Abstract
This
article seeks to explore the various ways in which the
poets Seamus Heaney and Ciaran Carson have creatively
responded to a painting by the Spanish artist Francisco
Goya entitled: 'Shootings of the Third of May 1808' (1814),
by transplanting it into the medium of poetry. I will
argue that in 'Summer 1969' (Heaney North, 1971)
and 'The Third of May, 1814' (Carson Breaking News,
2003), both poets dislocate categories of time and space
in order to produce a poetic translation that projects
Goya's Spanish shootings onto the political conflict of
Northern Ireland at the time of the Troubles.
In
the twilight of what was going to be denominated artistic
Modernism, Charles Baudelaire, in his visionary criticism,
‘The Saloon of 1846’, asserted:
Memory
is the great criterion of art; art is a kind of mnemotechny
of the beautiful. Now exact imitation spoils a memory[…]
A memory is equally thwarted by too much particularization
as by too much generalization” (Baudelaire 1995: 84).
Through
his appreciation of painting and arts in general, which
was conceived even before T. S. Eliot’s revolutionary
essay ‘Tradition and Individual Talent’, the poet called
the critics’ attention to the relationship between specific
aesthetic features which are likely to last and others
which are prone to get lost due to their historical transitoriness.
He affirms that they contain in themselves an element
of the absolute and of the particular. By the end of the
article, he concludes that in all centuries people had
their own idea of whether or not a piece of art was considered
beautiful, though he emphasises that artists and critics
must turn to a ‘new and special beauty’ that exists
in the life of the cities, which configures ‘modern beauty’
[…]. (Baudelaire 1955: 84,127).
Although
Baudelaire was the first to perceive the modern beauty
encapsulated in the streets of Paris, it was the German
philosopher Walter Benjamin who envisaged them, alongside
their idiosyncrasies and ambiguities, as revolutionary
instances. Thus, for the first time poetry was interpreted
not simply according to its formal structure but to its
capacity to capture and transcend historical determinations.
After the collapse of the promises of innovation and technology
prompted by modernism, postmodernism is faced with the
task of preserving what is still legitimate in its premises.
This is the point where I turn my attention to another
consideration made by the poet in the same article. In
his words, modern beauty is simultaneously associated
with the creation of a ‘weird and particular genre’ called
‘historical landscape’. which is ‘neither free fantasy,
nor has it any connection with the admirable slavishness
of the naturalists; it is ethics applied to nature’ (Baudelaire,
1995:112). If, in accordance with such a premise, the
depiction of a historical landscape is irrevocably bound
up in ethics and nature, it is relevant to ask, “in an
age of bare hands/ and cast iron” (Heaney 2006:3) if poetry
that apprehends the themes and motifs of historical painting
is capable of resisting the chains of time? In other words,
what do its weirdness and ethics have to offer to poetry?
Such is the insurmountable crisis of representation brought
about by the postmodern predicament that it is also pertinent
to question its effectiveness in the world today, since
cultures and traditions are in a constant flow of exchange
and translation.
With
a view to starting my exploration I would like to affirm
that the concept of translation and cultural difference
I am taking into consideration is not the neoliberal multiculturalism
that praises and celebrates diversity. On the contrary,
I wish to employ the term as developed by Homi Bhabha
and based on Benjamin’s considerations on the task of
the translator. The Indian critic, grounded in a differentiated
perception, claims that comparison between different cultures
is possible ‘because all cultures are symbol forming and
subject constituting, interpellative practices’, thus,
in order to transpose their local historical borders,
the artists are required to go through a ‘process of alienation
and of secondariness in relation to itself. (Bhabha, 1990:
210). Thus, cultures are constantly in a state of continuous
translation. As regards art’s transformative capacity
to go beyond historical and geographical borders, there
is an extremely insightful case in which that tension
becomes clearer: contemporary poetry produced in Northern
Ireland.
Apparently,
against all odds, northern Irish poetry more than ever
proves to be hustling and bustling around the world. Not
so much for its capacity to conceive ‘works of lyrical
beauty and ethical depth, which exalt everyday miracles
and the living past’
(http://www.seamusheaney.org/),
as the Nobel Academia praised Heaney, but for its inexorable
need to translate the past, and place it, as Kiberd pointed
out ‘into a disturbing relationship with the present’.
Irish memory has often been derisively linked to those
historical paintings in which Virgil and Dante converse
in a single frame (Kiberd: 1996: 630).
In
the light of the conclusion drawn by the critic Declan
Kiberd, the present article wishes to explore the ways
in which the authors Seamus Heaney and Ciaran Carson pick
up on the theme of historical painting – as the genre
described by Baudelaire – and transplant it into the formal
structure of the poem. In my view, this is the strategy
through which they dislocate categories of time and space
in order to produce knowledge and reflexive thought. Thus,
more than a discourse which seeks to find Beauty beyond
all means, poetry remains a powerful piece of art. Nevertheless,
due to the different tonalities and shades created by
both lyrics, I am going to focus more clearly on two poems
that describe the same canvas by the Spanish painter Francisco
Goya: ‘Summer 1969’ (North, 1971) and ‘Francisco
Goya: The Third of May 1808, 1814’ (Breaking
News, 2003).
In
his own lifetime, the French writer and Spanish descendant
Charles Yriarte (1832 – 1898), wished to cast a new reading
of Frederico Goya’s paintings, especially as regards ‘Los
Desastres’ – etchings of the Franco-Spanish civil war.
According to him, his political canvases were not ‘facts,
particular episodes’ based on Verism, but ‘general ideas,
analogies, sometimes true, always believable compositions’
(Yriate apud Luxemburg 1998). Through the apparent chaotic
placement of figures with no heroic action, and who are
buried in a dream-like atmosphere of defeat, fear, and
suffering, the painter sceptically portrayed life from
a political outlook. In this sense, Goya became a special
‘modern philosopher’ who exploited the theme of war, despair
and lack of hope. According to David Sylvester, Goya was
modern, and intrinsically connected to the present times
for, in addition to conveying stark landscapes inhabited
by anonymous characters, he was the first to give importance
to subtle details that change the broader picture. Apropos
of that, the critic mentions his special shaping of the
mouths and their expressiveness. More than being simply
a stylistic feature, it figures prominently in Goya’s
work due to its capacity to catch the viewers’ eyes, reminding
them of residue of humanity left in those fluctuating
bodies.
Bearing
the critics’ conceptualisations in mind, The Third
of May 1808 can be interpreted as an emblem of peace
and mainly because it captures a particular moment of
the Spanish resistance against the French invasion and
goes beyond its historical determination. However, such
transcendence is not going to be associated with a mystical
salvation but, as Walter Benjamin observed, a dialectical
awakening from the continuum of history (Benjamin 1996: 255).
At a first glance, the observer is overwhelmed by the
contrast of the people who compose the picture: on the
one hand there is an aligned firing squad and on the other,
a mass of citizens who have been, or are yet to be executed.
The disproportion was commented upon by Kenneth Clark:
“by a stroke of genius [Goya] has contrasted the fierce
repetition of the soldiers’ attitudes and the steely line
of their rifles, with the crumbling irregularity of their
target” (Clark 1960: 123). However, suddenly the Jesus-like
peasant at the centre of the frame, whose arms are cast
open in the shape of an X, and whose mouth nervously tries
to beg for his life, takes over his or her sight. Differently
from the other characters, he wears light-coloured shirts
and trousers, and is notably illuminated by a mundane
lantern situated on the ground between the two groups.
In the same way, the light draws attention to the bodies
on the left and some victims who resemble more shadows
than humans at the back.
Perceptibly,
Goya was not simply preoccupied with the representation
of a specific day, “Los fusilamientos de la montaña del
Príncipe Pío”, or “Los fusilamientos del tres de mayo”,
but with its importance in the mythical-historical chain.
Even though the painter alludes to Jesus Christ’s crucifixion,
the peasant not only stands in a position similar to that
of Jesus Christ, but also has stigmas on the right hand.
The light which stems from the ground can be seen as a
reference to the Holy Spirit, and the firing squad, as
the Roman Empire – since Napoleon and his army’s victories
were compared to the ancient ones. Nevertheless, instead
of delivering the image as a symbol of salvation, the
artist is inclined to view it as an ultimate failure.
Thus, the man’s rendering to the Christ is troubled as
long as the French take over the land and the Emperor’s
militia slaughter innocent citizens. Thus, as uncertain
and contradictory as the future of Spain, the canvas remains
an Andachtsbild – or visual allegory, in Benjamin’s
suppositions. The term surfaced when the theoretician
formulated his theory on the nature of Brecht’s epic theatre.
Accordingly, it is an image that, due to its idiosyncrasies,
promotes reflexive thought and sirs up new discussions
regarding society and art. Moreover, it is the perfect
metaphor for the artist’s quandary:
vacillating
between historical abstraction and political projection,
between despondency and defiance, between assault and
retreat. The image keeps the aggressive tension inherent
in such a mentality in an abeyance that allows it to
stay put within the politically disenfranchised, and
hence ideologically overcharged, realm of culture (Werckmeister
1996: 242).
In
this fashion, due to the fact that the canvas questions
traditional visions of history while proposing new challenges
to the public, Seamus Heaney and Ciaran Carson decide
to immortalise it in their poetry. There is a substantial
likelihood that they chose this picture in order to detach
themselves from their own personal dilemmas and comprehend
the ins and outs of the Anglo-Irish conflicts from a distanced
point of view. However, although both poems experiment
with techniques from different traditions, both are built
around the idea of symbol as proposed by another modern
writer, William Butler Yeats. If on the one hand, the
traditional literary analysis tends to envision that as
a fixed instance that captures a single meaning, Yeats
understood it as the manner in which the artist could
resolve the intricate relationship between tradition and
modernity. In the essay ‘The Symbolism of poetry’, the
poet asks:
How
can the arts overcome the slow dying of men’s heart
that we call the progress of the world, and lay their
hands upon men’s heart strings again, without becoming
the religion as old times? (Yeats 1999: 162, 163)
And
after a long prelude he answers that there must be a change
of nature, a ‘return to the imagination, the understanding
that the laws of art, which are the hidden laws of the
world, can alone bind the imagination’. (Yeats 1999:163)
Probably because both poets have been brought up and raised
in the same cultural landscape, their sensibility was
highly affected by Yeats’s poetic and theoretical oeuvre.
However, the result of such intake is going to differ
enormously: if on the one hand the Nobel Laureate employs
a more ‘emotional symbol’, Carson applies the ‘intellectual’
one. Once again, I am taking advantage of Yeats theories
in order to examine the effects of such procedures in
the re-writing of the historical painting. All the same,
even though their interpretation of the canvas comes through
the symbolist approach, their view is also associated
to an emblematic event in Northern Ireland: the repression
of the Civil Rights Movement of 1969 and the subsequent
civil war which lasted until the beginning of the nineties.
According
to J. H. Whyte, the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association,
founded in 1967, did not question the existence of Northern
Ireland as a state, nor did they act in confrontation
with the contemporary system, but they did demand equal
rights for the population as a whole, for the bulk of
public posts were occupied by Anglo-Irish people. Inspired
by the American Civil Rights Movement, the organisation
promoted marches and protests in various towns. Nonetheless,
due to the tense state of affairs between England and
Ireland, the Protestant right wing interpreted these acts
as a libertarian campaign and violently repressed the
movement. As the plot thickened, the Irish Republican
Army went on the offensive, and responded to the assaults
with more aggressive acts. The situation reached its peak
in March 1972, when ‘the British government suspended
the Northern Ireland government and parliament, and introduced
a direct rule from Westminster…Violence during the spring
and summer of highest level’ (Whyte 1995, p. 346). Unsurprisingly,
such a grievous situation affected the arts world in general
and the artists were required to give their account of
the issue. Under pressure and constrained by public opinion,
both Heaney and Carson interpret those acts differently;
while the former found peace in a cottage in the interior
of Wicklow, as an inner émigré, the latter dissolves
his poetic persona within the dark corners of the city
of Belfast.
The
poem “Summer 1969” is inserted in the second part of the
book North (1972) by Seamus Heaney. Quite polemical
due to its slight deviation from actual history in order
to expose the human motivations for violence and war,
the book was, paradoxically, both heavily criticised and
highly praised by the general reviews. While Christopher
Ricks claimed that North was a powerful source
of civilisation, ‘bending itself to deep excavations within
the past of Ireland and of elsewhere [and] achiev[ing]
a racked dignity in the face of horrors’ (Ricks 1979:
5), Ciaran Carson disapproved of the technique of ‘applying
wrong notions of history’ which transformed the poet into
‘the laureate of violence – a mythmaker, an anthropologist
of ritual killing, an apologist for “the situation”, in
the last resort, a mystifier’ (Carson 1975: 84). Both
outlooks are quite constructive in view of the poem in
question, as it resorts to myth to capture the essence
of the work of art. However, by implicitly tackling the
situation of Northern Ireland – the artist used the Viking
rites as a metaphor – it perpetrated the liberal stance
that wars, violence, battles and rapes have always happened,
and will continue to happen whether we wish them to or
not.
Nonetheless,
with the intention of undertaking a sensible account of
the poem, I will seek to pay heed to what I consider its
most important characteristic: subjective displacement.
Even Carson acknowledges that the second part of the volume
does justice to Heaney’s talent, since it shows someone
“trying to come to terms with himself instead of churning
it out” (Carson 1975: 86) and I quite agree with him because
Heaney portrays the dilemmas of the exiles in the same
way that Edward Said sees it: in a contrapuntual manner.
According to the Palestinian critic:
Most
people are principally aware of one culture, one setting,
one home; exiles are aware of at least two, and this
plurality of vision gives rise to an awareness of simultaneous
dimensions. (Said 2001: 186)
Even
though the poet was not forced to leave his country, his
poetic consciousness reflects this perception of simultaneity
in the first three lines of the poem:
While
the Constabulary covered the mob
Firing
into the Falls, I was suffering
Only
the bullying sun of Madrid.
(Heaney
1999: 141)
While
the poet feels that he is indeed suffering very little
in comparison to his countrymen, his vision is expanded
for he is forced to translate himself in the culture of
the Other – of Spain. While this transition seems to have
been smooth as he is comfortably settled in Spain, his
guilt for leaving his country is intense and, producing
a lyric piece that naturalises violence, he is forced
to go through a process of subjective annulment and to
find a new means of representing the Northern Irish conflicts.
The manner in which this configuration is achieved is
the emotional symbol Yeats conceives. But before bringing
the two laureates together, I wish to describe briefly
the overall tone and structure of the poem, which also
hints at the symbolic version he portrays. The speaker
of the poem, through five asymmetrical stanzas, expresses
his loneliness in Spain at the moment that he hears about
the marches on the Falls Road. Relentlessly, the author
compares Northern Ireland and Spain: first it is the heat
and fish market with Joyce, ladies in shawla with the
Guardia Civil and then Federico García Lorca and the television
news. Nevertheless, in the last two stanzas, he summons
up both entities in a single symbol: the canvas by Goya.
It is as if Heaney erases his name from the poem and in
its place, writes Goya.
He
painted with his fists and elbows, flourished
The
stained cape of his heart as history charged.
(Heaney
1999: 141)
Through the excerpt the reader perceives the total dissolution
of the speaker’s identity, mainly for the reason that
the poet’s wish to emphasise Goya imprinted his personal
dilemmas and tones in the Spanish war against the French.
By stating that the poet painted with his fists and elbows,
Heaney conveys he was not just an ordinary painter, but
also a fighter, whose emotions and motifs were affected
by the war. Hence, he has not just simply represented
the conflicts, but also critically conceptualised the
sensation of producing art at the moment that his country
was compared to a battlefield. Through this last part,
the poet also builds forms of solidarity between Spain
and Ireland because his experience becomes part of a greater
whole, whose effects and vibrations are seen and felt
elsewhere. It is associated to what Bhabha identifies
as the concealing of the subjectivity’s sovereignty:
the
fragmentation of identity is often celebrated as a kind
of pure anarchic liberalism or voluntarism, but I prefer
to see it as a recognition of the importance of the
alienation of the self in the construction of forms
of solidarity. (Bhabha 1990: 211)
If
on the one hand, Heaney depicts his personal anguishes
and antinomies, which are embodied and endured in the
structure of the poem – the poetic foot indecisively oscillates
between ten, eleven and twelve and its stanzas follow
the same pattern, having two and fourteen verses. On the
other hand, because these are symptoms of guilt, typical
of someone who left the battlefield for the cool breeze
of the Prado Museum, his arguments are more emotionally
bound than intellectually: they “call down among us certain
disembodied powers, whose footsteps over our hearts we
call emotions” (Yeats 1989: 157). Thus, while the poet
apparently seems to be building bridges of solidarity
between the communities, he is in fact embellishing a
reality that seeks precise answers – or questions – such
as Carson dares him to do in his criticism.
Despite
the fact that Heaney destabilises a simplistic discourse
present in both the parties that promoted the conflicts
in Northern Ireland, he ends up falling into his own trap.
No sooner does he deviate from the original motivation
of the poem, which is the painful feeling of not being
in his homeland while the Constabulary takes over Falls
Road, than he praises the ethereal aspect of art which
is enduring in spite of historical circumstances. This
fatalistic tone is reached after he makes poignant descriptions
of two of the canvases he saw:
I
retreated to the cool of the Prado.
Goya’s
‘Shootings of the Third of May’
Covered
a wall - the thrown-up arms
And
spasm of the rebel, the helmeted
And
knapsacked military, the efficient
Rake
of the fusillade. In the next room
His
nightmares, grafted to the palace wall –
Dark
cyclones, hosting, breaking: Saturn
Jewelled
in the blood of his own children,
Gigantic
Chaos turning his brute hips
Over
the world. Also, that holmgang
Where
two berserks club each other to death
For
honour’s sake, greaved in a bog, and sinking.
(Heaney
1999: 141)
It is precisely the focus on the individual character
of the artist that hampers the collective notion of history.
Therefore, the last two verses are exemplary of a return
to the laws of Beauty, such as explored by Frederic Jameson
in his article regarding the End of Art. According to
the American critic, postmodernism is defined by a double-edged
sword: at the same time theory invigorates literary criticism,
art falls back on pre-modern and romantic notions. In
this way, they promote the Beautiful ‘as a decoration,
without any claim to truth or to a special relationship
with the Absolute’ (Jameson 1998: 84). Likewise, Seamus
Heaney refers to the Real as simply a wound that is taking
too long to heal in the face of the grandiosity of art
and aesthetic. The indecisiveness of the formal structure
evokes not the need for transcendence, but nostalgia for
an art that is concerned with its own nature and is ‘non-
or a-political’ (Jameson 1998: 131)
I
do not wish to dismiss Heaney’s accomplishment completely
out of hand, which is precisely getting away from simplistic
views and trying to find other means to represent reality.
And this is indeed achieved through a flabbergasting process
of annulment of the subjective voice. However, where aesthetic
and history is concerned, I feel quite obliged to support
Carson’s conspicuous attempt to reach the Sublime as Jameson
explains. I would like to stress also that this deviation
of tone stems precisely from their use of the symbol.
While Heaney uses the painting emotionally, almost in
a contemplative way, Carson pushes it to such a limit
that it is inserted into that very space between symbol
and allegory, as Yeats affirms: “It is hard to say where
allegory and symbolism melt into one another, but it is
not hard to say where either comes to its perfection”
(Yeats 1989: 148). This is the point where Carson reaches
the perfect symbolisation of the canvas: there is a unit
of representation through which the reader sees or hears
nothing but the unfolded eyes of the prisoner. Together
with that, the audience does not have any idea of the
poet’s emotions, feelings and state of mind, it is a total
erasure of outside references in order to invigorate more
than the painting, the idea, or the leap of the Sublime
from the canvas to poetry, but ultimately, a trans-aesthetic
illumination.
Distinctively
from Heaney, Carson’s poem was published in 2003, long
after the onset of the Troubles, in a book called Breaking
News. Given the name of the volume, the author is
evidently interested in revealing something of a unique
weight, but contrary to what the reader might expect,
it presents a sequence of 33 completely bare poems, as
if they had been written by a poet who is just experimenting
with the technique. Most of them have short poetic feet
– two or three, maximum – and present short and brief
stanzas. In one of the reviews of the volume, which received
awards, John Taylor asserts:
The
book evidently aims at getting poetry back to the immediacy
of perception, also an age-old preoccupation for the
war poet. Yet despite the austere poetic form employed
here, many images lastingly haunt, not least of all
the leitmotiv of hovering British military helicopters.
Such is Carson's "home," and the eponymous poem sums
up the redoubtable clear-sightedness that he has attained,
and must accept. Like blind Homer, he can "see everything."
(Taylor 2004: 371)
Even
though the review does not go into the depth of such a
resourceful poetic collection, it manages to capture its
central truth: the aspiration to see everything and report
everything with just a few words. The comparison with
blind Homer is also quite appropriate, for the main idea
behind the enterprise is to view Belfast as “The war correspondent”
would. Nevertheless, as opposed to the journalist who
would go on about facts, the poet-reporter stares melancholically
into the dark corners of the city and, as a ragman, collects
the pieces of what was left after the battles and confrontations.
Clearly inspired by the Baudelarian flânerie,
the poet wanders in the city, where according to the French
author, Modern Beauty should be found. This ragpicker
stumbles on trash; he uncovers lost rhymes and old chants
to compile a dissonant poetic symphony. Equally, it is
in its utter failure that the poet reaches his ultimate
breakthrough: the vision of the canvas by Goya. The first
two lines, “behold/ the man”, highlight the mythic tone
of this figure – as observed above – but, as soon as he
pays heed to him, the lantern light assumes the next stanzas
and give space to the description of his flung arms. Towards
the end, the speaker of the poem states that he is offering
his soul to the officer: like a spectre of a past whose
shadow still imprints its sorrow in the present.
To
sum up, Carson urges the readers to notice that “he is
not/ blindfolded” and with that simplicity, calling “the
mind’s eye [...] to see a capricious and variable world”
(Yeats 1989: 151), he inserts a symbol within the canvas
– which is already framed into a symbolist figuration
of violence. As is widely acknowledged, the vision of
the blindfolded lady carrying a balanced scale is the
typical symbol of justice. Nevertheless, when the detail
of the vision becomes clear, the reader is forced to think
about the canvas not in accordance with the historical
period it was conceived, or with the atrocious bombings
in Ireland, but according to its meaning in a post-war
and post-history world. Generally speaking, the actuality
of the painting is recuperated through “a construction
whose place is formed not in homogenous and empty time,
but in that which is fulfilled by the here-and-now [Jetztzeit]”
(Benjamin 1996: 230). It is valid to point out the poem
was published in 2003, a time when values such as justice
and equality were totally compromised since inequality
and unjustified killings prevailed.
Through
the artistic translation of the canvas not into a symbol,
but into an allegory, the poet recaptured what I believe
to be a political function of art, like that of the canvas
painted by Goya. As an alternative for the nostalgia presented
by Heaney, the poet resorts to the Benjaminian melancholy,
resuscitated by the ghost, in order to aspire not to the
Beautiful, but to the trans-aesthetic Sublime, which might
be conceived as the absolute mode through which truth
comes into being ‘it believes that in order to be art
at all, art must be something beyond art’ (Jameson 1998:83).
In this sense, the poet finishes in a nothingness: ‘it
ends, in other words, not by becoming nothing, but by
becoming everything: the path not taken by History’ (Jameson
1998:83). This path is collectively represented by this
man: the ethical and social system of justice – either
colonial or post-colonial or imperial or post-imperial
– that societies and cultures are subject to. At the same
time, it poses a question on a global level: how can justice
be signified and re-signified in the inequitable course
of history? In other words, how can it “brush history
against the grain” (Benjamin 1996:230) while the continuum
of history still seems intact?
On
the other hand, by trying to go beyond art and its laws
of representation, Carson loses what Heaney gains with
his piece: Beauty, a new aesthetic formed by the transfiguration
of history into a distressing portrait of an artist in
search of artistic bonds at a transcultural level. Through
the subjective displacement, the split Heaney/Goya who
reconfigures Ireland in Spain and gives back Spain to
Ireland in a new light becomes the very image of the subject
exploited by imperialism. What is implicit in his formal
indecisions or metrical oscillations is exactly the difficulty
of producing art and beauty in a world grieved by war.
On the other hand, Carson gains the Sublime, the notion
that art must question the current state of affairs of
the world.
Going
back to Baudelaire’s statement that art is about memory,
continuation and losses, which poetry is more likely to
last? Whose transfiguration of history, whose translation
of history will answer the postmodern crises of representation?
Maybe the answer is still to be found.
Notes
1
PhD student at the University of
São Paulo and full-time researcher, she holds an MA on
the theme of exile in the poetry of Seamus Heaney, and
now studies the theme of the city in the poetry of Northern
Ireland.
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