnance and shrapnel. Three children sit smiling on the pavement, another older one stands in the doorway of the blasted out building. It’s an amazing picture because of the juxtaposition of the children, seemingly carefree, with the horror of war, and it flew across the world’s media in the late 1930s, confirming what everyone suspected, that the dictator Francisco Franco was being supported in aerial warfare by Hitler and Mussolini. 

More recently, the house has become the focus of an argument, as to whether or not it should be preserved as a place of historical memory. Plans had been in place to turn the site into a modern-day celebration of Capa’s work and legacy, with a particular focus on the bombing which took place in the area during the Spanish Civil War, but Madrid’s current right-wing city council has altered the plan and propose to make the house into a youth center. It’s a decision which has generated a lot of anger, and - once again - garnered international attention. 

The International Center of Photography, which is the international custodian of Capa’s work, legacy and related projects, has wholeheartedly objected to the change, issuing a statement in which they say that while they “deeply respect the value of social work, Peironcely 10 (the address of the house) is an irreplaceable site of universal historical significance.” They continue, by saying that they “will NOT authorise, endorse, or permit the use of Robert Capa’s name, image, or photographic legacy for any centre, exhibition, or project located at Peironcely 10 that is not led, approved, and managed in full agreement with the Save Peironcely 10 platform. Any attempt to associate the name of Robert Capa with this new municipal plan will lack international backing and institutional legitimacy”.

There you have it. It reminds us of how politics today (it was always thus, but seems especially pronounced now) is hyper-attuned to the power of memory, and is continually engaged in an attempt to subvert events and historical perspectives. There’s that old line, from Milan Kundera, from his 1980 novel, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, which says: “The struggle of man against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting.” And perhaps because we live in an increasingly transient, ephemeral age, the act of actively remembering, of going out of our way to remember, precisely and deliberately, is more important than ever.

In this world of ours, maybe remembering can be one of our greatest acts of resistance.