Antiauthoritarian Youth Culture in Francoist Spain: Clashing with Fascism 9781350038479, 9781350038509, 9781350038486

Table of contents :
Cover
Half-title
Title
Copyright
Contents
List of Figures
Preface: Indignant Youth
Acknowledgements
An Introduction
1. Making a Scene
Remembering the past
Fascist youth
Antiauthoritarian youth
Carnival and transgression
Time, space and being in public
Imagining alternate universes
2. To Study is to Serve Spain
A fascist education
What does it mean to be a fascist?
A national-catholic education
Making a good Spaniard
‘That’s the way Spain is’ and other historical non-truths
Heteronormativity in textbooks
A legacy of bad education
3. The Revolt of the Youth
Memory as a space of contention
Strategy versus tactics
Resisting false history and facts
Institutionalized repression and censorship
Unamuno’s last lecture
Opening political-literary space
A dead poets society
Funeral for a friend
Cafés heating up
4. Truth, Justice and the American Way in Spain
Tights, capes and double identities
Forms and functions of Superman comic books
Strange visitor from another planet
A super woman in man’s world
Play, youth and supermanism
The search for truth, justice and the Spanish way
5. The Penetration of Franco’s Spain
Apertura
Pluralistic spaces of the pre-war years
Coffee and democratic spaces
Disrupting networks and traditions
Notebooks for literary-political dialogue
Internal battles and liberal tradition
Tactics to create a space of discourse
Criticism and praise for American (counter) culture
Civil rights in Spain
Violence or non-violence
6. Clashing with Fascism
The carnivalesque in Franco’s Spain
Spain’s ‘coming out’ party
Spanish punk, carnivalesque and the grotesque
Reviving identity, counterpublics and community
Networking the underground, imagining carnivalesque spaces
What was el Rrollo?
Libertad versus fascist youth
Naked bodies, politics and partying in the streets
7. Madrid Kills Me
(Re)defining a movement
Subculture as myth, voyeurism and other modern-day fables
A queer and public spectacle
A place to conclude
Epilogue: Uncertain Times
Notes
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

Antiauthoritarian Youth Culture in Francoist Spain

Also available from Bloomsbury Consumption and Gender in Southern Europe since the Long 1960s, edited by Kostis Kornetis, Eirini Kotsovili and Nikolaos Papadogiannis Fighting for Franco: International Volunteers in Nationalist Spain during the Spanish Civil War, Judith Keene Global Punk: Resistance and Rebellion in Everyday Life, Kevin Dunn The History of Modern Spain: Chronologies, Themes, Individuals, edited by Adrian Shubert and José Alvarez Junco Interrogating Francoism: History and Dictatorship in Twentieth-Century Spain, edited by Helen Graham Punk Style, Monica Sklar Right-Wing Spain in the Civil War Era: Soldiers of God and Apostles of the Fatherland, 1914–45, edited by Alejandro Quiroga and Miguel Ángel del Arco Blanco Transnational Fascism in the: Twentieth Century Spain, Italy and the Global Neo-Fascist Network, edited by Matteo Albanese, Pablo del Hierro

Antiauthoritarian Youth Culture in Francoist Spain Clashing with Fascism

Louie Dean Valencia-García

BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2018 This paperback edition published 2020 Copyright © Louie Dean Valencia-García, 2018 Louie Dean Valencia-García has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work. For legal purposes the Acknowledgements on p.xvii constitute an extension of this copyright page. Cover image by Louie Dean Valencia-García An earlier version of the chapter “Truth, Justice and the American Way in Spain” was published in The Ages of Superman: Essays on the Man of Steel in Changing Times © 2012 Edited by Joseph J. Darowski by permission of McFarland & Company, Inc. An earlier version of the chapter “Clashing with Fascism” was prepared for the forthcoming volume, The Punk Aesthetic in Comics © Edited by Christopher B. Field, Keegan Lannon, Michael David MacBride and Christopher C. Douglas by permission of McFarland & Company, Inc. Thanks to support from: The Spanish Ministry of Education, Culture and Sport; Santander Universities; the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation; the United States Library of Congress’s Caroline and Erwin Swann Foundation for Caricature and Cartoon; and Fordham University. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers.

Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN: HB: 978-1-3500-3847-9 PB: 978-1-3501-3952-7 ePDF: 978-1-3500-3848-6 eBook: 978-1-3500-3849-3 Typeset by Integra Software Services Pvt. Ltd. To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

A mi mamá. Te debo todo. Sin tu apoyo y cariño este trabajo no hubiera sido posible.

Contents List of Figures Preface: Indignant Youth Acknowledgements

ix xi xvii

An Introduction

1

1

7

2

3

Making a Scene Remembering the past Fascist youth Antiauthoritarian youth Carnival and transgression Time, space and being in public Imagining alternate universes

7 14 18 20 23 27

To Study is to Serve Spain A fascist education What does it mean to be a fascist? A national-catholic education Making a good Spaniard ‘That’s the way Spain is’ and other historical non-truths Heteronormativity in textbooks A legacy of bad education

32

The Revolt of the Youth Memory as a space of contention Strategy versus tactics Resisting false history and facts Institutionalized repression and censorship Unamuno’s last lecture Opening political-literary space A dead poets society Funeral for a friend Cafés heating up

62

32 35 41 45 50 56 60

63 64 66 70 72 80 82 85 93

viii

4

5

6

7

Contents

Truth, Justice and the American Way in Spain Tights, capes and double identities Forms and functions of Superman comic books Strange visitor from another planet A super woman in man’s world Play, youth and supermanism The search for truth, justice and the Spanish way

96 96 99 102 106 109 111

The Penetration of Franco’s Spain Apertura Pluralistic spaces of the pre-war years Coffee and democratic spaces Disrupting networks and traditions Notebooks for literary-political dialogue Internal battles and liberal tradition Tactics to create a space of discourse Criticism and praise for American (counter) culture Civil rights in Spain Violence or non-violence

114

Clashing with Fascism The carnivalesque in Franco’s Spain Spain’s ‘coming out’ party Spanish punk, carnivalesque and the grotesque Reviving identity, counterpublics and community Networking the underground, imagining carnivalesque spaces What was el Rrollo? Libertad versus fascist youth Naked bodies, politics and partying in the streets

136

Madrid Kills Me (Re)defining a movement Subculture as myth, voyeurism and other modern-day fables A queer and public spectacle A place to conclude

175

Epilogue: Uncertain Times Notes Bibliography Index

114 115 117 119 122 122 124 130 132 134

136 138 141 142 144 148 160 165

175 181 184 189 193 195 222 244

List of Figures I.1 Illustration by Louie Dean Valencia-García 2.1 A Fascist Trinity: José Antonio Primo de Rivera, Francisco Franco and Pilar Primo de Rivera. Illustration by Louie Dean Valencia-García 2.2 Illiteracy in Spain from 1900 to 1981 Source: Antonio Viñao Frago, ‘The History of Literacy in Spain: Evolution, Traits, and Questions’, History of Education Quarterly 30, no. 4 (Winter 1990): 573–599 3.1 Illustration by Louie Dean Valencia-García 3.2 Illustration by Louie Dean Valencia-García 3.3 Survey of University of Madrid Student Sentiment showing rise in ‘Disconformity’ with the socio-economic, political and cultural situation in Spain. Source: Jaraneros y Alborotadores: Documentos sobre los sucesos estudiantiles de febrero de 1956 en la Universidad Complutense de Madrid, p. 64. 400 students polled 3.4 Bueno, era un pensador; pero ¿a qué se dedicaba? [Well, he was a thinker, but what did he do for a living?], 1955. Cartoon by Antonio Mingote. Museo ABC de Dibujo e Ilustración, Madrid 4.1 Above digital renditions by Louie Dean Valencia-García. Translation and content based on Archivo General de la Administration, Expediente 3200/75 5.1 ‘Cuestiones de actualidad política’, Revista española de la opinión pública, no. 9 (July–September 1967): 185–227, Centro de Investigaciones Sociologicas 5.2 ‘Cuestiones de actualidad política’, Revista española de la opinión pública, no. 9 (July–September 1967): 185–227, Centro de Investigaciones Sociologicas 6.1 Cover indicating intended audience as both ‘select’ and ‘adult progressives’. Also prominently featured on the comic of the comic, the creaters release copyright for ‘total or partial reproduction of the comic’. Miguel Farriol Vida, ed., El Rrollo Enmascarado (Barcelona: El Rrollo Producciones, 1973)

1

41

44 62 76

82

87

103

125

125

151

x

List of Figures

6.2 Source: Kike Babas and Kike Turrón. De espaldas al Kiosco: Guía histórica de fanzines y otros papelujos de alcantarillas (Madrid: Los Libros del Cuervo, 1996) 6.3 Covers of titles printed by the publisher, La Banda de Moebius. Images courtesy Juan Luis Recio 6.4 Covers of titles printed by the publisher, continued, La Banda de Moebius. Images courtesy Juan Luis Recio 6.5 The outside of the Vaquería bar on the calle Libertad, with Emilio Sola (centre). Image courtesy of Juan Luis Recio 6.6 Photo of the apartment maintained by the Vaquería, featuring contributors and editors associated with the Banda de Moebius. Image courtesy of Juan Luis Recio 6.7 Illustration by Louie Dean Valencia-García 6.8 Students climbing statues in the centre of the plaza de Dos de Mayo, disrobing and eventually clashing with authorities. The incident was featured in Triunfo 1, no. 746 (14 May 1977): 38–39. Photo courtesy of Triunfo Digital 6.9 Malasaña’s plaza de Dos de Mayo in 2013. Today it is still a popular place for young people to gather, though there are now fences that make it more difficult to climb the statues. Photo by Louie Dean Valencia-García 6.10 The Café Manuela in 2013, which according to staff has not changed significantly over the decades. Photo by Louie Dean Valencia-García 7.1 Street art featuring professor and mayor Enrique Tierno Galván in the Malasaña neighbourhood of Madrid in 2013. Playing on the meaning of his last name, ‘Tierno’ –tender – the image recalls the city’s loving nature in the post-Franco era. Photo by Louie Dean Valencia-García 7.2 Illustration by Louie Dean Valencia-García

154 158 159 162

163 166

168

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190 192

Preface: Indignant Youth Landing at Madrid’s Barajas International Airport in May of 2011, I arrived to what had become the largest youth movement in Spain since the death of the dictator Francisco Franco in 1975, who had ruled since the Spanish Civil War (1936–1939). When I booked my ticket from New York City to Madrid, I had expected a quiet summer researching Spanish youth culture and dissent of the 1960s and 1970s, digging through boxes of forgotten paper in the Archivo General de la Administración, attending a seminar or two and giving a talk at the Association of Spanish and Portuguese Historical Studies Annual Conference to be held that year in Lisbon. Climbing into the taxi, I was confronted with the energized sounds of young people singing songs of dissent on the radio; tens of thousands of people were marching through Madrid’s city centre, la Puerta del Sol, calling themselves Indignados, or the indignant ones. The taxi driver, a man in his late 30s, commented to me, ‘Man, it’s about time someone did something about the state of things in this country’. In fact, the protests would reach every major city in the country within a week. After years of recession, Western democracies started showing symptoms of an oncoming crisis – the likes of which had not been experienced since before the Second World War. Across Europe, young people felt corporate interests were placed above those of the people. Economic stagnation tarnished the dream of a prosperous Europe promised at the turn of the millennium, when Europeans adopted a common currency. Already in 2010, in Hungary, Viktor Orbán’s farright nationalist party, Fidesz, had gained control of the country. Putin’s Russia had become a de facto oligarchy. Poland, Greece, Austria and even France were flirting with far-right authoritarianism and nationalism, once again. At the heart of this recession and economic crisis was the simple fact that the European Union (EU) was formed primarily for purposes of economic integration as the European Economic Community; an assumption was made that cultural integration would follow economic integration. To some extent, cultural integration had begun, but as the economic crisis worsened, nations, ethnic groups and social classes began to turn on each other. The EU had failed its primary promise of economic stability, causing nationalist self-interests to swell. In a twist of fate, echoing the interwar years, xenophobia arose anew.

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Across Europe, immigrants and minority groups received the brunt of the backlash – the scapegoating. However, some countries handled this crisis not with a fascistic backlash, but, instead, imagined new possibilities. Simultaneous to the coming upsurge in new nationalism and far-right fascistic behaviour, an anarchist-inspired youth movement emerged in Madrid, utilizing decentred power structures that relied on flat, non-hierarchical organizing – inspired by an Arab Spring of 2011, located most fervently in Tunisia, Libya, Egypt, Yemen, Syria and Bahrain. With 21 per cent of all Spaniards unemployed, and an astounding 43.5 per cent of people under the age of 30 in that precarious situation, the highest youth unemployment rate in the EU at that time,1 in January of 2011 a group calling themselves ‘Democracia Real Ya’ (Real Democracy Now) first appeared on the social media website Facebook proclaiming, ‘We are going to wait. Organising a protest is difficult. Civil Society is sleeping. We are going to wait three months, and we are going to work’.2 The nascent movement asked for ‘the unemployed, poorly paid, the subcontractors, those in precarious positions, and young people to take the streets on 15 May.’ Some 500 organizations pledged support of the action. This action resulted in an encampment of the heart of Madrid that came to interrupt the commercial capital of Spain. Not only was Real Democracy Now a condemnation of the type of democracy that arose out of the Spanish transition, one that turned its back on the socialism of Madrid’s mayor, Enrique Tierno Galván, giving way instead to a neoliberal capitalism, it marked a wave of discontent that crossed the Mediterranean during the Arab Spring, and threatened to spread throughout the continent – even crossing the Atlantic to become Occupy Wall Street. During the months leading up to the ‘Spanish Revolution’ of 2011, anarchosyndicalist groups came to clashes in Catalunya, Basque Country and Galicia; retirement age was moved from 65 to 67 and new threats of governmental austerity loomed. Adding to the discontent, in February, the Spanish government passed the Sinde law, an anti-internet download law similar to the failed American SOPA law, which allows for a judicial order to close down any web page that links to illegal downloads of copyrighted content. Moreover, since at least 2001, Spaniards had spoken of ‘mileuristas’ (or college-educated young people that were making only 1,000 euros per month); already, in 2006, talk of quinientos euristas, or those topping off at 500 euros per month, started to appear. By 2011, it was not uncommon to hear of ‘300-euristas’ who worked multiple part-time jobs. It would be this vast unemployment rate that would be both the impetus for young people to act and what allowed them to dedicate so much of their time

Preface: Indignant Youth

xiii

to the movement. With unemployment so high, camping in a plaza seemed to be as good of a job as any. Two days before the 15th of May, the conservative-leaning Spanish newspaper A.B.C. suggested this was the start of another May revolution, evoking comparison to the protests in France and Germany during the May of 1968.3 Indeed, that 15th of May dispelled the popular belief that young Spaniards were ‘pasotas’, or young people that ‘pass’ on their responsibilities – family, school, activism, work, political discourse – everything. However, high unemployment, low pay for those who could find jobs, a sense that owning a home was out of reach and a general disenchantment with the capitalist system pushed young ‘apolitical’ Spaniards into action. The motto taken for the 15th of May protest was ‘we are not goods in the hands of politicians and bankers’ – pointing directly to what the ‘participants’ saw as the problem they were facing. Indeed, it would be this same rhetoric that the American Occupy Wall Street protests would draw from in the autumn of that year. What started off as a large organized march, following a sort of structured and orthodox form of dissent, transformed into a performance of everyday dissent. Young protestors simply set up a camp in the heart of Madrid and lived their lives in the public space. Rejecting ‘the system’, they sought to create a space that reflected the type of world they wanted to imagine for themselves. They created libraries, large kitchens, information centres, meditation tents, community work projects and publicly performed new models of democracy and society – a precursor to Occupy Wall Street. For many young Spaniards across Spain the summer of 2011 embodied a performative shift in mentalitié that called for a forced confrontation with the disillusionment felt by young people globally. This dissent as performance did feel familiar. Spain is one of the few places in the world that has bred consistent, and sometimes successful, albeit short-lived, anarchist movements with visible political power. At one point in the 1930s, before the Spanish Civil War, an estimated one to two million Catalonians identified as anarchist or were involved in some sort of collective.4 Young Spaniards participating in the 15th of May movement (15-M), drawing from anarchist ideology advocating a stateless, consensus-based democracy, did not just want to express disillusionment with the neoliberal system; they wanted to work towards the creation of decentralized, direct democracy so as to dismantle systems of oppression, not unlike the 1933 Spanish anarchist uprisings that appeared just before the Spanish Civil War. The Spanish anarchists of the 1930s created ‘consensus based decision-making models’, ‘people’s libraries’, ‘general assemblies’, ‘affinity groups’ and ‘spokes

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councils’ – all tactics and organizing structures used in the Spanish 15-M. Moreover, 15-M was composed of ‘commissions’ that organized the functions of the movement (legal, action, activities, neighbourhood, national, international, infrastructure, etc.) and specialized ‘work projects’ ranging from culture, education, environment, social work, gender and sexuality issues, science and technology, religion and migration. Not only did 15-M use anarchist models in their organization, but they also incorporated aesthetic and performative tactics that borrowed from the underground youth culture that emerged during the 1960s and 1970s, the focus of this study. Inspired by the tactics used by young people in Tunisia’s Green Revolution, Cairo’s Tahrir Square, the uprisings in France in 1968 and Spanish anarchist movements of the 1930s, tens of thousands of Spaniards had gathered to show dissent calling for ‘real democracy now’. Young Spaniards were inundating Facebook and Twitter with political commentaries, reading books such as historian Tony Judt’s Ill Fares the Land, former French diplomat, resistance fighter and concentration camp survivor Stéphane Hessel’s Time for Outrage: Indignezvous! and The Coming Insurrection by the Invisible Committee. These books threatened what Hessel called ‘peaceful insurrections’, as well as a more extreme insurrection foretold by the Invisible Committee. Electricity filled the air. Unlike the later Occupy Movement, those who supported the Spanish movement did not call themselves ‘protestors’, but rather Indignados, or ‘indignant ones’ and ‘participants’ in democracy. This usage of ‘indignado’ was borrowed from one of the inspirations of this movement, Stéphane Hessel, a then-93-year-old French public intellectual who had served in the foreign service and participated in the Second World War, who wrote a pamphlet titled Indignez-vous!, or ¡Indignaos! in Castilian, or, loosely translated, ‘All of you be indignant!’ While ‘Occupy’ implies an action that is ‘active’, and maybe even aggressive, to be ‘indignant’, or to be ‘robbed of dignity’, implicitly justified the movement in a way that the verb ‘occupy’ does not. I eagerly anticipated my arrival to the Puerta del Sol in the heart of Madrid. Imagining the scene was easy for me, as I had only a few years earlier lived some thirty seconds from the plaza itself on the Calle Montera, popularly known as ‘the street of perdition’ because of heavy prostitution and crime that had marred the reputation of the short, busy street that pumps directly into the heart of Madrid. Organized chaos, anarchy, antiauthoritarianism: all words thrown around in the media that described the scene. Politicians decried the movement for its lack of specific goals – not unlike Occupy Wall Street. Despite this lack of a ‘coherent’ message, everyone at the encampment knew the goal: real democracy now. Tens

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of thousands of young, ‘indignant’ Spaniards took up the call to not only create ‘real democracy’, but doing so through the (re)appropriation of public space in the very heart of the Spanish capital, Madrid, setting the stage for a ‘European summer’ that situated itself between an Arab Spring and an American fall. Young people created spaces for themselves in their society. Young people imagined spaces and communities where they had power to act and even ‘create’ spaces where they dictated both rules and norms. It is through this concept of the ‘creation’ of democratic space that we should consider the Spanish ‘15-M’ movement. While events such as these are not commonplace, they are neither exceptional. Young people in modernity particularly excel at ‘making a scene’, in the multiple senses of the phrase. The Indignados not only managed to hold the Puerta del Sol for nearly two months, the Madrid equivalent of Piccadilly Circle or Times Square, but they managed to operate without money, relying solely on non-monetary-based donations (unlike Occupy Wall Street, which did accept monies), the kindness of strangers and a sense of solidarity. While the encampment phase essentially ended by July, even still, hundreds of thousands of Spaniards are connected via email lists and social media, creating a network of people that can quickly be activated. In this sense, the movement was successful. They created a movement that tied dissent in the Middle East to that of Europe and the United States, demonstrating that despite imagined borders there was indeed a ‘glocal’ (globally minded and local) youth culture infecting young minds with ideas of pluralism and democracy. Despite the small amount of success that the Indignados demonstrated, they provided a model to organize against neoliberalism. More importantly, they relied upon a culture that promoted pluralism. While in other parts of Europe far-right ideologies made an upswing, no such reaction happened in Spain. In fact, Vox, one of the few far-right Spanish fascist parties, has not seen the success of the Popular Front in France, Golden Dawn in Greece and other such parties – despite having had a long tradition of fascism and dictatorship for much of the twentieth century.5 I offer this preface, following the belief of one of my advisors, the late Christopher Schmidt-Nowara, that no historian writes in a vacuum. We must strive to think objectively in our historical investigations, but also acknowledge that the questions we ask are inevitably tied to our contemporary moment. In a moment when authoritarianism once again threatens democracy, we must revisit the histories of how democracy has taken hold in the past. This book sets the stage by looking at the creation of youth subcultures culture and the Spanish

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constitutional monarchy from the view of plazas, bedrooms, cafés, bars and bookstores. It glances back at another crisis, different young people in Madrid, who challenged different norms. Instead of demanding ‘real democracy now’, they lived their lives as though they already had it by finding spaces where they could act it out. They did this living under the long shadow of an authoritarian dictator, Francisco Franco, who managed a fascistic bureaucratic apparatus – an open enemy of liberal democracy. They contributed to the founding of the Spanish democracy by imagining and creating a more pluralistic world. This culture of pluralism, although certainly challenged at times, endures – continuing to clash with fascism.

Acknowledgements This work owes much gratitude to the late Christopher Schmidt-Nowara, who was my advisor, mentor and friend. He challenged my research, provided a guiding hand and always pushed me to expand my horizons. He was taken away from us too soon. This book would not have been possible without the mentorship of Rosemary Wakeman, who first introduced me to Urban Studies as a first-year graduate student and co-advised me as a doctoral student. S. Elizabeth Penry and David Hamlin both bettered my understandings of historical methods of investigation and have inspired me to do better work. My conversations with Asif Siddiqi, about both academia and theory, have been an invaluable contribution to my intellectual development. As an undergraduate, Paul Julian Smith’s work first introduced me to Spanish cultural studies; as a graduate student in his seminar, he helped me explore new questions in my own research. Special thanks are reserved for Margaret Eleanor Menninger for her never-ending tenacity, support and insight. I would be remiss to not mention the faculty of the Department of History at Fordham University, including: Silvana Patriarca, Thierry Rigogne, Bernice Rosenthal, Nancy Curtin, Susan Wabuda, W. David Myers, Paul Cimbala, Mark Naison, Elaine Forman Crane, Nick Paul, Salvador Acosta, Thomas McCoog, Wolfgang Mueller, Grace Shen and Kirsten Swinth. While I never took classes with many of them, all of them provided crucial support during my doctoral studies. I also received friendship and mentorship from Fordham faculty outside of my discipline, particularly: Moshe Gold, Anne Fernald, Jeanne Flavin, Carey Kasten and Carl Fischer. I must thank those who joined me in the trenches of graduate school and influenced my scholarship and my thinking, such as: David Harrison Idol, III, Nöel Wolfe, Lucy Barnhouse, Jonathan Woods, M. Christina Bruno, Mark Ittensohn, Esther Liberman-Cuenca, Alessandro Saluppo, Allyson Gonzales, Charles ‘Cam’ McDonald and Johanna Römer. For their friendship and conversations: James Lassen, Sergio Peinado García, Ian Grotton, Ryan Conroy, Zachary Olah, Samuel H. G. Flax, Kara Kratcha, Robert Lindner, Romain Lamoine, Evan Cramb, Daniel Stein, David Yagüe, Zak Kirwood, Dustin Hovda

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Acknowledgements

Pérez, Hannah Shepard, Claire Donato, Orquidea Morales and Andrés Durán Rueda. At Harvard, I owe deep gratitude to Durba Mitra, Josiah Blackmore, Lauri Tähtinen, René Carrasco, Lauren Kaminsky, Maryam Monalisa Gharavi, Nicholas Donofrio, Anouska Bhattacharyya, Stefanie Sevcik, Frances Peace Sullivan, Duncan White, Chris Clements, Destin Jenkins and Rebecca Kennedy Lorenzini for innumerable conversations. For their guidance in the field, I will forever be grateful to Nigel Townson, Hamilton M. Stapell, Pamela Radcliff, Emilio Sola, La Banda de Moebius and Libros Arrebato. Of course, none of this would have been possible without the friendship and support of mentors and friends at Texas State University, namely Diann McCabe, Heather Galloway, Susan Morrison, Daniela Ferrero, Elizabeth Makowski, Maria de las Nieves Pujalte and Donald W. Olson, amongst many others. I have received invaluable support from Harvard University, Fordham University, Texas State University, the United States Library of Congress Swann Foundation for Caricature and Cartoon, Hispanex, the Spanish Ministry of Education, Culture and Sport, the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation, the Museum of the City of New York, Santander Universities, the School of Criticism and Theory at Cornell University, the Program for Cultural Cooperation Between Spain’s Ministry of Culture and United States’ Universities and Acción Española. I also would like to thank Rhodri Mogford and the entire team at Bloomsbury for their work. Last, but not least, for their coffee and table space, I must thank the staffs and patrons of: Rodrigue’s Coffee House, Hungarian Pastry Shop and Think Coffee in New York City; Café Pamplona and Petsi Pies in Cambridge; and La Bicicleta, Café Manuela and Café de Ruiz in Madrid.

An Introduction

2

Antiauthoritarian Youth Culture in Francoist Spain

In 1975, the catchphrase ‘Generalissimo Franco is still dead’ entered American lexicon after being featured in a satirical newscast on a popular, new television show, now known as Saturday Night Live. The recurring skit mocked the American news media for its obsession with the Spanish dictator – ironically reminding viewers for more than a year that the deceased dictator was, in fact, ‘still dead’. In the original skit, pseudo newscaster Chevy Chase read a quote from the soon-to-be-disgraced US President Richard Nixon proclaiming, ‘General Franco was a loyal friend and ally of the United States. He earned worldwide respect for Spain through firmness and fairness’.1 Contradicting those words, to uncomfortable laughter, images flashed behind Chase of Spain’s dictator, Francisco Franco, marching alongside Adolf Hitler during an infamous meeting of the men in the French border town of Hendaye in October of 1940. In fact, within months of that meeting, Franco’s régime had prepared a list of 6,000 Jews in Spain to turn over to the high-ranking Nazi leader, Heinrich Himmler.2 Francisco Franco’s death might have become a satire, but the man himself was no joke – firmly ruling Spain from 1939 until his death in 1975. In the mid-1970s, all eyes were on Spain. After forty years of rule, both Spaniards and the outside world watched as Madrid, a drab city under the Franco régime, became the centre of both a young democracy and a vibrant artistic scene by the early 1980s. Rejecting the old guard, young Spaniards occupied public plazas, subverted Spanish cultural norms and undermined the authoritarian state by participating in a counterculture that eventually grew into the Movida Madrileña, or the ‘Madrid Scene’. Analysing everyday acts of dissent by young people, this book studies Spanish youth culture and queer culture during and after the dictatorship, with an emphasis on that of Madrid and its role in the transition to the modern Spanish democracy. This antiauthoritarian youth culture, which finds its roots in the long 1950s, reflected a mixture of sexual liberalization, a rejection of the perceived ‘backwardness’ of the Francoist dictatorship, a reinvention of native Iberian pluralistic traditions and a burgeoning global youth culture that connected the American Civil Rights Movement, the New York Underground, British punks, French Situationalists and Spanish frikis, or freaks. Translating Movida as a ‘scene’ rather than ‘movement’ is also important in that the Francoist régime called itself the Movimiento Nacional – a fervently nationalist movement. As a decentralized youth culture, the Movida was, in fact, an anti-movement – one that rejected the sort of strict organizational structures associated with many global social movements of the 1960s. After forty years of dictatorship, Franco left behind what he believed to be a patriarchal, conservative

An Introduction

3

and authoritarian country. However, not only had the young generation already been imagining a democratic, pluralistic and ‘modern’ Spain before the dictator died, but they had long been creating spaces from which to subvert the régime through an attempt to (re)construct Spanish social norms – seen in clandestine reading of forbidden literature and foreign comic books that subverted Francoist ideologies, the revival of the Spanish tradition of holding political-literary café gatherings called tertulias (with a contemporary twist) and the creation of music, novellas and art that sought to spread a libertine, Dionysian message. The study of everyday life and print culture of young people who grew up in Madrid under the Franco régime helps us to better understand the role of young people in the political transformation of Spain from dictatorship to the current Spanish democratic system of ‘autonomous communities’.3 Consequently, it helps us to understand how even seemingly apolitical young people challenge old norms, and can potentially allow us to imagine new possibilities – to challenge authorities. Moreover, the Spanish case also demonstrates ways to strengthen communities and promote pluralism of thought and peoples, the antidote to fascism. The Madrid case is particularly salient as that city was not only the stronghold of Franco’s power, but it had been particularly suppressed by the régime because of its stand against the rising dictatorship during the Spanish Civil War (1936–1939). Despite this oppression, by the end of the 1970s, a youth nightlife and party scene had emerged. Madrid became a place of sustained subversive counterculture, serving as a model to other Spanish cities yearning to reject conservative Francoist ideals. By the time Franco died, not only were young subversives already creating their own newspapers, music, pamphlets, films and comic books that implicitly, if not outright, criticized Francoism itself, but their underground culture had a following that would continue to grow exponentially by the time the Spanish Constitution of 1978 was ratified. By partying in the streets, young people created a carnivalesque and pluralistic culture that subverted the ideals of the conservative régime through a culture of drugs, sex, drinking and art performed in the streets of Madrid. The extension of the transgressive and ‘postmodern’ youth culture of the Movida throughout Spain not only subverted the traditionalist norms, but it also exemplified the ways young people adopted new technologies to spread their pluralistic message through new and adapted media. Madrid’s carnivalesque and antiauthoritarian youth culture was influenced by: (1) the (re)appropriation of public and private space by young people; (2) new consumer technology that provided an availability of affordable printing and recording technology which allowed young people to avoid censorship and more

4

Antiauthoritarian Youth Culture in Francoist Spain

easily connect to other likeminded individuals; (3) the penetration of popular American and Western European culture into Franco’s Spain; (4) a rejection of the perceived ‘backwardness’ of the régime; (5) a revival and reimagination of Iberian pluralistic traditions found in pre–Spanish Civil War culture; and (6) a burgeoning vision of youth culture that coincided and connected with other global youth movements, like the uprisings in France and Germany in May 1968, Black Liberation in the United States and the predominantly working class and immigrant punk movements in the United Kingdom and New York. The lasting impact of the Movida not only reflected the cultural production of the period, but also, more importantly, promoted the creation of pluralistic, autonomous and democratic spaces despite the Falangist desire for a homogenous, conservative and Catholic Spain (albeit a very particular Francoist form of Catholicism). As a result of the fragmented nature of the penetration of popular culture entering Spain under the régime, and because of the anti-modernist culture of the dictatorship, young Spaniards stitched together a youth culture that more similarly resembled postmodern sensibilities – being influenced by everything from nineteenth-century bohemian café culture and carnivalesque traditions, the more modernist culture of the 1960s, hippie culture, Spanish kitsch culture, British punk culture and American popular and underground culture. The everyday life of young Spaniards under Franco was composed of a negotiation of inculcated social norms, the demands of authority figures and the ways in which many young people negotiated their own agency, or ability to affect change, through the subversion of authority and acceptance of normativity. However, Spanish youth under Franco cannot be considered monolithic,4 as issues of geography, class, ethnicity, nationality, gender and sexuality played important roles in the ways that young people lived their everyday lives. Young people of the late Francoist dictatorship grew up with different perceptions and understandings of the régime, authority and their own subjectivity in relation to Francoism as compared to their parents who had participated in the Spanish Civil War. Some young Spaniards of the late 1950s, such as film director Julio Diamante Stihl, who features prominently in Chapter 3, were already imagining a world without Franco, whereas other young Spaniards of the 1960s might not have been able to imagine a world without ‘el Caudillo’ (the Leader) – being all that they had ever known. Even still, some young Spaniards of the 1970s might have considered Franco a non-issue already at the start of the decade – a dying old man. As Thomas Kuhn reminds us, describing a paradigm shift from inside of the paradigm is quite difficult, if not impossible. As in all modern societies,

An Introduction

5

young Spaniards both conformed to and transgressed against hegemonic social norms – both capable of succumbing to, while, paradoxically, still subverting those systems of power and social norms in the practice of their everyday lives.5 The chapters of this volume are designed to follow a chronological framework that traces young people during various stages of their lives, and to show specific vignettes that elucidate how both the older and younger strata of people who grew up under the Franco régime encountered authoritarianism and antiauthoritarianism in their everyday lives. While certainly there were young people who were in favour of the authoritarian régime, they are not the focus of this study, though they do appear. The first chapter situates the book both historiographically and theoretically, placing itself firmly in current issues concerning modern Spanish history, while using a theoretical framework that draws from youth studies, urban studies, critical theory, space theory, queer theory and the study of everyday life. Chapter 2 will discuss everyday interactions with authority in the classroom through a study of textbooks intended to inculcate young people with Francoist ideology and students’ everyday interactions with authority, i.e. teachers, parents and so on. It also reflects on bureaucratic systems under Franco, and how those systems inculcated young people with fascist, nationalist and pre-Vatican II Catholic ideology. Chapter 3 studies the events surrounding the death of the philosopher José Ortega y Gasset, and how young people turned his funeral procession into a protest. In the wake of the philosopher’s death young Spaniards clandestinely organized ‘poetic gatherings’ in an attempt to recall the Spanish ‘liberal’ tradition. Chapter 4 analyses seemingly everyday acts of dissent, and considers the spaces in which young Spaniards were able to dissent through the reading of authors banned by the régime, looking specifically at banned Superman comic books of the 1960s and the ways young Spaniards acquired said materials. This chapter shows creation of both an underground comic book black market and the régime’s attempt to prevent young people from reading those comics. Chapter 5 discusses the emergence of antiauthoritarian spaces under the régime, focusing on implicit dissent, political-literary magazines of the 1960s. I will argue that the publication of these magazines allowed for not only a counter-narrative to develop to that of the régime, but also, within the pages of these magazines, young Spaniards were reimagining the lost tradition of the Spanish tertulia, promoting dialogue and pluralism through the discussion of politics and literature. Chapter 6 will discuss the production of underground comic book culture and independent youth publications of the 1970s. Further,

6

Antiauthoritarian Youth Culture in Francoist Spain

I will use this entrée into underground culture to understand the creation of counterpublics in Madrid, and how they influenced and were affected by the Spanish democratic transition of the late 1970s through the early 1980s. Chapter 7 will focus on the creation of the mythos of the Movida during the early 1980s, looking at popular symbols of the Movida – the punk band Kaka de Luxe and the films of Pedro Almodóvar and Iván Zulueta. This concluding chapter will explain how the Movida dissipated, and was incorporated into normative ideas of Spanishness through an appropriation of it by the Spanish Socialist party and capitalist commoditization of the Movida.

1

Making a Scene

Remembering the past Not even a decade after the ratification of the Spanish Constitution of 1978, radio disk jockey and music critic Jesús Ordovás (1947–) was already writing with a sense of nostalgic melancholia about the changes that had occurred to the Madrid Scene since its rise. In 1987, he wrote: It all began when Madrid assumed its role as a grand modern city, without complexes … The news of punk and its echoes were received in Madrid almost instantaneously, thanks to the radio and music magazines. Madrid now connects to London, New York and Paris, and knows it belongs to the modern world. Punk is the revulsion that opens new doors to dozens of groups and characters who have things to say.1

By the late 1980s, Madrid had indeed sloughed off much of the shell of Francoism. As Ordovás indicates, the city had rejected many of its own complexes – especially its so-called backwardness. Madrid had embraced a new image for itself as part of a network of cities located in the ‘modern world’. For Ordovás, these metropolitan centres were connected by a common, vulgar, aesthetic language – punk. In that same paragraph, Ordovás also writes about the young people who produced music because it was ‘pure and simple fun’.2 While there is certainly an argument to be made that punk culture was based on a devilmay-care attitude and a sort of nihilistic diversion, it can also be said that punk participants directly combatted authority and societal norms – self-consciously or not – even claiming the explicitly antiauthoritarian anarchist ‘Ⓐ’ as one of its symbols. If it was just pure and simple fun, it certainly made transgression broadly appealing. Ordovás tells of participants of the Movida, before it was called that, making homemade demos and recordings, while noting a shift away from the Do-It-Yourself (DIY) aspect of the Madrid Scene with the arrival of ‘contracts, managers and promotion companies, tours and success’. By 1987, the scene had

8

Antiauthoritarian Youth Culture in Francoist Spain

changed; it had become commercialized and professionalized – mainstream. Ordovás had seen his underground scene become incorporated into the new Spanish state; moreover, he had professionally benefitted from that integration. Had Madrid’s antiauthoritarian ideals died – was punk dead? For many who experienced the Madrid Scene, especially amongst the participants who financially and culturally profited most from it, this disillusionment is a pervasive sentiment in many of their reflections. One might argue, although the aesthetic of punk might have transformed, the elusive culture of antiauthoritarianism might have evolved and moved elsewhere once it created a space for those once marginalized participants to access power. Perhaps this ephemerality is part of what makes antiauthoritarianism so prevailing. It does not linger too long once its job is done. It finds a new audience that is still marginalized. However, one hopes, once the formerly marginalized are pulled to the centre, they use their newly acquired privilege not to chastise newcomers, becoming authoritarian gatekeepers themselves, but instead act to integrate new voices. What Ordovás might not have seen in his contemporary moment was that the creation of the Madrid Scene reached further back than he might have imagined, or experienced himself, starting with young people who rejected Falangist norms by adopting antiauthoritarian values that pre-dated punk’s arrival to Spain. The streams and tributaries of liberation are hardly stagnant and have the tendency to find undiscovered crevices to permeate. In fact, one might say that Francoism did not necessarily wholly crush Spanish liberalism – although, for many liberals and leftists who fought against fascism in the civil war, liberalism and pluralism had both seemingly received an impossible setback. Instead, liberalism (in the broadest sense of the word) hid in unseen corners, melded with global antiauthoritarian youth movements, and re-emerged as part of a postmodern youth movement that incorporated elements of liberalism past into Madrid’s own variation of antiauthoritarian global youth culture. This is the nature of antiauthoritarianism – it knows how to hide amongst the gears of the all-encompassing systems of power, seeking allies and learning new tactics. Antiauthoritarianism adapts and learns from the past – fighting stubbornly not for a utopian future, but an alternative to the present. Contrary to popular political narratives that posit Spanish democracy emerged from the decisions made by a few powerful men following Franco’s death, I argue that starting as early as the mid-1950s, young Spaniards were already transforming into what journalist John Hooper later called the ‘new Spaniards’ of the post-Franco era.3,4 As in most cases of successful democratic transition, democracy and pluralism were not imposed from above; rather, those

Making a Scene

9

tendencies were cultivated – existing in tension with radical political and social changes that had already been emerging under the dictatorship. Young people of the 1950s and 1960s began to imagine what a ‘modern’ Spain could be through the practice of everyday dissent. This chapter will set up a theoretical framework for the book and locate this study historiographically. As a parallel purpose, this book also sets forward to describe insidious everyday fascist tendencies that are authoritarian, nationalist, racist, classist, sexist, queerphobic, ethnocentric and ableist. To understand these fascist tendencies, I suggest that scholars must think of ‘intersectionality’ not as a goal, but instead, it should be an approach we must use because fascism acts intersectionally itself – combining and using multiple levers in its strategies of oppression.5 Intersectional analysis gives us the ability to name categories that otherwise are collapsed into an umbrella category of the ‘Other’ by fascistic thinking (in the broadest sense). Moreover, intersectional analysis describes the symptoms of fascism and how those oppressions interconnect. If fascism in its variant strains has acted as an antithesis to Enlightenmentera liberal, pluralistic and democratic ideas, intersectional analysis is literally a categorical response that attempts to reassert rationality into discourse to counter to the fascist tendency to homogenize identities through alterophobia. By naming the elements of fascism – the symptoms – we can treat the disease. However, intersectional approaches still require us to think hard about the categories we do create, and recognize the limits and problematics of any sort of categorization (to push against binaries, as it were). To this end, I believe the cure to fascism is found in representation and pluralism, acknowledging infinite subjectivities, which can ultimately function as a panacea to everyday fascism – or what Hannah Arendt might call the ‘banality of evil’. Only once pluralism is expected, promoted and respected in the public sphere can democracy take root. Many scholars of modern Spain have drawn a hard line between a ‘Franco era’ and a ‘post-Franco era’. Initially, this division gave invaluable insight to understanding the political changes of the time; however, such a strict periodization can lead scholars to overlook what cultural changes overlapped the eras. I ask: what prepared young Spaniards for what would become known as the ‘transition to democracy’? Because of this predilection towards using a predeterminist political narrative to describe the transition to democracy, scholars have largely ignored the ways in which young Spaniards rejected Francoism through an adoption of transgressive ideals, seen in acts of everyday dissent under the régime. Can a democracy be imposed from above by the

10

Antiauthoritarian Youth Culture in Francoist Spain

appointed would-be successor of a dictatorship? Were the grounds for democracy already being fertilized long before Franco’s death? The Spanish transition to democracy depended upon not only important political shifts, but also cultural shifts that started well before Franco’s death. If we are to understand the drastic cultural change of the 1980s, we must re-evaluate and expand the temporal scope of the period of the transition to democracy, and move away from a narrative that assumes the Spanish democracy was solely the product of political change at the top, while still acknowledging that that political change certainly exacerbated revolution. While it is understandable that in the wake of the dictatorship historians focused on (re)constructing the political history of the administration and the state, which had largely been obfuscated by the régime’s own narrative constructions, such a history does not entirely consider the importance of the cultural shift in the mentalitié of young Spaniards that had occurred prior to the promulgation of the Spanish Constitution of 1978.6 The Franco régime promoted an exceptionalist image of Spain as ‘different’ from other European countries, seen in an extended Francoist campaign that attempted to create an image of an ‘exotic’ Spain to attract foreign tourists.7 The inscription of this ‘exotic’ Spain onto the Spanish mentalitié also attempted to legitimate Francoism through an explanation that posited a particular Spanish need for an authoritarian régime because of its ‘difference’ to other European countries. Nevertheless, ideologies from other parts of Western Europe and the United States seeped into Spain through the tourism industry despite state censorship and oppression.8 As Richard Kagan has argued, historians must consider Spanish history in relation to Europe and the United States – not as exceptional.9 In fact, already in the 1950s and 1960s many young Spaniards, who had grown up after the Spanish Civil War, not only rejected the régime’s attempt at homogeneity, but also did so through a (re)appropriation and creation of language, art, technology, media, politics and sociality that rejected this ‘Otherness’ of Spain. While there might have been a ‘peaceful’ European invasion of Spain, Spaniards were far from passive in that process. Moreover, any cultural change that was happening in Spain should be considered in parallel to, and oftentimes in conjunction with, other contemporary youth movements, rather than solely in contrast or as an echo. The transformation of Madrid from a drab city closely associated with the stifling Francoist régime into a colourful, spectacular city was a product of regionalism and symbolic of a (re)construction of local identity – a trend also seen

Making a Scene

11

in contemporary Basque and Catalan regionalist projects that attempted to shed the husk of Francoism.10 The demise of Franco presented new opportunities for young people to further subvert cultural normativity amongst political turmoil. This Madrid culture, which I describe as ‘carnivalesque’, was utilized by the local government to gain popular legitimacy as being ‘modern’ (and consequently anti-Francoist).11 This culture was also subsumed into the emerging capitalist system of democratic Spain – both transgressing and reinforcing capitalist and consumerist tendencies simultaneously. It would only be later political figures, such as Madrid’s socialist mayor Enrique Tierno Galván, who would latch onto the transgressive culture of the Movida to promote it as part of a new and ‘modern’ Spain.12 The Movida, sometimes called Nueva ola madrileña, or el Rrollo in its early phases, served as a model on which to reimagine Madrid without Franco through a process that valued lo cheli, or culture and language typically associated with working class and marginal cultures of Madrid. Important work has been done on the remaking of a local Madrid identity, but little attention has been given by historians to the early emergence of the Nueva ola madrileña or cheli culture, both necessary for understanding the reconstruction of local regional identity. It is this local Madrid identity, mixed with a myriad of global and Iberian influences, which contributed to the culture of the new, young, post-Franco Spain.13 Thus we must not only look at the construction of this ‘new’ Madrid through the lens of Spanish youth culture, but also must consider how this seemingly regional project of reconstructing local identity also can be compared to the (re)construction of other Spanish identities such as Catalan and Basque, and even global punk cultures.14 Spaniards transitioned from dictatorship to democracy through political and social change at multiple levels of society (i.e. the actions of politicians and more formalized community organizations). Young people contributed to this project by opening informal pluralistic spaces under the dictatorship – first clandestinely, and then in the public sphere. This youth culture not only began the process of (re)appropriating public space at the end of an oppressive dictatorship through the creation of a carnivalesque habitus, but they also proposed new norms that contributed to a discourse of inclusion and plurality, essential for democracy to take hold.15 By the time Franco died, Spanish culture had already been changing; democratic spaces had begun to open despite the régime. What would become known as the Movida did not start with Franco’s death, but rather began with the emergence of a generation that had no memory of the Spanish Civil War.16 For these young people the norms of the dictatorship did

12

Antiauthoritarian Youth Culture in Francoist Spain

not make sense, and so they had to find public spaces where they could propose and act out alternative models of Spanishness – seen in the production of comic books, magazines, music and poetry, which later appeared in the streets, cafés and bars. While those who had lived through the civil war suffered what historian Paloma Aguilar has termed ‘cultural amnesia’, young Spaniards who did not experience that trauma did not suffer from the same sort amnesia as their parents – although they certainly were affected. The memory of the Spanish Civil War played an important role after the death of Franco in the creation of the Spanish Democracy; the ‘forgotten memory’ of the war affected the political decisions made during the democratic transition. This mass ‘amnesia’ was the result of an acceptance of the Francoist government as legitimate – the product of a country petrified of another war.17 Despite historical revisionism, and the ways in which the Spanish people allowed for the régime’s official history to be promulgated into memory, there was still an underlying historical memory of the war that the régime was not able to eliminate.18 As the legacy of Francoism waned, so did that cultural amnesia, culminating with the passing of the Historical Memory Law in 2007 which attempted to literally bring the skeletons out of the closet in some cases by identifying and exhuming victims of the dictatorship buried in mass graves, and removed Francoist symbols from public spaces, amongst other provisions.19 Not having directly experienced the civil war, the postwar children not only rejected Franco’s image of Spain, but radically transgressed Francoist constructions of gender, sexuality, national identity and class in what can be described as a combination of antiauthoritarianism and decadent consumption that played in tandem with the history of Americanization, globalization and the emergence of new technological capabilities. For the young, ‘amnesia’ was a product of a disjuncture in experiences that occurred between the generations that lived through the civil war and those who grew up afterwards – not selfimposed. This cultural amnesia functioned to give young Spaniards a reason to look away from a ‘backwards’, forgotten past, and towards a future that was lived in the moment – exemplified in the youthful, Dionysian culture of the Movida Madrileña. If fascism looks to an imagined past to reconstruct an idealized future, antiauthoritarian youth culture embraces its present as future – forcing the here and now to conform to a new idealized future by creating (or embracing) a radical disjuncture. While historians such as Antonio Cazorla Sánchez, Nigel Townson and Javier Muñoz Soro have tackled questions of everyday life in the second half of the dictatorship, and others such as Pamela Radcliff, Sasha Pack and Hamilton

Making a Scene

13

Stapell have aptly elaborated upon the drastic socio-political changes that occurred in Spain after Franco, sparse scholarship has considered what social and cultural factors might have created the conditions that promoted pluralistic and democratic ideals amongst those young Spaniards who grew up in the period.20 Literary scholars, such as Paul Julian Smith, Jill Robbins, Teresa M. Vilarós and Gema Pérez Sánchez, have studied the Movida analysing the more popular cultural products of the movement. However, most of that work has tended to focus primarily on the post-Franco period, leaving a space to discuss the effects of antiauthoritarian culture of the 1950s and 1960s on the transition to democracy. To answer these questions, I study the (re)appropriation of public space by young people so that to better understand how the Movida emerged as a rejection of Francoism, filling in a gap in the historiography that has tended to ignore the creation of informal pluralistic spaces under Franco. This exploration of a pluralistic youth culture that spread throughout Spain will analyse the ways in which young people reimagined Spanish identity through carnivalesque transgression and the propagation of an ‘underground’ punk culture. In the nearly forty years since the transition to the Spanish democracy, scholars have divided the post–civil war era into three eras – first Francoism (the more virulent fascist phase), second Francoism (characterized by Spain’s integration into the United Nations and the international community) and post-Francoism (the period following Franco’s death). This construction of the death of Franco as the turning point that led to democracy has lent itself to ‘great man’ history. To assume that Spain became democratic because Franco died, or because his appointed successor, Juan Carlos I, installed a democracy from above, negates the importance of the democratic spaces and tendencies that were already being created during the so-called second Francoism. This type of periodization creates a conundrum for scholars of contemporary Spanish history in that such a division inherently does not pay sufficient attention to the agency of Spaniards who had from at least the mid-1950s onwards been subverting the régime in their everyday lives. By tracing ways young people dissented prior to Franco’s death scholars can add further nuance to their understanding of how the Falange largely failed to inculcate young Spaniards with its ideology, explaining how the libertine underground youth culture of Madrid could be popularized so quickly after Franco’s death. It is rare for a country to transition to democracy as quickly as Spain did after the end of an authoritarian régime. Through this study of youth culture, we can start to see the importance of considering the agency of young people to act against authority, but also elaborate upon their capacity to create democratic

14

Antiauthoritarian Youth Culture in Francoist Spain

and pluralistic spaces that allow for broader cultural dissent – as well as cultural revolution. When considering how youth culture intersected with the public sphere and popular culture, scholars can better understand the gradual development of a libertine and pluralistic youth movement that not only flourished after the death of Franco, but also played a key role in the Spanish transition to democracy – demonstrating political, social and cultural change.

Fascist youth For the Francoist state to succeed, especially after a brutal civil war, the régime needed to invent a history that legitimated its power. Instead of calling the conflict a ‘civil war’, the dictatorship rebranded it ‘La Guerra de Liberation’, or the ‘War of Liberación’.21 This designation not only reflected a desire to eliminate narratives that did not conform to the official, dominant nationalist history, but also demonstrated the state’s need to reimagine a Spanish identity that denied the reality of the bloody war that ended the Second Spanish Republic. Unlike in Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy, because of the toll of its civil war (both financially and in human lives), Spain largely stayed out of the Second World War. As a result, historians are left with a sort of historical anomaly – a Nazi collaborationist authoritarian dictatorship that lasted nearly forty years. While there is still contentious debate as to whether Francoism was fascist or not, and to what degree if so, all agree it was authoritarian. While describing the latter years of the dictatorship as strictly fascist would be inaccurate, the régime certainly maintained fascist tendencies, such as authoritarianism, sexism, racism, nationalism, fascistic bureaucratic systems and a valuing of youth. If one extreme of the fascist spectrum ends with genocide, seen in Nazism, everyday fascism is sometimes harder to diagnose, but can still be just as deadly. Everyday fascism is not a strict fixed ideological programme per se; it exists in the ways a dominant group tries to define and oppress non-dominant groups – women, queer people, immigrants, transient people, people of colour and those with disabilities. More insidiously, everyday fascistic behaviours have a long history of taking hold of an oppressed working class (predominantly white in the European and American examples) – a form of populism that encourages the working class to not work in solidarity with other oppressed groups, taking advantage of an internalized fear of the Other. Historians are continually challenged with an ever-growing gap between the ways that words are employed in a historical moment, the ways they change over

Making a Scene

15

time and the ways that contemporary vocabularies influence how we understand intentionality. An example of this is seen in the opposing constructions of what ‘youth’ means, being used as a metaphor for the ‘social ills’ of Western societies in some contexts.22 Under fascism, the category of ‘youth’ was useful to Mussolini’s régime as it was ‘considered to be the avant-garde of the fascist “revolution” ’.23 Under fascism, youth was a site where national redemption could occur. In the Nazi case, this obsession with youth (and purity of nation) even went so far to lead to the creation of eugenics projects created to build a new kind of German, resulting in first sterilization and later the murder of Jews, Roma, queer people, people of colour, political leftists and those with disabilities. Forced sterilization, in effect, was an attempt to control who could have children – perhaps the ultimate demonstration of fascist obsession with youth. In Spain, like in Nazi Germany, youth was considered a cure for the nation – a solution for the ills of nation that created the need for a ‘War of Liberation’. Comparatively, in countries like the United Kingdom and United States in the 1950s and 1960s, public opinion and media generally considered youth a ‘danger’ to public order. In the United States, this was seen in the ‘delinquent genre’ of films – the sorts of movies that centred on a male delinquent figure and often starred the likes of James Dean and Marlon Brando. In literature, a variation of this genre appeared in American novels by the likes of J.D. Salinger (Catcher in the Rye) and later S.E. Hinton’s The Outsiders – however, those delinquent characters often worked against stereotypes and even redeemed ‘troubled youth’. In the United Kingdom, ‘hooliganism’ became a more prevalent discussion in popular culture in the postwar years. Despite ‘picaresque’ literature having found its origins in early modern Spain, most prominently in the novella Lazarillo de Tormes (1554), a modern variation of the genre of delinquent literature and film did not become popularized in Spain until the creation of cine quinqui in the 1970s, coinciding with the rise of young people challenging Francoist normativity. Under a far-right-wing authoritarian dictatorship such flagrant acts of rebellion would have been discouraged, and certainly never romanticized in film. By deconstructing the category of youth under fascism we can better understand both categories. According to historian Luisa Passerini, early youth movements in Germany and England ‘strongly posited a connection between youth and patriotic values, and at the same time, between youth and emancipation, far from family and bourgeois society’.24 The fascist spirit of youth was cross-generational, and was evoked not to indicate one’s relative age, but rather to be demonstrative of their acceptance of ‘modernity’ through the

16

Antiauthoritarian Youth Culture in Francoist Spain

support of fascism. Through fascism it was believed that an old man could be ‘young’, and a young man could be ‘old’ by rejecting fascism. Indeed, this not only blurs the ages of ‘youth’ and a ‘generation’, but also obscures traditional conceptions of what fascist ideologies might have meant by ‘youth’. As was the case in fascist Italy and Nazi Germany, young people were a primary worry of Franco’s state. While not implementing programmes as horrific as German eugenics, Franco’s régime concerned itself with using its youngest citizens to build a better Spain, and it certainly attempted to exact revenge against leftists in an attempt to cleanse the country of liberalism. The régime sought to excise liberal, democratic ideals, to reconcile a national history that relegated the Spanish Civil War to a story that reflected a national triumph, and to create a model of Spanishness that served to legitimate and reinforce Franco’s régime. To do this, the bureaucratic apparatuses under Franco, often under the direction of religious figures, operated with the purpose of creating the social circumstances that would inculcate a fervent nationalism in young people. The régime relied upon cultural ‘amnesia’ regarding the civil war to be able to teach its own version of the war. The Francoist state had to create an idea of what its ideal ‘young person’ could be, so that to better the whole of the nation – an incredibly nationalist, if not explicitly fascist, project. The category of ‘youth’ is an important aspect discussed in most scholarship on fascist culture – whether of the Italian, German, French or Spanish variety. However, in the scholarship that discusses ‘fascist youth’, there is typically a focus on young people from the bourgeoisie, be it avant-garde artists or activist students. Many historians deal with ‘fascist youth’ and not ‘youth under fascism’ – often causing conflation between the two overlapping, but distinct, discussions that distinguish how the state saw young people versus how young people lived their everyday lives under the state. Nicholas Stargardt’s Witnesses of War: Children’s Lives under the Nazis provides one example of scholarship that does delve into the lives of children and teenagers. In the work, the author describes the Nazi belief that children were potential dangers to ‘social degeneration’.25 These young people were not only the future of the German nation, but were also existential threats. Under Nazism, the existence of an internal Other, and the even more perilous threat of non-Jewish Germans producing children, threatened the notion of a pure German people.26 Moreover, in Germany, those young people who were considered potentially dangerous were removed and put in reformatories if they were perceived as a threat to the nation.27 In contrast to the German case, American fears of simple delinquency almost seemed optimistic.

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In the Spanish case, although there are plenty of texts about fascist youth groups, none focuses on how fascist tendencies were performed, or were subverted, by youth outside of organized groups or associations. While works such as Juan Sáen Marín’s El frente de juventudes: Política y juventud en la España de la postguerra (1937–1960), Gregorio Valdelvira’s La oposición estudiantil al franquismo and the collection Estudiantes contra Franco: Oposición política y movilización juvenil (edited by Elena Hernández Sandoica, Miguel Ángel Ruiz Carnicer and Marc Baldó Lacomba) tell a politically oriented history of youth, they do not elaborate on the experience of young people who were less overtly politically active under Franco. To contextualize the struggles and the everyday dissent of Spanish antiauthoritarian youth culture it is necessary to consider the confluence of both the more political (and often more affluent) along with the seemingly apolitical youth (and those who often had less access to political levers of power). Moreover, by looking at only those young people who explicitly participated in political organizations or organized movements, historians fail to demonstrate how young people demonstrated agency, except in obvious cases of student protest, or that which is given to them marked by class distinction (those who can politically afford to dissent under a dictatorship). It is important to note the cult of youth did not have its origin with fascism, but rather locates its origins in an antecedent trend of ‘generationalism’ of the fin de siècle.28 This particularly rings true in Spain with its use of generationalism to categorize literature and art: i.e. the Generación del 1898, Generación del 1914, Generación del 1927 and the later Generación del 56 (which will be the topic of Chapter 3). Nevertheless, although generationalism contributed to the creation of fascism, fascism also rejected the construct of generations, as Passerini argues, when implementing fascist ideals across generations. Ruth Ben-Ghiat’s treatment of the Italian case is one of the most complete available as she analyses the young people of the early years of the movement, how the régime imagined the role of youth in fascist Italy and the alienation of the generation of young intellectuals that did not participate in the First World War. Ben-Ghiat adds nuance to the study of young people under fascism by delineating between class and gender within the spectrum of youth, and the régime’s position towards each category. The study includes the perspectives of three young people, all of whom were active in student magazines and could be considered young intellectuals of the Italian fascist movement. While still demonstrating a specific kind of young person, of a certain class status, the work serves as a model for how to analyse fascist youth culture. The contradictions held within fascism become more obvious when studying youth policies,

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utilizing both gender and class as tools of analysis. Ben-Ghiat correctly observes, ‘Ultimately, the Italian dictatorship’s youth politics and policies ended up exposing the disjuncture between the régime’s revolutionary rhetoric and its normalizing imperatives’.29 In The Anatomy of Fascism, Robert Paxton makes reference to young people, but rarely with any sort of in-depth elaboration.30 In the work, youth is demonstrated primarily as a subject to fascist régimes – carrying little agency. Nevertheless, Paxton does argue that young people joined fascist youth groups to ‘declare one’s independence from smothering bourgeois homes and boring parents’.31 Such a statement indicates that Paxton primarily considers the bourgeoisie in this analysis of fascism – failing to consider any sort of further nuance that can be delineated from the categories of ‘youth’ and fascism. If fascism is understood as an organized youth-oriented mass movement, necessarily, consideration of young people of differing classes must be given despite the fascist tendency to claim that class structures are subordinate to the nation under such régimes. Paxton states, ‘Fascism was more fully than any other political movement a declaration of youthful rebellion, though it was far more than that’.32 In here lies an aspect of fascism that has yet to be fully assessed. While young people are often exonerated for their role in fascism, Paxton points to a question that should be addressed by scholars – if fascism was truly a youth movement, and not just ideals imposed by a régime, then what responsibility do young people have in its creation and destruction? How did the fascism of young people differ from that of the older generations? How were fascist tendencies combatted? More so than the Nazi or Italian cases, these are questions that can be better answered in the Spanish case given the duration of the dictatorship.

Antiauthoritarian youth In the long twentieth century, young European urbanites have attempted to carve out spaces for themselves in their society while simultaneously trying to gain recognition of their own subjectivity by those same authorities that they might even reject. Unlike adults, young people generally do not own property, and are thus restricted to spaces they are ‘given’ by their caretakers, ‘public’ spaces that are allotted to them or spaces that they have (re)appropriated for themselves. As a result, young people tend to inhabit marginal, and arguably queer, spaces

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within society. Moreover, in modernity, young people have a propensity to ‘imagine’ spaces and communities where they can demonstrate agency – creating counterpublics.33 From these counterpublics, they dictate both rules and norms, most obviously seen in American and European mod, hippie and punk youth cultures of the postwar years. From the margins, young people can, in effect, imagine ‘virtual’ spaces from which they can create counterpublics – creating the possibility of subversion of hegemonic power, authority and normativity.34,35 These virtual spaces existed even in a pre-digital world. In effect, youth culture, like most culture, is given meaning through imagination and agreed-upon significations. The counter-normative imaginings propagated by antiauthoritarian culture in Franco’s Spain gave young people a language and an aesthetic with which to identify – an imagined community of dissidents that was recognized in tastes, appearance, experiences and movement within urban spaces. Despite harsh censorship and the threat of imprisonment, young Spaniards of the 1960s and 1970s were having a revolution of everyday life, much like that described by Belgian writer Raoul Vaneigem in his 1967 publication Traité de savoir-vivre à l’usage des jeunes generations.36 The works of Arthur Rimbaud, Miguel de Unamuno, Federico García Lorca, Andy Warhol, Luis Buñuel, Bob Dylan, the Velvet Underground, Patti Smith, Robert Crumb, Gilbert Shelton, Spain Rodriguez and Allen Ginsberg inspired a new generation of Spanish avant-garde. The 1960s and 1970s also saw the return of a space of political and literary discourse that had previously been found in the café culture of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Youth-oriented magazines such as Cuadernos para el diálogo and Triunfo functioned to revitalize the ‘dead’ tradition of literary-political discourse once embodied by the Spanish tertulia. The tertulia, which columnist Francisco Umbral had proclaimed ‘dead’ under the régime, was a prominent feature of the urban geography of the café culture of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, and was a space in which Spaniards gathered to discuss both politics and literature.37 The tradition of the tertulia, as a space of democratic literary-political dialogue, did not fade away entirely, but, rather, had to escape to other spaces where there was an absence of authority – seen in magazines such as Cuadernos and underground ‘fanzines’ produced by young people in the 1970s. It is in spaces such as these, hidden in various indirect (and sometimes direct) critiques of Spanish society, that one can also find challenges to normativity. These critiques of Spanish society become even more apparent in the 1970s

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with the ‘boom’ of Spanish underground comic book culture in which young Spaniards started producing their own comics and fanzines that were both transgressive and critical of Spanish society. By studying the revitalization of a political-literary tradition, re-envisioned to use fanzines and comic books, back rooms of café-bars, public plazas, universities and dingy apartment flats, scholars can begin to understand the central role of these marginal spaces in the creation of pluralistic discourse which is necessary for a functioning democracy.

Carnival and transgression Studying the Spanish case allows us to not just consider fascism of the early twentieth century, but it allows us to see how it dealt with youth subcultures, such as the hippie and punk cultures of the late century. I will not only discuss the performativity of gender for young Spaniards of the conservative Francoist era, but will further expand the definition of ‘performativity’ to study the subculture that developed around the Movida. Utilizing the writings of Judith Butler, Mikhail Bakhtin, Peter Stallybrass and Allon White, David Muggleton38 and Dick Hebdige,39 I will elaborate upon the already established discourse on subcultures and the subaltern to discuss how the performativity of the Movida (and its precursors) more broadly encouraged Spaniards to ‘act out’ their transgression against the régime through a carnivalesque display that could otherwise be written off as just young people ‘making a scene’. This transgression that spread from the heart of the capital helped prepare a generation of Spaniards to both participate democratically and think pluralistically through the practice of (re) appropriating public spaces, challenging hegemonic discourses and creating a culture that culminated with the creation of an underground punk ‘scene’ – the Movida Madrileña. In a sense, the Movida was not a new phenomenon, it was a variance of the Enlightenment – a way to build pluralistic communities. Borrowing from literary theorist Mikhail Bakhtin’s analysis of the place, nature and importance of the carnivalesque, Peter Stallybrass and Allon White’s The Politics and Poetics of Transgression translates Bakhtin’s theories into a framework and praxis that is not only useful for historical analysis, but brings into focus the central role of taste, that which is ‘grotesque’, or of ‘low culture’, as a necessary component for understanding hegemonic systems of power, urban life and economic spheres. Stallybrass and White’s study does not merely translate Bakhtin’s theories, but, rather, it removes those theories from an ageless model

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separated from historical analysis to further demonstrate the struggles involved in the production of culture in contentious or ambiguous places within a society. The authors argue: The bourgeois subject continuously defined and re-defined itself throughout the exclusion of what is marked out as ‘low’ – as dirty, repulsive, noisy, contaminating. Yet that very act of exclusion was constitutive of its identity. The low was internalized under the sign of negation and disgust.40

If bourgeois culture demarcates a sort of standard for what is considered ‘normative’ acceptable behaviour, then embracing filth stands not just as transgression against normativity, but also co-creates ‘normative’ culture as one cannot exist without the other. Bourgeois normative taste requires a population that does not adhere to such norms with which to contrast itself. For those bohemians (who also come from the bourgeoisie) who seek to reject bourgeois norms, there must be a certain attractiveness to that which offends authority, power and middle class values. Moreover, this transgression must exist visibly in the public sphere – for a secluded private transgression cannot offend bourgeois sensibilities. Bourgeois culture is, in fact, historically rooted in carnivalesque (and working class) culture, despite the bourgeoisie’s desire to reject working class culture. In some instances, the appropriation of peasant or working class culture by the bourgeoisie has resulted in amalgamated traditions in which the resulting cultural practice becomes more associated with the bourgeoisie than the working class. This is particularly seen in the bourgeois carnival celebrations of Venice, Italy, which evidences an instance in which the rising bourgeoisie transformed a folk carnivalesque tradition into a decadent celebration that became more associated with the middle (and even aristocratic) class than the working class. For Stallybrass and White, the bourgeois coffee shop, as place of democratic dialogue, is rooted in working class (and peasant) carnivalesque culture. Stallybrass and White convincingly argue that cafés, too, find their origins in the tradition of the bars, taverns and other seedy places where people with different experiences interact. Whether seen in the middle class cafés of Madrid or the haute fêtes of the Venetian carnival, the bourgeoisie can both define itself against a ‘filthy’ culture, or appropriate and ‘gentrify’ the carnivalesque culture of the lower classes to suit its needs. While not directly evoking sociologist and theorist Jürgen Habermas, Stallybrass and White point to some of the same questions that the author of The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere asks in his study of the bourgeois public sphere. Combining questions of the

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performativity of transgression in the public sphere, I will analyse not just the theoretical intersections, but will draw from historical examples to show how that transgression affected the creation of a democratic Spain. The spaces (re)appropriated by the participants of the Spanish antiauthoritarian youth culture allowed for its participants to express themselves creatively. With limited intrusion by authority, the young participants turned ‘place’ into ‘space’, and into a ‘scene’. Within the Movida, artists, writers, musicians and (most importantly) the consumers of that cultural production learnt tactics and ‘ways of operating’ to subvert authority – negotiating spaces where they could act with more agency. Through an inversion of societal norms, within their marginal space, the participants of the Movida created counterpublics that allowed the young participants to imagine a ‘New Spain’. Discussing the punk youth of the Movida, literary and film scholar Paul Julian Smith writes: [Francisco] Umbral describes the ‘punk children’ of the premiere [attending the 1982 Almodóvar film Laberinto de pasiones] as ‘young Martians’, so alien do they seem to any previous generation. But he also notes that in their eclectic thriftshop clothing they reflect in spite of themselves the history of their mothers. Spectacular exhibitionism thus lends them a certain ‘truth in [their] falsity’. Shimmering in the bargain-basements lame, they are greeted by the night, but (Umbral claims) ignored by a Madrid on the verge of the elections which are to change the face of the nation.41

To a large degree, Francisco Franco attempted to prevent his ‘children’ from growing up through a strategy of fear, oppression and censorship. However, because of these oppressions that which was old – clothing, traditions, etc. – became new again. Referring to the ‘artistic revolution’ that emerged in the 1970s, and flourished into the 1980s, Movida film director Pedro Almodóvar has said, ‘Everything changed so fast, in a very natural way. It’s like we had been breathing in silence. It was a kind of region without luck. Spain is still a very divided country. But now, since the dictatorship people mature very fast’.42 In fact, Almodóvar points to a rapid maturation that under the régime would have been impossible, as those who were oppressed by the dictatorship were not able to ‘grow-up’. What Almodóvar fails to consider in his statement, however, is that even he was already producing transgressive material before the death of Franco. The dictator’s death created an opportunity for more transgression, but was not the cause of that dissent. In order to ‘grow up’, Spaniards needed to have access to pluralistic and democratic spaces in which they could demonstrate agency. This ‘maturation’ is reflective

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of how young Spaniards were able to exercise agency vis-à-vis the appropriation of spaces where antiauthoritarian culture flourished for the purpose of creative expression, and also demonstrates how the acquisition of such spaces acted as a rejection of the ideals of Franco’s Movimiento. Protest need not include picket signs and protest demonstrations; dissent can be realized in the performance of rejection – or the decision to do something taboo. Writing about the rapid social and cultural transformation embodied by the Movida in post-Franco society, Mark Allinson has described the consequences of the Movida as having two effects: First, it ascribed what is arguably an over-determined role to youth cultures as ambassadors of the new Spain; second, the cultural legacy of liberated Spain originated mainly with a youth which would inevitably grow up. The second point accounts for the demise of Spain’s post-Franco, postmodern ‘end of history’ carnival. The first point accounts for its genesis.43

Indeed, although Allinson argues that those youth cultures came to disproportionately represent the ‘new’ Spain, it is undeniable that those spaces appropriated by young people allowed for them to practise agency, a necessary component of democratic and pluralistic discourse. In the process of both creating an underground ‘scene’ and ‘making a scene’ (acting out) in a carnivalesque explosion of fiesta, young Spaniards transgressed against normative constructions of gender, sexuality, class and nationalism, looking to pluralism and ‘hedonism’ as an alternative to authoritarian oppression. As to whether or not too much attention is paid to these young producers of the Movida, as Allinson asserts, I would add an addendum that too much attention has been paid to particular producers and years, which has ignored earlier cultural producers and the consumers of the Movida. To better understand the Movida as a cultural phenomenon, it is helpful to take a step back by looking at antiauthoritarian youth culture in context.

Time, space and being in public As a colonizing force, fascism, like capitalism, necessitates an active destruction, or assimilation, of competing hegemonic systems of power to impose its own hierarchical structure. During both the Spanish Civil War and its aftermath, Franco’s régime recognized a need to disrupt any anti-Francoist networks

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(Republican, anarcho-syndicalist, Socialist, Communist, etc.) that would have challenged Franco’s authority. The dictatorship prevented contestation to Franco’s power by disassembling the Spanish public and private spheres. Through surveillance by secret police, censors and the like, the régime created a state in which people policed themselves in places that traditionally incubated dissent – such as cafés, bars and universities. Spaces that would have been especially transgressive towards authority prior to the civil war, or those that promoted pluralistic, liberal tendencies, were made illegal and strictly surveilled. The dictatorship’s mandate that all film, music and publications go through a process of censorship effectively crushed liberal institutions, and disrupted normal sociality and information flow under the emergent dictatorship. Such laws did not simply stop the production of transgressive materials; they disassembled the public sphere, its liberal institutions and its social networks – effectively strangling any public expression of democratic tendencies. Democracy cannot exist without a free press; the (re)emergence of democracy depends upon the free flow of information – seen both during the Enlightenment era and during the Francoist dictatorship. Unlike the student dissent of the 1950s and 1960s, the Spanish punk scene of the 1970s was not an organized movement. It was a convergence of antiauthoritarian tendencies operating from what I call ‘carnivalesque counterpublics’, to borrow from Mikhail Bakhtin and social theorist Michael Warner. Warner describes ‘counterpublics’ as an alternative to a dominant public sphere, while simultaneously not being exclusively limited to subaltern spaces (spaces isolated or marginalized from places of power). Unlike many subaltern spaces, a counterpublic must intersect with dominant, public culture. Counterpublics are ‘formed by their conflict with the norms and contexts of their cultural environment, and this context of domination inevitably entails distortion’.44 Both mass publics and counterpublics are ‘damaged forms of publicness, just as gender and sexuality are, in this culture, damaged forms of privacy’.45 The public nature of a countercultural, public scene, existing alongside the public sphere, creates opportunities for pluralism that would not exist behind closed doors. Madrid’s countercultural scene exemplified an attempt at repairing a broken public sphere damaged by the dictatorship (forty years of censorship and policing). As a counterpublic, Madrid’s scene challenged notions of gender, sexuality and nationalism to dismantle those the Francoist régime promoted and enforced. While some scholars, such as Robert O. Paxton, emphasize nationalism over other forms of marginalization, fascist programmes equally relied on particular constructions of gender, sexuality,

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class, ethnocentrism, race and embodiment to create what it meant to be a ‘good Spaniard’ or ‘good German’, as Chapter 2 will elaborate upon. While nationalism might have been the language of fascism, its vocabulary was constructed out of numerous forms of prejudice. For Warner, both mass publics and counterpublics are the result of a lack of ability to act with agency in the private sphere – when that which would be private and individual becomes public because of hegemonic and oppressive cultural norms. In the Spanish case, the degradation of a functional public sphere, and civil society, resulted in what was a fractured private sphere. Francoist censorship, surveillance and the legal apparatus policed the ways people could act in both the public and private spheres. The Spanish scene as counterpublic, in turn, resulted because the private sphere was made public by the dictatorship, thus explaining why counterpublics border both the private and public spheres so prominently in the Spanish case. Counterpublics form through ‘an address to indefinite strangers’, different from a community or group.46 Warner argues: counterpublic discourse also addresses those strangers as being not just anybody. They are socially marked by their participation in this kind of discourse; ordinary people are presumed not to want to be mistaken for the kind of person who would participate in this kind of talk or be present in this kind of scene.47

A counterpublic exists as an alternative to a dominant public sphere; however, is it not exclusively limited to subaltern spaces. It is necessarily located in the public sphere because of this broken private sphere. Counterpublics require active participation with a public. A counterpublic is not necessarily a group of anarchists cohabiting together, a Roma street market or young socialists organizing a protest – but they could all be part of a counterpublic. Counterpublics are composed of participants who are active in producing, reading and distributing cultural practices that act against dominant culture in the public sphere. Counterpublics require a ‘scene’. By tracing the creation of antiauthoritarian spaces in the 1950s where young people traded comic books to the Movida Madrileña, what I describe as a ‘subversive horizontal network’ composed of ‘counterpublics’, we can better understand the nodes that created a network that undermined the Franco régime. Young Spaniards turned everyday places into spaces from which they could act out agency, and turned those spaces into an expanding scene (or network) of interconnected people and ideas (seen in the cultural production) from which a public sphere was able to emerge, culminating in rejection of Francoism through a valorization of pluralism.

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The historian must search for ‘subtext’ to find oppressed voices written out of the official record.48 Contemporary texts, plays, novels, films, comic books, scraps of paper and other official archival sources aid us to search for this ‘subtext’. Young Spaniards of the 1960s and 1970s – men, women, heterosexual and queer – were able to demonstrate agency, and actively subvert normative constructions of gender and sexuality. However, finding such dissent necessitates a process that requires a close reading of atypical sources in an attempt to glean an understanding of the dissent of everyday life. To that end, my research has taken me from official archives to scouring used comic book shops in neighbourhoods far from Madrid’s city centre, to meeting regularly with a local comic book vendor, Jesús Jiménez Martínez, who rides around on a Vespa scooter covered with toys and figurines, calls himself ‘the Vaquero’, or ‘the Cowboy’, and has been selling comic books since 1975 in Madrid’s Rastro – a Sunday flea market in the La Latina neighbourhood in the city centre.49 To better understand the role of young people as historical actors, one must look at the quotidian – and specifically at youth culture and mentalitié, or what Bourdieu calls habitus.50 What allows for dissent of everyday life to emerge? What socio-cultural effects do young people have on the public sphere? How can we consider the roles of the subaltern and underground culture in the Spanish transition to democracy? Drawing from social and cultural historical methods of analysis, urban studies, geography, literary criticism, graph/network theory and anthropological methodology, I will elaborate upon how young people demonstrated agency in their everyday lives, looking at the ways young Spaniards who grew up under the dictatorship of Francisco Franco acquired and (re)appropriated space, and subverted the régime through the use of tactics operating within these ‘counterpublics’. To accomplish this, I rely on anthropologist Clifford Geertz’s call for ‘thick description’ to elaborate upon how everyday acts, such as the simple reading of forbidden Superman comic books or listening to punk music, can be reflective of a quiet rebellion against authority.51 While a ‘thick description’ can never be thick enough, Geertz provides an analytic tool to better understand everyday life. Nancy Frazier describes ‘subaltern counterpublics’ as ‘parallel discursive arenas where members of subordinated social groups invent and circulate counter-discourses, which in turn permit them to formulate oppositional interpretations of their identities, interests and needs’.52 In what amounts to privileging political narrative, most historical treatments of the Spanish transition from authoritarian rule to democracy have tended to rely primarily on the Francoist state’s perspective of the role of young people, continuing to

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marginalize counter-narratives, rather than considering the subjectivity of young people themselves. This top-down approach situates youth movements within a more general political milieu, but doesn’t consider political change as being the product of youth culture.

Imagining alternate universes Like many other European countries such as Germany, Italy and Austria, in the late 1950s and 1960s, Spain began to integrate into a global, late capitalist economic structure (that at the very least cooperated with, if not supported, the Franco dictatorship). In this period, Spain’s gross domestic product was some seven times more than the previous one hundred years and twice that of the previous twenty-five years, marking considerable economic gains.53 Throughout Spain’s long transition to a normalized European-style neoliberal, capitalist social democracy, young people were negotiating their place not only in Franco’s Spain, but also in a global context. What does it mean to be ‘young’, ‘adolescent’ or ‘teenager’? ‘Adolescence’ first emerged as a category within ‘youth’ in the early eighteenth century as ‘a breathing space between the golden age of “innocent” childhood and the realities of adulthood’.54 Skelton and Valentine argue this delineation of adolescence was connected to the emergence of industrial capitalism and a middle class that ‘expand[ed] the length of their offspring’s schooling in order to provide them with a better education’.55 Along with preoccupation for their own children, the middle classes ‘became increasingly preoccupied with the need to control “working class” youth as well – creating the label of “delinquent” for those young people that did not fit normative expectations of behaviour, while simultaneously creating the desire to regulate child labour’.56 With the emergence of the consumer society of the postwar years, the label of ‘teenager’ appeared as a category within ‘youth’ itself, distinct from ‘child’, ‘adolescent’ or ‘youth’. To understand the role of teenagers in the second half of the twentieth century, it is helpful to examine the emergence of the term ‘teenager’, first coined by Talcott Parson in 1942.57 While children and teenagers were considered constituent of the category of ‘youth’, ‘teenager’ implies a certain amount of autonomy, agency and intention that ‘child’ and ‘adolescent’ did not necessarily carry. This agency is connected to young people as consumers, their ability to exercise purchasing power and the ability for teenagers to imagine themselves as an ‘imagined community’ separate from children and adults.

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While Spanish does not have a word that directly translates to ‘teenager’, it is helpful to consider the ways that the Spanish adolescente (and, by extension, the French adolescent) have incorporated and attached this idea of a ‘young consumer’ to their definitions of ‘adolescent’. Jon Savage discusses the identity of teenagers in the second half of the twentieth century as neither ‘adolescents’ nor ‘juvenile delinquents’. Savage argues the ‘teenager’ was something distinct from both adults and children.58 While Talcott Parsons decried the emergence of a social space used by young people, nevertheless, his usage of the term demonstrated the presence of young people who were creating a distinct social and cultural space where they could in turn perform the emerging ‘teenage’ identity. From these spaces young people perform counter-normativity, even creating subcultures. These non-conforming subcultures rely on performances to separate them from the broader society; study of these youth cultures requires that the historian consider countercultures as being intricately linked society as a whole. Never is a subculture completely abstracted from society. As Dick Hebdige demonstrates in Subculture: The Meaning of Style, these subcultures represent a reaction against oppressive hegemonic authority – in our case, the Franco régime.59 The subculture exists in reaction to oppression and hegemonic attempts at homogeneity, forging a group identity that refuses to conform. By the 1960s and 1970s, the ‘teenager’ not only emerged as a category of young people in England and the United States, but even within teenage culture, countless variations could be found. These variants tended to demarcate themselves as different based upon clothing, slang, consumption and music that was both (re)appropriated by them and marketed towards them. For Savage, the importance of consumer culture in understanding and codifying the label of ‘teenager’ as a ‘discrete, mass market’ cannot be understated.60 The emergence of ‘teenagers’ reflects an economic security and buying power associated with young people. Advertisers and media paid attention to young people who in the postwar years had more disposable income to purchase goods. The attention to the desires, affinities and other socio-economic factors of young people contributed to the creation of subcultures within ‘teenage culture’. In his classic anthropological study, Person and God in a Spanish Valley, William A. Christian, Jr. provides an ethnographic analysis of religion in Northern Spain in the late 1960s in the rural Nansa Valley. Helpful to an analysis of understanding categories of youth (e.g. children, adolescents, teenagers, young adults), Christian describes how external perceptions of identity based on age are not necessarily congruent with those with which one might self-identify,

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demarcating an instability between the categories. The author elaborates upon the identity of Spanish youth specifically, and how adults and youth imagine age identification differently. Christian notes young people and adults see críos/as, niños/as, chiquillos/as, chavales/as, chico/as and solteronas/es as different stages of childhood and youth, but assign contradictive age categorizations to each. While young people, or members of the mocedad, described a chaval/a as being between ages 11 and 14, an adult might have considered a chaval/a as between 14 and 19 years of age.61 These types of distinctions become necessary in the understanding of any and all assignations and auto-defined and imposed categories of age, an important consideration in both historical and anthropological research. Any categorical definition of youth can be problematic. Instead, a more useful approach might rely on both self-identification and understanding the desire to react against societal normativity, while still conforming to it. While Christian’s study does provide insight into designations of what is ‘youth’, one must remember that labels such as ‘youth’, ‘adolescent’ and ‘teenager’ are social constructions, and operate variably depending upon individual and sociocultural context. Despite attempts at what Michel Foucault might call ‘disciplining and punishing’ transgressive behaviour, through their ‘ways of operating’, young people manage to not only carve out spaces for themselves in which they can act as agents, but they also learn and use what Michel de Certeau calls ‘tactics’, which are employed in spaces where there is an ‘absence of power’, to subvert authority in their everyday lives. Conversely, the use of ‘strategy’ is indicative of a ‘postulation of power’.62,63 The ‘occupation’ of street culture, plazas and other public spaces by the participants of the Madrid’s antiauthoritarian youth culture was such a postulation of power. De Certeau writes: The space of a tactic is the space of the other … It operates in isolated actions, blow by blow. It takes advantage of ‘opportunities’ and depends on them … What it wins it cannot keep. This nowhere gives a tactic mobility, to be sure, but a mobility that must accept the chance offerings of the moment, and seize on the wing the possibilities that offer themselves at any given moment. It must vigilantly make use of the cracks that conjunctions open in the surveillance of the proprietary powers. It poaches in them. It creates surprises in them. It can be where it is least expected. It is a guileful ruse.64

De Certeau further argues that strategies are actions that enable theoretical places (systems and totalizing discourses) capable of articulating an ensemble of physical places, thanks to the establishment of a place of power (which he

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considers the ‘property of a proper’). Young Spaniards growing up in the 1960s and 1970s demonstrated agency by learning tactics to subvert normative behaviour, opening new spaces that promoted dissent and ways of imagining Spanish identity. Henri Lefebvre argues that for young people a sort of fluidity exists between that which is imagined and that which is ‘real’; for young people ‘image’ takes different meaning, it uses an amalgamation of simile, metaphor and image simultaneously to elaborate upon the capacity of young people to ‘imagine’. In that discussion, Lefebvre references French poet Arthur Rimbaud, who wrote the majority of his poetic work from ages 15 to 20: [Arthur] Rimbaud – like many children – practised simple hallucination. He poeticizes the real by directly seeing one thing in place of another. Where his eyes perceive faces, clouds or landscapes, he ‘sees’ animals, angels, incredible cities. He casts aside any halfway states between the thing and the other thing (the image). He eliminates the comparative conjunction which was traditionally used in classical and romantic writing to introduce metaphors, similes and ‘images’. With Rimbaud the word ‘image’ takes on a new meaning, working on two levels, that of the senses and that of the mind or the dream. In this heightened confusion of the abstract and the concrete, symbol and sensation are no longer distinguishable.65

Through this negotiation of hallucination, Lefebvre argues, young people mix ‘the incredible’ and the ‘real’. Thus, in a way, even if only imagined, the hallucination can act as a very real space in which young people can exert agency. Although Lefebvre refers to Rimbaud as a ‘child’, Rimbaud could more accurately be considered an ‘adolescent’ – both are still constituent of ‘youth’. Drawing from de Certeau and Lefebvre, I argue young people imagine tales and fictions, which may or may not reflect reality. These ‘fables’ function to let young people imagine alternatives that deviate from hegemonic systems of power – allowing for the possibility to reject normativity through ‘antiauthoritarian’ tendencies.66 Using an understanding of youth, antiauthoritarian tactics, and the capacity of young people to ‘imagine’ counterpublics we can understand ways young Spaniards (re)negotiated their world through a subversion of Spanish societal norms. Kristin Ross, a scholar of comparative literature, cites Rimbaud in her work discussing the creation of social spaces and adolescent identity. Ross uses Rimbaud’s participation in the Paris Commune of 1871 as an entrée into understanding the ways young people first started to (re)appropriate space within the city for themselves during the nineteenth century.67 Ross argues,

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‘Rimbaud … does not set out to create a savage, adolescent, or Communard culture. He participates instead in the articulation of a savage, adolescent, or Communard relation to culture’.68 This emergence of a ‘youth’ social space (the Paris Commune) and adolescent ‘rebel’, Arthur Rimbaud, gave young people models from which to draw so that to articulate dissent and to imagine new social norms, realized in the 1960s counterculture.69 While the symbolist poet did not ‘create’ the adolescent culture that rebelled against the French society and government, he certainly exemplified that dissent, even inspiring the likes of Jim Morrison, Patti Smith, Eduardo Haro Ibars, Pedro Almodóvar and the Situationists during the 1960s and 1970s. Young people (children, adolescents and teenagers) are constituent of a category of ‘youth’. However, I do not want to exclude those who are legally ‘adults’ from the category of ‘youth’ either, as they often encounter many similar social constraints, tendencies and freedoms that teenagers encounter. Youth cannot be constrained in simple terms of age or consumerism, although consumerism, and socio-economics by extension, affects how young people exert agency. I will thus consider ‘Youth’ as those young people who ‘practice hallucination’, like Rimbaud, mixing the ‘incredible’ with the ‘real’ in their everyday life.

2

To Study is to Serve Spain

A fascist education On 6 February 1943, the date of the First National Council of Spanish Education Service (Primer Consejo Nacional del Servicio Español de Magisterio), Francoist education advisor Pedro Laín Entralgo was only about a week from celebrating his thirty-fifth birthday. He had spent his twenties living under the Spanish Republic, supporting the rising fascist party, the Falange Española Tradicionalista, and experiencing the chaotic devastation of the Spanish Civil War. In the mid-1940s, Laín Entralgo was a member and young leader of the only legal political party allowed in Franco’s Spain, the Movimiento National. With firm conviction, Laín Entralgo believed he was helping to construct a new Spain out of the ashes of the civil war. He would spend the later years of his life attempting to reverse those policies he helped push forward in those early years. At that first meeting, as reported in the government-censored newspaper, A.B.C., Laín Entralgo, the future Rector of the Universidad de Madrid, called attention to what he described as the three fundamental problems that needed to be addressed in Falangist education: (1) the paradox between an ordered education of individual desires and the common interest of Spaniards; (2) the opposition between enthusiasm and discipline; and (3) the demand for an inescapably political education, as well as religious education.1 While Laín Entralgo’s political stances demonstrated the interest of the individual was at odds with that of the state, his assertion also implied that the individual did not know what forms part of the common good for Spain – removing the ability to act with agency from the individual. At this point in his career, Laín Entralgo not only recognized a necessity for merging religion and nationalism, but he also understood the need for those seemingly paradoxical beliefs to find commonalities that served to create a ‘better’ Spaniard, reflecting a consolidation of right-wing beliefs. In order to consolidate the various political parties in Spain, any education system put into place had to find a comfortable compromise between religion and state –

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a place where Franco himself found political strength after consolidating the fascist Falange Española Tradicionalista party with other rightist, monarchist, religious and militaristic parties, eventually evolving the singular national party the ‘Movimiento Nacional’ by 1945. Laín Entralgo later lamented in his 1968 work El problema de la Universidad, ‘I can only say: mea culpa … I notoriously belonged to the Falange. Everyone knows it’. In that essay, Laín Entralgo argues while the rest of the Movimiento, in those early years, expressed a ‘vehement hostility’ against the recent history of Spain (and the legacy of the Spanish Republic), his branch of the Falange began to look to the intellectuals of Spain’s recent past, those who represented what he called ‘intellectual liberalism’, which eventually evolved into his desire for creating a space for academic liberty as the Rector of the Universidad de Madrid (1951–1956).2 In fact, Laín Entralgo expressed his dissention as early as 1952, during that brief tenure.3 This trend of looking back to the decades before the Franco régime took hold reveals a desire to both look towards alternatives to the Francoist system and to look with nostalgia at the recent pre-Francoist past – an era which questioned Spanish nationality and traditionalist gender roles, and where liberal, pluralistic practises were more so promoted. Also in attendance that late winter day in 1943 at the First National Council of Spanish Education Service was Pilar Primo de Rivera (1907–1991), the sister of the fallen founder of Spain’s fascist party, José Antonio Primo de Rivera (1903–1936). Pilar Primo de Rivera was the leader of the Sección Feminina (Women’s Section) of the Falange, the women’s branch of the fascist party that guided the roles of women and girls under the dictatorship (and by extension affected the lives of boys and men). She was an immensely influential woman in her own right, however, always with a certain humility that explicitly submitted to patriarchy. Leading the Sección Feminina during the entirety of the Franco’s reign, she maintained a clear vision of what the ideological intersections between fascism and a patriarchal Catholicism were. In fact, when addressing the audience of the Council, she even referred to the meeting as vuestro Consejo, or ‘your council’, seemingly placing herself outside of the decision-making process. To emphasize her subordinate gender role, in describing the role of women as teachers, she argued: In regard to the role of women in the Party, we should unitarily consider the condition of woman, and as a secondary thing her profession, work, etcetera, because even if she is a good worker, a good student, or good teacher, principally, she is a woman, with a determined goal to accomplish, that sometimes, accidently, brings her to the University and to the workplace4

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Pilar Primo de Rivera believed the purpose of women was to have children, to care for the home and to tend to raising young Spaniards. The aristocrat continued, ‘I don’t expect my lecture to be a perfect oratory piece, nor that we find new truths. Women never discover anything; they have always lacked creative talent, reserved by God for masculine intelligences; for better or worse, we can do nothing but interpret what men have done for us’.5 Despite the purported lack of ideas, or creative talent, her speech, as anti-feminist as it appears, is that of a woman with decided power and long-lasting influence. In fact, unlike Laín Entralgo, the entirety of her discourse was published the following day in A.B.C. – uncomfortably finding itself, too, in a paradox of its own – between a supposed feminine humility and a subservience that nevertheless exerted agency by claiming a place for itself within Franco’s Movimiento. At the council, Primo de Rivera reminded educators, ‘In just your very being teachers, you are called to influence in a decisive matter the good or bad education of citizens, and you can help a generation of Falangistas to soar’.6 Primo de Rivera saw herself, and educators writ large, as responsible for providing a fascist education. In fact, Pilar Primo de Rivera, along with Falangist supporter José Antonio de Elola, had headed the Spanish delegation to the Nazi-organized First European Youth Congress held in Vienna in September 1942, just a few months before her presentation that February to the First National Council of Spanish Education Service. At the Nazi youth congress, the Spanish delegation called for official amendments to the proceedings that called for recognition of the role of Catholic morality, the importance of the family and the secondary role of the state in education.7 Not only did Pilar Primo de Rivera act in official state capacities, but she created a space in the sphere of education where some fascist ideologies could continue to be taught despite the consolidation of monarchist and religious parties with the fascist party. Primo de Rivera saw her Sección Feminina as both Catholic and fascist. Her advocacy appealed to the traditional gender roles of women to be responsible for the ‘education’ of children – to ensure that they did not become maleducados. Along with Laín Entralgo, Pilar Primo de Rivera leveraged considerable influence in the merging of religion and nationalism in the education of Spanish youth under the dictatorship. While Franco began to remove his Movimiento Nacional of its explicitly fascist ideology as early as 1937 with the Degree of Unification, Pilar Primo de Rivera established herself as the ideological successor to her brother, and to fascism in Spain.8 She even asserted, ‘We, who did not go to the front, we, who stayed alive, are obliged to teach Spain what is the meaning of a Falangist existence’.9 Born in the fascist Falange party, the Sección Feminina survived the pre-war years, the

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civil war, and nearly forty years of dictatorship, until 1977. During this time, Primo de Rivera, who never married, saw her role as an interpreter and guardian of her brother’s fascist philosophy. While historians are apt to isolate a ‘first’ and ‘second’ Francoism, one need not look further than Pilar Primo de Rivera to see the ways in which fascist organizations, such as the Sección Feminina, continued to promote fascist ideologies concurrently with Catholicism throughout the dictatorship. The Sección even continued publishing José Antonio Primo de Rivera’s political writings well into the 1970s – the eighth edition of Obras de José Antonio Primo de Rivera being published in 1974. Pilar Primo de Rivera’s political position (and the régime’s need to mobilize women) allowed for the Sección Feminina to address issues that otherwise were considered the place of politicos, monks, monarchists or military men.10

What does it mean to be a fascist? Popularly, throughout the dictatorship, the term ‘Falange’ was often interchangeable with Movimiento Nacional, or el Movimiento for short. While a fascist régime can be authoritarian, an authoritarian régime is not necessarily fascist. To that end, an authoritarian régime can also still demonstrate fascist tendencies. During its nearly forty years, the Franco régime was still infused with fascism. Even self-identified fascists don’t always agree as to who is a fascist or not. After a visit to Germany in 1934, José Antonio Primo de Rivera rejected Nazism, or what he referred to as ‘Hitlerism’, seeing it as the child of liberalism rather than a movement akin to Mussolini’s Fascist movement – even calling Nazism ‘antifascist’.11 While Falangism was not Nazism, both were inspired by, and exhibited, ‘fascist tendencies’ (to varying, and often extreme, degrees). It is important to attempt to refer to specific fascist tendencies (when possible), and not to ‘Fascism’ as a fixed system or set of unmoveable ideologies. While impossible to say how many of these tendencies are needed to call a system ‘fascist’, all of these tendencies are present in fascism to some degree. Initially, the José Antonio Primo de Rivera openly used the term ‘fascist’ to describe his Falange Tradicionalista Española. Analysing the name of the party, the noun ‘Falange’, or phalanx, represented the fascist tendency towards militarism and warfare. The adjectives tradicionalista española signified both a conservatism and nationalism. Combined, the ‘Falange Tradicionalista Española’ called for militaristic push towards a Spain that was somehow both drawing

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from a nostalgic construction of an imagined past, but that also represented a future that would lift Spain arriba (upward). As most popularly seen in propaganda posters produced during the civil war in Spain and abroad, Franco’s side was consistently described as ‘fascist’ by the left.12 After Franco’s triumph during the war, official state documents and propaganda initially used the adjective ‘Falangist’ and ‘authoritarian’ instead of ‘fascist’ – despite strong connections with Mussolini and Hitler’s régimes. (Franco famously had met with both dictators.) However, as the dictatorship stabilized, the system became ‘National-Catholicism’ (developing into its own authoritarian, nationalist, Catholic system – which still exhibited fascist tendencies). Nevertheless, despite the rejection of the term ‘fascist’ in official state rhetoric, fascist tendencies were still particularly noticeable in classrooms and in the public sphere, even if the dictatorship no longer used overtly fascist terminology to describe itself. To see how these fascist tendencies survived and evolved, it is first helpful to have a working understanding of what these fascist tendencies included. While historians Robert Paxton and Stanley Payne have provided their own descriptions of fascism that describe masculinity, neither has explicitly used a language to describe queer oppression under fascism (homosexuality was illegal and violently persecuted in both Franco’s Spain and Nazi Germany).13,14 Similarly, what Umberto Eco might call ‘Ur-Fascism’s’ general ‘fear of difference’, we can more specifically delineate what those differences were.15 While still rejecting a fixed definition of fascist ideology, we can discern certain fascist tendencies, which often intersects with authoritarianism for purposes of implementation.

Fascist Tendencies 1. Fascism imposes an imagined idea of purity onto others – replacing a naturally occurring pluralism of beliefs, people, histories and ideas, fascism seeks to eliminate diversity – of nation, of beliefs, of race, etc. 2. Fascism appeals to an idealized, utopian future – explaining fascism’s obsession with youth, its identification with the avant-garde, and a teleological justification of extremes for an imagined utopian future. Fascism’s appeal to youth also describes how fascism sees itself as reproductive and regenerative, building a utopian future. This futurist tendency often points to a focus on rejuvenation (making young again) of ideas and people.

To Study is to Serve Spain

3. Fascism uses hegemonic and binary categorization – fascism relies on the use of categories, defining the nation by what is seen as outside the nation, or ‘Other’ (i.e. defining masculinity against its own notions of femininity, defining whiteness against non-white, etc.). This often results in alterophobia or a fear of the Other. This results in racism, sexism, queerphobia, nationalism, ableism and classism. 4. Fascism promotes nationalistic ideology – fascism calls to an imagined, ‘inherent’ tradition of national identity, history and culture. This often takes the form of a nostalgia that acts to replace history with a modern, imagined construction of the past. In Spain, this tradition was called lo castizo, or a sort of rural ‘Spanishness’ often associated with the towns of Old Castile. In Germany, this nationalist idea appeared as ‘Heimat’, and in Italy, Mussolini called back towards ancient Rome. Under fascism, a national history is constructed that legitimates a particular hegemonic construction of the origins of the nation that reaches deep into a mythical past. Mussolini’s Italy is the rebirth/continuation of the Roman Empire; Franco’s Spain is rooted in medieval Christian struggles against Muslims and Jews, propelled by a desire to eliminate an internal Other (in this case non-Christians, leftists, queer people, gypsies, etc.). This nationalist ideology results in a call to ‘make the nation great again’. 5. Fascism uses exclusion to create homogeneity – in order to create an imagined, idealized nation, the Other (those who do not fit the hegemonic norm) must be excised (justifying racism, ethnocentrism, classism, nationalism, sexism, ableism, heteronormativity). This Other can be defined by using a binary construction of who is an ideal Spaniard, German and so on, and who is not. Under Franco, as in Italy and Germany, those who fought against the dictatorship – liberals, communists and queer people – were placed outside of what it meant to be a ‘good’ Spaniard. These oppressed groups are often labelled as ‘degenerative’. 6. Fascism relies upon collaborationist and appropriative efforts – fascism requires cooperation, and attempts to consolidate power amongst those on the Right who to some degree function to perpetrate its ideology. This permits fascism to appropriate symbols and culture as its own, and allows for it to appeal to the masses and to create a mass movement. In the Spanish case, the combination of Nationalism with Catholicism exemplifies this collaborative effort. This results in the breakdown of pluralism. Fascism can appropriate capitalism, political parties, bureaucracy and democratic institutions for its own means. More recently, the European ‘New Right’ has appropriated leftist language around issues of identity politics to justify white supremacy.

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7.

Fascism reflects a deformed Nietzschean belief of a ‘will to power’ and a belief in an Übermensch, or Superman – which has acted to legitimate eugenics, education programmes, etc. that promote a goal that called for the so-called perfection of the nation. This is seen as a sort of Darwinian struggle for power and assumes the possibility of a teleological utopian Superman. This also contributes to a construction of white supremacy.

8.

Fascism aggrandizes militarism, order and process-driven bureaucracy – relying on state surveillance and control, fascism enforces its norms through violence. This militaristic and bureaucratic order provides for a centralization of power. In the worst-case scenario, this bureaucratic violence is the lever that enforces a hegemonic idea of the nation, seen in how fascism bureaucratically executes state censorship, citizen surveillance and the extremely ordered and process-driven labour camps and executions. This militarism also was reflected in a focus on organized sport and exercise by young people.

9.

Fascism uses forced or coerced labour – maximizing production and profit, fascism allows for the complete alienation of the worker. This can be the product of reduced pay, conscription, the militarization of a work force or the abject enslavement/incarceration of a people.

10. Fascism employs a national economic structure that is heavily controlled by the centralized, authoritarian nation state – sometimes called ‘national corporatist’, ‘nationalist socialist’ or ‘economic autocracy’, this sort of structure also allows for a statist capitalism, and the competition between nations. A limited free market system, as the government controls the levers of major industry, competition amongst international markets is seen as desirable. 11. Fascism acts against individualism, decadence and frivolity, especially that which acts against its construction of the way a nation ‘should’ be. To this end, both the bourgeoisie (those of the middle class who are considered individualistic and that put self-interest above nation) and those fighting for working class rights (i.e. revolutionary workers, socialists, Marxists, communists, anarchists etc.) are suppressed and categorized as ‘individualistic’ and ‘decadent’. This can also ensnare queer people, as they can be labelled as frivolous and decadent for not producing progeny for the state. According to fascism, both the bourgeoisie (or the so-called liberal élites) and working class unions are working towards individualistic goals, not that of the nation, and are thus ‘degenerate’.

To Study is to Serve Spain

12. Fascism takes anti-enlightenment ideological stances and rejection of democracy and its institutions. This said, fascist rulers have no qualms to use democratic processes to obtain power so as to instate an authoritarian régime (such was the case in Italy and Germany). In Spain, Franco called the Spanish Civil War the ‘War of Liberation’, borrowing rhetoric that seems more suited for a liberal/democratic revolution than an authoritarian dictatorship. 13. Fascism depends upon misogyny and heteronormativity – built on the idea of a ‘patria’, or fatherland, fascism requires gender roles that are fixed, and that laud the role of masculine creation. Women are valued as necessary for producing more children for the nation. 14. Fascism is queerphobic – queer people (e.g. gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, non-binary, asexual) are excluded from the nation-state because of the threat they pose to heterosexual, masculine power and because of their perceived lack of reproductive potential. 15. Fascism relies on a central, strong male figure who acts as the authority, or ‘father’, to the country, such as Franco, Mussolini, Hitler and Portugal’s António de Oliveira Salazar. This authoritarianism also accounts for fascism’s necessity to be anti-democratic. That said, the charismatic masculine figure claims to represent the nation and its interests. 16. Fascism uses ritual and mystical symbolism – explaining one way that Catholicism was used under Franco. In the Spanish, German and Italian cases, rituals to the nation became incorporated into everyday practices. This was most obviously seen in various salutes, slogans and national pledges that require rote, incantation-like responses, such as ‘¡Arriba España!’, ‘Heil Hitler’, and other various salutes. This mysticism is seen in the work of the likes of Niccolò Giani and his School of Fascist Mysticism (La Scuola di mistica fascista Sandro Italico Mussolini). Others include Guido Pallotta, Berto Ricci and Julius Evola, who continue to influence far-right movements into the twenty-first century. 17. Fascism expels intellectualism and critical thinking from the public sphere – citing such thought as ‘bourgeois’. Franco’s régime relied upon religion for its symbols and ritual, and to legitimate its patriarchal tendencies. Any belief that attacked Catholicism also posed a threat to the state – to question God (or the Church) was to question the state. 18. Fascism uses symbols and language to inculcate chauvinism, nationalism, racism and anti-intellectualism – In Spain, this was seen

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in phrases such as ‘Death to the Intelligentsia!’, ‘¡Una, Grande y Libre!’, ‘España es diferente’, etc. Symbols such as the swastika in Germany, the fasces (or bundle of sticks) in Italy, or the yoke and arrows in Spain were used. Also, symbols such as the Star of David, as well as black, pink, and red triangles were used to categorize Jews, Roma, queer people and political dissidents in Nazi Germany. 19. Fascism advocates for expansionism and colonialism – fascism is always concerned with expanding its realm of influence. In Spain, this led to concerns about Spain’s North Africa colonies, as well as a nostalgia for the lost empire. This nostalgia for lost greatness fuels the desire to colonize and ‘reacquire’ that lost greatness and power. 20. Fascism is comfortable with ideological contradictions – these paradoxes allow for: systematized order and mystical ritual; collaboration and exclusion, a collective nation under an individual; a valorization of women as child-bearers while devaluing them as individuals; obsession with the male body, while being deeply anti-queer; anti-intellectualist, while still finding a need to ideologically legitimate itself; against the Enlightenment, while reliant on Enlightenment tendencies towards categorization. 21. Fascism uses violence, physical force or the threat thereof – often, to enforce censorship, labour, homogenous points of view, fascism employs force to show power. This can be used to silence contrary voices or opinions, or to enforce any of the aforementioned fascist tendencies. 22. Fascism depends upon surveillance – under fascism, surveillance can be taken up by officials, police, neighbours and surveyors. While information flow amongst the public may be stilted, fascism relies upon a constant monitoring so as to maintain ‘the order of things’. For neighbours and family, surveillance of becomes part of one’s duty to country.

In summation, located in these ‘tendencies’ one sees the capacity for fascism to perpetrate violence and exclusionary practices based on racism, nationalism, ethnocentrism, misogyny, queerphobia, ableism and classism. Through a legitimization based on a ‘forward-looking’, imagined utopian future, that exalts future generations, while reinventing the past, fascist tendencies ritualize violence towards ‘Others’ through everyday practices of oppression.

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A national-catholic education For many young people under the régime, the history of the years before the war was unspoken at best, or prejudiced and inaccurate at worst. By looking at a large cross-section of what was taught in children’s textbooks, we can see young people under Franco would have likely learned about ‘the disaster of 1898’, the

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year that Spain lost the last of its colonies – most prominently Cuba, Puerto Rico and the Philippines. They would have learnt about the military dictatorship of Miguel Primo de Rivera (which lasted from 1923 to 1930), whose son would found the fascist Falangist party (Falange Española de las Juntas de Ofensiva Nacional-Sindicalista) in 1933. They would have learnt of Spain’s surprising shift to the Left after that first dictatorship, with the establishment of the Second Spanish Republic (1931–1939). Those young people would have not learnt of the many achievements of the Republic, including women’s suffrage, freedom of speech, political freedom and significant improvement in education. They would have learnt of the Republic’s attempt to build a laic state, its supposed lascivious nature and its laws intended to curtail Church power. They would have known about the Popular Front, Republicans, Anarchists, Socialists, Spanish Communists, Leninists, Trotskyists, but they would have been described as degenerates. In the years after the Spanish Civil War, posters lined the walls of colegios, or schools, across Spain with the phrase Estudiar es ya servir a España, or ‘To study is to serve Spain’. The phrase, a quote from José Antonio Primo de Rivera, was often accompanied with photos of the founder, Franco, and a crucifix – a sort of trinity unto itself.16 ‘José Antonio’ was often referred to by first name – representing an intimacy that drastically contrasted with Franco, who was officially called el Caudillo and el Generalísimo. José Antonio, who was killed in the civil war, was also called el Ausente, or ‘the Absent One’, and became a martyr that served to give the dictatorship ideological legitimacy, even if the primary proponents of that ideology were the likes of Laín Entralgo and José Antonio’s sister, Pilar. While the Falange itself held less influence as a party under Franco, many of the nationalist principles and symbols of the party continued to serve Franco’s image of Spain. Such images explicitly reinforced the régime’s ideals that valorized both God and patria. Religious images, such as the cross, were placed side by side in the classroom with symbols of the nation, tying together Francoist notions of religion and nationalism – symbolically resolving Laín Entralgo’s so-called paradox. Everyday life was a primary battleground against Franco in the later years of the dictatorship. Franco’s image, closely aligned with God and patria, if not synonymous, contributed to a narrative that required Spaniards to believe in the dictator similarly to the way they believed in God. Although describing fascist Italy, Simonetta Falasca-Zamponi’s analysis of Mussolini could easily apply in Franco’s Spain: ‘Like God, Mussolini followed ordinary citizens in the fulfilment of their tasks and controlled them. At the symbolic level Mussolini proposed

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himself as the supreme leader, the invincible “Man” ’.17 Replacing Mussolini’s name with Franco’s, the adulation of el Caudillo begins to make more sense. Children’s textbooks, especially in primary school, reflected this amalgam of God and patria – introducing what can be described as a Francoist NationalCatholic ideology to school-aged children. National-Catholicism simultaneously represented the tension and the concessions made between Falangist ideology and Catholicism in the aftermath of the war. An ideology that inherited from authoritarian, fascist and Catholic dogmas, National-Catholicism formed the ideological basis of children’s education in Spain during the dictatorship. While public debate on education in Spain primarily focused on religious and nationalist content during the dictatorship, illiteracy remained a significant problem throughout the twentieth century. Over the course of the century, the country trailed behind France and Italy in literacy rates, but remained ahead of Portugal. In 1900, 56.2 per cent of the entire population was illiterate – 45.7 per cent of men and 66 per cent of women. The fastest growth in school matriculation and literacy in Spain occurred during the Second Spanish Republic of the 1930s, followed by a significant stagnation as a result of the Spanish Civil War.18 By 1940, Spain’s illiteracy level had decreased to 17.2 per cent of men and 28.4 per cent of women, for a total of 23.1 per cent of the entire population. A significant reduction occurred in the following years, coinciding with industrialization, migration from rural areas to large cities and Spain entering a global economy. By 1960, 7.3 per cent of men were illiterate, 14.8 per cent of women, for a total of 11.2 per cent across Spain. In 1981, only 3.6 per cent of men were illiterate, 8.9 per cent of women, for a total of 6.3 per cent of the population.19 Despite significant setbacks from the civil war and dictatorship, Spain’s literacy rate was on par with most Western democracies by the end of the millennium (many of which also suffered mass destruction and atrocities in the mid-1900s) (see Figure 2.2). Although literacy would have been a significant issue for teachers in both public and private schools, on the national level, educational debate in primary education continued to revolve around cultural content during the early years of the dictatorship. In official church magazines from 1941 to 1942, the church articulated that it was responsible for the education and socialization of young people, but also argued against having the responsibility to teach a patriotic education, concurrently arguing that the state should have no role in the education of young people.20 This debate culminated with the promulgation of the Ley de 17 de Julio de 1945 sobre Educación Primaria. The primary education law pronounced in its introduction that ‘Spain is Glory’, only to later claim that teaching religion was the primary goal of education. The first article succinctly

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Illiteracy in Spain from 1900 to 1981 70% 60%

Percentage

50% 40% 30% 20% 10% 0% Percentage of Overall Illiteracy Percentage of Illiterate Men Percentage of Illiterate Women

1900 56.2% 45.7% 66%

1940 23.1% 17.2% 28.4%

1960 11.2% 7.3% 14.8%

1981 6.3% 3.6% 8.9%

Figure 2.2 Like most European countries, over the course of the twentieth century Spain saw an increase in literacy rates. Source: Antonio Viñao Frago, ‘The History of Literacy in Spain: Evolution, Traits, and Questions’, History of Education Quarterly 30, no. 4 (Winter 1990): 573–599.

places the priorities of primary education to inculcate religion and love of country: Article 1 – Primary education is the first grade of formation and rational development of the specific faculties of man. Its objectives are: a. Provide to all Spaniards obligatory general culture. b. Form the will, the conscience, and the character of the child in a manner the compliments duty and eternal destiny. c. Introduce in the spirit of the student the love of the Patria and service to it, in accord with the inspirational principles of the Movimiento. d. Prepare a child’s capacity for alternative studies and activities of cultural character. e. Contribute, inside of the proper sphere, to the orientation and professional formation of agricultural, industrial and commercial work life. As a fundamental social function, [education must] correspond to the Family, the Church and the State, and by delegation to the Teacher, whose noble mission is recognized and proclaimed.21

The article called for education to emphasize rationality, the will of man and the love and desire to duty, and service to the patria, family, church and state. While

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mention is made towards professional formation for agriculture, industry and commercial life, the state’s interest in early education is clearly cultural. Along with religious ideology, fascistic principles affected the everyday lives of those young people who grew up under the dictatorship. While subsequent chapters of this book focus on the ways that young people subverted the dictatorship, rejecting both Francoist religious and nationalist ideals, in this chapter I hope to also outline what young people under Franco were reacting against in order to better understand that later rebellion. Although the régime unceremoniously expelled the use of the term ‘fascism’ in the wake of the Second World War, aligning its rhetoric closely with Catholic dogma, many of those fascist tendencies continued both in theory and in practice. Despite a shift away from explicitly fascistic rhetoric in Francoist Spain, the images and philosophies of José Antonio Primo de Rivera still held prominence in the education system, and were pervasive in the everyday lives of young people. While historians are quick to remind us that this era, beginning in the late 1950s through the death of Franco, what has been termed ‘second Francoism’, reflected a general rejection of the dictatorship’s fascist ideological roots, it is important to note not just the rhetorical adoption of synonymous names for both Franco’s party and the youth organization under it, but to understand what ideology continued despite the change in appellation. While no longer explicitly using the term ‘fascism’ by the mid-1950s, many fascist ideals were easily located in the classrooms of young Spaniards. Although the explicit teaching of nationalism in primary school classrooms was certainly uneven, fascist ideology and tendencies were deeply burnt into the Spanish education system throughout the dictatorship. Not only was this seen in the education, but nationalism was also promoted amongst young people outside of the classroom throughout the dictatorship.22

Making a good Spaniard On an early morning in the mid-1950s and 1960s, young children would often be seen accompanying their parents, or perhaps grandparents, to the colegio, or Spanish primary schools. Most likely, boys and girls would have a copy of the school textbook Enciclopedia Álvarez. Mauricio Santos Arrabal, the former president of the Asociación Nacional de Libros y Materiales de Enseñanza, estimated that Enciclopedia Álvarez held at least 80 per cent of the textbook market in Spain in the 1950s and 1960s.23

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Children’s textbooks, such as Enciclopedia Álvarez, give insight into the fascist tendencies that continued late into the dictatorship. Enciclopedia Álvarez was published in Valladolid, the capital of Castilla y León, a city known for the ‘pureness’ of its Spanish and for its pre-historic origins. Valladolid was also popularly known for its support of fascist ideology and often was referred to as Fachadolid by locals (a pronunciation that combines a Hispanicized from of the Italian ‘fasces’ with the city’s name). The textbook series was written largely to promote a Falangist worldview, framing Spanish history and culture in an attempt to inculcate young Spaniards with the ideals of Franco’s Movimiento. As a teenager, Antonio Álvarez Pérez (1921–2003) had fought in the Spanish Civil War; the soldier then became a teacher by enrolling in a six-month crash course to quickly transition back to civilian life at the age of 18. By 1951, at the age of 29, Álvarez Pérez had written the majority of what would become Enciclopedia Álvarez, and had begun the process to have it approved by Francoist censors. ‘At the time, teachers were asked to present a notebook with lesson plans in which one had to write the daily themes that we explained to the children’, remarked Álvarez Pérez in the mid-1990s. ‘It occurred to me that if all this work were edited in the form of a book that it would work’.24 Enciclopedia Álvarez managed to sell an astounding twenty-two million copies in Spain, and between thirty-three and thirty-four million copies when considering other material such as notebooks and teachers’ editions of the text.25 Enciclopedia Álvarez, a children’s textbook published from 1954 through 1966, intended to simplify the process of collecting readings for teachers, as well as the necessary approval and paperwork the régime required of all its teachers. Textbooks not only reflect what history is made official, but also highlight to what degree history is contested. Indeed, even in the United States in the early twenty-first century, children’s textbooks remain a source of contestation amongst parents, politicians, religious leaders and educators debating issues such as evolution and creationism, and the place of religion in the teaching of history.26 In Franco’s Spain, textbooks served as a location where religion and nationalist ideologies changed little over the course of the dictatorship, continuing and reinforcing the fascist tendencies of the early régime. Like all books, textbooks underwent a censorship process that guaranteed a text adhered to the official Francoist narrative – one that did not contradict fascism, but instead celebrated it along with religion. Under the dictatorship, teaching of creationism and the place of religion remained fixed. The classroom was not a space for teaching counter-narratives.

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Laws regulating school texts, enacted in 1945, set the basis for subsequent laws, and outlined the requirements for texts as such: Chapter VI: Pedagogical Instruments – School Books

Article 48: School textbooks in all Spanish schools should be approved by the Ministry of National Education, subject to review for technical material in relations to content and creation, without which texts will not be allowed to be used in primary education, neither as textbooks or for teaching reading. In regard to religious doctrine, texts must be approved by the Ecclesiastic authorities, to which it pertains, as well as the right to approve books for school use in religious schools. Those which tend to the formation of national spirit must be approved by such competent organizations. In every case, for a school text to be approved, the minimum is required: a. The content must fit the norms set forth in official forms. b. Its [religious] doctrine and spirit must be in harmony with Title I and chapter IV of Title II of this law.27 c. Its materials must conform to the pedagogical demands in regard to paper, typography, size, extension and illustrations. d. Its price must conform to the regulation that is determined by law. The Ministry of National Education will reward school books with annually prizes.28 The régime heavily relied on censorship and regulation of all media – film, books, television and radio. The law regulating textbooks not only showed the expectation of the primacy of religion and nationalism in textbooks, but mandated an even stricter censorship process than regular media, requiring ecclesiastic review. In fact, many children’s textbooks even proudly featured the censor’s stamp of approval at the front of the books. While later chapters explore censorship in magazines, comic books and films to demonstrate how young people subverted authorities, here, I will ruminate on some of textbooks that were passed by censors, often with little or no comments in their censor reports, so as to better understand how fascist tendencies and ideologies permeated the lives of young people’s school textbooks. Looking at children’s textbooks, historians can discern clear examples of what was taught to children, and the expected norms they were to follow. For students in primary school, most textbooks included several subjects, including: sacred history (religious history), religion, language, arithmetic, geography, history, hygiene and the sciences. Within those lessons, most textbooks incorporated

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moralistic and normative phrasing and images throughout the lessons. The texts are filled with fascist tendencies throughout. For example, Enciclopedia de la Enseñanza Primaria: Infantil, published in Madrid by the Compañía Bibliográfica Española in 1953, gives very clear expectations for how a primary school child should act in its section on urbanidad, or urban life: 1. Waking up a. I will not be lazy after getting out of bed. b. I will pray with devotion. c. I will wash myself well with cold water and soap. d. I will brush my teeth and will take care of my nails. e. I will comb my hair and prepare my clothes with care. f. I will say good morning to my parents. 2. In the Street a. I will leave my house with clean and tidy suit. b. I will walk straight. c. I will not play in the streets with other children. d. I will help anyone with special needs. e. I will not sing or whistle in the street. 3. At School a. I will attend school on time. b. I will find and give my teacher proper salutations. c. I will take care of my textbooks and notebooks. d. I will always leave my desk tidy, and I will not leave papers on the floor. e. I will pay attention to all explanations. f. I will stand at attention when asked questions. 4. When Playing a. I will make my friends happy. b. I will not get upset or fight with my friends. c. I will play with good kids. d. I will choose games that are not dangerous. e. I will take care of my toys and I will share with my friends. f. I will stop playing when told so. 5. At the Table a. I will pray before and after eating b. I will be happy with what they give me. c. I will clean my mouth with a napkin, before and after drinking. d. I will not drink with a full mouth.

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7.

8.

9.

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e. I will never touch my food with my hands. f. I will not smack my lips when eating or drinking. With Visitors a. I will ring the doorbell with moderation b. I will greet people with respect. c. I will respond naturally to any questions asked. d. I will not speak without being asked to. e. Always say ‘thank you’ when receiving a gift. f. Greet people that you pass in the stairwell. At Church a. I will enter and take holy water. b. I will greet the Lord by bowing my right knee at the ground. c. At Church I will not turn to look behind, get entangled, or speak to others. d. I will be on my knees, standing or sitting when other faithful people do so. e. When sitting on my knees I will not sit on my heels. f. I will not be separated from adults At Home a. I will always make my parents happy. b. I will never get upset when my parents punish me. c. I will not be envious of my siblings. d. I will be friendly with little kids. e. I will not lay on the floor, or destroy furniture in my home. f. I will be loving with my grandparents. Other Obligations a. I will revere priests, kissing their hand. b. I will salute the flag of Spain c. I will care for the poor.29

These expectations, taught from an early age, made clear that strict obedience to God, nation, and family were top priority. Children were taught not simply how to be respectful, or to be good citizens, but were also taught not to challenge authority, whether parents, educators, religious leaders or God. Never speaking unless asked to, the authors and state censors expected a militaristic obedience from children. If we consider ritual, in the form of religion, as a fascist tendency, then we begin to see why religion and state were able to comfortably coexist with one another. Moreover, such a connection between religion and state had been

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a common association in Spanish law since the rule of Isabel and Ferdinand, the Catholic Kings, two figures commonly featured in all children’s history textbooks. Although uneven in its implementation, the Francoist state approved textbooks for millions of young Spaniards that were meant to inculcate its values. Within the thousands of boxes in the Archivo General de la Administración, home of the censorship archives related to the Franco era, one often finds a folder, box or envelope with a document that is filled out by the publisher, a copy of the text being submitted and changes to the text recommended by the censor. A given folder might include follow-up correspondence, resubmitted material and other ephemera. Shockingly, every reference in the archive to the series Enciclopedia Álvarez is totally unremarkable. There were no recorded changes requested by the censors. There were forms that were often left only partially completed; numerous submission forms do not include copies of the textbooks being submitted, unlike with most other submitted works. In other words, there simply were no recorded objections to the texts, no corrections and no mentions of censorship. This means that those records were either lost, negotiated unofficially or that these texts were completely in line with the régime’s ideology. Whichever the case, if nothing else, the published editions can be considered a very good barometer of what the bureaucratic arm considered to be in line with official National-Catholic ideology. Reflective of their time and place, today, all the texts include some material that would be considered racist, sexist and highly nationalistic. In these texts, simplified narratives of the history of Spain, as promulgated by the dictatorship, reiterated a nostalgized past that lauded National-Catholic ideals. Images often depict militarism, religiosity and nationalism – inserted in between math and grammar lessons.

‘That’s the way Spain is’ and other historical non-truths From 1944 until the passing of the Ley General de Educación y Financiamiento de la Reforma Educativa of 1970, high school students across Spain were required to take a course entitled Formación del espíritu nacional, commonly known as ‘F.E.N.’, that was meant to inculcate nationalist beliefs in young people. In primary school, this resulted in similar, simplified nationalist lessons taught to young learners. The title of the course reflected a fascist tendency towards mystical symbolism. The legally mandated course was intended to promote not simple patriotism, but instead a ‘National Spirit’ – not wholly unlike the

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‘Holy Spirit’ found in Christianity. Together, these ‘spirits’ engendered Franco’s ‘National-Catholicism’, a term used contemporarily to describe the merging of nationalist ideology with Catholicism. These lessons were intended to inscribe not just nationalist values, but were also a continuation of the fascist tendencies of the earlier period of the Franco dictatorship. As described in many of these textbooks of the post–civil war era, this so-called National Spirit emanated from time immemorial and was meant to touch the hearts of Spaniards. Nationalism was taught hand-in-hand with religion, creating what often resulted in a rewriting of Spanish history with bombastic half-truths, and presented a corrupted version of history to young people that served to legitimate Franco’s régime. One clear example, found in the Enciclopedia de la Enseñanza Primaria: Grado Infantil, published in 1953, describes Franco and the rising of the ‘Glorious National Movement’ as such: During our time some Spaniards wanted Spain to stop being a great nation; some did not want to be Catholic anymore. General Franco, a truly great Christian and Spaniard, saved our Fatherland from such danger, with the help of the Military and other National Militias. José Antonio was a young and valiant man who gave his blood for Spain. Spain is our Fatherland. It is glorious to be Spaniard! Spaniards have the great Caudillo, the Great General Franco, who is taking our Fatherland on the road to greatness and peace.30

Intended for 5-year-olds, the text does not hold back in its nationalistic language. In fact, the nationalism is even more obvious because the target audience is young readers. In order to make complex ideas of nationalism accessible to a 5-year-old reading level, these texts utilized a sort of language that not only limited debate, but that fervently exalted the nation. Another popular children’s textbook, España es así, by Agustín Serrano de Haro, first published in Madrid in 1946, was continually reprinted into the 1970s. Translated as “That’s the way Spain is”, to the contemporary ear the unapologetically nationalist textbook might come off as ironically titled, or even self-deprecating. It asks the reader to ask themselves, ‘What is Spain like?’ The front inside cover of the 1958 edition (its nineteenth printing) of the textbook proudly reprints a letter from a Francoist censor announcing that the text had been approved for publication, giving us a hint. The letter reads that the textbook is both ‘pure’, ‘fervently Christian’, and considers ‘Catholic Spanish pedagogy’, what we might understand as National-Catholicism, and is signed by ‘El Censor, Eleuterio Villen’.31 The glorification of Spain’s greatness within a censor report seems out of place given the country was still recovering from the Spanish Civil War when the first edition was printed. Nevertheless, the tone certainly reflected

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the fervent nationalism of the era – a jingoism that fills the pages of the small, yellow textbook depicting a modernist interpretation of the history of Spain on its cover. What would have primarily been used as a history textbook, España es así starts with pre-history and the cave paintings of Altamira, located in the north of Spain, which it emphatically describes, in all-caps, as ‘the most important … in the world’. Moreover, the text calls these Palaeolithic cave dwellers ‘the first Spaniards’, imposing a twentieth-century understanding of national identity onto a far and distant past. España es así claims, again in all-caps, that ‘slowly, but firmly, with energy and perseverance, suffering and working, primitive men conquered nature’.32 Not only does this portrayal of Spain’s historic past demonstrate nationalistic tendencies from its contemporary moment, but in the process uses a Nietzschean understanding of a ‘will to power’ to describe men’s conquest of nature, a fascist tendency in itself. Moreover, the depiction presents Spanish men’s place in the world through a construction of a distant past that placed Spain’s national identity as reaching deep into the bowels of history. To what might be the delight of contemporary historians of Spain, the text ‘proclaims’ in all-caps that ‘Spain has never been a backwards country’ [ESPAÑA NO HA SIDO NUNCA UN PAIS ATRASADO], a clear attempt to counter what is typically known as the ‘black legend’ that denigrated Spain as a ‘backwards’ nation when compared to other European siblings. This early history goes on to focus on the ancient European world, describing the Greek people as ‘the most artistic people in all history’ [PUEBLO MAS ARTISTA DE LA HISTORIA].33 This later serves the purpose of describing Greek ‘artistic emotion’ as penetrating Spain, tying the idea of the nation to a romanticized classical past. According to España es así, the Roman conquest of Spain gave the country its unity in language, law and art. This lauding of colonization, coupled with Christianity, the text argues, gave Spain a unity in faith. Again, playing on the idea of a National-Catholicism, the text refers to Roman conquest and Christianity as the ‘spiritual links’ that joined the tribes of Iberia into a united Spain [UNA NACION. ¡ESPAÑA, UNA!].34 Using abrasive capitalization, the text draws an ideological line not only from the classical to modern era, but also acts as a bridge that draws early Falangist fascist tendencies late into the dictatorship. While historical inaccuracies run rampant, in its history of the Middle Ages, España es así stunningly claims that since the year 589 Catholicism had been the only religion in Spain [LA RELIGION CATOLICA HA SIDO LA RELIGION UNICA DE ESPAÑA] – ignoring the more than seven centuries of influence

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of Islam and Judaism in Spain during the Medieval period (711–1492) – not mentioning the expulsion of Jews and Muslims from Spain. While seemingly simplified histories, these vignettes, intended for primary school children, explicitly tie nationalism to Catholicism. What we call Spain today hardly could have been considered a unified nation in the sixth century, and certainly could factually not have been considered solely Catholic in the Middle Ages. Nevertheless, these examples demonstrate a tendency to create both a Catholicism and Spanish nationalism that is rooted in a deep, imagined past – reflecting a fascist tendency to nostalgize the past through ritual. To be sure, many of the aforementioned fascist tendencies of nationalism, colonialism, exclusion and the belief of a militaristic ‘will to power’ are presented in the nationalist beliefs found as the book apologetically proclaims España es asi. The teacher-oriented Lecciones preparadas H.S.R.: libro del maestro de nueva enciclopedia escolar grado tercero, part of the extensive Nueva enciclopedia escolar series, gives insight on the types of lessons a teacher could give children. The text includes sections on religion, sacred history, grammar, arithmetic, geometry, geography, Spanish history, natural sciences, political-social formation for boys, and family and social formation for girls (explicitly leaving girls out of political life). Published in 1961 by a widely distributed school textbook publisher based in Burgos, Hijos de Santiago Rodriguez, written by Evelio Yusta Calvo, the text was published in the Spanish province of Castilla y León, like Enciclopedia Álvarez. Not unlike similar textbooks, such as Álvarez, Lecciones Preparadas notably opens with a lesson on religion, laying out the material with the purpose of teaching kids that the world is divided between Christians and unbelievers [infieles]. The author claims that this lesson is structured to teach how one becomes a Christian, what it is to be Christian, ‘Christian dignity’ and what is a ‘good Christian’. The lesson first instructs the teacher to ask the class who has been baptized, and how baptism is done. The students are then asked to be reminded that there are 940 million Christians in the world and 1,775,000,000 pagans.35 This initial lesson, intended for third graders, creates a dichotomy of ‘us’ versus ‘them’, grouping all non-Christian religions into an amorphous category that is meant to ‘other’ non-Christians. This text, like all the general primary school children’s textbooks surveyed, opens with both religion and ‘sacred history’, which is tantamount to religious history, positing that the history of Spain is fundamentally Catholic. In its Spanish history section, the text claims that the Second Spanish Republic was ‘undoubtedly the saddest and most shameful period of our History’, stating that the Republic attempted to ‘destroy the Catholic faith and the unity of Spain, fermenting hatred and fighting

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amongst Spaniards’.36 Such bombastic claims tie Catholicism to nationalism in an attempt to inculcate National-Catholicism ideology in third graders. In its forty-fifth lesson, one of the final lessons in Lecciones preparadas, teachers are told to point out the placement of the image of Franco in their classroom, instructing them to ask students as to why there would be a photograph of Franco in all the classrooms. Teachers are told to ask what other places el Caudillo’s image might be found, such as government institutions. Teachers are told to describe ‘el Generalisimo Franco’ as the first and best servant of Spain, and as the man who freed Spain from communism and the horrors of the Second World War.37 While an obvious example, students were expected to respect the dictator as the ultimate role model. One children’s textbook, Antonio Fernández Rodríguez’s Enciclopedia práctica: grado elemental, first published in 1943, approved by a censor, Nihil Obstat, Gregorio, Bishop of Barcelona, and Chancellor-Secretary Luis Urpi, continued in print well into the 1950s. The ninth edition, reprinted in 1950, claims, ‘One of the most beautiful phrases of the Falange is “the militia is life, and because of it we are able to live in the pure spirit of service and sacrifice’’’.38 The lesson describes the role of the Falangist Frente de Juventudes, or Youth Front, in helping young Spaniards grow through strict discipline, and to do their ‘duty to God, for Spain, and for all Spaniards’. In an example that shows the importance of outdoor camping, the lesson teaches Spanish boys to acquire a noble military and religious style, demonstrate physical strength, hygiene, and to value religion, national syndicalism,39 sport, and patriotic songs – all for the ‘Empire of God’. In the text, Christianity is described as fundamental to this process, stating Spain is the most beautiful fatherland one can have, and proclaiming that José Antonio Primo de Rivera exemplified what it meant to be Spaniard. The section describes Franco, el Caudillo, as a leader who should always be loved and obeyed. It commands young people to love the ‘genuine traditions of the Fatherland’, and reminds young people that no one is ‘small’ under in the Fatherland.40 Such rhetoric gave students a command both to obey authority and to remember that even if they felt unimportant because of such treatment, they are still great because of their loyalty to the patria. The first chapter of Formación del espíritu national: primer curso de bachillerato, by Manuel Álvarez Lastra and Eleuterio de Orte Martínez, intended for first-year high school students, was titled ‘Spain is the most beautiful Fatherland that one can have’, mirroring and reinforcing National-Catholic values taught to primary school students. Curiously, the introduction argues that most definitions of ‘patria’, or fatherland, are typically based on where one is

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born, and a person’s race, language and blood. Rejecting that definition, the text instead points to José Antonio’s definition, ‘the unity of Destiny in the Universal’ – pointing to a futurist utopian tendency often found in fascism that looks towards a teleological utopian future based in a group’s destiny. The ghost of José Antonio followed students throughout school, attempting to inculcate Falangist values, while legitimating the Francoist state. While the textbook aligns itself to José Antonio’s definition, it demonstrates that all of these fascist tendencies were wrapped up in the definition of ‘patria’ – with primacy of that definition belonging to the ‘father’ of the Falange himself. Nevertheless, although officially promulgated, the utilization of F.E.N. was often uneven. Basque politico Francisco Javier ‘Patxi’ López (b. 1959) recalls, ‘We had F.E.N., but I don’t even remember studying it. The majority of teachers tried to pass through the points of the subject and not get in trouble’.41 In fact, even the fascist national anthem, Cara al sol, was not always a prominent part of everyday school activities for all young Spaniards. Radio and television journalist María José Bueno Márquez (b. 1964, Badajoz), known as Pepa Bueno, recalls, ‘I never sang Cara al sol, and I never studied Formación del Espíritu Nacional. Nothing. On the contrary, we had ethics’.42 Bueno’s juxtaposition of F.E.N. as contrary to ‘ethics’ reveals her perception of National-Catholicism, notwithstanding the fact that she claims to never have been exposed to its teachings. Despite attempts at not discussing the recent past at home, many young Spaniards received conflicting messages. Although not universal, the singing of the anthem was a part of some young people’s everyday experience, recalls the singer Sole Giménez (b. 1963). Giménez was born in Paris to Spanish parents, and then spent her youth and adolescence in Murcia, on the Mediterranean coast of Spain: In my home, we didn’t speak about politics. My grandfather was arrested for four years in A Coruña for being a member of the Republican guard, so my grandmother was scared to death of even touching the subject. Just naming the war was something dramatic … It was a taboo subject. In school, yes. I remember in classes, on many occasions, we would get into rows and sing Cara al sol. I didn’t know what it was because I had lived in France until I was five. I thought that I was the only one who didn’t know the song and that made me feel bad. The headmaster of the school was very Falangist.43

Although the explicit teaching of nationalism might have been uneven, these were values that were present throughout the dictatorship. Questioning the Francoist state, for adults who remembered the war, threatened peace; they preferred not to talk about the dictatorship because of the trauma of the civil

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war, what historian Helen Graham calls a ‘pact of silence’.44 Children with no memory of the Spanish Civil War were left with hollow explanations, never legitimated, as to why Spain was the greatest nation, while still expected to follow a militaristic National-Catholicism.

Heteronormativity in textbooks There is a necessity for scholars to address how boys and girls exerted agency under fascism. To what extent can young people be held accountable for the continuation of fascist ideology? To what extent can their disenchantment with the régime be indicative of a greater role in the creation of dissent than previously considered? Rather than looking only towards student protests and avant-garde culture, which will be discussed extensively in later chapters, for evidence of how fascism interacted with youth, we can look towards the everyday lives of young people. Through the study of youth culture, a clearer picture of what fascism was can be drawn. While the struggle between pupil and ‘authority figures’ might seem an old one, an authoritarian régime intent on inculcating its youth with its ideologies adds an extra complication to the typical dynamics one might expect. While all classroom experiences varied greatly, certain similarities and tendencies emerge when looking at the dictatorship’s attempt to inculcate its youth with religious, patriarchal and nationalist ideals. These experiences elaborate upon the ways that young people rejected (or accepted) fascist values, highlighting the tension present in such everyday classroom experiences. One of the Enciclopedia Álvarez lines of texts made for the youngest of readers, Mi Cartilla: Método para el aprendizaje rápido y simultáneo de la lectura, escritura y dibujo, gives instructions to both children and adults on how to use the texts. A four-part series, each thin book ranges in length from thirteen to sixteen pages. The 1957 edition of the text introduces the methodology, explicitly noting the role of mothers in educating their children, stating, ‘Mothers show their children an object and at the same time they give it a name. She slowly articulates the word, helping the child to mentally visualize, hear and speak’.45 Arguing that language acquisition is the domain of mothers not only further emphasizes why the Sección Feminina preoccupied itself with education, but also more generally shows a societal belief that the role of education of youth as gendered. If education was meant to teach religion and nationalism primarily, and if women were the purveyors of that education, we can start to understand

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how teaching fascistic ideals became the task of women – those women, to some extent, becoming a complicit in their own oppression. While children’s textbooks might not iterate complex ideological beliefs, in their simplicity, we can discern what might be understood as the fundamental projections of heteronormative familial structures as well as gender expectations under Franco. From the first pages of Mi Cartilla, in a section intending to teach the reading and writing of the Spanish letter eñe, the reader is confronted with a representation of gender that not only displays masculine bravado, as two boys compete in a tug-of-war competition and a man scolds a boy, teaching the verb riñar, or to argue. In another more elaborate image, a boy and a girl are hitting one another, with a football to their side, while another boy (niño) comes up at the children with a stick held high above, ready to hit a girl (niña). In the next scene, a mother is running towards her daughter who is lying on the ground.46 The plain, stick figure drawings not only show violence towards women and girls, but show violence as quotidian – what Hannah Arendt would describe as ‘banal’. Violence against women was so common place that it was even found in children’s textbooks. Other scenes from the textbook include images of a girl attending mass, a wedding, an aproned mother scolding her daughter, with a child to her side in a carriage.47 All of these images clearly depicted the path girls were expected to take, as well as an expected subjugation to men. Girls were expected to be obedient to their fathers, as noted in an image of a father scolding his daughter who is holding her hands to her face, as she cries.48 In fact, such discipline was a primary way of life in the classroom, Elvira Lindo (b. 1962, Cádiz) recalls: When I first started going to school I had a teacher who scared me because she would hit us with the pointer … At the beginning of the school year they gathered us in the main salon and the school master – who was a man with an impossibly stern face – talked about what the rules were and their corresponding punishments. Later I got used to it, but when I first arrived to Madrid, I was shocked. I had never seen that.49

While strict discipline might have been a common trope many might associate with the early and mid-twentieth-century education system both in Spain and abroad, Lindo’s experiences indicate that such treatment was not universal. Having moved to the Spanish capital, to a new school, she had not experienced such discipline, further highlighting an unevenness in teaching and experiences in school that might not be reflected in the texts. Whatever gender norms are presented in the books, they reflected what might be thought of as an idealized

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Francoist world that attempted to sway young minds into its framework of understanding. In an attempt to teach reading and writing, Mi Cartilla uses what are largely non-sequitur vignettes of several children: a girl who goes to mass, another who is blind and can’t see the ‘beautiful roses’ in front of her, a girl solving an addition problem on a chalkboard, a mother who kneads bread, a daughter waving goodbye to her mother and a man using a saw.50 The rest of the text, which was intended to primarily teach letters and sounds, shows a mother admiring roses, a boy killing a mouse, a girl petting a monkey, boys lighting fires, girls washing laundry and men caring for the fields.51 Finding such gendered stereotypes in a book that relies on no narrative structure, intended to primarily teach phonetics, particularly demonstrates the abundance of such heteronormative and sexist tropes more generally, amplified in its location amongst simple depictions intended for children. The authors, not limited to a particular narrative, chose to include images that young people would have understood, and things that they (presumably) could relate too. Even at such a young age, kids were expected to already know these gender norms, and were encouraged to emulate them. Nevertheless, while young girls growing up under the dictatorship were subject to Francoist constructions of gender norms, they still were able to act with agency. Elvira Lindo, who moved to Madrid at the age of 12, recalled the strict rules surrounding student progress reports, demonstrating how gender norms permeated even basic interactions between the school and her parents. In her case, students were required to have their fathers sign the report. Mothers were allowed to sign as well, but the father’s signature was mandatory. Having an option for the mother to sign not only recognized the role of mothers in educating their children, but also underlined the role of the mother as subordinate to the father. While perhaps not surprising, when failing a class, Lindo and her sister would falsify their father’s signature.52 This simple form of subversion demonstrates the nature of the patriarchal Francoist system, but also shows one way two young girls subverted those norms. Mi Cartilla imposed gender expectations not only on young girls, but also on boys, demonstrating how nationalism played into the ways boys were expected to act. Lesson three, ‘Games for boys’, describes boys playing ‘soldiers’. The stick figure boys are shown standing in line, wearing what can be described as paper military hats, wooden swords, and saluting the Spanish flag. A boy is named ‘General’ – whose role is to inspire the recruits by rallying a nationalist cry announcing that no one can stop them because they are Spanish soldiers. Giving the order to attack, they ‘search for the enemy’. The vignette tells parents

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and boys, ‘Let boys play even if it’s cloudy outside, because it is possible that someday they will be good soldiers’.53 This message, directed at parents, placed Spain’s authority above the parental authority, describing that parent’s rule is subordinate to the needs of the nation. Underlining the intersections between two fascist tendencies – nationalism and patriarchy – lesson twenty-two of Mi Cartilla: Método para el aprendizaje rápido y simultáneo de la lectura, escritura y dibujo, part IV, clearly describes Franco’s role as father of the country: Franco! Franco! Franco! A family is formed by a father, a mother, and children. The head of the family is the father. Some families live closer than others, they are from towns and cities. The head of the town or city is the Mayor. Many towns and some cities form a province. The head of the province is the Civil Governor. Various provinces form a nation. Our nation is called Spain. It is formed by 50 provinces and the supreme leader is the Great General Franco. Franco, along with the Military, re-established order in Spain. He triumphed in the war, and now he triumphs in peacefully governing us.54

The page clearly delineates a patriarchal rule that lined up with fascist tendencies that were blatantly misogynistic. More than a simple reading tool, the Álvarez textbooks, and texts like it, were intended to guide teachers and parents in the instruction of young people en masse. If fascism seeks to create a mass movement, children’s textbooks operated as one vehicle to spread that message. Actor Juan Echanove (b. 1961, Madrid) recalls classes could have up to fifty students, approximately. A masculine, militaristic classroom was not uncommon. Echanove recalls: from little kids until our college orientation, there were always a lot of students [in our classes]. In reality, they drank the tonic that was given them by the Organización Juvenil Española’s Falangist tradition. I think that in that era it happened in almost all the schools in Spain, but more so in religious centres, and even more so with priests. I remember when we were pre-schoolers the teacher had us divided into teams, everyone of us with a flag, like military columns. One teacher wrote a maxim on the chalkboard, generally in the Falangist style: ‘Those who serve are valued’, with ‘Only God’, written clearly on the blackboard. Clearly, afterward, over time, you make memories and see what all of it was, in the best of cases, a very ‘joseantoniano’ idea of education. And later there were schools, better to say teachers, who imposed a repressive fascism that wasn’t at all educational.55

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Echanove remembers the stricter teachers stating, ‘Boy, I’m going to educate you by the hand’ [Chaval, te voy a educar a base de hostias]. This started changing over time. The centres themselves changed with the arrival of the transition’. Sole Giménez’s experiences were similar, although in Murcia and not Madrid, ‘I didn’t just have respect for the teachers, I also had a fear of them, because they were very strict and sometimes crossed the line. They would hit a lot. It was a misunderstanding of discipline, education through fear’. She recalls girls being hit with a ruler, while boys were more violently disciplined, ‘With boys they were more savage. My brother – who was eleven years younger than me – would be hit with a rubber tube used with butane tanks, knowing it would hurt a lot. When they first slapped me, I understood, I would never get another [beating]. I thought, “No one is ever going to put a hand on me” ’.56 Giménez’s experiences demonstrate not only an attempt to physically abuse a child who challenged authority, it also showed a rejection of such violent measures. Nevertheless, although the violence was prevalent, women teachers and nuns were respected in some cases according to María Dolores Cospedal García (b. 1965, Madrid) who grew up to be a conservative politician in Madrid, ‘Nuns and señoritas were spoken to using usted, and you said “Don” when it was a male teacher. I remember one teacher, French, also called us by usted, but the nuns didn’t do it’. Cospedal García further describes the nuns as young, full of humanity, and representative of a new way of teaching.57 The use of usted indicated formality, distance and rigidness between teachers and students. Cospedal García describes a shift in formality. In her experience, the nuns were treating young people with a sort of closeness, or humanity, that was uncommon prior. Although at this point, children still would have used usted when speaking to authority, this shift reflects changing views of young people by adults.

A legacy of bad education Even in the 1970s, late in the dictatorship, religion and state were inseparable, with some classes being cancelled so that children could pray for the Caudillo when on his deathbed.58 Because of National-Catholic education policies enacted early in the dictatorship, the classroom functioned as a microcosm where children could both be inculcated with fascist tendencies and violently oppressed. They also could subvert authority, and could still see possibilities for new ways of engaging with authority. While fascist tendencies were uneven, the prevalence of them would inspire many young people to act against such constructions of

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heteronormativity, nationalism and authority. Even in these classrooms, teachers and students were silently pushing back against the patriarchal régime by, in fact, not promoting such ideologies. By studying the subject matter taught to students, we can begin to piece together that which was being subverted later in the dictatorship. Authoritarian structures not only entered the classroom, but they also gave young people who had no memory of the civil war a cause to rally against.

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Memory as a space of contention In his 1912 work, A Tragic Sense of Life, the eminent Spanish philosopher Miguel de Unamuno (1864–1936) wrote, ‘Memory is the basis of individual personality, just as tradition is the basis of the collective personality of a people. We live in memory and by memory, and our spiritual life is simply the effort of our memory to persist, to transform itself into hope, the effort of our past to transform itself into our future’.1 In recent years, Spanish historians have sought to understand the complicated functions of memory of both the Spanish Civil War and the Francoist dictatorship, and how memory has played out in modern Spanish history.2 To expound upon the role of memory in Spain in the twentieth century, scholars have looked at the lives of ordinary Spaniards, exiles, women and the effects of the civil war. Nevertheless, in regard to the role of memory in youth culture in Spain, there has been no significant work on the subject – forgotten. By studying the history of the young intelligentsia under the Franco dictatorship we can begin to better understand the emergence of dissent against the régime. Not only does having a pluralistic space for dialogue create diversity in ideas, but it also stimulates democratic thinking through freedom of expression. Only through the decentring of power from authority, using a plurality of voices, can a democracy form. During the 1950s and 1960s, spaces of political-literary dialogue were carefully secured, and tacitly permitted, at the highest levels of academia by the likes of Spanish Minister of Education Joaquin Ruiz-Giménez (1913–2009), former Minister of Propaganda Dionisio Ridruejo (1912–1975) and the Rector the Universidad de Madrid, Pedro Laín Entralgo (1908–2001) – all of whom were early members of Falangist youth groups. Curiously, it would be through the support of some of those who in their youth were the most fervent supporters of the Falange that the memory of a politicalliterary space was preserved and revived, helping students who grew up under the dictatorship to cultivate libertine, pluralistic and democratic ideals. The memory of the pluralistic tradition of political-literary dialogue in the long fin de siècle and pre–civil war eras played an important role in shaping and legitimizing youth protest movements in Spain in the 1950s and 1960s against the régime. Young Spaniards reappropriated and reinterpreted the historical memory and traditions of earlier liberal eras to counter a régime that sought to create its own exclusive idea of ‘authentic’ Spanishness – which was reflected in the régime’s attempt to censor and manipulate historical memory.3 In order to understand memory as a legitimizer of power it is helpful to consider memory as

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a virtual space where the régime and those anti-Francoists contended for control of Spanish identity, or what I describe as the place where Benedict Anderson’s ‘imagined communities’ are formed. If identity is in fact imagined, then it is only through the collective imagination, a virtual space, that humans can create alternative definitions of identity – built upon collective memory. Historical memory is a virtual space, or what urban theorist Edward Soja would call a ‘thirdspace’ – space that is multiplicity of both real and imagined, where the individual finds agency and can imagine their own definitions of self-identity in conjunction with others.4 In this chapter, I borrow from Alon Confino’s theory of collective memory, also understood as historical memory, as well as Paul Fussell’s work in The Great War and Modern Memory (1975), to analyse the role of collective memory to counter Francoist constructions of Spanish identity. Using those theoretical frameworks, I will examine case studies that demonstrate ways the memory of pluralistic tradition shaped dissent by young adults under the dictatorship. To demonstrate student and administrative efforts to secure a space of politicalliterary dialogue, these case studies show: the mythologizing of Spanish literary giant and intellectual Miguel de Unamuno, the rector of the Universidad de Salamanca, and his stand against fascism in 1936 in ‘Unamuno’s Last Lecture’ and student participation in the funeral of the Spanish philosopher José Ortega y Gasset in 1955.

Strategy versus tactics Dissent, in its most basic form, can be understood as the product of a struggle between those with more power and those with less – power relations that are constantly shifting depending upon circumstance, time and place. The way in which individuals act in their everyday life, or what historian Michel de Certeau describes as their ‘ways of operating’, can function as transgression despite the quotidian nature of those practices.5 Even under an authoritarian dictatorship, while there might be strict laws and norms or rules of procedure, there is often still freedom to act within those rules to deploy what de Certeau calls ‘tactics’ that counter the rules imposed upon everyday life by an authority. Even under strict dictatorships subversive tactics can still exist. In those cases, the weight of transgression can become exaggerated – even the smallest non-normative act can become a form of political protest. Within these ways of operating both conscious and unconscious forms of resistance can emerge.

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De Certeau asserts that tactics include: ‘reader’s practices, practices related to urban spaces, utilizations of everyday rituals, re-uses and functions of memory through the “authorities” that make possible (or permit) everyday practices, etc.’6 These everyday practices can be as commonplace as reading, talking, walking, dwelling and cooking.7 The Spanish tertulia, a tradition of regular politicalliterary dialogue amongst friends at a café, functioned under the dictatorship as both a tactic against authority and legitimizer of dissent. Under Franco, a simple gathering of friends to discuss dissenting politics and literature, such as the tertulia, was an act of defiance against the authority. Those whom operate from a position of power utilize ‘strategy’ as opposed to tactics – deploying physical force, censorship, social norms, bureaucracy, etc. to maintain power. Tactics operate in spaces created where authority is contested or absent – fractured spaces extant in the cogs of the machine. These antiauthoritarian tactics represent places where the weak can demonstrate victories, albeit perhaps very small, over the strong.8 While the user of tactics does operate from a place of weakness in comparison to the power of authorities, as de Certeau shows, I contend the use of these tactics also demonstrates weakness in authoritarian power. In fact, in the use of tactics, the weaker locates weakness in authority or unclaimed power. Through the acquisition of this unclaimed power the oppressed, or weaker, can even come to threaten authority. Once a fissure is found, the weak can take a lever to it, cultivate it and, with time, locate other places where unclaimed power lingers, connecting those nodes to create alternate systems of power. If successful, the weaker can threaten authority itself. As seen in the previous chapter, the demonstration of power by authoritarians can manifest itself in the distribution of knowledge or information by authorities. Under Franco, mass-produced print media was regulated by a strict censorship process that implicated printers, editors, reporters and newspaper vendors. Coffee shop conversations were surveilled by authorities who frequented those locales. Universities were controlled by Franco loyalists. To counter the systematic oppression of information and ideas, young people used tactics that subverted government censorship which consequently helped re-established a freedom in the exchange of ideas and information – ultimately unclogging the blockage of knowledge. By finding alternative paths for distribution of knowledge (through printed, oral, and later audio and visual channels), young people implemented tactics that subverted the régime’s overall strategy of control through censorship. If state censorship of publications helps to squash public opinion and dispels with pluralistic discourse, then the distribution of subversive leaflets, pamphlets, etc. can work as a tactic to counter authority despite state strategy to

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suppress the free flow of knowledge. If an authority controls the public sphere – including spaces that are traditionally thought of as spaces of free thought, such as coffee shops, libraries and universities – through the threat of denunciation or incarceration as a consequence of dissenting opinion, it then becomes necessary that another space (perhaps clandestine) be acquired if those weaker individuals wish to discuss ‘polemic’ issues without fear of reprisal. During the Enlightenment, this subversion was possible through subversive private salons, pamphlets, poetry, underground literature and the like, seen most prominently in the work of historian Robert Darnton. In a more contemporary account, this hidden space might be located in a private online message board, or a chat to which authorities are unaware or do not have access. This use of tactics against authority is at the heart of antiauthoritarianism. It seeks out contested places where it can hide through wit and play in the hopes of decentring power.

Resisting false history and facts In Madrid, a systematic renaming of streets and plazas and the erection of monuments occurred. These signs and statues physically represented a revisionist history located in the public sphere. Nevertheless, while the physical world can be rewritten, subversive thought can live on in memory – a virtual space is much more difficult to colonize. And while the creation of these urban monuments was an attempt to colonize the minds of citizens, the strategies of creating statues to commemorate state histories did not guarantee that those historical revisionisms always worked in the way that authorities would have favoured. Historical memory, and cultural practise, can still trump ‘official’ memory despite those best efforts to the contrary. For example, a street renamed to laud a fascist hero can come to represent disdain rather than inspire admiration. Madrid’s own ‘Gran Vía’ was renamed ‘Avenida de José Antonio’ after José Antonio Primo de Rivera, the founder of the Falange. In this case, despite the régime’s strategy to create a revisionist history, it was still possible for an opposing memory to the state’s to remain and even become mythologized – the name Gran Vía being restored after the fall of Francoism. Despite attempts to squash the memory of political-literary discourse, the memory of that discourse also found ways to survive oppression. If the institution of the café and its tertulias functioned as an equalizer, as fin de siècle author and Madrid bohemian Ramón Gómez de la Serna understood it,9 and if café culture was the result of a perceived necessity to escape the institutionalized university

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in order to find a more democratic space of discourse, then it stands to reason that the repression of the public space of the café would force those freethinkers who were not killed, incarcerated or exiled after the Spanish Civil War to find haven elsewhere. In order to counter the Francoist régime, dissidents had to search for a new space, while still keeping in mind the potential gains, risk and repercussions associated with any transgression. Historical memory can be understood as collective remembrance based upon what is popularly recalled in historical or personal accounts. An individual’s memory is personal, and is given meaning through both official histories and unofficial histories. Those personal memories can contrast with official and unofficial histories, causing a widening mire between history understood by the person, the state and the collective. Historical memory, when applied to the study of history, must be scrutinized by the historian, as memory is influenced by a person’s point of view, and the manner in which a history is told. What is memorialized on official days of celebration, street names, statues, parades and official histories taught in school are representations of memory as promulgated by official history – this type of memory is oftentimes polemic and political in nature. Moreover, lest we want to fall for that tired axiom that ‘winners write the history’, official state history must also be dissected to understand how historical memory has been used to reflect slanted, triumphal narratives promulgated by those with power, whether in a democracy or an autocracy. Memory can be a space of contention, as it is not easily dominated by authority; however, neither does it function autonomously – historical memory is virtual and networked. While an individual can hold memories, it always works in conjunction with others. While the physical space of the tertulia was eliminated as a place of democratic politicalliterary dialogue by Francoist oppression, it was not as easy to eliminate the memory of such a tradition of political-literary dialogue, and it was that tradition of political-literary dialogue that was reimagined in the 1950s and 1960s. Memory is reflected in personal experience and stories passed down, as well as what is (and what is not) written about in contemporary journalism, in art, film, literature and history books. However, this ‘unofficial’ memory is often murkier, as it can be affected, changed and influenced by censorship, idealization and exaggeration. Equally, this unofficial memory can also be used, either intentionally or unintentionally, to work against official memory – perhaps even developing a more complex understanding of memory, changing or influencing official memory. As Paul Fussell explains in his chapter ‘Persistence and Memory’, a play on the Spanish artist Salvador Dalí’s work of the same name, meaning is constructed ex

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post facto, based upon both the contemporary moment and the meaning of the memory that becomes attached to it. Fussell’s The Great War and Modern Memory provides an excellent example of how memory can be pieced together using a plenitude of sources found in diaries, periodicals, literature and personal and official accounts.10 Fussell’s work demonstrates how later treatments can act to better describe memory, as significance or import of a memory can develop only ex post facto. For example, in Fussell’s chapter, ‘The Troglodyte World’, the author demonstrates how writer Wilfred Owen, while serving on the front lines of the war captured important facets of life in the trenches of the First World War, but was not able to fully describe the vulgarity of the war. It would be fictionalized treatments on the war such as Erich Maria Remarque’s All Quiet on the Western Front, which captured that vulgarity, and its profound impact on Western society.11 Fussell explains this in literary terms as memory is constructed initially as what he terms: (1) myth, (2) romance, (3) high mimetic, (4) low mimetic and (5) irony – before returning once again to myth.12 It is within these terms that memory can be used to legitimize a belief, ideal, government or norm. However, as this chapter will demonstrate, most people live in a space between these memories – unofficial and official – in which one can find the opportunity for dissent, as memory becomes slightly more flexible, being that it can be considered as dual. That is to say, memory is both official and unofficial, but also private and public – leaving space to consider questions of agency. And more so, in being both official and unofficial, memory breaks those binaries. Alon Confino discusses memory in a way that is multifaceted and relevant as he understands the explanatory and narrative potentials and perils of memory. Confino describes memory as being: based on a multitemporal concept of history where past and present commingle and coalesce, capturing simultaneously different and opposing narratives and privileging topics and representation interpreted in terms of experience, negotiation, agency and shifting relationship. ‘Memory’ now governs questions of historical interpretation, explanation, and method in such a way that is seems appropriate to speak of a paradigm shift in historical studies from ‘society’ to ‘memory’.13

Confino also writes, ‘Like no other concept, perhaps, memory confers in our culture legitimacy, roots, authenticity, and a sense of identity’.14 Why is it that the Spanish Civil War legitimized the Francoist dictatorship? As Paloma Aguilar has successfully argued, it was the memory of the bloodshed of the Spanish Civil War, and the desire to have peace, that assured Franco’s legitimacy in the

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aftermath.15 Were the memory less sanguineous and traumatic, its potency as a legitimizer would be lessened. Moreover, propaganda (and false narratives) can change public and private memory, re-writing meaning and history. If one speaks of ‘unofficial’ memory as being that which is subject to suppression and manipulation by ‘official’ memory, then one sees the usefulness of a cultural historical approach in that it is suited to capture facets of history that might be otherwise overlooked, or contradicted, by official memory. In Fear and Progress: Ordinary Lives in Franco’s Spain, 1939–1975, Antonio Cazorla-Sánchez evaluates the memories and experiences of Spaniards who lived through the Francoist régime. While the text functions primarily to tell the stories of repression suffered under the régime, Fear in Progress is predicated by a theory developed by the author in an article published in the Journal of Contemporary History, ‘Beyond They Shall Not Pass: How the Experience of Violence Reshaped Political Values in Franco’s Spain’. In that article Cazorla-Sánchez explains how, during what historians call the ‘First Francoism’, the Francoist régime (or the Movimiento, as it was also called vis-à-vis an incorporation of the Falangist Movement) attempted to manipulate the memory of the bloody civil war. Cazorla-Sánchez shows a harsh oppression of the Left by the régime, citing heavy propaganda tactics used as part of a strategy of historical revisionism. He argues that this revisionism of the civil war by the régime was supported by the majority Spaniards (out of fear of another conflict). This revisionist memory of the civil war legitimized the régime.16 The acceptance of the historical revisionism demonstrated a desire by Spaniards to prevent more bloodshed. That is to say, that the Spaniards who lived through the atrocities of the Spanish Civil War, and who were grateful for being spared those of the Second World War, preferred the stability that Franco represented over the uncertainty of another devastating bloody war – thus allowing those inconsistencies that existed between their personal memory and the official memory of the civil war. Cazorla-Sánchez asserts, ‘This political apathy is a far cry from the revolutionary and conservative political and social mobilization during the Second Republic and the civil war’.17 The article demonstrates how historic revisionism can be accepted as history insofar as people consent to it, for whatever factors that caused an invented memory be accepted, despite the existence of an individual’s memory that might even counter or contradict the official created memory. Cazorla-Sánchez makes a believable case that demonstrates that Spaniards accepted the Francoist régime’s official history of the Spanish Civil War in order to prevent another outbreak of war, thus ensuring peace. While it

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is important to document the repression, censorship and oppression suffered under the Francoist régime during the course of almost forty years, it is also important to consider the agency exercised in the everyday life of Spaniards of the time. Cazorla-Sánchez argues after the civil war Franco ruled over a ‘disengaged and individualistic society’.18 He writes: The state’s main function was to control rather than to mobilize community activity, and there were very few publicly sponsored opportunities for volunteer engagement apart from those connected to the ruling party and its women’s and youth organizations.19

The inclusion of youth organizations is notable as it gave an institutionalized space where young people could talk politics. Eventually, a ‘generation gap’ developed, separating those who remembered the bloodshed of the civil war and the rest of society. This gap created a place of contention for the youth, whereas those who had lived through the civil war accepted the revisionist history that explained the Spanish Civil War as being the legitimizer of the Francoist dictatorship. The younger generation who grew up after the war would ask questions that sought to understand how there could be such a disparate gap between what was promulgated by the state, and what they experienced in everyday life.

Institutionalized repression and censorship It is hard to understate the repression universities experienced in the early years of the Francoist régime. This control resulted in the stagnation of the institution of higher education and prevented potential criticism of the régime. La Ley de Ordenación de la Universidad Española, enacted on 29 July 1943, stated, ‘the university shall adapt its teaching to Catholic dogma and morality and to the norms of canonical law in force’.20 The régime utilized this law to impose a hierarchal system that attempted to control democratic thought and thinking produced by universities. Not only does this demonstrate parallel actions taken to influence young people, as covered in Chapter 2, but it shows a concerted effort to conquer the minds of young Spanish adults. Additionally, according to the law, students were obligated to become members of the Sindicato Español Universitario (S.E.U.), a student-oriented branch of the Falangist party. According to Article 40 of the Ley de Ordenación de la Universidad Española,

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the rectors of universities were to be appointed by the government and were required to be active militant members of the Falange.21 The law mandated Falangist membership, forcing faculty and students to regulate each other’s activities – a largely effective deterrent to anti-Francoist dissent, at least initially. However, concurrently, this mandatory membership also gave young people who were not in agreement with the régime a political platform for discourse. It was the intention of the régime to control, oppress and prevent dissent within the university against the Movimiento through the internal student organization. Article 56 of the law stated, ‘In order to be a teacher in a university or any other branch of education, it is necessary to prove one’s firm adherence to the fundamental principles of the Movimiento, whose adherence must be attested by a certificate issued by the General Secretariat of the Falange’.22 Furthermore, second-year students had to belong to the state militia, or had to do three years’ military service in the ranks, and they had to take a course in military and civic training under army officers and Falangist leaders, with theoretical and practical exercises each Sunday.23 Franco’s reforms were on such a fundamental level that to teach for a university, at least outwardly, a professor’s ideology had to be in line with that of the régime’s tenets – an obvious attempt to indoctrinate Falangist (read: fascist) ideas into the very institution of ‘liberal’ thought. These methodologies were intended to colonize minds and knowledge to ensure that no internal threat could develop. The Opus Dei (translated: The Work of God), the most powerful Catholic (and most conservative) arm of the Francoist régime, wrestled for and won control over doctrine in universities as liberal democratic thought was dismissed in favour of National-Catholic doctrine. The Opus Dei, through its backing by Franco, secured almost one-fourth of all university chairs in the early period of the Francoist régime.24 The university taught the glorification of Spain and her destiny – both reflective of fascist tendencies. Under the S.E.U. all Spanish universities, by default, became Catholic institutions. By 1943, orthodox Catholic ideals prevailed in all Spanish universities. One of the reasons for this was to eliminate opposing opinions and the influence of foreign ideals. In fact, even non-translated foreign works were destroyed, helping Falangist scholars build reputations that were unassailable.25 The destruction of foreign texts marked isolationism and a rejection of subversive, liberal and ‘non-Christian’ beliefs. When taking examinations, students often were expected to reproduce their teachers’ lessons word for word – a reification of authority. Max Gallo contends that praise of Francoism and of the conservative thirteenth century, considered to be ‘the golden age of Western civilization’, had to be accepted without

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argument. In subjects such as history and philosophy, the systematic change of facts was normalized – whole sections of those disciplines disappeared or were condemned in the name of Spanish Catholicism and its conservative traditions. The period was one of intellectual suffocation; higher education became another way of imposing Falangist ideologies. In 1950, attendance of primary schools was about 58 per cent and at secondary school only 8.2 per cent.26 Additionally, universities were teaching ‘blind obedience to one’s superior was the path to holiness’.27 Because of the interconnected nature of National-Catholicism, this sort of obedience was, implicitly, not relegated to just religion, but also to the nation. These types of ideologies negatively affected those of lower social status, as they were maintained uneducated and impoverished. Joaquin Ruiz Giménez, Franco’s Minister of Education, even publicly declared: ‘Lord, may the whole Spanish university be like a monstrance making possible every excess for Thy sake.’28 The prayers spoke of not only Ruiz Giménez’s devoutness, but also of that which was propagated by the fascist state. However, it is in this period the first signs of discontent and antiauthoritarianism appear. The compulsory prayers for Franco also caused questioning amongst some young priests. In the Basque region, the clergy was anti-Francoist because of close contact with the population. The poverty of the workers and peasants, along with the perceived arrogant wealth of Franco’s supporters, also left many priests and believers to ask themselves whether the path chosen by the church was the best way to win the hearts of the people.29 This would create movements from within small sects of the Catholic Church that would want to save the church by detaching it from the Francoist state – the roots of Democratic Christian movements found more prominently in the 1960s and 1970s. Despite all of Franco’s precaution, from within this repressed university structure the emergence of questioning and dissension would appear from within academia by the 1950s. By the 1960s, even Ruiz Giménez would be acting against the régime.

Unamuno’s last lecture An act of defiance against the Francoist régime portrayed in the short story Unamuno’s Last Lecture, by Luis Gabriel Portillo Pérez, became mythologized and referred to by students and anti-Francoists in later years of the régime. Portillo, a former professor of civil law at the University of Salamanca, published the short story in the prominent British magazine Horizon: A Review of Literature and Art, while in exile in London.30 The short story was later included

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in the collection The Golden Horizon; its inclusion underlines the importance of Portillo’s story in London literary circles. The tale told a mythologized story of how Miguel de Unamuno, arguably the most respected literary figure of Spain at the time of the civil war, dissented against the Francoist régime in his last act as Rector of the Universidad de Salamanca on 12 October 1936 – the morning of the jingoist celebration the Día de la Raza [Day of the Race], celebrating the birthday of the conquistador Christopher Columbus.31 In the story, Portillo portrays Unamuno as a defender of logic, reason and dialogue. While the specific events of Unamuno’s protest against Francoist General José Millán Astray were not published in the following day’s newspapers, the episode was remembered and often referred to by anti-Francoists in Spain and abroad as it represented a mythologized act of defiance against the nascent régime. This act of defiance by a public intellectual was politically significant as it functioned to destabilize the régime’s authority at its very foundation. The events of the episode created a myth based upon Unamuno and his oeuvre, which later was utilized to legitimize dissent against the régime. In what can be described as a standoff, the writer, philosopher and socialist Miguel de Unamuno faced off against Francoist General José Millán Astray in the autumn of 1936. Miguel de Unamuno, who initially supported Franco, on that day denounced the régime, and claimed what could be argued as a victory for the memory of democratic tradition in Spain despite the ensuing repression and censorship demonstrated in the removal of Unamuno from his post as Rector of the university. In a sense, Unamuno’s dissent would make the author of Saint Manuel the Good, martyr, a novella about a Catholic priest who continues to preach despite not believing in God, a martyr in his own right for democratic ideals, Unamuno stood firmly against the general in the ceremony held in the Great Hall of the University of Salamanca – proving both embarrassing and dangerous for a dictatorship that had yet to find its own legitimization. Last Lecture draws parallels to other ‘last cries’ by prominent intellectuals – a sort of trope that marks the university professor as a last stand of ‘liberalism’ against dictatorship. Another example, the Jewish historian Simon Dubnow, murdered during the Nazi evacuation of the ghetto of Riga, was mythologized and remembered for his last words to his fellow Jews, ‘Write and record!’ As Alon Confino notes, while there is no secure evidence that Dubnow really said this sentence, it is memory that works as a ‘surrogate to history’.32 Confino explains that it matters not that Dubnow made the statement, but what truly is revealing is that those who told the story expected that a historian such as him would

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exclaim ‘Write and record!’ in that situation. This is particularly important in regard to the profound impact of the Falangist catchphrases ‘Long Live Death’ and ‘Death to the Intelligentsia’ coined by General José Millán Astray (1879– 1954) in rebuttal of Unamuno – anti-intellectual slogans that would be vilified by anti-Francoists. Carmen Polo de Franco (1900–1988) (General Franco’s wife), the Bishop of the Diocese and several Magistrates and the Civil Governor of the Province were in attendance at that ceremony – heightening the significance of Last Lecture. As Portillo writes, during the day’s celebration, philosophy and literature professor Francisco Maldonado de Guevara spoke first, followed by the historian José Maria Ramos Loscertales of Zaragosa and then General Millán Astray. Astray had been a member of the Tercio, the Spanish Foreign Legion for operations in Africa, had lost his right eye in 1926, covering it with a patch, and was considered one of Franco’s mentors and fervent supporter.33 Portillo writes: First of all [Millán Astray] said that more than one-half of all Spaniards were criminals, guilty of armed rebellion and high treason. To remove any ambiguity, he went on to explain that by these rebels and traitors he meant the citizens who were loyal to the Government. In a sudden flash of intuition, a member of the audience was inspired so as to grasp the faultless logic of a slogan which common minds had thought the product of an epileptic brain. With fervour he shouted: ‘Viva, viva la Muerte!’— ’Long live Death! Impervious, the General continued his fiery speech: Catalonia and the Basque country – the Basque country and Catalonia – are two cancers in the body of the nation. Fascism, which is Spain’s health-bringer, will know how to exterminate them both, cutting into the live, healthy flesh like a resolute surgeon free from false sentimentality … [Millán Astray] made a pause and cast a despotic glance over the audience. And he saw that he held them in thrall, hypnotized to a man. Never had any of his harangues so subjugated the will of his listeners. Obviously, he was in his element … He had conquered the University! And carried away himself, he continued, blind to the subtle and withering smile of disdain on the lips of the Rector. Every Socialist, every Republican, every one of them without exception – and needless to say every Communist – is a rebel against the National Government which will very soon be recognized by the totalitarian States who are aiding us, in spite of France – democratic France – and perfidious England.

While Portillo’s portrayal of Millán Astray is a rather flat depiction of the general, it functions well to contrast a perceived ‘anti-intellectual’ character against the

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dynamic personage of Unamuno. Moreover, Portillo underlines a distain by the fascist régime, represented by Millán Astray, for the Left and for democratic principles. Portillo’s story of Unamuno parallels Fussell’s theory of myth making.34 Unamuno is mythologized by Portillo, then romanticized and later mimicked in higher or lesser degrees and lastly portrayed as irony. Unamuno, despite having given wavering support to the dictator, became a symbol that inspired and incited youth against the régime. In the story, Unamuno denounces the paradox inherent in the ‘necrophilous’ Francoist ‘battle cry’ of ‘¡Viva la Muerte!’ (Long Live Death!) – noting that the cry ‘Long Live Death’ also signifies ‘Death to Life’. Portillo writes: Don Miguel rose slowly. The silence was an enormous void. Into this void, Don Miguel began to pour the stream of his speech, as though savouring each measured word… All of you are hanging on my words. You all know me, and are aware that I am unable to remain silent. I have not learnt to do so in seventy-three years of my life. And now I do not wish to learn it any more. At times, to be silent is to lie. For silence can be interpreted as acquiescence. I could not survive a divorce between my conscience and my word, always well-mated partners... I want to comment on the speech – to give it that name – of General Millán Astray who is here among us … Let us waive the personal affront implied in the sudden outburst of vituperation against Basques and Catalans in general. I was born in Bilbao, in the midst of the bombardments of the Second Carlist War. Later, I wedded myself to this city of Salamanca which I love deeply, yet never forgetting my native town. The Bishop, whether he likes it or not, is a Catalan from Barcelona… Just now, I heard the necrophilous and senseless cry: ‘Long live Death!’ To me it sounds the equivalent of ‘Muera la Vida!’ – ‘To Death with Life!’ And I, who have spent my life shaping paradoxes which aroused the uncomprehending anger of the others, I must tell you, as an expert authority, that this outlandish paradox is repellent to me... This is the temple of intellect. And I am its high priest. It is you [Millán Astray] who are profaning its sacred precincts... I have always, whatever the proverb may say, been a prophet in my own land. You will win, but you will not convince. You will win, because you possess more than enough brute force, but you will not convince, because to convince means to persuade. And in order to persuade you would need what you lack – reason and right in the struggle. I consider it futile to exhort you to think of Spain. I have finished.35

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Unamuno’s reference to himself as the ‘high priest’ of a ‘temple of intellect’ asserts a counter authority to the Francoist narrative. Furthermore, Unamuno claims that the régime would not succeed in its attempt to persuade the Spanish people – persuasion being an integral part of debate and dialogue. This assertion further demonstrates a recognition of the place of memory and the cerebral ‘thirdspace’ that Unamuno believed to be safe from fascist ideologies.

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In the aftermath of the episode, Unamuno was removed from his post – living only a few short months longer.36 However, although the incident was not recorded in the following day’s newspapers, it was remembered by Portillo, and served as part of the intellectual tradition of defiance against the régime. While the speech resulted in Unamuno’s removal as rector, Unamuno’s international reputation and initial support of the régime were still of value to Franco’s own legitimization, which probably is why he was not killed for his defiance. If Unamuno’s dissent had been reported, or if he had been killed because of his act of defiance, there indeed could have been a greater political impact that could have acted to destabilize Franco’s power, still fragile in 1936. Instead, the régime attempted to simply erase the events of that day by censoring the following day’s news. Nevertheless, Unamuno’s Last Lecture was used and remembered abroad by exiles such as Miguel García-García, who in 1971 published photocopied pamphlets in London that retold Portillo’s story in an attempt to legitimize support for a group of intellectuals in Barcelona who were being detained. In the pamphlet, García-García uses the story of Unamuno so as to present a continuity of dissent by intellectuals within Spain against the régime. This acted to preserve the historical memory, but also used that memory to legitimize contemporary dissent – which further encourages supporters to participate. García-García prefaces his 1971 republication of Last Lecture with: MIGUEL DE UNAMUNO Y JUGO, 1864–1936. Born Bilbao, Spain’s most eminent poet, philosopher, novelist and essayist of modern times. Professor of Greek at Salamanca University, he became its rector in 1901. He was removed for political reasons in 1914 but re-elected in 1931 and made rector for life in 1934. The dictatorship of Primo de Rivera had exiled him to the Canary Islands. In 1936 he entered the Cortes as an independent republican.37 The oldest of the ‘generation of ‘98’ (the new wave in literature and politics that arose after the Cuban War) he described himself as a ‘sower of doubt and an agitator of consciences’. At first he sided with the military revolt in 1936 thinking it was to ‘restore order’. Then, in a few months, he saw the true nature of Franco’s New Order. When the great National Festival was held in October, and was celebrated in Salamanca University, it was supposed he was another captive intellectual [sic].38

In the pamphlet, García-García uses Last Lecture to call for international support against the detention of contemporary intellectuals who had been detained in 1970 in the Abbey of Montserrat outside of Barcelona after gathering to participate in political-literary dialogue.39 García-García asks that foreign

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readers of the pamphlet, titled Facts on Spanish Resistance, to write letters to Spanish authorities demanding change, claiming, ‘This continuous sending of letters may seem naïve and ineffectual. But it causes concern and produces some results’.40 Providing a draft of a letter written in Castilian, García-García’s pamphlet acted to motivate foreigners to send letters to the Spanish Ministry of Justice, the Spanish Ambassador in London, the Vice-President of the Spanish Government, the Spanish Minister of Foreign Relations (Asuntos Exteriores) and Carmen Polo de Franco (who attended that lecture). This request to send letters to high-ranking figures reflects both the influence that the international community had upon the Francoist régime and the capacity for Unamuno’s myth to inspire action. Another example of the usage of the concept of a ‘continual’ struggle against the régime can be found in Manuel Juan Farga’s 1969 work Universidad y democracia en España: 30 años de lucha estudiantil [University and Democracy in Spain: 30 Years of Student Resistance]. The book, marked as published in México, acts as a foundational academic text on student movements in Spain. It functions to create a cohesive historical account (and counter-narrative) for university students to continue the lucha, or ‘fight’, for democracy. Reflective of an era of student dissent globally in the late 1960s, Farga uses the memory of Unamuno’s Last Lecture to legitimize the students’ dissent and demonstrates how that historical memory was utilized. Farga’s work, which relies upon numerous citations, acts as a social history written with the purpose of motivating students into action. Farga, while writing a history of student movements in Spain, writes with the intention of ‘reconstituting with vivacity a history of an unequal and tenacious combat – of a will that has never been eradicated’.41 Farga’s motivation in writing this history of student youth movements is three-part: political, persuasive and intellectual, with its persuasive aspects taking primacy as it is meant to act to reconstruct a historical memory for which to motivate the student dissidents to act. Acknowledging the inherent biases of Farga’s work, it is important to note that Farga is not writing for a Mexican audience, but, rather, with the hope that the work is disseminated to youths in Spain. There is reason to believe that it was widely distributed as it often cited in the historiography of Spanish universities under Franco and found in multiple libraries. Farga’s book reflects an effort to give historical meaning and consciousness to the students’ ‘fight’ for democracy in Spain over the longue durée. Whether the fight had been uninterrupted, as Farga insists, becomes irrelevant, as students and dissidents became a part of what was tantamount to a mythological struggle for a democracy that was situated at the beginning of the Francoist régime, even harkening back to the

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separation of the university from the Catholic church in 1845, as explained in the summary of the book. Farga’s well-researched work seeks to create a sense of tangibility and historicity to a phase that is passing and inherently limited in duration – that of a university student. Universidad y democracia en España discusses the importance of the ‘liberty of the professor’ [la libertad de la cátedra]42 and the ‘free institution of education’ [la institution libre de educación]43 as an important principle of the democracy. In this discussion, there is no lack of references to intellectuals such as Unamuno, Federico García Lorca, José Ortega y Gasset, Manuel de Falla and Antonio Machado, to name a few. Farga discusses in some depth that these educated, bourgeois men lived in the same student housing that many of his intended lectors at the University of Madrid would have been living – further giving a sense of tangible connectedness with the past for the students reading his work. Instead of portraying the Francoist régime as allencompassing, it was portrayed as something that had already been contested. If Unamuno, in the last months of his life, could be associated as a dissident, then it thus allowed for dissidents to be part of a larger, long-term ‘fight’ and thus not relegated to only the protests of the 1960s, but instead part of a longterm fight for democracy. Demonstrating the potency of the ideal of democratic dialogue and student youth, Farga underlines the importance of the university in the removal of the dictator Miguel Primo de Rivera – father of Pilar and José Antonio – recalling an event in 1925 that was held in homage to Ángel Ganivet, a member of the Unamuno’s generation that committed suicide in 1898. Farga describes that the homage was used to distribute the writings of Unamuno, in which Unamuno pronounced himself against the military dictatorship of Primo de Rivera (who ruled from 1923 to 1930).44 This plan of distribution and utilization of an ‘homage’ to extol ‘liberal’ ideas not only explains students’ strategies in the 1950s and 1960s, but also gives that tactic a precedent, demonstrating how historical memory can act as a legitimizer against authoritarian régimes. Demonstrating memory in action, Farga goes on to quote a letter of solidarity received by students signed by many prominent authors, artists and filmmakers in December of 1965: We know, just as you know, that liberty is something that must be conquered. And, as you know, we negate also living angry in tranquillity and sleepiness. And if at some time in our patria has been able to plot, or pronounce itself, or simple to think in a way that expresses ‘muera la inteligencia,’ we want to end this letter of adhesion with the following words: ¡Viva la inteligencia!45

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This letter shows clear reference to the incident of the Last Lecture, without referencing Unamuno or Millán Astray specifically – converting the mantra of ‘Death to Intelligence’ into ‘Long Live Intelligence’ – something with which contemporary antiauthoritarian youth could sympathize. While this lack of specific reference leaves certain ambiguity, it also speaks to the diffusion of the story of the dissent by Unamuno – indicating that reference might not have been necessary at the time to explain viva la muerte, being that it was commonly understood by the intended audience. The letter also demonstrates how the memory of Unamuno’s dissent was acted upon. In essence, Farga’s work functions to demonstrate how the memory of the democratic past functioned to legitimize dissent against the dictatorship. Universidad y Democracia portrays the university’s struggle against the régime as not only enduring, but also provides tactics for students to show dissent against the régime through the utilization of pamphlets and literature from the democratic past.

Opening political-literary space In the 1950s, Spain was quickly being converted into a country of intensely urban cities drastically different from the rural society of the turn of the century. The areas of industrialization that were most notably affected were Madrid, Barcelona, Zaragoza, Valencia, Sevilla and Valladolid. Similar to other European cities of the 1950s, their suburbs had grown primarily in height rather than extension (though not without exceptions). Additionally, this industrialization created a generation that was more accustomed to city life than to country life. By the 1950s, a new generation of urban Spaniards emerged that had little or no personal memory of the civil war that legitimized the Francoist régime. To better understand the discourse behind the galvanizing nature of the liberal past for students in Madrid in the 1950s, five different primary sources are helpful to consider: newspaper articles written by foreign press, such as the New York Times; national coverage from the Madrid newspaper, A.B.C.; the memoir of Jorge Semprún (b. 1923), which won the prestigious Premio Planeta de Novela in 1977; and the documents published in Jaraneros y Alboratadores: documentos sobre los sucesos estudiantiles de febrero de 1956 en la Universidad Complutense de Madrid, compiled by the Vice Rector of the Universidad Complutense, Roberto Mesa Garrido (1935–2004). Of note is that Mesa Garrido also was known to be active in student dissidence during those years. Indeed, harkening back to Unamuno, in Jaraneros y Alboratadores, Mesa Garrido links

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the events of the manifestation of 1956 to the events of the Last Lecture. While not evoking the name of Unamuno, in the first paragraph of his introduction to the collection of documents Mesa Garrido writes: But, logically, in the very long combat against the authoritarian system, legitimated through the spilt blood of the sanguine civil war, the ideals of the intellectuals, of men of culture, were called to carry-out a function, if not decisive, at the very least of first order. And even still, even more so than anecdotal, when the Francoist National-Catholicism would make uncivil screams uttered in the enclosure of the university, exclaiming ‘Long Live Death!’ as well as ‘Death to Intelligence!’46

The mere reference to the earlier episode of defiance in a simple introduction, although never explicitly mentioning Unamuno, further speaks to the significance of Last Lecture, demonstrating the perseverance of the memory of the episode in the imagination of those who countered the régime. It is ‘in between the lines’ that we see how the memory of the democratic past played a central role not only in the dissent of 1956, but also in the historical memory of that dissent as connected to the dissent of Unamuno that became a part of the collective memory of antiauthoritarian youth who grew up during the Francoist régime, such as Mesa Garrido. Rather than fighting directly against the régime, university students and faculty instead found places where they could more liberally engage in dialogue. Whereas the Francoist régime drew its legitimacy from the memory of the civil war, university students in the 1950s and 1960s had no personal memory of this bloody civil war. In fact, in December of 1955, Pedro Laín Entralgo, who at the time was Rector of the Universidad de Madrid, in an official report on the ‘Spiritual Situation of Spanish Youth’, asserted that the idea of a so-called War of Liberation (the Spanish Civil War) was based upon ‘determined motives [that were] no longer part of the personal life experience’ of the students entering the university.47 In fact, the tone of the report, published before the street protests of February 1956, seems to play down the actual disenchantment of the university students that opposed to the régime. It is likely that Laín Entralgo’s explication as to why dissent had emerged in the university is accurate – being that the students had no memory of the war that legitimized Franco’s authority. However, it was also this ‘protection’ and justification of student dissent in the official report that allowed students to create a new space of democratic dialogue against the régime, as the tone of the report gives the impression that the dissent emerging from within the university was largely innocuous.

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A dead poets society Between 1955 and 1956, José Luis Pinillos, professor at the Universidad de Madrid, prepared a study for the Committee of Legal, Social and Economic Studies which noted a 17 per cent rise in ‘discomfort’ (disconformidad) with the socio-economic, political and cultural situation in Spain, according to a survey of 400 students polled at the Universidad de Madrid (see Figure 3.3).48 Such a drastic change could indicate a number of things. While the statistic is indicative of broad change in opinion, the statistical data alone does not represent the context for the change. Such a dramatic change between two years does not necessarily indicate that the students suddenly became more radicalized against the régime. In fact, the noted change of opinion could also indicate that actual opinion did not change between those years, but rather that the student population felt abler to express their ‘discomfort’ with the régime. Moreover, a large number of these students who still expressed conformity might have opted to express conformity out of fear of repercussion for demonstrating discontent. This change and willingness to engage in open dissent would culminate in student protests that would break out in Madrid in the February of 1956.

Survey of "Disconformity" with the socio-economic, political and cultural situation in Spain Conformity 1954

Disconformity 1955

38% 55%

62% 45%

Figure 3.3 Survey of University of Madrid Student Sentiment showing rise in ‘Disconformity’ with the socio-economic, political and cultural situation in Spain. Source: Jaraneros y Alborotadores: Documentos sobre los sucesos estudiantiles de febrero de 1956 en la Universidad Complutense de Madrid, p 64. 400 students polled.

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So as to better understand the role of memory as a legitimizer, in this section I will analyse the events leading up to the February protests that ended with the removal of both Laín Entralgo and Ruiz-Giménez from their posts rather than dissect the student protests that erupted in that February, as many of the participants of those events already have.49 As noted in Dictatorship and Political Dissent: Workers and Students in Franco’s Spain, by José María Maravall, who later served as Minister of Education under the Spanish Democracy and was himself a student dissident studying law at the Universidad de Madrid in the 1960s, there were four trends that facilitated the re-emergence of political dissent in 1956. First, in order to improve the international acceptance of the régime, which was seeking membership in the United Nations, United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO), the Organization for European Economic Co-operation and the International Monetary Fund, the Francoist régime attempted to make concessions to the international community. To do this, Maravall argued, the régime appointed ‘moderates’ such as Ruiz-Giménez, a Christian Democrat, to the Minister of Education, and others to rectorships – Laín Entralgo at the Universidad de Madrid, and Antonio Tovar Llorente in Salamanca (who had served as the Undersecretary of Propaganda with Dionisio Ridruejo). Furthermore, the régime loosened the restrictions on literature that had been banned, works by Unamuno, José Ortega y Gasset, Pío Baroja and Antonio Machado. Also at this time, Maravall claimed, groups of non-exiled and newly minted liberals and Republicans became more active. Voices such as that of Enrique Tierno Galván, who later became mayor of Madrid after Franco died, and Ridruejo also became more prominently heard. Additionally, film societies and literary journals began to pay homage to antifascist writers such as García Lorca, Ortega y Gasset, Baroja and Machado. Thirdly, as Falangist loyalists were excluded from the inner circles of the régime, and thus became more vocal against the Francoist state. This disenchantment of the Falangists also might be explained in relation to the régime’s outreach to the international community, as fascist ideas had fallen into disfavour in the wake of the Second World War. Lastly, Maravall argued, in the mid-1950s there were attempts at reorganizing clandestine leftist parties, particularly, ‘Socialist Youth’, the ‘University Socialist Group’ and the ‘Catalan Socialist Movement’.50 To further expand upon Maravall’s thesis, I assert that the memory of the tradition of a space of political-literary dialogue was emerging as a galvanizing legitimizer for the dissident students of the Universidad de Madrid. These students, who had not lived through the Spanish Civil War, through the work of fin de siècle and pre–civil war writers and politicos, constructed an idealized

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‘democratic’ past to which they aspired. This democratic (and pluralistic) past was influenced by contemporary communist, Marxist, socialist, democratic, anarchist and Christian-Democratic ideals. Several factors allowed for students to show dissension through politicalliterary gatherings in the 1950s. The régime’s appeals to the United Nations and other Western European countries for inclusion and trade motivated the dictatorship to loosen the constraints of its censorship so as to appease the international community, allowing for the limited re-emergence of literature that previously would have been censored (Spain having been admitted in the UN on 14 December 1955). Also, many high-ranking Falangists, who had become disenchanted with the régime in the early 1950s, began to re-examine the liberal past of their youth, most notably Ruiz-Giménez, Laín Entralgo and Ridruejo. With the support and guidance of these three former Falangists, students created spaces of political-literary discourse in the form of the so-called ‘poetic encounters’, ‘young writers’ congresses’ and ‘private tertulias’. Without these places of discourse, the student protests that occurred that February would not have been possible. It would be in these reimagined tertulias that the democratic tradition of political-literary dialogue first reappeared, albeit in a clandestine manner. These discourses allowed students and faculty to organize tactics of dissent against the régime. In fact, de Certeau might argue that the act of gathering in and of itself was an expression of dissent and a tactic against the régime. Students, with the support of the rectorship of the University of Madrid, held Encuentros de Poesía, or Poetic Encounters. It was there that the students organized their protest, and gained more support from the student body. The Poetic Encounters were even advertised in the ‘Vida Cultural’ section of the newspaper A.B.C., acting to veil the group of students that gathered to discuss not only literature, but also democratic thought, ideas and politics – a tertulia par excellence. While the encounters were not specifically called tertulias, in function, that is what they were. In short, the Poetic Encounters allowed for students to gather and participate in pluralist discourse through literature, metaphor, poetry and politics – which would sow the seed for the protests that would ensue the following year. The dual nature of the encounters was even noticeable in the curious use of quotation marks in the published newspaper announcements, almost indicating the dual nature of the encounters: At half past seven: Literature Room of the S.E.U. law students, session in the series ‘Encuentros de la Poesía y la Universidad’. Leopoldo Panero will present a ‘Poetry Lecture’.51

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These spaces of discourse bridged three epochs – that of Unamuno and the Generation of 1898, that of Laín Entralgo, Ruiz Giménez and Ridruejo, as well as their students who had never experienced the civil war. Not only did the Poetic Encounters work to supplement the memory of the pre-Francoist past, but they also helped legitimize student dissent against the régime while providing a tangible link to that past. This link to the past can be seen in the invited poets of the ‘encounters’. As noted in the A.B.C. announcement, the poet Leopoldo Panero (1909–1962) was an invited speaker to the series, and while his interaction with the students as a preeminent Spanish poet alone is significant, it should also be noted that his attendance was also important because of Panero’s direct connection to Unamuno.52 In fact, it was a connection to which Laín Entralgo alluded when he described Panero’s work by combining two verses from the oeuvre of Unamuno: que uno es el hombre de todos y otro el hombre de secreto [one is the man before all, and the other is a man of secret].53 Additionally, Panero, a poet of Ridruejo’s generation, not only knew Unamuno’s work well, but also had once served as the interpreter for the Basque writer when Unamuno travelled to Cambridge 1935 to be named Doctor Honoris Causa by the university.54 In fact, the following year, after the golpe de estado against the Second Spanish Republic, from 19 October until 18 November, Panero was detained for suspicion of donating funds to the communist cause. However, thanks to an intervention by Unamuno and Carmen Polo, Franco’s wife, Panero was released from detention.55 As the events of Unamuno’s Last Lecture occurred on the 12 October 1936, and being that Panero was in his native Salamanca at the time, and in contact with both Carmen Polo and Unamuno, it would be likely that he would have heard about the events of Unamuno’s lecture – if not witnessed them himself. Indeed, the Poetic Encounters were more than just representations of the democratic ideals for their participants; they were a palpable connection to the bygone liberal era.

Funeral for a friend On the night of Monday, 17 October 1955, Joaquín Ruiz Giménez, then Spanish Minister of Education, visited the home of the Spanish philosopher, José Ortega y Gasset, to enquire as to the health of the leader of the Spanish ‘Generation of 1914’.56 The death of the man who arguably was the most prominent Spanish philosopher was near. Ruiz-Giménez undoubtedly had a busy schedule, as he was preparing for a meeting to be held on the 19th with the Directive Council

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of the Office of Iberian-American Education that was being held in Madrid – a meeting that was painted by a looming cloud as the news was received that Ortega y Gasset had died on the 18th.57 In the hours following his death, the family of Ortega y Gasset received notes of condolence from the likes of President Theodor Heuss of West Germany, who described Ortega y Gasset as a friend.58 Pedro Laín Entralgo, then Rector of the Universidad de Madrid, a position to which he was appointed by Ruiz-Giménez, wrote for the newspaper A.B.C. about the memory of Ortega y Gasset: [Ortega] who until now has been an adventure, is now idea. What will be of this idea held in the near memory of our youngest brothers, what will be in the remote memory of our children? Will he remain with them, as Socrates, what Plato bartered as heritage, or will he prevail, contrarily, into what Meletus converted into diatribe?59

Laín Entralgo would soon find out that the memory of Ortega y Gasset, in the form of a laic homage, could function as a symbol of the tradition of democratic political-literary ideals that would legitimate dissent against the régime – manifesting itself as one of the precursors to the dissent that would break out in February of 1956. In the 1930s and 1940s, the work of José Ortega y Gasset had been censored by the régime and suppressed by the university, as Laín Entralgo noted in 1968 in his book El problema de la universidad: Since 1939, our Faculties of Philosophy have lived, if I am allowed to say it as so, in a permanent ‘Null of Orteguism’. It is not that they have been limited to not knowing of Ortega, but rather it is that our faculties have not wanted to know him. Even more: It is that they have wanted to avoid him. The scandalous reprobation of the doctoral thesis of Julián Marías in 1941 came to be, among other things, a resounding ‘No’ in regard to Ortega, and even to all of the Faculty of Philosophy existent prior to 1936.60

Indeed, this ‘Null of Orteguism’ would end with the philosopher’s death, as students converted the death into a battle cry against the régime. Of particular note is the effort put forth by the students such as Enrique Múgica Herzog (b. 1932), Julio Diamante Stihl (b. 1930), Javier Pradera (1934–2011) (who was of noble blood, and of a family that supported the régime), amongst others, who organized the Poetic Encounters and what became known as a ‘Laic Homage to José Ortega y Gasset’ [Homenaje laico de José Ortega y Gasset].61 These students received support from Laín Entralgo, who clandestinely worked with the dissidents by providing funds not only for the ‘Encuentros de la

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Poesía con la Universidad’ [Poetic Encounters with the University], but also for an unrealized national ‘University Congress of Young Writers’ [Congreso Universitario de Escritores Jóvenes].62 By 1955, Laín Entralgo hardly seemed to be the same man who supported of the Falangist party in his youth. While the death of the man who the students called the ‘last liberal Spanish philosopher’, Ortega y Gasset, in October of 1955, was not uniquely the inspiration for the protests that would ensue the following February, and while he was not solely the impetus that provoked the dissent against the régime, it is clear that the funeral of Ortega y Gasset presented university students with a unique opportunity to demonstrate their support of democratic ideals in a way that did not explicitly denounce the régime, but that did, however, legitimize ideals that were implicitly against Franco’s Movimiento. As seen in a cartoon in the Madrid daily A.B.C., shortly after Ortega y Gasset’s death, the idolization of the philosopher by young people was contrasted against what can be described as an open hostility held by adults towards the liberal thinker (Refer to Figure 3.4). This was emphasized by the censorship of two essays by the Falangist youth group, the S.E.U., that were dedicated to the work of Ortega y Gasset shortly after his death.63 Indeed, even in death his memory was polemic.

Figure 3.4 Bueno, era un pensador; pero ¿a qué se dedicaba? [Well, he was a thinker, but what did he do for a living?], 1955. Cartoon by Antonio Mingote. Museo ABC de Dibujo e Ilustración, Madrid.

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Arguably the student who was the most active in organizing clandestine political-literary groups in the Universidad de Madrid, as well as other the actions against the régime, was law student and admitted communist Enrique Múgica Herzog, who would later go on to be one of the founders of the Spanish Socialist Party (PSOE), a Justice Minister and a Congressperson. Múgica was born in San Sebastián, located in northern Spain, to a Jewish-Polish mother, and a father who was a violinist and militant Basque Marxist who died in the Spanish Civil War.64 Just before he arrived to the Universidad de Madrid, he had lived in France in 1953, as noted in police reports.65 Police reported that Múgica had a markedly Basque accent – which stood contrary to what Jorge Semprún writes in his autobiography, as he describes Múgica as having a strong French accent, ‘pronouncing his r’s gutturally, as a Frenchman does’.66,67 Indeed, one can imagine why Múgica, the Marxist-French-Basque-Polish-Jewish law student and his poetic gatherings would have alarmed the Francoist régime. According to internal police documents, Múgica was friendly with Laín Entralgo and Ridruejo – a report even noted that Laín Entralgo had assisted Múgica in obtaining an exemption from military service.68 The investigation found that Laín Entralgo actively sought to financially support Múgica with a proposed Young Writers Congress in the summer of 1955. Students, such as Múgica, and the administration had been meeting prior to the death of Ortega y Gasset. A prominent philosopher who had initially been expelled from Spain for his ‘liberal’ thoughts by the dictatorship, Ortega y Gasset’s ideas were relatively conservative prior to the Spanish Civil War, and only seemed liberal when compared to ideology of the far-right dictatorship. One report wrote of Múgica’s ‘rectoral protection’: Immediately, [Múgica], with great audacity, made friends with Laín and Dionisio Ridruejo, thanks to the promises by the former to help with the question of military service, as he had not presented his documentation so that to join the University Militia. [Múgica] began to regularly attend the political tertulias in the homes of those gentlemen. Once with his prestige and friendships, he washed his hands with [Francisco] Eguiagaray [the student leader of the S.E.U.] and the intellectual-Falangist branch, as it had served its purpose.69

In honour of Ortega y Gasset, Múgica organized a funeral march that doubled for demonstration march, showing that it was possible to take the streets, and to occupy public space to express dissent. Francoist authorities investigated Múgica and his actions in a series of police reports, first dated 10 November 1955, days after a funeral procession that would be called a ‘laic homage’. The police

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investigated the so-called laic homage and other political-literary gatherings in which Múgica had an important role in organizing.70 The report accounts for basic background information on Múgica, blaming him for being principally responsible for the laic homage, as well as in the process of ‘clandestinely’ preparing a Congreso de Escritores Jovenes (Young Writers Congress), and also for being involved in Encuentros de la Poesía con la Universidad (Poetic Encounters with the University).71 On the face of it, all this was true. While these congresses and encounters caused the régime alarm, the question must be asked whether or not these spaces of ‘political-literary dialogue’ were only clandestine gatherings that veiled the planning of actions against the régime – or if there was a genuine political-literary dialogue taking place. It seems unlikely that these Poetic Encounters and ‘private tertulias’ were devoid of genuine interest in the participation of the democratic tradition of politicalliterary dialogue. It is likely that there was a genuine political-literary discourse taking place, and that the discourse was constituent to any action against the régime. In fact, Laín Entralgo, who himself had studied medicine, had relatively recently published a book on the Generation of 1898 (aptly titled La Generación del Noeventa y Ocho) in 1947.72 Laín Entralgo’s critical work is reflective of a genuine interest in the literature of the Generation of 1898 and could arguably be indicative of his own aperture to democratic ideals. That is to say, the tertulias held in private homes, the Young Writers Congress and the Poetic Encounters were not only a pretext to discuss actions against the régime; it is likely that there was a genuine political-literary dialogue component in these gatherings. These Poetic Encounters and the Young Writers Congress were attempts to not only organize a formalized place of discourse, but they were also representative of an attempt to use the literature of the pre-Franco era as a subversive metaphor to describe politics in a way that would be permitted under the dictatorship. Indeed, these subversive tertulias would be forced further underground after the outbreak of protests in February of 1956 – protests that were harshly put down by the Francoist régime. In fact, even before Ortega y Gasset’s funeral, students in the S.E.U., which at that point seemed more antiauthoritarian than pro-Franco, had implemented tactics in which they falsely advertised their actions to throw off the authorities. For example, foreshadowing the later more fervent protests of February 1956, S.E.U. students planned to protest a visit by Queen Elizabeth II to Gibraltar, but instead protested with a direct challenge against the dictatorship, with S.E.U. members even fighting Spanish police, demanding libertad, or freedom. The event, not covered in the Spanish press, was reported in the New York

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Times.73 This sort of bait and switch technique, for a time, effectively threw off authorities. This usage of a Falangist S.E.U. sponsored event as a tactic of dissent indicated to student dissenters – communist provocateurs and disenchanted Falangists, like Laín Entralgo and Ruiz Giménez – that the possibility to act against the régime did, in fact, exist. Laín Entralgo and Ruiz Giménez were in a position of authority and were able to use that authority to allow students to have a space of discourse, first in their homes, and then sanctioned by the university. This space of discourse allowed students to plan their actions in a way that moved away from being only tactical, but into the strategic realm. Despite attempts by the régime to keep the funeral of Ortega y Gasset a private function (one would imagine so as to prevent the philosopher’s martyrdom), nine days after the death of Ortega y Gasset students posted announcements on the walls of the campus of the university with the opposite intention, stating: Don José Ortega y Gasset, Spanish Liberal Philosopher. Student: Meet in the Patio of the University to attend the posthumous homage that the youth of the Universidad of Madrid will offer to [Ortega] on the morning of 28 October 1955.74

With only a day’s notice, news of the homage spread quickly across the university. In fact, police services estimated that more than one thousand students were in attendance of what was called the ‘Laic Homage of Ortega y Gasset’.75 The official police report on the laic homage states: In regard to the laic homage of Ortega, it happened in the following manner: The group of institutionalista and communist poets, two or three days after the death of Ortega, printed an esquela [formal notice of death] of a totally laic character, without a cross, inviting people to the act, with an accompanying copy. Nevertheless, given the sympathy that the students had for Ortega in general, augmented in some by the news of his conversion [death], this brought together about one thousand students in the back patio of San Bernardo [on the grounds of the Universidad de Madrid]... In the University: There were people of all kinds, as well as many girls from the Faculty of Philosophy that carried flowers. The reunion had a character that was totally student in nature, as a note of protest against the cloister that had officially established that there would not be any sort of public homage dedicated to the ‘Maestro’. Once the people gathered, without anyone knowing what was going to happen, Diamante Steel [sic: Stihl] appeared on the scene, accompanied by

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Pacheco, both in the communist group, and they began to read pieces from Ortega’s oeuvre so that to emphasize the contrast of the situation... The most troublesome thing that was read was a piece from Ortega in which it was said that Religion is used to substitute salvation when one does not have one’s own ideas so that to live... In the Street: The people did not know what to do. Then, Diamante Steel [sic] and Pacheco began to yell: ‘To the cemetery, to the cemetery!’ with some 600 students, with the majority of them being from the Faculty of Philosophy, they began to walk from Ciudad Universitaria, following the leaders of the manifestation. They marched through the middle of the street from San Bernardo, going up Gran Vía to the Plaza Callao, then they went down Preciados Street to the Puerta del Sol, and later through Old Madrid to the Rastro all the way to San Isidro Cemetery. Diamante Steel, who was the pied piper that lead the people through the streets as he wished, mandated silence so that to avoid creating the spectacle... In the Cemetery: Once in the cemetery everyone went to the tomb of Ortega. The began to repeat the discourses and lectures of the deceased, repeating the melodramatic gestures of the orator of San Bernardo, who would say, with a handful of soil in his hands, that he [Ortega] was Castile, and that Castile had died... 76

As cited in 1956 in ‘Perfil humano de don José Ortega y Gasset’, by Fernando de la Prensa, at the tomb of Ortega the students dedicated the homage to the philosopher, dramatically emphasizing their roles as students of ‘the master’: We are disciples without a master. Between Ortega and ourselves there is an empty space that is poorly occupied. We note every day that something is missing, that someone is missing. No one tells us what it is to study, as we should study, or why to bother studying. No one tells us what the University is good for. And we are sure that it is worth very little, and that it is necessary to reform it. No one tells us how; no one defends the idea that we are the very foundation of the University. Many years ago, Ortega answered these questions … Sadly, many of us know almost nothing of Ortega y Gasset. He would have been the master that we have needed... José Ortega y Gasset died only a few days ago. The University has protected his official funeral services. We, the university students, should show our mourning here, as well as something more... Not everything is lost. Even still, in our own way, we can be his disciples. Still we can be a youth with a master. José Ortega y Gasset has died, but his books remain...

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Antiauthoritarian Youth Culture in Francoist Spain The best homage we can offer is silence – a silence of disciples that are preparing to hear the voice of the master. He will teach our class. It is the last class, but we can also make it the first... Silence. His books remain, and we can still be his disciples through them.77

Indeed, through the words spoken at the philosopher’s tomb, despite an apparent flair for the theatrical, it is possible to see how the democratic past, as represented by Ortega y Gasset, acted to legitimize the students’ actions, and also motivated the students’ desire for something that was ‘missing’. The official police report claims that after the services Julio Diamante Stihl exclaimed, ‘Finally the old man will be good for something’ – but was given a stern look of displeasure by Múgica, indicating that his remark was not the appropriate for of the homage.78 This stern look, if correctly interpreted by the police report, indicates that the homage was more than just a ‘show’ or a ‘communist excuse’ to take advantage of the situation, but was meant to be interpreted and read as a sincere attempt to exalt the memory of democratic ideals of expression. Why did the funeral of Unamuno not incite such a showing of dissention in the way that Ortega y Gasset’s funeral did? First to consider is that Unamuno’s dissent against the régime was relatively close to his death (within mere months). The general public did not widely know of Unamuno’s dissent against the rising fascist régime at the time of his death. In fact, Unamuno had died and was buried in the midst of the civil war under hurried conditions, passing away on the morning of 1 January 1937, of what was officially reported as a stroke, and was buried that same afternoon. Unamuno’s death was reported in the newspapers ex post facto on 2 January.79 As the New York Times notes in Unamuno’s obituary, at the time of his death, he was believed to be a supporter of the ‘fascist insurgents’ by the majority of Spaniards, as well as the international community.80 The death of Ortega y Gasset represented a unique opportunity to make the man’s legacy stand for a mythologized liberal past, coinciding with a reemergence of political-literary dialogue from within academe that had occurred. This dialogue formed the basis of further dissent and would open the discourse to a broader audience. From within the homes of professors, and with the passion of young university students, political-literary dialogue that autumn centred around the death of the philosopher, but also forced Spaniards, young and old, to face the repressed memory of the liberal past. As demonstrated in that political cartoon from A.B.C., it would be with the youth that Ortega y Gasset’s death would have the most resonance.

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Cafés heating up Despite the régime’s fervent oppression of its own press, during both the 1950s and 1960s, the New York Times had correspondents in Madrid that reported on the events of the surrounding student protest with regularity and with enormous insight. In the aftermath of the death of Ortega y Gasset in October of 1955, and after the ensuing student protests of February 1956, an unusual, albeit temporary, occurrence of discourse re-emerged in what had become the apolitical tertulias of Madrid by June of 1956, as noted by Jane Cianfarra in the New York Times. Cianfarra writes in her article, ‘News Via Tertulia: When things happen in Spain, a network of “clubs” in the cafés carries the word’: With the recent wave of strikes – illegal in Spain – and the university student’s protests which preceded from them, most tertulias have taken on a definitely political aspect in the past several months. Though the barest mention of these happenings appeared in the controlled Spanish press, facts and figures (perhaps a bit distorted) were soon known to most of the Spaniards interested in them. What some people call ‘the real press of Spain’, the tertulia was at work. Spain has stringent laws limiting freedom of expression and congregation, but they are broken every day in coffee houses throughout the country. Since the setting is a tertulia, no one dares do anything about it. How the ancient custom started in uncertain, but everyone knows for sure that it could be ended only over every tertuliano’s dead body... 81

The article continues: Political discourse began to preoccupy all tertulias last October, when the death of José Ortega y Gasset, Spain’s great liberal philosopher, set off student protests against the cultural curbs imposed by the Spanish régime. Ortega y Gasset, though living again in Spain after many years of political exile, had refused to resume his chair at the University of Madrid, and most of his works were on the textbook black list. In a series of testimonial gatherings in his memory, students began to feel their oats, and matters went from mild criticism of the régime on cultural grounds to street fights against blue-shirted Government backed Falangists over political control of the student syndicate. Manifestoes and pamphlets of protest against Government intervention in student affairs began to appear clandestinely. Their student authors and sympathizers were arrested and put in jail. Two Cabinet ministers, charged with responsibility for student unrest, were fired... Fathers and friends of those involved in these events brought the latest news to their fellow-tertulianos the same night. Drifters from one tertulia to another

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Antiauthoritarian Youth Culture in Francoist Spain carried the word along. At closing time, the news went home to wives and mothers, who next day talked it over with their friends in the markets. And so has it always been in Spain when things are moving behind the scenes.82

While Jane Cianfarra indicates that there is a political aspect that ‘re-emerges in the tertulia’, she also notes that many tertulias are still held in private homes – one would imagine that those would be more explicitly against the régime. She notes the absence of women from the traditional tertulias, but posits progressive tertulias welcomed actresses, female writers and wives.83 Historians must be careful not to give these tertulias too much credit. The characteristically apolitical tertulia of the 1950s functioned as an unofficial newspaper ad verbatim in reaction to censorship and was not the source of this dissent. While the tertulia during this period temporarily functioned to disseminate news, it was in reality functioning as a tactic to replace the function of the press, and not necessarily a driving political force. The re-emergence of political discourse in the café was acting to surrogate the news, as the Francoist press was not reporting the widespread dissent. While a form of political discourse did reappear in the apolitical tertulias of the 1950s, it was not wholly the re-emergence of the democratic tradition, but, rather, the tertulia reassumed a political tone as it functioned as a surrogate to the censored press. As the news of those polemic events was not printed, people acted in a way to disseminate the news through other ‘ways of operation’. As Jane Cianfarra states, this discourse even spilled into the markets of Madrid. The re-emergence of political discourse was but an echo of the tradition of democratic political literary dialogue. Madrid Correspondent for the New York Times, Camille M. Cianfarra, husband of Jane Cianfarra, also wrote of the February protests of 1956: Many intellectuals regard [the development of disappointment with contemporary cultural, social and economic conditions] as one of the most serious problems facing the Franco government. They ascribe it to the growing influence in the Spanish society of a generation that has had no personal experience in the nation-wide bloodshed and devastation caused by the 1936– 39 civil war. Criticism seems to have become more outspoken since the death last October of José Ortega y Gasset, regarded by many as Spain’s major twentieth century philosopher. On Nov. 18, Gregorio Maranon [sic], one of Spain’s foremost intellectuals, delivered a speech at the University of Madrid commemorating Señor Ortega y Gasset.

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Señor Maranon, a powerful influence in shaping liberal thought in the years preceding the civil war, has retired from politics. However, when he mentioned in his lecture that he was a liberal, hundreds of students gave him an ovation that lasted several minutes. For that reason, the Government was reported to have issued strict instructions to the press after his death limiting publications of comments on his works and personality. Apparently, similar instructions have been issued on other occasions, such as that of the death last year of Eugenio d’Ors, Spain’s leading art critic.84

The creation of a space of discourse within the private tertulias, within the university (in the form of the Poetic Encounters and proposed the Congress), along with the death of the internationally acclaimed Ortega y Gasset, during a time when Spain was appealing to the international community for acceptance, created a gap in the régime’s power that allowed for an escalation that resulted in the student protests in February of 1956. While the student protests of February were put down harshly by the régime, they did legitimize the return of a public dialogue, albeit temporary, as both Jane and Camille Cianfarra show in the remarkable return of the political aspect of the tertulia of Madrid.

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Truth, Justice and the American Way in Spain

Tights, capes and double identities In Supergods: What Masked Vigilantes, Miraculous Mutants, and a Sun God from Smallville Can Teach Us About Being Human the Scottish comic book writer Grant Morrison claims, ‘We love our superheroes because they refuse to give up on us. We can analyse them out of existence, kill them, ban them, mock them, and still they return, patiently reminding us of who we are and what we wish we could be’.1 This was particularly true of the original American comic book superhero, Superman, when he came to Franco’s Spain. When Superman first arrived to fascist Spain from the planet ‘Crypton’ in 1940, a year after the end of the Spanish Civil War, he was clad in yellow tights and a red and blue cape – the colours of the recently fallen Spanish Republic – and was known as Ciclón, el Superhombre, or ‘Cyclone, the Superman’. Initially failing to find a fan base in Spain, Ciclón disappeared after three years of sporadic publication. Early attempts by Spanish publishers to print Superman comics were censored by the régime for having either attacked Catholic dogma, morality, the church, the régime (or its institutions), or those whom had collaborated with the régime, thus leaving publication of such superhero genre comic books primarily to foreign printers.2 Despite his appearance throughout the 1940s in the less popular Argentine children’s magazines Billiken and La Pandilla, it was not until the regular publication of Superman’s 1950s reincarnation, translated and published by the Mexican press Editorial Novaro,3 that the American icon was broadly popularized in Spain.4 While the Spanish importation of the American superhero certainly reflected American cultural imperialism of the postwar era, the fascist régime in Spain

The chapter is adapted from an essay in The Ages of Superman: Essays on the Man of Steel in Changing Times © 2012 Edited by Joseph J. Darowski by permission of McFarland & Company, Inc., Box 611, Jefferson NC 28640. http://www.mcfarlandpub.com.

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was especially aware of the capacity for Superman comics’ pluralistic tropes to subvert Francoist constructions of society, sexuality and gender roles. Spain’s heroes were supposed to be José Antonio Primo de Rivera, the founder and martyr of the fascist party in Spain, and the authoritarian dictator Francisco Franco; there was no room in that mythology for an American superhero.5 However, as Walther Bernecker has described, Spaniards of the long 1960s were experiencing a change of mentalitié, particularly visible amongst young people that coincided with political, economic and cultural changes in the second half of the Francoist dictatorship. In this period, Spaniards migrated from rural communities to metropolitan capitals, experienced both a general escalation in standard of living and an increased amount of tourism, a rise in consumerism and increased contact with foreign popular cultures.6 The long 1960s in Spain engendered a period of tension between the old guard of the régime and a new generation of young people that had no memory of the Spanish Civil War – a generation that looked towards both Spanish pluralistic traditions of old and a budding global youth culture. The primary battleground of this threat was found in everyday life; it was the régime’s intent to disrupt this invasion of foreign influences, one of these targets being Superman comics that seemed to extol democratic (and capitalist) ideals. Fearful of these comics, in 1959 the Spanish Ministry of Information and Tourism created the Commission of Information and Child and Youth Publications (CICYP), which was led by Juan Beneyto Pérez, head of the National Press Council, and the Dominican priest Jesús María Vázquez, as well as representatives from the Ministry of Education and Science, the State School of Journalism, Pilar Primo de Rivera’s Sección Feminina of the Traditional Spanish Falange, the National Delegation of Youth, and the Episcopal Commission of Communications, amongst others.7 This was created partially in reaction to Vázquez’s own 1957 study into what Spanish children aged 9–12 were reading. Problematically, the author does not give the number of young people surveyed; however, the author claims to have surveyed children across classes and discovered that 99.5 per cent of boys and 95 per cent of girls read comic books (tebeos).8 In that article Vázquez advocated for increased censorship of children’s literature because of the prevalence of a lack of patriotism, naivety, piety and exaltation of patriotic values found in their literature.9 While not immediately affected, after several years of censorship the Spanish Ministry of Information and Tourism decided to completely ban Superman comics in 1964 under the advisement of its CICYP because of tropes that threatened to delegitimize the régime through its publication of non-traditional values. Prior to the ban

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Supermán was the top-selling comic book in Spain.10 However, refusing to give up their favourite comics, young Spaniards continued reading Superman despite the prohibition.11 Aware of the ineffectuality of the ban, the CICYP consulted with the Institute of Public Opinion, to create a public campaign against Superman comics, headed by Alfonso Alvarez Villar, the director of the Institute’s journal, the Spanish Journal of Public Opinion (SJPO) and a professor of psychiatry at the Universidad de Madrid.12 Alvarez’s role in this campaign is significant as his position allowed him to easily inform the highest ranks of the administration of the danger of the American icon. Further, the primary purpose of the journal was to provide the administration of the régime with surveys and analysis of popular opinion for purposes of state control; the fact that Alvarez himself took a lead role in these studies indicates the import of this threat to the régime. Two years after Superman’s prohibition, in an attempt to counter this threat, Alvarez wrote one of the most ardent attacks on Superman in the SJPO. Most of the readers of the journal were high-ranking Francoist officials (and not curious academics) that would have been interested in public opinion for reasons of propaganda and state control; this governmental report, to which few eyes had access, formed part of the régime’s strategy to prevent the inculcation of counternormative tropes in Spanish youth. The first forty years of Superman in Spain were tumultuous at best, as censors, religious figures and sociologists under the dictatorship fought the importation of the American superhero because of the ‘threat’ to Spanish youth that the icon represented, a hero that exalted pluralistic, capitalistic, democratic American ideals. So real was the threat that Superman represented to the régime that Alvarez wrote in 1966, despite two years of prohibition, ‘Supermán nevertheless continues prowling through the minds of our children, adolescents and even the majority of Spanish adults … Supermán continues alive in Spain and it is possible that he will never die’.13 Alvarez further cited a survey conducted for the journal, reporting that 148 out of 150 children, aged 9–12 years old, of ‘distinct social classes’, read Superman comic books, indicating that Superman was indeed still popular despite prohibition. Even as the régime was generally moving towards a less restrictive censorship policy more generally, with the Ley de la Prensa of 1966, a provision included mandatory review of children’s literature by the CICYP.14 Despite an apparent apertura, the régime still used the full bureaucratic force of the dictatorship to regulate the education of young people. Alvarez’s assault on Superman was just the first attack in a larger battle against the Man of Steel, as this report was intended to incite a wider campaign against

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Superman comics. In his detailed thirty-page study of the ‘myth of Superman’, Alvarez vehemently attacked Superman. In fact, the CICYP provided Alvarez with their own collection of comics so as to further the campaign against Superman.15 By the end of the 1960s, numerous articles had been published in Spanish newspapers attacking Superman. Such drastic measures to curtail young people from reading comics were not only indicative of the perceived danger of these comics, but also point to the continued resistance to the prohibition by young people. In this chapter, I will explore the forms and functions of Superman comic books for young people of the era, discuss the régime’s campaign against Superman in the 1960s, examine the perceived danger of these counter-normative images and tropes found in those comics, and conclude with a discussion of the possible long-term contributions that imported comic books had on Spanish youth.

Forms and functions of Superman comic books Understanding Superman comics in Spain first necessitates a look at the social, political and cultural forces that influenced American comic books published during the McCarthy era from which the Spanish comics were translated. In the 1950s, US congressional enquiries into perceived ‘communist’ and ‘moral’ threats to American youth prompted the creation of the self-regulatory ‘Comics Code Authority’, forcing comic books publishers to sanitize their publications, and conform to the political pressures of the era.16 As a result, many comic books of the period appeared not only overtly ‘American’ in tone, but skewed towards a representation of the United States that viewed its hero as being a ‘perfect’ exemplar for young Americans – an immigrant fully inculcated with the ideology of his adopted homeland, living a chaste, idealistic existence while extolling ideas of democracy, ‘truth, justice and the American way’. For young Americans of the 1950s, Superman idealized American exceptionalism and puritanical tropes; young Spaniards interpreted these comic books in ways that differed drastically from their US contemporaries. While Superman undeniably represented an extension of ‘Americanization’ and cultural imperialism, the superhero also became representative of implicit everyday dissent against the Francoist régime. The popularity of Superman comics in Spain reflected a desire by Spanish youth to embrace democratic and pluralistic ideals. In the United States, Superman comics arguably represented normative behaviour; however, in Spain, the hero represented an alternative vision of society

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and politics. These stories that represented a hyper-idealization of democracy and justice, the hyper-modern city of ‘Metropolis’, and the nebulous-yet-hopeful ‘American way’ contained subversive ideas that threatened the dictatorship. Tebeos, traditional Spanish comics, were lauded as being particularly ‘Spanish’ by the régime; not only did most tebeos escape prohibition, but they also played into a national agenda that promoted ‘Spanishness’.17 Nevertheless, despite Superman’s prohibition, according to one 1965 government-conducted survey of some 700 boys and girls, Supermán was still the most popular superhero comic book in Spain, and the fifth most popular overall in the tebeo category. Further, Supermán was the second most favoured comic amongst boys, behind Hazañas Bélicas [War Deeds]. While Superman was less popular amongst girls, his adventures still were amongst the top-favoured.18 According to the same survey, Superman held the strongest fan base amongst upper-middle class youth – more than double that of young people from the low-income [clase baja] households. Superman was favoured by privileged youth, and was even more popular than Capitán Trueno, who was a ‘Prince Valiant’ sort of figure – a gallant Spanish knight set in the twelfth century.19 Superman even remained popular despite the fact that the régime actively tried to promote comics such as Capitán Trueno to displace Supermán.20 As Michel de Certeau has described in The Practice of Everyday Life, tales and legends have a particular role in society, teaching ‘tactics’ to subvert authorities of power.21 Certeau argues that everyday life is riddled with ways in which people ‘poach’ ideas and reappropriate them, rather than simply being passive consumers of culture. Through the constructions of figures, alliterations and play on words found in tales and legends, tactics are remembered, taught and incorporated into everyday practices, resulting in the subversion of established order through the use of ‘tropes, ordinary languages and ruses, displacements, and ellipses’ in order to counter ‘proper meanings’. While ‘fables’ are indeed, as Certeau states, ‘fabulous’, their cultural currency, in the face of repression, is indicative of their potential to subvert hegemonic authoritarian systems. The personages of Superman, Lois Lane, Supergirl, Superboy and even the city of ‘Metropolis’ must be considered through this lens under the Francoist dictatorship. While those characters and situations might now appear conservative and contrived, to the young, Spanish readers of Superman comics in the 1950s and 1960s, those stories, and even possession of those comics, subverted authority. There was something exciting about reading the adventures of a foreign superhero that was strictly forbidden. In fact, despite their illegality, a single Superman comic book was often shared by numerous boys and girls. Faustino R.

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Arbesú (b. 1939), the founder of Salón Internacional del Cómic del Principado de Asturias, an important Spanish comic book conference begun in 1972, and the comic book journal El Wendigo (begun in 1974) recalls not only Ciclón, but remembers Supermán in the 1950s and 1960s: we lived in a fascist state and Superman was public enemy number one. Hitler even gave discourses against Superman. They published him here [referring to Ciclón], but they erased the ‘S’. I didn’t have any Superman tebeos, but I had a friend that did, and I would go to his house to read them with delirium. In 1952 or 1953 [Supermán comics] finally arrived to Spain, but they came from México and they cost a fortune. With that money you could go to the cinema two times. I never bought them, but I had an advantage … My wife, who was well-to-do – she was the daughter of a doctor – had them.22

Indeed, the eventual supplanting of the Castilian word tebeo for the anglicized ‘cómic’ by the 1970s further shows the import of American comic books and is demonstrative of their appropriation in form and language by young Spaniards. The imaginary world found in Superman comics threatened the régime with an ‘asexual’, submissive superman; a sexually dominant, professional woman who on occasion ‘dressed manly’ and was known for finding trouble in her role as investigative reporter, and for challenging the Man of Steel; and a modern metropolis that exalted the dominance of the modern American democracy and everyday life. In these comics, young readers encountered tropes that were both counter-normative and subversive to the régime. Much like the cheap pamphlets and novels of the nineteenth century, both in the United States and abroad, comic books of the era were generally considered ‘low culture’, the domain of young people and a representation of adolescent agitation against both adults and high culture.23 While the success and global spread of Superman is reflective of late capitalism, consumerism and American cultural imperialism, these cheap, portable comics were also used as a type of ‘currency’ by young people for trade – which implicitly positioned comic books to counter authority, consequently creating a system of trade that existed to some degree against capitalism and outside of normal consumerism once the comics were acquired by young people. In the Spanish case, once banned by the régime, the dissemination of these comics through illegal channels came to reflect an anti-capitalistic quality, as the youth comic trade would function as a sort of ‘black market’. Moreover, the ‘public’ nature of these comics is an essential consideration as they were a type of public property traded amongst the youth. As in the United States, young people in Spain frequently wrote their names on the front cover

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of their comics in hopes that those comics would return to them – a public loan as it were. Of these surviving comics, one often finds nicknames, rather than full names, written on the covers, functioning not only to exclude people from a peña, or a small group of intimate friends, but also consequently occluding the identity of the owner of the banned material from authorities. This public/private proprietorship can be seen in the copies of those comic books that survive and can be bought in street markets and second hand stores today, with names of the young owners permanently marking the cover. The size of these comics is important to note too, as they were portable and easy to hide from authority figures. Comics were uniquely positioned because of their form, content and accessibility to act as a place of dissent and tactic against the régime. Children consequently were able to express perhaps more agency than their adult counterparts, in certain situations, as they would not have feared the repercussions of their illegal trading and reading of contraband comics.

Strange visitor from another planet Superman comics that circulated in the 1960s were coloured by naïve idealism, and adulation of modernity, democracy and futuristic utopianism – told through exciting situations and strange adventures. In the years after the Second World War, particularly because of Superman/Clark Kent’s dualistic tropes (rural/urban, extra-terrestrial/national icon, flamboyant/stoic, powerful/weak, etc.) and the utopian vision of the modern metropolis, Superman came to fulfil a mythological role of hero/saviour for youth around the world – a very ‘American’ hero, indeed. These dualisms, along with Superman’s status as mythic American hero, were perceived as a threat to the well-being of Spanish youth by threatening to usurp the folklore that legitimized the patriarchal dictatorship. Gema Pérez-Sánchez has discussed the Francoist tendency to fear a feminization of Spain. Pérez-Sánchez asserts, ‘Francoist political, religious, social, and cultural institutions attempted to reconstruct a dominant Spanish identity predicated on nineteenth-century gender roles. Above all, they sought to undo the timidly feminist accomplishments of the Republic’.24 While not a concern to the régime in the 1940s, by the 1950s and 1960s, homosexuality and male femininity were perceived as a genuine threat by the régime as new laws such as the Law of Vagrants and Thugs of 1954, and later the Law of Social Danger and Rehabilitation of 1970, attacked what the régime perceived as queer dangers that threatened to destabilize its power.25

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Figure 4.1 Above digital renditions by Louie Dean Valencia-García. Translation and content based on Archivo General de la Administration, Expediente 3200/75.

The régime took advantage of Superman’s own ‘queer’ origin in its attack on American icon; the character was a strange visitor who threatened to destabilize Francoist constructions of masculinity and power. Alvarez’s attack demonstrated

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a fear of American democratic and proto-feminist ideals’ long-lasting effects on young Spaniards. To counter these threats, Alvarez tried to paint those proto-feminist images as a queer danger to young minds. In his report, Alvarez asserts that Superman demonstrated ‘a very marked misogyny’ – most likely referring to the Spanish definition of misoginia as ‘an aversion to women’ and

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not the English definition of ‘misogyny’ as hatred of women. Alvarez further claimed that Superman comics omitted vignettes that would have shown kisses and embraces, arguing that Superman was not an ‘innocent’ comic. Alvarez continues, ‘The relations between the protagonist and Lois reveal a terror on the part of the superman towards an authentic sexual bond’; such a relationship, according to Alvarez, ‘negatively influences the long-term sexual formation of boys and adolescents’. For Alvarez, Superman not only avoided women, he was an ‘asexual perversion’.26 At first glance one would think this ‘asexuality’ reflected the ‘puritanical’ nature of Superman comics of the era. In fact, this ‘antierotic’ Superman was partially a creation of Francoist censorship. Alvarez’s attempt to incite a queer fear of Superman becomes more obvious when looking at the General Archives of the Administration, which houses the Francoist régime’s censorship records, as one can easily find numerous instances in which censors circled and marked such objectionable material for censorship – specifically kisses and moments of affection between Lois and Superman.27 As Alvarez had access to these same comics provided by the Commission for his study, which would have included censors’ markings and notes, he would have known that this ‘asexual’ Superman was not just the result of American Puritanism, but was exaggerated by Francoist censorship. Moreover, while Alvarez argues that this ‘asexual’ Superman stunted the normal sexual development of young people, what he implicitly demonstrates is a fear by the régime of a heroic figure who did not act with the bravado expected of a man of Superman’s power in the cultural context of Franco’s Spain. Alvarez was indeed implicated in a campaign to show this ‘strange visitor’ as queer because of the inversion of gender roles present in those stories that could be interpreted as proto-feminist, a topic to which I will also return when discussing the character of Lois Lane. Although the régime did fear Superman’s so-called queer behaviour, what more than likely were the true dangers to Franco’s patriarchal hegemony were the examples of ‘feminine’ behaviour found in the dual identity of Clark Kent/ Superman. A ‘super-man’ was supposed to epitomize masculinity; however, the American superhero did not conform to the machista masculine persona glorified by the dictatorship. Superman was not the errant knight, Capitán Trueno, who glorified Spanish masculinity. One such example of an inversion of gender roles that escaped censorship can be found in the story ‘El asombroso superniño’, published in April 1958 in Supermán #132. In the story, Clark Kent finds a child with superpowers and takes the toddler in. To the young reader’s surprise, Clark dons a ruffled, white apron and takes to the kitchen to prepare

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a meal for his new ‘super-baby’. These images of the world’s most powerful man ‘dressing as a woman’, preparing breakfast and acting as a mother figure were certainly transgressive for young people in the Spain of the 1960s.28 While not precisely ‘drag’, Superman’s assumption of a feminine role, in his secret identity, demonstrates not only a certain level of counter-normative behaviour, but also taught young readers how both masculine and feminine genders were indeed socially constructed. While Superman might have been the epitome of the perfected male in form, he also had a ‘feminine’ side.29 While not cross-dressing per se, a ‘feminized’, domestic Superman, imitating a woman, challenged young Spaniards’ perceptions of masculinity. Although it can be argued that this crossdressing might have been done for comedic effect, the normality of the situation is what is most surprising. In the story, Superman performs the role of ‘mother’ to the orphaned super-toddler in a very natural way. These images of a ‘feminine’ Superman would have challenged the patriarchal structure of Spanish society. Alvarez’s attack on the Man of Tomorrow was followed by a steady campaign that appeared in magazines and newspapers. Alvarez also wrote numerous articles for newspapers such as ABC, the Heraldo de Aragon and the Hoja Del Lunes on Superman and American comic books. Critics and scholars such as Antonio Martín Martinez, Guillermo Díaz-Plaja, Manuel Vela, Francisco Anson, Luis Gasca (many of whom also wrote for the SJPO), along with numerous anonymous writers, plagued the Spanish press with attacks against Superman, including publications in Arriba, La Cordorniz, La Gaceta de la prensa española, Solidaridad Nacional, La Voz de Asturias, La Vanguardia Española, El Correo Español, La Voz de España, amongst others.30 These numerous attacks during the 1960s on Superman comics generally reflected the régime’s fear of how those American ideals would affect young readers, and how seriously the dictatorship took the threat.

A super woman in man’s world Further, the régime used gendered heterosexist constructs to demarcate its power, attempting to delegitimize any contending constructions of gender that would challenge patriarchal power. The homophobic writings by the Francoist judge Antonio Sabater Tomás point to the fears found in the period of transgressive sexualities and queer behaviour. In the works of Sabater Tomás, lesbians were accused of wearing ‘manly shoes and clothes’ and of displaying ‘manly ways of behaviour’.31 For Sabater Tomás, these ‘manly women’, a trope long found in

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Iberian history in such personages as the Lieutenant Nun, Isabel the Catholic and Juana la Loca32 were dangerous because they had the capacity to perform masculine gender roles that agitated against the patriarchal régime. Not only was the myth of Superman troubling to Falangist critics, but there was also a fear of the character of ‘Luisa Lane’ – or Lois Lane – a woman reporter who challenged gender roles through her profession, her clothing and her relationship with Superman. Lois’s ‘manly’ actions are demonstrated in numerous comics of the era, and are even more accentuated by the fact that she demonstrated a type of bravado despite her lack of superpowers. In one 1956 adventure, Lois mounts a buoy, uses it to board a ship, pulling herself onto the craft, all in an attempt to capture a band of smugglers. Bursting in on the fiends’ plot, Lois is welcomed by a shocked male, moustached pirate, ‘Jeepers! A woman! How did a woman make it on board!’ Naturally, Lois responds that she too is a smuggler, and is there to help them, as per the suggestion of another smuggler friend, of course. Her timid photographer, Jimmy Olson, who had already been caught, accidentally gives the reporter away, and they both are captured. Lois then manages to escape, finds a club and convinces Jimmy that they need to defend themselves, taking the lead in the attack.33 Lois’ acts in this story were transgressive when compared to what most Spanish children in the 1960s would have expected from a woman. She not only was investigating an international plot, but she also took on a combative role – a role rarely seen performed by women in Spain since the Republican posters of the Spanish Civil War. Once captured, it is Lois that takes a dominant role, persuading her male photographer to fight alongside her – all this while dressing like a man, much to the chagrin of the likes of Sabater Tomás. Alvarez remarked with certain disgust that Superman comics presented women as being curious; desiring that men render themselves unto them; desiring of ‘modern men’ (as opposed to ‘traditional’ men); bossy (mandonas); intuitive; and jealous – as well as other ‘unsavoury’ traits.34 Often, within the pages of the Superman comics, there was confusion as to Lois’s profession, which was sometimes translated as ‘secretary’ (the English ‘girl reporter’ was not much better). However, although she might have been called a secretary, Lois still acted as an investigative reporter. In ‘Superman, myth of our time’, Alvarez even compares Lois to the Greek mythological figure Pandora because of her curiosity, ‘the true personality of the journalist’.35 Francoist supporters feared Lois’s capacity to infect young people with her proto-feminist character – something that once released could not be recaptured.

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In the stories published in the 1950s and 1960s, Lois Lane often pursued the Man of Steel, a reversal of the Spanish norms of courtship during that era. In many of these tales it was Superman that often rejected Lois’s attempts at ‘capturing’ the superhero for herself through marriage – an inversion of gender roles as it was Superman, not Lois, that would play hard-to-get. In a highly patriarchal society in which it was the male’s role to pursue the female, Lois’s hunt to win Superman was extremely aggressive and inappropriate for a woman. While the reader today might read Lois’s acts to capture Superman as heteronormative and even demeaning to women, under a considerably more patriarchal régime such as that of Franco, Lois’s actions were both counter-normative and even proto-feminist. In these stories, Lois did not embody the ‘femme fatale’ trope, attempting to seduce Superman; instead, Lois was an aggressive woman who inverted the norms of courtship and tried to capture Superman’s heart through her intellect and independent nature. An asexual Superman, according to Francoist patriarchal norms, was just as undesirable as a masculine (or lesbian) Lois Lane. The régime read asexuality and non-heteronormative presentations of gender expression as traits that threatened to displace masculine privilege and the growth of the nation. In an attempt to delegitimize Superman comics, Alvarez compares Superman and Lois’s relationship to that of a father and daughter, made especially ‘incestuous’ as Lois continually attempted to marry an ‘asexual’ Superman. The use of the word ‘incestuous’ to describe characters who in no way were presented as sharing a familial bond indicates the extent of Alvarez’s virulent reaction against to the characters; Superman and Lois Lane’s gender expression and sexuality were quite simply confounding to the point that Alvarez had to resort to using bombastic phrasing to express his frustration for what he read as queer characteristics. For Alvarez, Superman was a deformation of masculinity, and Lois was a deformity of femininity. While Lois Lane was indeed Superman’s ‘girlfriend’, the interactions between the two was antagonistic, as numerous stories revolved around Lois’s attempts to discover that underneath the Man of Tomorrow’s flamboyant exterior, Superman was only a ‘mild-mannered’ man. Censors, and even young children, could have interpreted this search for the man behind the ‘superman’ as a threat to expose the frailty of the weak persona behind the machista Spanish man. Indeed, Lois’s attempt to discover Superman’s identity highlighted the truth of the performative characteristics of masculine bravado that legitimized the Francoist patriarchal order – under the façade of the Superman there was a weakling. Superman was not as ‘virile’ as he would seemingly appear, and certainly was less than all-powerful.

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In the patriarchal Francoist era, Lois Lane not only threatened to undermine male dominance, but she also stood as a model for a new sort of independent woman. To young Spaniards, Lois Lane conveyed a message that was subversive to patriarchal norms of the conservative, late fascist régime. The Francoist régime had established its legitimacy through fascist constructions of masculinity, and, like Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy, exalted a conception of patriarchal dominance. In the character of Lois Lane young people saw a woman that broke gendered stereotypes.

Play, youth and supermanism By the late 1960s, despite public attacks, young Spaniards had incorporated the tropes of Superman into their everyday lives – even writing and listening to music that extolled the character. Superman had moved from being strictly ‘American’ to being ‘Spanish’ as well. The 1969 album Los Ilustrisimos Bravos, by the Spanish rock and roll group ‘Los Bravos’, known most prominently for their 1966 hit ‘Black is Black’, featured the song ‘Como Superman’ – ‘Like Superman’ – representing the cultural currency and reappropriation of both American music and Superman.36 The song with its lyrics about wanting to be like the hero, constructing a happier, better world, and wanting to ‘volar lejos de aquí’ (fly far away from here), pointed to a rejection of Francoism. Young Spaniards wanted to not only imagine a better world for themselves; they wanted to be active creators of that world based upon tropes they had read in Superman comics. While Superman is indubitably representative of American consumerist culture, for many idealistic young Spaniards the characters found in Superman comics represented an alternative vision of society. Returning to Henri Lefebvre’s belief that young people have the ability to see ‘animals, angels and incredible cities where most people just see faces, clouds and landscapes’, children’s imaginations allowed for them to imagine the impossible through Superman’s adventures.37 Even if young people consciously knew that there is no real-life ‘Superman’, on some level a desire still existed that there were a hyper modern city protected by a superman and a ‘girl reporter’ with a nose for trouble. This imaginary world was not passive, but was active and performative; young people would have also imagined themselves as those characters when playing. The stories read in those comics provided tropes from which kids could draw, allowing them to perform the roles of the personages of the comic books.

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La Gaceta de la prensa española, the professional news bulletin that funnelled official state opinion and information to journalists, attempted to incite popular fear of children pretending to be Superman in the article, ‘The Pamphlet of the Twentieth Century, “Superman”: Psychologists accuse this pseudo-children’s character of having the power to induce schizophrenic delirium’.38 The article warned of the ‘danger’ of becoming a part of the ‘religion of Superman’ and of young people pretending to be those characters. Taking from Alvarez, Antonio Martín Martínez also accuses Superman of misoginia towards Lois Lane. Martín writes, ‘An effect of a consumerist mythology, Superman is acolyte, priest, and god of his own religion. In his particular world, he is the owner of Good and Bad … the result is a dehumanizing drug’.39 The author’s fears of capitalism and materialism are indeed understandable; nevertheless, his argument becomes more problematic when he discusses how these democratic ideologies threatened Spanish society, i.e. the stability of the Francoist régime. Martín further argues Supermán comics contained messages that taught young readers that they could transcend their ‘simple human condition’. Martín demonstrates a fear of equality and pluralism, and a fear that young readers would want to also be like Superman, that they might want to live an ‘American’ way of life. Martín feared that Spaniards would look away from religion and patria towards false gods – the double-edged peril of American democracy and capitalism. He writes: ‘Comics’ are in fashion. The average man on the street has been reading them since his youth. The adult incorporates [comic books] into everyday urban culture. Children are taken by the multitude of the coloured sensations that succeed at a frantic rhythm. Sociologists are worried. Superman is an idol for North America; and more than that, a symbol. A physical and moral symbol of the ‘American way of life’ [quoted in English] and of democracy … an idol for the millions of readers of all ages and social conditions.40

Martín was primarily concerned with the way American ideals were so readily incorporated into individual identity and the quotidian urban life. By acting out these roles in their everyday lives, young people both rejected Francoism and looked towards pluralistic ideas of equality through play and performance. In ‘Supermán’, Spanish youth had a role model that transcended age. Martín further writes, ‘Superman is the god of the irresponsible. [Superman] acts subliminally through ideological processes to alienate us from the human condition’. He continues, ‘Supermanism is the escape valve, the impossible dream that a society, such as that of the United States, to fix millions of small, frustrated, repressed men’.41 Indeed, in these harsh words Martín demonstrated

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a Francoist fear that Superman would alienate young people from the régime, allowing them to imagine an impossible dream that could deliver Superman’s followers from ‘repressed frustration’. The vitriol demonstrated clear, demarcated sexism, queerphobia and jingoism fuelled by National-Catholic ideology and fascist tendencies. Through the characters of Superman, Lois Lane, Supergirl and Superboy both girls and boys were able to imagine themselves as having superpowers, fighting evil villains and standing up for their beliefs; they too could change the world, and fight for ‘truth, justice, and the American way’. In fact, when young Spaniards were asked, ‘which [comic book] character would you like to be?’ boys affirmed that Superman was indeed their top choice over the nationalist Capitán Trueno; most girls chose ‘Sissi’, a popular comic targeted at young girls (Supergirl was not included on the list of options).42 Through the roles of Superman characters young people could imagine that they had the same powers as adults. When a young person donned a red towel for a cape, and performed the roles of such personages with infinite powers, they too became empowered – perhaps they could even have agency. Not only were the characters such as Superman, Supergirl, Superboy and Lois Lane important because they provided young people with models from which young people could perform their ‘super-powers’ against villains (both real and imaginary), but those characters allowed young people to perform those transgressive tropes read in those comics.

The search for truth, justice and the Spanish way By 1972, Supermán comics had returned to newsstands in Spain. In that period the régime lessened its attack on comics – perhaps recognizing the inevitable arrival of this new global youth culture, that such strict censorship more generally only further piqued young people’s interest in prohibited material. While this loosening of state control of censorship was in fact starting in the late 1960s, with the passing of new laws that gave more autonomy to publishers, children’s literature continued to be subject to censorship. Although these comics still had to undergo an extensive process of review, new Superman comics published by Novaro brought even more progressive and transgressive ideas in the years during the years of transition to a parliamentary democracy after the dictator’s death in 1975. In fact, the December 1972 issue, Supermán #885, reprints three protofeminist stories that centre on Lois Lane. In one story Lois saves a man from

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drowning in a harbour and a woman from certain death from a gas leak; in another story Lois climbs the ledge of a building to prevent a man’s suicide.43 In the last story featured in the comic, a cross-dressing Lois Lane disguises herself as Clark Kent to scoop the mild-mannered reporter on a story.44 With this transformation into Clark Kent, Lois not only accesses masculine power, but also demonstrates a break from the more conservative tropes found in the Superman comics of the previous decades. Indeed, while the adventures that were published in the late 1950s and 1960s, and circulated throughout prohibition, were subtlety transgressive, the Superman comics of the 1970s were far from subtle. The decade also brought about a more obvious Spanish appropriation of the ‘comic’ in the production of native Spanish stories that used layouts and stories that were closer to American comics than Spanish tebeos.45 The sudden expansion of activist and political cómics of the late 1970s, printed both through official channels and by underground (and often homemade) presses, is further indicative of the importance of these comics of the 1950s and 1960s in the inculcation of democratic ideals, and the teaching of new ways of dissent. Many, if not most, of the writers and artists of these political and underground Spanish comics of the 1970s had read Superman comics in their childhood. While the surreptitious reading of Superman comics in the late Francoist era is more reflective of the ways in which young people were interested in an alternate vision of society, the comics of the period were indubitably important in teaching young people new ways of subversion, and new perspectives and tropes that contributed to the inculcation of ideas that better prepared the young people of the new democracy to adapt to those drastic changes. In an ironic twist, journalist, translator and arguably the poet laureate of the Movida Eduardo Haro Ibars (1948–1988) might have come to exemplify all the fears that the régime had of the Man of Steel. In an article in the music and culture magazine Disco Express – Madrid’s answer to New York’s The Village Voice – not only did Haro Ibars proudly proclaim himself a militant homosexual, drug addict and common delinquent, but gave a surprising answer as to his reading tastes: Argentine poet Jorge Luis Borges and, of course, Superman. Going so far to call Superman his mythic hero, Haro Ibars states, ‘I have never distinguished between serious culture and popular culture. While at the same time I was reading Borges … I read comics [tebeos], and I still read them today. [When I was ten], my heroes were Superman and The Atomic Rabbit ¡Caramba! And my heroes have always been vampires, of course’.46 This juxtaposition and lauding of Superman comics as having cultural value not only echoes Susan Sontag’s 1964

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essay ‘Notes on Camp’, but points to the cultural impact of the flamboyantly dressed hero who maintained a double-identity. While Superman comics were far from being the impetus of democratic change in Spain, they did reflect ways young people imagined their world and ways in which young people subverted the dictatorship. During the long 1960s young people in Europe and the United States began to exert unprecedented influence on society and culture not only through a new spending power, but also a tiny minority of them that were quickly becoming cultural idols of the period through their music, activism and dissent.47 In Spain, despite oppression, young people under the dictatorship demonstrated agency in their everyday lives. While these acts of dissent might not have been as obvious as in other parts of Europe, young Spaniards acted against the régime as exemplified through the quotidian acts of possessing, trading and reading prohibited comic books that extolled pluralistic democratic and transgressive tropes.

5

The Penetration of Franco’s Spain

Apertura The ‘American penetration of Spain’ in the 1950s and 1960s, a phrase coined in 1974 by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán (b. 1939), was not only ubiquitous during the second half of the Francoist dictatorship, but also was a point of much consternation from within the régime itself – and amongst Spaniards. Trying to maintain its own National-Catholic ideologies despite rural populations moving to more diverse cosmopolitan urban centres, while adapting to the emergence of capitalist values and consumerist tendencies that simultaneously were ‘penetrating’ Franco’s Spain, the régime had to compromise its strict National-Catholic values in order to earn support from the United States and other European countries to shake itself loose from economic stagnation.1 The dictatorship struggled with internal tensions expressed in both anti-American sentiments (from both the Right and the Left) and a need to appease American interests in its attempt to win tourists and financial aid from abroad. Moreover, even Spain’s own Catholic ideals were being called into question with the redefinition of Catholicism presented in the debates of Second Vatican Council from 1962 through 1965. The destabilization of Franco’s pillars of nationalism and religion created a space from which a space for discourse and dialogue could open. From this dialogue, discourse on democracy and pluralism bloomed. Just a year before Vázquez Montalbán was born, 1938, Franco had proclaimed, ‘We do not believe in government through the voting booth. The Spanish national will was never freely expressed through the ballot box. Spain has no such foolish dreams’.2 By the end of the 1960s, young people who grew up under Franco would be considering if democracy could indeed be possible. With the help of reformed Falangists who in their youth had supported Franco, young, mostly university-educated, Spaniards, many of whom participated in the funeral procession of philosopher José Ortega y Gasset

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discussed in Chapter 3, who at this time were mostly in their 20s and early 30s, used the shifting landscape of Spain’s relationship to Catholicism and other Western countries to create a space for dialogue, breathing life into the tradition of the political-literary tertulias of the pre-Franco years. Adapting the tradition for a mass audience, young writers who had no memory of the Spanish Civil War began to imagine alternatives to the dictatorship. They interrogated their own understandings of the effects of American cultural imperialism and shifting understandings of Catholicism. Through a study of the Spanish tradition of political-literary spaces previously found in café culture, the ways Spaniards understood American culture and politics, preference surveys administered by the régime, and primary sources demonstrating general sentiment towards the Americanization of Spanish culture, we can see what has been called Spain’s apertura, or opening, to the United States and Western Europe. Drawing from comparisons of Americanization and (re)appropriation of American style and culture, we can compare the specifics of the Spanish case to similar instances in France and Eastern Europe during the Soviet collapse, contrasting how young people negotiated the explosion of American popular culture in Spain, considering both cultural and political influences. Through the creation of a printed ‘thirdspace’, an analogue space that was both real and imagined, young madrileños began their part in the process of reassembling the public sphere by reimagining what a tertulia could be in the mid-twentieth century.

Pluralistic spaces of the pre-war years In the years before the civil war, the Spanish café whirled with many sounds similar to its contemporary counterpart – orders being called out for cortados, café con leche, carajillos (coffee served with brandy or rum), the ruffling of newspapers and the steady chatter of clientele. Entering a coffee shop, such as the mythic Café Gijón, located near the Spanish National Library on el Paseo de Recoletos in downtown Madrid, one could hear the swirling sound of the milk being steamed and the arguments amongst friends debating politics under the Spanish Republic, literature, theatre and quotidian life in the numerous tertulias, or literary-political social gatherings, being held. In the decades preceding the Spanish Civil War a pluralistic tradition of political-literary dialogue was cultivated in the cafés of Madrid. These tertulias were dedicated to politics, philosophy, literature, theatre, etc. In these cafés, native and transplanted madrileños participated in active dialogue, occasionally

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bemoaning the loss of the last parts of the Spanish Empire after the Spanish– American War of 1898. Spaniards of the first decades of the twentieth century gathered to ask: What was it to be Spanish? What was to happen to the monarchy? Could Spain modernize despite the grave economic and national crises that occurred after the loss of the last colonies? These issues penetrated the everyday life of all Spaniards. Citizens wondered if their country could be made ‘great’ again – what later was articulated in the Francoist motto calling for Spain to be ‘Una, Grande y Libre’ – One, Great, and Free – a Spain that was indivisible, with imperialist ambitions, and free from internationalist influences – masonic, Jewish and communist. Historian Sebastian Balfour suggests that these questions necessitated that Spain delve into her past to recapture her grandeur, an idea proposed by the politicos, writers, journalists and even ‘the amateur philosophers of the cafés’.3 For the bourgeois class, cafés were an important part of everyday life. Contrasting perspectives on Catholicism, anarchism, liberalism, republicanism, socialism, conservatism, nationalism, Spanish identity and modernity were fundamental topics of discussion in Spanish society during the long fin de siècle, and thus amongst the patrons of the predominantly bourgeois cafés of Madrid. It was in these locales that the liberal bourgeoisie passed hours discussing politics and finding out the latest gossip about town.4 In fact, during the reign of Fernando VII (1808–1833), which suffered a temporary overthrow in 1823, it was in these very cafés of Madrid that the bourgeoisie and other secret societies conspired against the monarch.5 Before the Spanish Civil War, the democratic tradition of political-literary dialogue, exemplified by the tertulia, had long been a fundamental part of bourgeois life in Madrid. A pervasive middle class bourgeois culture developed in the 1870s as renovations were made to Madrid’s city spaces, reflecting a ‘modernization’ of infrastructure, including: new paseos, new and remodelled plazas, and a rail system that extended from Spain into France.6 The predominately male café culture in Madrid, and its tertulias, were ubiquitous and distinctive in the cultural, social and political life of Madrid throughout the nineteenth century. Deborah Parsons’s analysis of the descriptions of Madrid by writer Benito Pérez Galdós (1843–1920) suggests that more than eighty cafés dotted the Spanish capital as of 1881 – with the highest concentration being in and around the Puerta del Sol, the heart of modern Madrid. Parsons notes that in Pérez Galdós’s writings the café acted as the ‘collective brain of the city, into which knowledge is poured and consumed’. The café and its tertulias were established centres of the pervasive power of a masculine bourgeois order.7 Given that the café served as a public

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space for gathering and discourse for the bourgeois class, it is understandable how pluralistic liberal ideals were cultivated in such a setting. The image of the café as the ‘collective brain’ of the city centre was still prevalent nearly a century after Galdós’ café writings, as seen in José Camilo Cela’s mid-twentieth-century novel, The Hive.8 However, for Cela, the café as a space of political-literary dialogue was dead in the post–civil war era. The Hive, set in a café in Madrid in 1943, does not show the café as a vital public space of political-literary dialogue; the novel demonstrates only misery in the aftermath of war. The author uses a literary device that demonstrates the ‘beehive’ in post– civil war years in the city, with the café as the chief protagonist, rather than emphasizing individual protagonists.9 In the novel, Cela shows his Spain of the 1940s through the café, demonstrating the social problems and the aftermath of the civil war without specifically mentioning Franco or the oppression. In fact, between 1812 and 1914 Spain had more years of constitutional, representative government than any other continental European country, including France, if one takes into consideration the twenty years of the Second French Empire.10 This Spanish democratic tradition continued after the bloody Spanish Civil War, a pluralistic, literary space (although predominately masculine) inspired those ‘generations’ and movements that were affected by, but did not personally experience the civil war. While censorship and oppression attempted to eliminate public discourse and dissent against the régime, the memory of the tradition of a pluralistic space used by an intelligentsia who gathered to discuss the literature and politics in the cafés of Madrid inspired a space where a new generation of youth in the 1950s and 1960s would create a new political-literary dialogue based upon the Spanish pluralistic tradition. While the specific form of the dialogue would be different, this space of discourse was based on the pluralistic traditions found in Spain during the earlier democratic era.

Coffee and democratic spaces In his 478-page tribute to the café, Pombo: Biografía del celebre café y otros cafés,11 the celebrated poet, novelist, essayist and member of the Madrilenian avant-garde Ramón Gómez de la Serna (1888–1963) begins his book with a section entitled The Café as an Institution, describing the café as a place that was ‘under the directive of no one, and to which one cannot close the doors to one whom would wish to enter’.12 Functioning as a sort of analogue version of online message boards and chat rooms of the late twentieth century, Gómez de la

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Serna describes the café as a place where all could participate, but no one person could dominate – indeed, democratic principles were well represented in Gómez de la Serna’s institution of the ‘café’. Gómez de la Serna further asserts that the café was not born as was the Ateneo de Madrid (the most prestigious Spanish non-university academic institution of his era, and still today), for the café was ‘born like the track of life, that upon entering one only has to be one’s self ’ – referring to the café as a place not of strict pretentions and façades, such as in contemporary academic institutions of higher learning.13 However, in Gómez de la Serna’s description lies the juxtaposition, and antithesis, that is fundamental to understand the role of unofficial places of pluralistic and democratic dialogue – a comparison of the ‘institution’ of the café to a bourgeois academic institution – both official and unofficial centres of bourgeois power. For Gómez de la Serna the café was a pervasive, egalitarian institution that existed without pretentions, but still with the intention of a more profound learning and intellectualism, and thus was a bastion of nineteenth-century liberal ideals. The tradition of the tertulia, somewhat akin to the French salon amongst the bourgeoisie and the nobility, was a primary factor as to why the café would call forth these writers and philosophers from the streets and the classrooms. When considering why the tertulias were so important in fin de siglo Spain, it is helpful to remember that the tertulias were held in the public sphere, rather than in private homes as were the French salons. The tertulias functioned as both ‘a place and event’, according to Gómez de la Serna.14 The very existence of the Spanish tertulia creates a unique adaptation to the idea of the café culture – a bourgeois tradition that the Spanish avant-garde did not just adapt, but made their own. This connection with the avant-garde also explains the literary focus of the café culture in Madrid and the progressivism of liberal and democratic ideals. Michael Ugarte asserts that these literary groups would have a significant part in the creation of the avant-garde, going as far to say, ‘Not only was [Gómez de la Serna] associated with Pombo, one of the most famous Madrid tertulias of the first decades of the twentieth century, he was Pombo’.15 Café Pombo was chosen by Gómez de la Serna for its clandestine qualities and its central location. Gómez de la Serna himself denoted in Pombo why he selected the café as the place of gathering: When I chose Pombo in 1912, I did it so that to play with the anachronisms and because there was no better place to sound out our ideas of modernity than in that old cellar. Also, I was guided by a special condition of occult and symbols, that I tend to have, and for that reason I know what is going to crumble and what is going to endure, even with its impossible décor and even despite the fact that

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little dogs whispered of its disappearance. Also, I chose it because it is on the Calle de Carretas and it’s just a short walk from the Puerta del Sol.16

This passage shows the attendees’ desire for a place that was both centrally located and obscure, in the double sense of the word. This desire for the obscure further underlines the necessity of the marginality of the locale for Gómez de la Serna. In participating in café culture, Gómez de la Serna took part in a bourgeois tradition, that of the tertulia, while still acting on the margins of society in a locale that was integrally connected to the urban nature of Madrid. While bourgeois in origin, the tertulia was converted by participants, such as Gómez de la Serna, Ramón del Valle-Inclán and Miguel de Unamuno, into a place that also acted against bourgeois culture. The avant-garde café in fact functioned to counter the bourgeois culture that birthed it. The tertulia represented a tradition that was not only pluralistic, but also democratic in nature. While Gómez de la Serna had the responsibility of facilitating the political-literary debate in ‘his’ tertulia, the attendees of Pombo also had the option to find a new place of discourse if they were displeased with his ‘leadership’. While a tertulia might be associated with a given individual, in no way did that individual monopolize the discourse. In a way, the café could be compared to a parliament. While one individual might function as the designated ‘leader’, and would be responsible for facilitating the debate, that person still was responsible to the members of the ‘congress’. If he performed poorly, the members could disband the tertulia and reconvene elsewhere, under the direction of another.

Disrupting networks and traditions In a 1978 re-edition of Antonio Díaz-Cañabate’s Historia de una tertulia, celebrated Spanish writer and columnist Francisco Umbral (1932–2007) eulogized the tradition of the tertulia, stating: There were great and famous tertulias before the war, but after the war, the tertulia spoken about in this book became just the model of a tertulia in the aftermath … This book is elegiac. It is an elegy to a tertulia that has died, about a collective of friends that has since dispersed.17

While the friends might have dispersed in the aftermath of the civil war, this abandoning of the café as a place of public dialogue did not necessarily signify that the pluralistic dialogue often found in café culture had entirely ended. Despite Umbral’s assertion, the tradition of a space of pluralistic literary-political

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dialogue did not fade away entirely under the régime. Rather, the tradition of the tertulia was adapted and reimagined under Franco. Umbral delineated the tradition of the tertulia of the past as a ‘model’, implying that these mythical tertulias could serve as a ‘model’ for something else. Despite the apparent ‘death’ of the tertulia, the need for such a space of political-literary discourse still existed, especially under the authoritarian régime. Spanish historian Antonio Cazorla-Sánchez writes that after the civil war ‘intellectual life, from universities to coffee shops, was dormant, stiff and pretentious’.18 Despite its location in the centre of a postwar Western Europe, Spain had transformed into a country without public opinion, based on propaganda and rumour. Cazorla-Sánchez further describes a reduction in the contrary opinions found in the Spanish newspapers, as only the Falangist press was allowed to publish – demonstrative of a decline in pluralistic, public dialogue as a result of harsh censorship.19 If it was out of café culture that newspapers emerged during the Enlightenment, it is of little surprise that both institutions met their demise under a dictatorship that strived to limit personal autonomy. When conceiving of cafés and newspapers as constitutive of what I call ‘analogue social networks’, it is possible to understand why the Francoist régime monitored cafés with undercover police, and how its institutionalization of an (auto)censorship process prevented critique of the régime. For the régime to maintain power, it had to disrupt social networks that promoted pluralistic thought against hierarchical tendencies through censorship that attempted control of the ways information was disseminated. French Enlightenment historian Robert Darnton has argued that the transition from scrolls to codex, from moveable type producing mass-produced books, pamphlets and newspapers, and even the emergence of the internet should be understood as a continual change in how we disseminate and read information. Instead of a total revolution, people are simply modifying the ways they spread information. Effectively, while the form (technology) might change, the function only changes insomuch as the way the dissemination occurs. Moreover, Darnton contends that cheaply printed pamphlets and newspapers ‘extended the process of democratization so that a mass public came into existence during the second half of the nineteenth century’.20 While Darnton implies this dissemination of information (in whatever form it might take) is democratizing, I use the word ‘pluralizing’ to delineate a process that incorporates differing perspectives – necessary for democratic tendencies to take place, but avoiding the problematic of assuming a democratizing result through that dissemination. Censorship of media, in effect, disrupts social networks (both digital and analogue) that

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facilitate the possibility of pluralistic discourse, which can lead to the promotion of democratic tendencies. Fearing the type of dissent created by the avant-garde and intelligentsia’s protest during the militaristic dictatorship of Primo de Rivera (1923– 1930), Franco made concentrated attempts to squelch the political-literary discourse – attacking universities and cafés.21 In an attempt to squash possible dissent, Franco’s régime was quick to censor the expression of pluralistic interchange, discussed in previous chapters.22 The popular and influential avantgarde intellectuals of the pre-war years were a threat to the Francoist régime, and so was the pluralistic tradition that they represented, forcing Spain into a period of literary and intellectual stagnation under Franco. While avant-garde literary and artistic communities often inspire social dissent, the silencing of the most prominent voices forced the youth that grew up under Franco to either conform to the Falangist Movimiento, or find their own voices of protest. This rebellious youth found their inspiration in the historical memory of the silenced traditions of the pre-war years. Rather than fighting another civil war, a more careful and implicit approach was implemented by inspired young clergy members, former Falangists, university students and the young working class to counter the régime. The educated university élite was indeed the minority in Spain, but their voice of dissent was one of the few consistent and influential voices to plague the Francoist régime. It would be élite, primarily bourgeois, university students that would lead this initial protest in the 1950s and 1960s discussed in Chapter 3. In fact, even as late as 1970 only 9.2 per cent of 20- to 24-year-olds attended university in Spain – most spots usually being reserved for the bourgeois élite.23 These privileged young students reimagined the pluralistic tradition of the tertulia by creating new spaces of political-literary to legitimize their dissent against the régime. The ensuing anti-Francoist dissent was inspired by the historical memory of the silenced avant-garde of the pre-Franco era – memory, which in some instances would be transformed to myth, that survived despite the régime’s attempt to change the popular memory of those liberal writers through censorship of their writings. Despite this oppression and historical revisionism, it was the memory of these specific protagonists, their literature and the spaces that facilitated their dialogue, that motivated dissidents under the Francoist régime to create a new space of literary and political dialogue in order to participate in a discourse critical of the régime. The memory of the tertulia as a democratic space of literary and political dialogue formed part of a mythologized past that the dissidents

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used as a ‘model’, as Umbral described it. This pervasive dialogue would then legitimize dissent against the régime – resulting in active dissent.

Notebooks for literary-political dialogue In the spring 1968, some twelve years after the February protests of 1956, Pedro Laín Entralgo sent in the last of his revisions for his latest book to his publisher. The book was to be printed by the publishing branch of Cuadernos para el diálogo (Notebooks for Dialogue), a magazine that his long-time friend and colleague Joaquin Ruiz-Giménez, former Minister of Education, had founded and been directing since 1963.24 Some 6,000 copies were to be printed, and were set to arrive to bookstores that summer. The paperback book brandished a simple white cover with the image of well-dressed young men tearing pages out of books – tossing them into a pyre. The book was reflective of the dissent that was expressed in active worker strikes and student protest of the period. Laín Entralgo’s work was aptly titled The Problem of the University: Urgent Reflexions. In the book, Laín Entralgo recalls the Spanish democratic tradition that he betrayed as a Falangist youth, apologizing to those ‘democratic’ writers and thinkers who preceded him – Menéndez Pidal, Azorín, Baroja, Ortega y Gasset and Unamuno, to name a few.25 In this Augustinian confessional, the former Rector asks how the Spanish university had fallen so far, frequently blaming himself for the failure of the university to function as an academic institution. El problema de la universidad recalls a visit with José Ortega y Gasset, in which he had invited the Spanish philosopher to speak one last time in the University of Madrid before his death – a last lecture. Ortega kindly thanked the then-Rector, but both knew that there would be ‘angry consequences’ for such an act. Laín Entralgo rightfully blamed the Ley de la Ordenación Universitaria for a lack of ‘academic liberty’ that created a serious deficiency in the Spanish university system: another failure of the Francoist régime that he had once supported in his youth. Implicit or not, such anti-Francoist statements and assertions were limited to the pages of few magazines: Triunfo and Cuadernos para el Díalogo – two spaces carved out by the young, educated élite in which a form of dissent could be demonstrated.

Internal battles and liberal tradition Within the pages of Cuadernos para el diálogo, a political-cultural magazine published from 1963 until 1976, the memory of the Spanish tradition of

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democratic political-literary dialogue, the tertulia, was reimagined, having broad appeal and circulation – especially amongst the young educated élite. The magazine targeted university students (apparent in the large quantity of articles related to the university, and the amount of articles written by students and recent graduates), and focused primarily on democratic political, literary and cultural issues, fighting to bring back public literary and political discourse through ‘dialogue’. Cuadernos functioned as a tertulia reimagined to invite readers to partake in the political-literary dialogue. This dialogue helped to legitimize dissent against the régime. Simply reading such a magazine was an act of dissent manifested in the everyday act of publishing, reading and participation in dialogue. As Javier Muñoz Soro asserts, citing Félix Santos Delgado (who followed Ruiz-Giménez as director of Cuadernos), the word ‘diálogo’ in the title of the magazine was a euphemism used by Ruiz-Giménez for ‘democracy’.26 In fact, Ruiz-Giménez, while holding a conference at the Instituto de Estudios Jurídicos, commented to Antonio Hernández Gil that the word diálogo was able to function as a substitutive word for democracia.27 That is to say, that the veiled title of the magazine, in effect, was ‘Notebooks for Democracy’. Any discussion of ‘democracy’ under an authoritarian state could be understood as dissent. The memory of the democratic past was not only present in the creation of the magazine, but it was also what legitimized the magazine’s existence and purpose. Most of the writers of Cuadernos were the children of the Spanish élite, including: future law professor Elías Díaz García (b. 1934), future minister of education and science José María Maravall Herrero (b. 1942), future minister of justice Enrique Múgica Herzog (b. 1932), future international politics professor Roberto Mesa Garrido (1935–2004) and the future Rector of the Universidad Carlos III Gregorio Peces-Barba (1938–2012). While many of the contributors to Cuadernos are well known in Spain today, most of them were just starting their political and academic careers in the early 1960s. It was in the pages of Cuadernos that the likes of Gregorio Peces-Barba, who later became one of the fathers of the Spanish Constitution of 1978, first started his professional career after having graduated from his studies abroad. In a way, the ‘institution’ of Cuadernos functioned in a manner not unlike the tertulias that Ramón Gómez de la Serna wrote about in his tribute to the café. Not unlike El Pombo, Cuadernos was an institution that existed outside the walls of academia, supplementing scholarly and democratic discourse. In effect, the magazine functioned as a mid-century analogue medium that replaced the physical space of the tertulia.

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While the magazine’s contributors often reflected a bourgeois elitism, they simultaneously rejected bourgeois culture.

Tactics to create a space of discourse In 1960, 99 per cent of young women in Spain, and 93 per cent of young men, identified themselves as practising Catholics. However, by 1984 only 25 per cent of men did and 43 per cent of women did.28 This dramatic shift from the Franco years to the post-Franco years reflects both social dissention and repression under a strict Catholic régime; it would have been improper, if not dangerous, to identify oneself as non-Catholic under Franco. Moreover, such a drastic change in religious affiliation within a twenty-year period reflects a social rejection of the National-Catholic ideology and also attests to a fear to express ‘discomfort’. To some extent, whether genuine or not, it is this need to identify as ‘Catholic’ that explains why Cuadernos para el diálogo would highlight its ‘ChristianDemocratic’ political stance. Nevertheless, even in 1966, there was what can be described as an oppressive malaise amongst Spanish citizens. A survey by the Spanish Centre of Sociological Investigations demonstrated that an astounding 51 per cent of those asked to participate in a survey abstained from answering a question that asked for their opinion on identifying what was the most pressing problem facing Spain – what could have been interpreted as a critique of the régime. However, when asked what should the policy goals of Spain be in 1966, only 3 per cent opted not to respond (refer to Figure 5.1).29 Participants were not hesitant to propose general goals for the country, but were less likely to name what the specific problems were. When asked for suggestions for Spanish policy goals, an astounding 57 per cent indicated that the policy goal for Spain should be ‘Peace’ (refer to Figure 5.2).30 The drastic difference in participation of the survey shows that when asked a question that could be interpreted as ‘criticizing’ the régime, and acknowledging Spain’s problems, most Spaniards opted not to respond. However, when asked about suggested policy goals, peace became top priority – perhaps indicative of a large portion of the population that had lived through the Spanish Civil War and wished to avoid further bloodshed. The second survey question, which underlined Spaniards’ desire for peace partially explains why the first survey implied criticism of the régime – those surveyed did not want to jeopardize ‘peace’ by challenging authority.

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Public Opinion on Most Pressing Problem in Spain, 1966 No Response

51%

Other

15%

Employment and Social Justice

4%

Agricultural

6% 4%

Housing and Public Works Economic

8%

Political

12% 0%

10%

20%

30%

40%

50%

60%

Figure 5.1 ‘Cuestiones de actualidad política’, Revista española de la opinión pública, no. 9 (July–September 1967): 185–227, Centro de Investigaciones Sociologicas. Public Opinion of What Policy Goals for Spain Should be, 1966

3%

No Response

5%

Tradition 2%

Stability

57%

Peace 9%

Order 3%

Liberty

14%

Justice 4%

Development

3%

Democracy 0%

10%

20%

30%

40%

50%

60%

Figure 5.2 ‘Cuestiones de actualidad política’, Revista española de la opinión pública, no. 9 (July–September 1967): 185–227, Centro de Investigaciones Sociologicas.

Despite the efforts by the régime to distort the historical memory of the past, there is convincing evidence to suggest that the youth still looked to the democratic past for inspiration in their dissent. One example of how the memory of the writers of the past influenced the youth is found in an interview published in the book Dictadura y Disentimiento, by José María Maravall. Maravall, himself an active anti-Francoist, anonymously collected data in 1972–1973

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from other known anti-Francoist dissenters – the anonymous collection of data functioned so as to protect his sources from possible repercussions. In his book, Maravall provides the transcripts to several of the interviews conducted. These interviews not only show the presence of the liberal past in the lives of Maravall’s contemporaries, but they also highlight the roles that the authors played in their formation as young people seeking answers. One anonymous anti-Francoist student activist discusses the importance of literature in the development of his political ideals: Well, my father had an impressive library, and it was he who introduced me to it; it was he who spoke to me about novelists, poets and essayists. It was thus that I entered the world of Conrad, Dostoyevsky, Machado, and then Gide, Camus, Hemingway, Ortega, Unamuno, and later Sartre and Nietzsche. Well, it was a world without limits that absorbed me … I felt I lived in an exceptional world, above the mediocrity and the brutality of the quotidian world. It was because of that that I had political potential, clearly. It was what I perceived, of course. Everything that was coming together, the political position of my family, the religious problems of adolescence, intellectual discoveries – literary authors more than anything – even in the shortage and the cultural darkness, a sensation of cultural privilege. All of this produced an exciting sensation of political infraction that I shared with a group of school friends.31

Another anonymous interviewee states: I went to an Instituto: it was my parents’ decision; the alternative was the Marianistas. My friends, of course, were the sons of other Republicans, who had also sent their children there. We had an intensive intellectual life, we discussed every conceivable subject. We circulated books among ourselves – Neruda, Camus, Unamuno – some of us were atheists. We had a number of liberal, Republican teachers. But, you see, we were conscious of our singularity, even within the Instituto … Of course, it was a time of hardship. One could talk about almost nothing. It was in the years between 1946 and 1956, bad years.32

Comparatively, another interviewee expresses the danger of being in possession of one of the banned books in the 1950s and 1960s: [Growing up,] there was strict censorship of our reading. You see, the Index of Prohibited Books was taken very seriously. I remember having burned certain books … I never read anything without advice … This lasted until I was fifteen or so. I enjoyed reading, so I read all the Catholic authors, but when I came across a Pérez-Galdós or an Unamuno, well, then, all this was forbidden.33

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Indeed, it was this sort of repression of literature that Cuadernos sought to combat. In that first issue, editor, and former Minister of Education, RuizGiménez, gives the magazine’s ‘Reason for being’ as: These Cuadernos para el diálogo are born with the simple and honourable purpose of facilitating communication of ideas and sentiments between men of different generations, credences and attitudes toward life, revolving around secret realities, as well as inciting religious, cultural, economic, social, political problems of our ever-changing historical situation.34

In its credo, Cuadernos para el diálogo explicitly stated that it was founded with the hope of reaching ‘university students, liberal professionals, workers and people young and old’.35 Cuadernos was, in effect, relating Spain’s democratic past in a way that was relevant to its readers. This relation to the past, or the creation of this open political-literary dialogue, was exceptional under the fascist régime. In fact, the first issue of Cuadernos even reached the hands of el Caudillo himself. Francisco Franco Salgado-Araujo, a coincidently named, close ally of the dictator, wrote that when he delivered the first issue of Cuadernos to the desk of Franco, the Spanish dictator was shocked to see the contents. Franco reportedly said of the magazine: I know of this magazine only by reference, this being the first exemplar to arrive to my power … Indeed, what has happened to this ex-minister [Ruiz Giménez]? Before, when he was my minister never did he display such liberal ideas as he does now. In him a liberal fury has arisen that does not let him waste any opportunity to act against the régime, making note of that absolute negation of liberty. He was minister during many years and never did he find fault in the politics of the government to which he pertained. Now in the Cortes he has presented an amendment to the totality of the project that would create tribunals of Public Order, that he has defended with much passion. This magazine was able to reach the streets because of the money lent to him by a gentleman of a particular character, that is to say, without him knowing that the magazine would have a political character that would be written to combat the régime, by the director of a magazine who was once a minister. Once he found out about the nature of the magazine to which he had lent money, he appeared before the Minister of Governance telling him that he was taking back the borrowed money, which I believe was one million pesetas.36

Not only did Franco know of the magazine prior to having received a copy, but Ruiz-Giménez’s ‘liberal ideas’ and proposition for an amendment to the

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Tribunals presented very real threats to the régime because of its gestures towards democratic reform. The tradition of public political-literary dialogue was rooted in Spain’s relatively recent democratic past. Figures such as Miguel de Unamuno, Ángel Ganivet, Pío Baroja, Azorín (José Martínez Ruiz) and Ramiro de Maeztu worked to stimulate dialogue with the masses, as they attempted to reach a broader public, not limiting themselves to the middle- and upper-classes who could read newspapers. The Generation of 1898’s desire for dialogue was demonstrated when the writers went to casinos and ventured into public spaces so as to bring about discourse – writing manifestos and trying to create popular newspapers and magazines, such as Alma Española (1903–1904), which reached a circulation of 60,000 subscribers.37 Azorín even began to take trips to the countryside, writing articles and travel narratives in the collected works ‘Los Pueblos’.38 Unamuno wrote for the Socialist weekly La lucha de clases (The Fight of the Classes). Azorín, Baroja and Maeztu all attempted to write articles about corruption in politics. Excluded from traditional channels of direct influence, they reached out to the Spanish ‘pueblo’, not in a way that appealed to blind nationalism, but to empower the masses to engage in politics. It is this democratic tradition of a public political-literary dialogue, exemplified by the Generation of 1898 in their youth, which was revived in the pages of Cuadernos para el diálogo. Cuadernos further drew upon other democratic traditions besides just that of the public political-literary discourse in its attempt to spur dialogue. For example, the ‘open letter’ was frequently used in Cuadernos to create dialogue around diverse contemporary issues, but primarily this ‘open letter’ functioned to demonstrate the possibility of congenial dialogue between individuals of diverse ideals – in short, it functioned to demonstrate how dialogue and democracy were integrated principles. The open letters were publicly exchanged between the likes of Ruiz-Giménez, José María Pemán, Mariano Aguilar Navarro,39 Manuel Jiménez de Parga, Sanchez Agesta,40 Pedro Laín Entralgo and Roque Javier Laurenza.41 This usage of ‘open letters’, of course, is not unfamiliar to the democratic tradition, both inside Spain and abroad. In fact, the newspaper El Defensor de Granada published similar open letters debating the ‘Problem with Spain’ in an exchange between Miguel de Unamuno and Ángel Ganivet in 1898.42 Whereas the public discourse found in the tradition of the tertulia had been suppressed due to fear of repercussions, Cuadernos took advantage of its limited liberties, creating a space for political and literary discourse. While the Young Writers Congresses

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and Poetic Encounters of the 1950s were unable to sustain a lasting impact, as they were quickly shutdown by the régime after the protests of 1956, the nascent magazine succeeded in creating a space of democratic dialogue utilizing a print, analogue version of the democratic tradition of the tertulia to discuss politicalliterary issues both directly and through metaphor, reaching a broad audience. How was Cuadernos able to print such controversial opinions and stories? In part, it was because of Ruiz-Giménez’s international prominence and his Christian-Democratic ideals that acted to protect him from severe repercussions. The opening of the régime to the West in the previous decade in many ways created a necessity from within the régime to allow for some ‘semblance’ of freedom of expression. However, even then, Ruiz-Giménez was removed from his position as Director of Cuadernos in 1966, as the new Ley de la prensa e imprenta required that the director of any magazine be a certified journalist – a law targeted at limiting public discourse.43 While the law required Ruiz-Giménez’s removal from the directorial role of his magazine, the law also guaranteed that ‘the administration will not be able to dictate previous censorship nor demand obligatory consultation except in the “estados de excepción” and during wartime that is expressly foreseen by law’.44 In short, Cuadernos was a rare exception that was used to demonstrate that ‘freedom of expression’ did exist under the Francoist régime, but still did not operate in a way that was completely free from control by the régime.45 Cuadernos also relied upon the liberalization that was happening inside the Catholic Church as a result of the Second Vatican Council. This liberalization of one of the legitimizers of the Francoist régime in effect allowed for a ‘ChristianDemocratic’ magazine, such as Cuadernos, to be published. Moreover, the other legitimizer of the Francoist régime, the Spanish Civil War, was quickly becoming something that the youth of the 1960s considered a problem that belonged to their parents and grandparents. That which had legitimized the régime’s power was becoming a vague memory, whereas the democratic tradition had not only grown more fervent for the young dissenters, but also for former Falangists. Before the passage of the Ley de la prensa e imprenta, there was considerable censorship within the pages of Cuadernos.46 In fact, Muñoz Soro cites an article by Elías Diáz about Unamuno which was censored. The article would have commemorated what would have been Unamuno’s centennial birthday – the same occurring with an homage that was published in honour of Ortega y

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Gasset for the tenth anniversary since his death (the article received top billing on the cover of the magazine, but the actual article would barely be half a page in length).47,48 In the beginning years of Cuadernos it was still perilous to publish any article that implicitly or explicitly countered the régime. Indeed, while there would be discussion about the dangers of censorship and banned literature, censorship still existed in the form of self-censorship (or self-protection), even if articles were not explicitly censored by the régime.49 In the October 1966 issue of Cuadernos para el diálogo, the editors of the magazine’s book review section, ‘El pulso de los días’, reviewed Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, first published in 1953. The editorial board wrote: ‘Even though Bradbury’s novel is situated in the future, one does not have to look far to find abundant points of similarity with facts relating to the past, and, oh!, the present’.50 Indeed, the lens through which the editors of ‘El pulso’ understood Spanish society, was interpreted through that of an American filter as well, and in this case seen through Bradbury’s not-so-rosy-coloured, thick-framed glasses. That review coincided with the régime’s initial shift towards a less restrictive censorship policy and the release of François Truffaut’s film adaptation of the novel. Subtly, Bradbury’s book about a dystopian future where reading is outlawed represented the very real oppression of the Francoist régime. Implicitly, a simple book review criticized state surveillance and the lack of democratic space under Franco.

Criticism and praise for American (counter) culture The year 1974 saw the publication of Manuel Vázquez Montalbán’s book La penetración americana en españa, when the lauded Catalonian author was 35 years old, by the book-publishing arm of Cuadernos para el diálogo. While certainly an ‘older’ member of this generation, he would have never had experienced the Spanish Civil War directly. Critiquing the US postcolonial extension into Spain, Vázquez Montalbán contended that the penetration [of Spain] was ‘total’ and that it affected ‘all levels of culture of [Spain]’. For Vázquez Montalbán American economic and cultural penetration was fundamentally ‘conditioned by an imperial strategy’.51 However, despite these attempts at subjugation, by both the régime and the American empire, through their ‘ways of operating’,52 young, elite Spaniards managed to not only carve out spaces of dissent for themselves, such as Cuadernos para el diálogo, but they also subverted authority more broadly

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through their critiques. Taking advantage of the unique set of circumstances that afforded the writers and editors of Cuadernos more autonomy, the magazine presented alternatives to authoritarianism. While American cultural and economic hegemony indeed threatened new imperialism, young Spaniards also learnt and observed the tactics Americans used themselves against those same powers that attempted to subjugate the young Spanish audience; they adapted those discourses for their own purposes. In a 1966 article, Juan Losada argued that the Americanization of Spain represented a very real threat, criticizing American life, stating, ‘[American] people have no other preoccupation besides living well, listening to “jazz”, watching cowboy movies, reading the funnies and adventure stories published in newspapers, and get excited only about “operaciones mercantiles” ’.53 Although reductive in his analysis of what American life was like, his statement reflected a popular perception of what the ‘American Way’ was for Spaniards of the period. While praising the likes of Upton Sinclair and John Steinbeck, Losada called American culture the ‘product of neurosis’, arguing that the United States represented a ‘mutation’ of European culture. For Losada, American culture was the antithesis of European culture; however, contrarily, Losada defended the work of the likes of Americans like Walt Whitman, and the ‘elegance’ and intelligence of Thomas Jefferson, Woodrow Wilson, Franklin D. Roosevelt and John F. Kennedy – even arguing their work was European.54 Curiously, Losada ends his anti-capitalist editorial comparing the ‘young singer’ Bob Dylan to Upton Sinclair, praising the young American for his criticism of the Vietnam War, racism and the living conditions of the poor.55 Critical of American capitalism, Losada praised the cultural movements within the United States that were critical of American imperialism, through an attempt to claim certain American ideals as being ‘European’. This process of (re)appropriation is fundamental to understanding how American culture was interpreted by Spaniards, moving away from an idea that American culture was forced upon Spaniards, but also allowing us to consider the ways American culture was adapted and adopted by young Spaniards living under Franco. While American consumerism was a very palpable threat, colonization is never a one-way process. The ‘Manifesto of the Young Generation’ published in January 1968 points to the complexities found in Spanish discourse of America’s economic and cultural penetration.56 Highlighting ‘existential attacks’ by American economic policies and consumer culture, the authors demanded recognition of the oppression of

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those marginalized and subjugated by American imperialism. The manifesto proclaimed: We cry out against the continual loss of the rights of man; against developed societies, which inexorably advocate for the mass consumption of goods, dominated by groups that are mixed up with the pressures of state power; we cry out for those who live in underdeveloped societies, who are mortgaged and suffer existential attacks, whose precariousness fluctuates based only on the protection of politics and economies of powerful nations.57

Moreover, Vázquez Montalbán, who primarily focused on the economic penetration of Spain by American interests, citing Wright Mill’s The Causes of World War Three, wrote American imperialism was ‘opening markets for the exportation of consumer articles – extravagancies – and the employment of a colonized country as the producer of primary materials the industrialized nation needs’.58 Coming from a Marxist perspective, Vázquez Montalbán argued that after the Second World War, new sorts of colonial ideas were needed to justify a colonizer status. Vázquez Montalbán believed that the United States falsely legitimated its power through an argument that the American capitalist empire claimed to ‘elevate the standard of living for all nations, so that to make subversion impossible, stopping communist advance’.59 Concerned with what today would be considered (post)colonization, Vázquez Montalbán posits that the majority of the ideological penetration of Spain was realized through cultural influence, pointing to the usage of mass communication as a means to realize an ‘indirect and direct apology justifying the political ends of the United States’.60 This criticism is even seen in the cover of the book in which the artist depicts a traditional Spanish bullfighter using an American flag rather than a standard red cape.

Civil rights in Spain The late 1960s represented a time of broad cultural dissent throughout much of Europe and the United States. The Spanish case, however, is rarely considered in relation to these cultural movements of the long 1960s, despite a months-long student strike at the Universidad de Madrid in the spring of 1968. We can analyse these intersections by looking at the discourse surrounding the American Civil Rights Movement in Spain to provide specific examples of how some of the broader socio political unrest penetrated the country, and how it was interpreted and adopted by Spaniards in Cuadernos.

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To indirectly address ‘the Franco problem’, during the months of April through July 1968, numerous articles in Cuadernos covertly connected the broader tumult across both the United States and Europe that which was being felt in Spain that spring. Of course, this search for coded criticism of the régime and how to subvert it is not precise, specifically because it was not intended to be so. However, as the Spanish phrase goes, ‘one does not have to look five feet from the cat’ to find these critiques. ‘Martin Luther King o la fuerza de la no-violencia’, published in April of 1969 by Josep Dalmau, in the wake of King’s assassination, gives an example of this sort of critique of the dictatorship. In the article, Dalmau compares the methods of communist revolutionary Che Guevara and civil rights activist Martin Luther King, Jr., arguing that King desired to remove the established disorder of inequality through gradual change, and that Guevara ‘ineffectively’ wished to do so by violent revolution. As often happened in Cuadernos, this article discusses the ‘what to do about Franco?’ question without ever talking about the dictator outright – there was a ‘freer press’ after the Ley de la Prensa of 1966 was promulgated, but not completely free. Dalmau argues that the death of King inspired the American population to follow King’s example, whereas the death of Che demoralized the population in Cuba. Dalmau writes, ‘It is obvious that a white person in power feels offended when another person, white or black, pretends to remove established disorder [a lack of democracy]; he does not care for a movement that attempts to liberate the oppressed’.61 Here, the rhetoric used allows for Spaniards to imagine themselves in the position of a Black American, recognizing commonalities in the ways that an oppressor attempts to maintain power. The question of changing the system from the inside, through nonviolence, rather than armed conflict implicitly shows shades of the ‘Franco question’. An intersectional approach to building solidarity, Dalmau implicitly urges the reader to see ways that Spaniards can use those tactics to shrug off their own oppressions. Indeed, the privileged men that wrote for Cuadernos preferred ‘non-violent’ reform as opposed to the more violent action. Dalmau lauded the non-violence of King as the most efficient road to overthrowing an oppressor – calling it the most ethical way to ‘fight for the fraternity of men and justice’.62 In fact, the question of non-violence versus direct attack becomes even more important when considering this article was published only months before Euskadi Ta Askatasuna’s (ETA) first killing – on 7 June 1968 – an early attempt by the Basque separatist group at directly taking on the Francoist state through violence. The debate between ‘violent’ and ‘non-violent’ action was a very real

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one. Further, the comparison of ETA to Cuadernos is not unwarranted, as ETA had grown from a student group called Ekin, founded in the early 1950s, which was organized originally around the publication of a student-run magazine. In his article, Dalmau addresses the internal conflict of looking at history from above, stating, ‘We are accustomed to judge history through wars, and we do not know how to study the profound underlying changes … Passion for justice and love of liberty never stop acting even if there are no visible wars to be seen’.63 In effect, Dalmau desired to create a peaceful movement, not unlike the American Civil Rights movement, that focused on issues of justice and liberty. Laureano Bonet’s article ‘Martin Luther King, mártir de Memphis’ compares the death of King with the ‘disaster of 1898’ – the year Spain lost its last colonies. Quoting King’s father, Bonet calls American society ‘sick’, arguing King’s assassination reflected the failure of American society. Bonet claims the US problem is not a ‘racial problem’ or a ‘black problem’, but rather a problem with ‘sick white men’. This sort of assertion takes the onus off the oppressed, and instead focuses on the oppressor as the cause of the problem. The Civil Rights Movement, although an American struggle, lent itself as a framework for young leftist Spaniards to understand their own relationship to oppression under the dictatorship. A critic of the American empire, Bonet’s support of King’s nonviolent methods was also an attack against the oppressive Francoist régime. By placing the blame on the oppressor, and not the oppressed – by not blaming some imagined Ur-Spanish archetypal characteristic – Bonet leaves space for the reader to not blame herself for her own oppression. Moreover, the reader is given concrete, non-violent methods for overthrowing that oppression.

Violence or non-violence Spaniards debated between non-violent versus violent modes of challenging authority in the months leading up to both the pan-European May 1968 protests, of which we might want to consider including ETA as well. This debate was bought up two months later in the pages of Cuadernos in an issue dedicated to the May Revolution of 1968 in an article by Carlos Santamaría Ansa, translated as ‘Today’s Pacifist Crisis and the Theology of Revolution’.64 Articles such as Santamaría’s force historians to consider these debates not just in a Spanish context, or even just a European context, but in a broader international context. Implicitly, Santamaría asks readers to consider how to deal with the ‘Franco problem’ by reflecting the work of Martin Luther King, Jr. in his discussion of

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May 1968, asking readers what was the most effective way to combat oppression, whether to follow King’s pacifist example or not. The article celebrates Martin Luther King, Jr., citing the civil rights activist’s practice of involving university students in his peaceful struggle, and praises the work of those university students and recent graduates who collaborated to produce Cuadernos for taking the ‘non-violent’ route. This was a message that would have surely resonated with university students. The attention paid to the American discourse not only is reflective of Spanish frustrations with the régime, but also more importantly demonstrates an apertura to Spanish democratic ideals, understood and coded through a discourse of internal struggles from within the American empire. Young Spaniards were asking themselves whether or not to change the system from the inside-out, desiring to change the culture of Spain – a question not unlike that of many young Americans and Europeans of the period. As seen with the Soviet Revolutions of 1989, and even the more recent Arab Spring of 2011, close attention must be paid to how new spaces of dissent emerge. In hindsight, we now know that in the wake of Franco’s death, a new youth culture influenced by American and European popular culture did indeed emerge. Young Spaniards not only critiqued the penetration of American hegemony, but also began to use it to their advantage. The articles published in Cuadernos show that young Spaniards were interested in democracy, but were dubious of the American democratic-capitalist model. Even despite this hesitation, young Spaniards still found inspiration in some of the American discourse. The debates found in Cuadernos not only functioned to show how Spain more broadly fits into the international social movements of the 1960s, but demonstrates why scholars must look earlier for the beginnings of the transition to democracy in Spain and the role of young people in imagining Spanish democracy.

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Clashing with Fascism

The carnivalesque in Franco’s Spain In the aftermath of the Spanish Civil War in 1939, Francisco Franco’s newly installed dictatorship banned the centuries-old tradition of carnival, the oftendebaucherous period leading up to the Catholic tradition of Lent, a six-week period of fasting and reflection in preparation for the Easter celebration. During the carnival festival, Spaniards from the largest cities to the smallest pueblos drank, danced and subverted social norms in preparation for the solemn holiday. The carnival allowed people to ‘let out steam’ before having to undergo the restrictions of the Lenten season. However, as a result of the nearly three decades of suppression, by 1965, as noted anthropologist Julio Caro Baroja declared contemporarily, the carnival celebration was essentially dead in Spain; Caro Baroja saw no hope for revival.1 However, by the end of the 1970s, an emerging punk culture erupted into postmodern carnivalesque expression, creating an antiauthoritarian punk culture in Spain. Inspired by international youth counterculture movements, young people produced underground comic books, zines and other small-batch publications. These publications allowed young Spaniards to imagine alternatives to the National-Catholic dictatorship, teaching them how to subvert the Francoist régime through producing, distributing and reading punk comics – participating in the revitalization of the Spanish public sphere. Before the ban, carnival participants would sing satirical songs (coplas) that critiqued politics, religion and the government. Women and men dressed in costumes that played with sexual and gender norms, often cross-dressing. Most costumes were homemade, and often reflected a sort of ‘patchwork grotesque’

The chapter is adapted from an essay in The Punk Aesthetic in Comics © Edited by Christopher B. Field, Keegan Lannon, Michael David MacBride and Christopher C. Douglas by permission of McFarland & Company, Inc., Box 611, Jefferson NC 28640. http://www. mcfarlandpub.com.

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quality to them in a way that celebrated a community’s descent into debauchery. Acts of transgression against authority that would have garnered scorn, or even arrest, under the dictatorship were allowed during pre-war carnival.2 While the ban did not take full effect until after the war, Franco had instituted the prohibition of the celebration in Cádiz and Seville as early as 1937, fearing that the opposition could use the costumes as anonymous disguise for retaliation.3 The fact that the carnival’s transgressive nature was even a consideration in the midst of a civil war is indicative of the societal significance of the celebration. These largely effective prohibitions lasted until the late 1960s, and even later in some parts of Spain. While Franco’s suspension of the carnival might have reflected a very real tactical fear on the part of the Caudillo, the carnival was also dangerous to conservative, Catholic traditionalism for other reasons as well. The carnival represented a time/space, or what Russian theorist Mikhail Bakhtin calls a ‘chronotope’, where sexuality and politics became obviously fluid; people of all ages would dress in costumes that allowed them to imagine and act out alternatives to what was heteronormative. Bakhtin argues: Carnival is not a spectacle seen by the people; they live in it, and everyone participates because its very idea embraces all the people. While carnival lasts, there is no other life outside it. During carnival time life is subject only to its laws, that is, the laws of its own freedom.4

In dressing up the participants could embody and perform the personas they assumed. In the time/space of carnival all people were accepted. If Bakhtin’s claim that during carnival life is only subject to its own laws of freedom, is correct, then the ‘carnivalesque’ is a time/space were diversity and pluralism is not only accepted, but also expected. While by the early 1970s local carnival celebrations had returned to much of Spain, it was only with much regulation and bureaucratization when compared to the carnivals of old. Moreover, those later Spanish carnival festivals, like many other traditions, became integrated into capitalism through Spain’s tourism industry, further watering down the Dionysian aspect of the celebration.5 Like the pre–civil war tertulias, the carnival of Franco’s Spain had become tamed and stagnated because of censorship. As Spain recovered from the war, disposable income increased, the country became more industrialized and public education became more standardized – contributing to the improvement in the standard of living. Spain’s apertura, or opening, to the rest of Europe and the United States was brought forth, in part, by the Acuerdos de Madrid in 1953, which established Spain as an ally to the United States against the Soviet Union, Spain’s induction into the United Nations in 1955,

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and the régime’s Plan de Estabilización de 1959. Out of financial and political necessity for survival, the 1950s administratively demonstrated a rejection of what was the early Francoist national syndicalist economic system. By rejecting an economic system that had been largely inspired by German and Italian fascist models, by the 1960s, Franco’s government was referring to itself as more of a Catholic state than a fascist state, opening up commercial (read: capitalist) opportunities, while still enforcing what were normative fascist constructions of gender, class and nationalism. That said, although the régime might have left behind the explicit use of the word ‘fascist’ to characterize itself, the symbols of fascism continued to be in use, as did many of the fascist education policies helmed by Pilar Primo de Rivera. Moreover, while the censorship process would seemingly become reduced in the mid-1960s, there were plenty of cases of selfcensorship and explicit censorship when it came to youth publications.

Spain’s ‘coming out’ party In Spain, as in other industrialized, late capitalist societies where a five-day workweek has been won, the weekend has developed into a sort of carnivalesque escape valve of the capitalist system. With the ‘boom’ of the 1960s, or what has been rather dramatically popularly termed ‘the Spanish miracle’, young people had more free time than in the past. The weekend became a time and space of play. Moreover, like in many postwar European countries, increasingly more young, working and middle class Spaniards had disposable income to spend during the weekend. For some, especially the young, the weekend marks a period where social norms can be inverted. During the weekend, people are allowed to not be productive – to go on walks without destination, to stay up late, to do nothing. This was especially true in Spain in the era, where shops closing on Sundays was the norm even in large cities. People ‘dress-up’ to ‘go out’. For those who do leave their homes, the streets, restaurants, cafés and bars become a stage on which young people perform, part of what literary scholar Judith Butler would call a form of public ‘performativity’. The weekend represents play – an inversion and interruption of the normal workweek. The weekend exists as a privileged space reserved for those who do not have to work (or choose to take time off). In Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity, Judith Butler develops not only a working theory of how gender is ‘performed’, but also argues that gender is not something with which one is innately born, but, rather, is socially

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constructed.6 Butler argues that if historians such as Michel Foucault understand ‘madness’ as a societal construct, then so, too, can we consider ‘gender’ to be a construct that varies upon time and space. Gender expressions, and the way we interpret them, whether individually or societally, are constantly in movement and never static. To build upon these theorists, a carnivalesque chronotope, or a Bacchanalian time/place, exists when social norms are inverted, where ‘madness’ can be accepted – drinking, drugs and the breaking of social taboos becomes the new norm. The carnivalesque time/space becomes the temporary place where subversive behaviour is performed, although perhaps for only a limited time. These ‘carnivalesque chronotopes’ allow for people to perform transgression – and even demand transgression in the act of being present in the carnivalesque time/space. Not unlike digital spaces of the twenty-first century where people could assume new anonymous identities cloaked by a screen name, the mask of carnival allowed for people to do the same – inventing a new persona. The weekend, the ‘Friday night out’, comes to function similarly to the carnival of old in late modernity – it gives a release, and prepares people to go back to work (or school) the following Monday. The weekend gives people a break from toil, and simultaneously reinforces capitalist productivity. As the Franco dictatorship entered a more transnational, capitalist-driven economy by the 1970s, the creation of carnivalesque spaces provided people a space where they could relax from the previous workweek, but it also gave them a place where they could transgress the strict National-Catholic societal norms of the dictatorship. Young people in particular were able to enjoy the freedom that the weekend brought them. In the years just before the Franco’s death in 1975, young madrileños began to create an underground scene that challenged Spanish normativity vis-à-vis creative expression, clandestine gatherings, explicit comic books, street drinking, sex, drugs and punk rock – resurrecting a sort of ‘carnivalesque’ culture in what became known as the Movida Madrileña, or Madrid Scene. While punk culture is often associated with antiauthoritarian tendencies, the Spanish case provides a unique example in which a quasi-fascist, and certainly authoritarian, régime was pitted against early subversive punk tendencies. Aesthetically resembling the child of punk and Warholian pop, this underground Spanish youth culture drew influences from Patti Smith, Pablo Picasso, Joan Miró, Woody Allen, the Clash, the Ramones, Arthur Rimbaud, Joy Division and Robert Crumb, to name a few. By the mid-1970s, Madrid had begun its transformation into a Dionysian party scene. ‘La nueva ola española’ (Spanish New Wave), the underground scene that became known as la Movida, was a hybrid youth culture composed of Spanish

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youth culture of the mid-1970s that drew from the New York Underground, British punk, Barcelonese hippie culture (known as el Rrollo) and native Spanish traditions – reminiscent of the bricolage punk style described by Dick Hebdige in his Subculture: The Meaning of Style, the classic anthropological study of first wave punk in Britain.7 The ways that young punks presented themselves in dress, taste and actions, their ‘punk performativity’ as it were, whether in Spain or London, allowed for the participants of such subculture to break from ‘traditional’ norms. Elsewhere, Hebdige has described youth culture, and the teenager (what the Spanish would call adolescente), as a ‘permanent wedge between childhood and adulthood’. Hebdige writes: The wedge means money. The invention of the teenager is intimately bound up with the creation of the youth market. Eventually a new range of commodities and commercial leisure facilities are provided to absorb the surplus cash which for the first time working-class youth is calculated to have at its disposal to spend on itself and to provide a space within which youth can construct its own immaculate identities untouched by the soiled and compromised imaginaries of parent culture.8

In the Spanish case, not only did this wedge between childhood and adulthood represent a gap between the working class and the wealthy, but from the strictly traditional and the non-conformist – bridging questions of education, nation, gender, as well as class. Spanish New Wave, and the youth culture surrounding it, functioned to both separate young people from the previous generation and create a new space for what would become a youth-based consumer culture by the early 1980s. The global popularity of punk culture allowed for young people to both consume antiauthoritarian culture, to produce their own local variations of that global culture, and participate in global capitalism. The associations and intersections with marginal and working class culture and the Madrid Scene created a generation of young people that saw a way of selfidentification that existed outside of class and gender norms, and, at times, even ethnic divisions – especially in markets frequented by Gitanos, or Spain’s Roma population. Coming from working class, middle class and élite backgrounds, most of the participants of the Movida had experienced some sort of repression by the conservative, authoritarian régime – especially women and queer people, but also those who shared leftist leanings. In response to this repression, Spanish punk subculture exhumed a suppressed carnivalesque tradition by merging it with global antiauthoritarian punk culture, functioning to transgress rigid societal norms in Franco’s Spain. In effect, young Spaniards created a

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postmodern variation to the traditional carnival, borrowing their aesthetic from a popular global punk youth culture to express their rejection of Francoism. Unlike the annual carnivals of old, which lasted just a week, the Movida acted as a recurrent weekend discharge for decades of pent-up suppression.

Spanish punk, carnivalesque and the grotesque Despite the fact that punk culture found its origins somewhere between the working class and immigrant neighbourhoods of London and the marginal corners of New York’s Greenwich Village, the punk movement quickly spread to Spain as a result of: young élite Spaniards travels abroad; newer, more affordable, methods of mechanical reproduction; a desire to replicate the libertine spirit found in pluralistic countercultural scenes abroad and the visual and sonic appeal of a popular (and vulgar) youth culture that was somehow both cacophonic and aesthetically pleasing. This understanding of how the bourgeoisie can both appropriate and define itself against carnivalesque ‘filth’ is important to consider in order to understand how ‘punk rock’ in Spain developed as an intersection between bourgeois and working class youth cultures. In the case of the Movida, marginal culture came to represent a rejection of National-Catholicism and the Franco régime, appealing across class boundaries. Young people in Spain, not too dissimilarly to their British and American counterparts, embraced global punk culture precisely because it offended traditional National-Catholic sensibilities with its vulgarity. Spanish punk culture’s connection to filth was evident in the early translations of ‘punk’ as ‘rock macarra’ – macarra being an often-derogatory term used to describe vulgar, low culture often associated with marginal(ized) people by the élite. In fact, Diego Manrique’s (b. 1950) punk ‘how-to’ guide from 1977, De qué va el rock macarra [All About Punk Rock], explicitly emphasizes the use of macarra as a translation for ‘punk’ while simultaneously using a circular ‘punk rock’ sticker on the cover.9 The stylized purple, black, white and red spotcoloured cover features a quartet of male punk rockers. One is wearing a skimpy tank top exposing his stomach – grabbing his crotch. Two more figures play guitar, while another kneels forward, breaking the fourth wall, showing the viewer what appears to be a sparkling ring, with a sort of queer smirk across his face. The book’s title is spray-painted in red on the wall of a nameless street directly in the background. While the image is indeed vulgar, it also is stylized

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in a way that would have been immediately readable as ‘punk’ by any participant of the global punk scene. These Spanish punks represented their culture as low culture, as filthy, vulgar, global and disruptive to Francoist constructions of gender, sexuality, class and nationalism – in other words, carnivalesque. The first page of De qué va el rock macarra features an extended quote from Herman Hesse’s Steppenwolf (1927) lauding the place of popular music and dance; the next page is followed by a full-page photo of a nearly nude woman with a cigarette in her hand, an ‘Iggy Pop’ sign covering her genitals and almost fully exposed breasts. Holding a contrapposto pose, classically attributed to men, she looks directly at the camera, knowingly, with a cigarette in hand. The third page includes an etymology of the word ‘punk’ referencing Shakespeare. The text leads the reader through introductions to American and British protopunk and punk acts such as Iggy Pop, the Ramones, MC5, Patti Smith and the Clash, amongst others. The guide evokes a taste for vulgarity, presenting some of the most outrageous myths of the punk musicians. After an extensive primer to the broader world of punk, four short pages lay out the beginnings of the Spanish punk scene. Manrique accredited the cultural-political magazine Triunfo for his interest in in music and journalism. He also cited the works of Manuel Vázquez Montalbán as a particular inspiration, an author published in Cuadernos para el diálogo in the 1960s. Manrique got his start as a young music critic after having sent Triunfo a letter critiquing them for what he saw as a poorly written article written about California hippie culture. The magazine responded with a challenge, ‘if you think you can do it better, send us an article’. Eventually writing more than 150 articles for the magazine, Manrique searched new music not available in Spain by making trips to Bayonne, France, Andorra and even London and New York.10 Young people, like Manrique, made global youth culture not only understandable to Spaniards, but helped make that material accessible. Moreover, he exemplified how a consumer of the material could become an arbiter and could help to subvert the dictatorship by bringing in socially taboo or banned material which in turn allowed young people to learn new tropes, characters and ways of being that clashed with fascistic ideals.

Reviving identity, counterpublics and community The emergence of the Movida engendered a period of tension between the old guard of the régime and a new generation of young people who had no memory

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of the Spanish Civil War – a generation that looked towards both Spanish pluralistic traditions of old and to a budding global youth culture, embodied by punk. To understand the underground scene of the late/post-Franco years, we can look at the Spanish punk comic books of the 1970s, as well as the role of those comics, and other youth produced publications of the Movida. First, it is helpful to look at the spaces in which those comics circulated and how they were distributed. The Movida represented a shift in what was accepted as normative expression of gender and sexuality – particularly dangerous to a strictly patriarchal régime. Moreover, the Movida sustained nearly a decade of sexually transgressive behaviour as young Spaniards revived the moribund tradition of subverting authority through carnivalesque performance – all once common in Spanish carnivals. Like in carnival of old, cross-dressing, public nudity, partying and drug-induced celebration fuelled the Movida Madrileña. While Movida is often translated as ‘movement’, I use the alternate translation of ‘scene’, as Movida implies a (re)appropriation of physical places to create interconnected spaces for ‘happenings’, i.e. concerts, drugs, parties, art exhibits or even street drinking. As such, any of these ‘happenings’ might become ‘carnivalesque counterpublics’ where a carnivalesque inversion of the hegemonic public sphere can take place.11 The carnivalesque scene (made up of these counterpublics) intersects with, operates parallel to and acts against the hegemonic public sphere. A ‘scene’ further implies mobility, ephemerality, interconnectedness and commonality in the spaces and places that make up the scene. For example, a young Spaniard of the period would ask, ‘Where is the movida tonight’? While initially this phrasing was associated with drugs, it also came to also signify ‘Where is the party tonight’? Both ‘scenes’ and ‘stages’ connote performance in the public sphere. While an underground scene implies that it is not exclusively private, such a scene is not necessarily centred in a fixed public space – it moves, and its arteries are the streets between its ephemeral places. Citing Henri Lefebvre, Michael Sheringham argues, ‘the street is a stage that produces events: political, sociological, and psychological. Blurring the line between public and private space, it “publishes,” according to Lefebvre, what is otherwise hidden away, producing a collective “social text” ’.12 Similar to other punk cultures, the Movida was not a cohesive social or political movement – although it certainly had many social and political implications. In many ways, the Movida represented an aesthetic of dissent against normative culture, always moving and changing.

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The extension of this transgressive and postmodern youth culture throughout Spain not only subverted Franco’s régime, but it also exemplified the ways young people adopted new technologies to spread their pluralistic message through new and adapted media. By the time Franco died, not only were young subversives already creating their own newspapers, fanzines, films and comic books that implicitly, if not outright, criticized the régime, but their underground culture also had a following that grew exponentially by the time the Spanish Constitution of 1978 was ratified. By creating and consuming material such as transgressive comic books, that depicted drugs, sex and vulgarity, young Spaniards were able to imagine what the world might look like without the oppressive chains of an authoritarian régime. By the end of the 1970s, young people were partying in the streets – making real a carnivalesque culture that subverted the ideals of the conservative régime through a culture of drugs, sex, drinking and art performed in the streets of Madrid. These young Spaniards had begun to act out the scenes previously only imagined in the pages of zines and comics from imported American comics and those self-produced in Spain. Before punks could create their scene, they had to first imagine it. The images in underground comics not only allowed young people to envision what an antiauthoritarian culture might look like, but those counter-normative images gave young people a language and aesthetic with which to identify. From (re) appropriated spaces, participants create a language of their own, creating what Benedict Anderson calls an ‘imagined community’.13 This language is seen in the production of slang terminology and a visual and auditory aesthetic or style that is read by participants. A carnivalesque scene is constructed of spaces where normative social roles can be subverted. Punk comic books allowed young Spaniards to adopt an aesthetic of transgression against the dictatorship – appropriating dress, attitude and scene from the New York Underground and British punks. While often the English-language lyrics to the punk songs might have escaped most young Spaniards, the style and the affectual nature of punk culture certainly came through. The subversive, confrontational message was clear.

Networking the underground, imagining carnivalesque spaces By the 1970s, with over a decade of experience trading and distributing banned material under the dictatorship (such as foreign Superman comic books), many young people had grown up subverting authorities as a de facto part of

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their everyday life. In fact, in the last years of Franco’s régime, fewer and fewer young people even bothered to submit their publications for censorship as they had learnt tactics to avoid suppression and harsh repercussions by using their own social networks to distribute and transmit countercultural comics, music, films and books.14 The Movida represented a ‘subversive horizontal network’ composed of counterpublics, nodes that created an underground network that undermined Francoist National-Catholicism, bureaucratic and legal structures, developing into the Madrid Scene. This network facilitated the production and distribution of the underground comic books of the 1970s; these comics were produced in three important ways. Firstly, comics of higher quality were often published by independent, small presses (often organized by collectives) that would send those comics to various local printers for publication – these works were often more experimental and transgressive. While many comics initially were produced in small numbers, many ‘pirated’ editions were often reproduced cheaply by photocopy machines. Secondly, they were found in comic anthology magazines which were composed of both imported, translated comic books from the New York Underground (often without accreditation) in conjunction with comics produced by young people across Spain. Many of the Spanish writers and artists of these anthology magazines, most prominently Star, El Víbora, Totem and the later Madriz, were also featured in more generalized youth-oriented magazines such as La Luna de Madrid (The Moon of Madrid), arguably the most prominent publication of the later, more commercially successful, Movida. Lastly, comics were also often found in the dozens of cheaply produced, photocopied fanzines – which varied in theme and content, but often focused on music, comics and other popular culture in Spain and abroad. Distribution of these comics bordered between formal and informal spaces. Some comics and fanzines were sold at locally owned record stores and bookstores; others were sold by hand at bars and clubs. In fact, many of the surviving circulating editions even include the bookstores, bars and clubs listed inside where they could be found. Many were traded amongst friends or cheaply photocopied using Xerox machines. Much like the early printing press, pamphlets and cheaper printing technology allowed people to imagine themselves as members of an underground community. As described by Benedict Anderson in his Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, these zines and Do-ItYourself comics allowed members of the punk community to ‘imagine’ a broader community of subversives to which they belonged. In fact, punks in Spain were reading translations of the same punk comics as those in New York,

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and were able to see themselves as part of a larger global youth culture. Comics were particularly important because of their inherent visual nature; they allowed young people to imagine (and create) spaces and an aesthetic, or style, that stood counter to Francoist authoritarianism. The aesthetic and alluring images and stories found in underground comics worked to counter the aesthetic and appealing nature of fascist tendencies found in National-Catholicism. Drawing from these images from punk cultures abroad, young Spaniards turned everyday spaces into places from which they could act out agency. They were able to create an expanding scene (or network) of interconnected people and ideas (seen in the cultural production of comics, music, fashion, poetry, etc.) from which a counter-normative public sphere was able to emerge, culminating in rejection of Francoism through a valorization of carnivalesque, punk norms that subverted the régime with intentionality. Whereas a form of political discourse first reappeared in political magazines such as Cuadernos para el diálogo a decade earlier, more transgressive cultural practices took longer to enter the stage (especially those that transgressed normative taste, sexuality and gender roles). In fact, many of these transgressive cultural practices were first prominently represented in these comic books and cheap photocopies. Not only did comics provide printed word, but they lent themselves to allow for Spaniards to visually imagine alternatives to Franco’s Spain. Even if the participants of the Movida, or punk culture more broadly, had not known every individual person involved in the scene, were they to encounter someone who dressed or spoke the same language they did, they could recognize them as part of their community, what Benedict Anderson calls ‘simultaneity’.15 The copy machine, and other more affordable ways to mechanically reproduce texts, like the moveable printing press before it, made for a rapid construction of the punk identity in the imagination of its participants. While Anderson primarily focuses on the construction of national identities, this self-identification, and identification of others within a community, can be used to understand the construction of imagined communities outside of the context of national identity. These comics, zines, songs and ‘happenings’ provided a language and aesthetic style that helped to construct the boundaries of an ‘imagined community’ with which antiauthoritarian Spanish youth of the 1970s could identify; it even gave them a word to describe themselves – punk. The visual and aesthetic nature of the Movida cultivated a culture that rejected traditional National-Catholic values through the propagation of a recognizable aesthetic that communicated rebellion and counter-normativity. While a counterpublic scene can be considered in terms of its aesthetic, it is also helpful

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to consider the ways that an aesthetic represents the intersections of often vastly differing styles, language and art. The places where a counterpublic scene is set, its physical location, is just as important as what might be read as a ‘superficial’ aesthetic. Visual culture provides a map of aesthetic cues and language for those who participate in the scene to speak a recognizable language that allows for them to place ideas, predispositions and ideological values with a word or image. Not only was punk media, in the broadest sense of the term, produced and distributed by young people, but it also took advantage of new technologies that allowed for them to produce media that was both affordable and easily distributed. Moreover, photocopied comics and zines permitted young people to self-publish material, making state censorship more difficult. While in a limited sense these comics were affected by a capitalist system (Xerox was, after all, a large international company), photocopied comics such as Nazario’s La Piraña Divina (1975), or The Divine Piranha, were often printed and sold at the lowest cost possible, using cheap paper and printing, and most often without the pretention of financial gain beyond being able to cover production costs.16 Nazario assumed his comic would never get past censors – publishing a limited edition of 300. Nevertheless, the comic soon appeared as a pirated edition of 100 copies in Madrid in June 1976 – sold in Madrid’s street market, the Rastro, by the collective ‘Cascorro Factory’, composed of photographer Alberto García-Alix and visual artist ‘Ceesepe’.17 The presence of countercultural texts in the Rastro, because of the street market’s historical ties to Roma culture, is significant as it places the subculture at the margins of hegemonic Spanish society and of commerce. A more polished, professionally printed version of the comic was published by Star in 1976, and another edition of the largely wordless La Piraña Divina was even published and circulated in the Netherlands in 1977.18 By reading, photocopying and passing along these comics, European punks were able to develop a language, style and culture for themselves that stood in opposition to authority. Unlike hierarchies, or vertical systems of power, subversive horizontal networks function like nodes in a graph, bouncing through a hierarchical structure that is slow to move and adapt to new ways of subverting said structure. That is to say, the rigid structures of the dictatorship were ill prepared to deal with the new ways young people created subversive spaces. While not all these nodes (or carnivalesque counterpublic spaces) connected, they were still traceable and operated from spaces where state power was absent. When left alone, somewhat hidden from hegemonic power, these nodes acted as counterpublics from which hegemonic structures were subverted – using

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what Michel de Certeau might call ‘tactics’ of subversion.19 When a significant number of these counterpublics are connected, hegemonic power structures can be subverted, forcing power structures to change or adapt. In a post-structural world, even the hegemonic structures we imagine are composed of networks that are constantly ‘re-assembling’ and competing with each other – constantly constructing what we might imagine to be unmoving structures if we look only in our immediate context. To this end, Bruno Latour extensively discusses the role of actors in understanding these networks in his Reassembling the Social: A good [actor-network theory] account is a narrative or description or a proposition where all the actors do something and don’t just sit there. Instead of simply transporting effects without transforming them, each of the points in the text may become a bifurcation, an event, or the origin of a new translation. As soon as actors are treated not as intermediaries but as mediators, they render the movement of the social visible to the reader.20

Not without controversy, Latour reads agency as something that can belong to both humans and non-human actors so as to understand the ways that material culture affect humans and vice versa. For Latour, publications of the Movida have to be considered actors as well, as long as they are doing something – affecting change. The photocopied pirated print of La Piraña Divina travelled using social networks, and was affected and acted upon by people reading, copying and distributing their own versions of the text. Each photocopy became a ‘bifurcation’. That said, those people who are sharing La Piraña Divina and reproducing the work are also acting with agency. The comics and zines of the Movida produced an alternate model and created a style and aesthetic that allowed for those participants to identify each other – appropriating the antiauthoritarian, punk aesthetic for themselves. These carnivalesque scenes subverted social norms and authority, presenting a stage (or scene) for what amounts to an inversion of acceptable behaviour. However, can ‘the carnivalesque’, in fact, produce social change? Can these seemingly disparate carnivalesque tactics against dominant culture affect change if continually, publicly and consistently acted out over time?

What was el Rrollo? Understanding the formation of an underground culture that emerged under Franco’s régime sheds light on a palpable shift from National-Catholic culture

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to the popularization of a transgressive and carnivalesque culture where fascist constructions of Spanishness, patriarchy and heteronormativity were not only subverted, but also ultimately transformed. While the carnivalesque nature of the Movida certainly became more visible during the years after Franco’s death, by looking at the cultural production of young people during the first half of the 1970s, we can see a burgeoning youth culture that was actively attempting to deconstruct normative views on gender roles, Spanish identity and power relationships through the depiction of counter-normative ideologies transmitted through punk comics, zines, music and film. Madrid’s punk Movida owed a debt to the post-hippie/pre-punk culture of Barcelona’s own underground subculture, el Rrollo, which cultivated an underground comic book culture that eventually spread across Spain. The culture of el Rrollo, which overlapped with the nueva ola española (Spanish New Wave), and most famously acted as a tributary into the Movida Madrileña, recognized the rejection of normative behaviour, and was rooted in a consciously marginalized position (implying that this marginalization was a choice and demonstrative of agency). Despite a desire to separate these movements into chronological categories, it perhaps is more fruitful to consider them as intricately connected to not just each other, but to the emerging global underground and punk culture as a whole – waves and currents connected by streams that crossed the Atlantic. The messiness of global cultures, and their various appellations, reflect the chaotic and ephemeral nature of the Spain’s underground scene(s). Still, we can glean insight from terminologies and colloquial slang that arose to describe underground culture. For example, ‘Rrollo’ can be translated as a state of being high on drugs, being part of an alternative culture, a way to describe an atmosphere or as being of good or bad humour. In Jesús Ordovás’ 1977 work, De qué va el rrollo [All about el Rrollo], the author describes the mythological origins of the underground culture as such: El Rrollo was born on a nice day in the corner of some bar or café in Andalucía, Barcelona, Madrid or Amsterdam. Nobody knows exactly who or whom first used that term. What is certain is that at first it was a synonym for chocolate, mandanga, marihuana, yerba, cosa, goma, María and, of course, people started with ‘le daban a la mandanga’ [he smokes pot], or that is to say, they take a ‘rrollo’ [trip]. The next day, by extension, ‘tener buen rrollo’ or ‘mal rrollo’ came to mean ‘tener buen material’ o ‘mal material’, to have a good rrollo or bad rrollo. That is to say, to reject official culture, authority, established society, the alienating labor system, what was overall understood as ‘dándole al rrollo’ [to toke up] one could

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situated themselves at the margin of society … Giving oneself to el rrollo (fumar yerba) was then an affirmation of life, of the individual, an act of rebellion and disconformity, like letting oneself grow out their hair or throw their tie in the trash.21

Ordovás understood el Rrollo as atmosphere, drug culture and a way of being. He roots this counterculture in the explosion of underground culture in the United States, citing Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and Bob Dylan – who he describes as ‘rebels without cause’.22 The underground scene Ordovás describes is both displaced and comfortable in its rejection of strict categories. This rejection of categorization both functions to challenge the homogeneity associated with fascist tendencies and in doing so potentially enflames the cyst that is fascism, threatening rupture. Although describing different names for marijuana, the reader still would have known to which drug culture Ordovás refers. ‘El Rrollo’, ‘la nueva ola española’, and la Movida all are referring to a rejection of the status quo and authority, while still referring to a culture of sex, drugs and alcohol. Ordovás continues, ‘Rock music, Comix, the alternative and underground press and the street turned into areas of experimentation and the laboratory of thousands of ideas that affirmed and cast aside conformity’.23,24 Music, comic books and the underground press, for Ordovás, were forms in which the underground scene can manifest itself – ways in which the subculture can be reproduced and shared. One particularly early example of the manifestation of Spanish-produced comics reflecting the underground scene was found in a brightly painted pink and purple comic El Rrollo Enmascarado – which acted to announce the arrival of the global underground scene to Spain. In October 1973, two years before Franco’s death, 1,000 copies of the comic El Rrollo Enmascarado, or The Masked Rrollo, were published (Figure 6.1).25 The first comic of the Spanish Underground, El Rrollo Enmascarado was both named after the movement and helped solidify the appellation popularly. The use of the word Enmascarado implied both the hidden nature of the movement and its connection to drugs, but also suggested that the ‘masked’, or hidden, culture was something that could be discovered. Inspired in style and content by the work of Robert Crumb and the New York Underground, El Rrollo Enmascarado presented historietas groseras – gross tales of humour, sex, drugs and partying. One story included in El Rrollo Enmascarado offers a subtle critique of the homophobia ubiquitous in Spanish society. The untitled two-page comic strip, dated 1973, features a man being followed by strangers through the streets of an unnamed city. The protagonist’s

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Figure 6.1 Cover indicating intended audience as both ‘select’ and ‘adult progressives’. Also prominently featured on the cover of the comic, the creators released copyright for ‘total or partial reproduction of the comic’. Miguel Farriol Vida, ed., El Rrollo Enmascarado (Barcelona: El Rrollo Producciones, 1973).

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internal dialogue reads: ‘I have to be careful. They say the city is full of them./ Oh, no! Here’s one!/Maybe he won’t see me./He’s looking at me with a fixed stare. He is coming closer!’ The unnamed protagonist finds himself face to face with a man that looks to be holding something in his hands, between his legs; the naïve protagonist shoots off running. The nameless protagonist reaches a dead end, and finds himself surrounded by three men – trying to sell him lottery tickets so they can pay for an end-of-semester holiday. The comic, while playing on a fear of homosexuality, suggests to the reader that one should be more afraid of salesmen’s (read: capitalists’) shenanigans than those of queer men. Other stories in the anthology include party scenes, and crudely drawn young people drinking in parties – often lacking any sort of cogent narrative. El Rrollo Enmascarado glorified sexcapades, and successfully pushed the envelope of normative taste. While many of these stories would hardly be considered feminist, any expression of a libertine sexuality was transgressive. Only once sexuality was freely exhibited could a conversation about the role of women and feminism begin in earnest. The publication history and lasting impact of El Rrollo Enmascarado demonstrates how censorship had changed since the 1960s. By the time of the comic’s 1973 publication, citizens had the ‘option’ to submit works to censors not as a requirement per se, but in order to prevent possible charges were a magazine/book/album/film deemed dangerous upon publication. While censorship was not obligatory, the censorship offices were still quite active, and self-censorship was certainly common. Two of the artists behind El Rrollo Enmascarado, Javier Mariscal and Nazario Luque Vera (from Valencia and Seville, respectively), had met at a local Barcelona bar called ‘London’. Soon after, Mariscal and Luque Vera (who used the artistic name ‘Nazario’) met the two brothers ‘Farry’ and ‘Pepichek’ (Miquel and Josep Farriol). After several weeks of working together in Mariscal’s home, the four artists decided to rent a flat together, creating a sort of collective.26 Upon finishing their first comic, the artists decided to submit the publication to Francoist censors for approval. To play it safe, the collective claimed that only 300 copies were printed – although 1,000 copies were actually produced. Without delay, authorities confiscated the 300 issues, and charged the writers and artists with ‘public scandal’ and ‘immorality’ for the ‘depraved’ images and scatological content found in the comic. Despite the charges, the authors still clandestinely sold the work.27 La Piraña Divina, Nazario’s 1975 comic, was similarly published as a small run later, indicating hesitation (and perhaps economic restraints) on the part of the author still in 1975.

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The grotesque comics, which indeed were quite pornographic when compared to puerile superhero comics such as the banned Superman comics mentioned in earlier chapters, made headway as restrictions were challenged and lifted. At trial in Barcelona, the young men, somewhat surprisingly, were found innocent of the crimes on the claim that they had no malicious intent. Even though the comics were drawn and produced by the collective, and despite the fact that the judge recognized the comics as ‘depraved’ and ‘immoral’, they were permissible because of a belief that the images were not intended to be so graven – it was just kids being kids. This loosening of state-controlled censorship had, in fact, started in the late 1960s with the passing of new laws that gave more autonomy to publishers, such as the Ley de la Prensa e Imprenta of 1966. While there was a provision in the law that stated children’s books had to undergo censorship, El Rrollo Enmascarado included on its cover three key phrases: ‘Only for select minorities’, ‘Only for progressive adults’ and ‘Total or partial reproduction of this “rrollo” is permitted’.28 In effect, the trial concluded that these ‘adult’ comics were being produced by adolescents who did not know any better. Had the comics been more overtly political in tone, the result of the case might have differed. In fact, scatological and dirty humour already had its place in Barcelonese and Catalan culture. Even the Christmas holidays featured (and continue to feature) traditions such as the Caga tió, an anthropomorphic wooden log that when hit with a stick on Christmas morning gifts children candies and small presents when told to ‘crap’ its presents in song – to say nothing of the caganers, figurines dating back to at least the seventeenth century that are depicted in medias res, squatting to defecate, typically placed in a traditional nativity scene.29,30 As for the images of sexuality, they were also drawn in a sort of grotesque style, heavily evoking the work of New York Underground artist Robert Crumb. Whether the judge intended to do so nor not, the ruling effectively gave the collective, and other young Spaniards, the green light for what would be the first wave of Spanish underground publications. While not everyone would be able to produce high-quality publications such as El Rrollo Enmascarado (insofar as print quality, if not content), by the mid1970s young people would start to produce and distribute fanzines – homemade, photocopied publications that were dedicated to a wide variety of subjects from music, comics and youth culture. Indeed, at least forty-five different fanzines were identified as originating in Madrid in the second half of the 1970s alone.31 Fanzines, as the Anglophone name describes, were ‘fan-magazines’ that found their origins abroad – pamphlets created by a fan community to artists and celebrities of all types. Because of irregular (or non-existent) printing schedules,

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many of these ‘zines’ had runs of as few as one issue, or could span numerous issues over years. While the actual number of publishers is not particularly large, the quantity and readership of zines produced is relatively difficult to discern given the high rate of photocopying and a probable high level of sharing amongst readers. The year 1977 appears to be the year in which the most varieties of independent, new fanzines were introduced (Figure 6.2).32 While difficult to pinpoint causation, it is most likely that the initial proliferation of independent zines was followed by a quick decline as artists and writers (many of whom started in the smaller, independent publications) began to find commercial success in larger magazines, distributing on national scale. Magazines such as Star (1974–1980), El Vibora (1979–2005), La Luna de Madrid (1982–1988), Madrid Me Mata (1984–1985) and Madriz (1984–1987) would quickly take centre stage, producing content that incorporated comics, music and popular culture previously found primarily in underground publications. In 1976 Producciones Editoriales, a Barcelona-based national publisher famous for printing the monthly underground comic magazine, Star, published El comix marginal español, which collected the work of marginal comic book artists and writers across Spain. El comix marginal español worked to define what an underground scene in Spain might look like, and also drew specific connections to a global underground youth culture. Although published in Barcelona, the biographical comic included artists from all over Spain, including many from Madrid. The tome includes references to El Rrollo Enmascarado, Carajillo, La Piraña Divina, amongst other international underground comics.

New Independent Zines Produced by year, 1970–1985 25 20

20 15 10 10 5

5 0 0

10

8

1

4

4 2

0

3

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4 1

1971 1972 1973 1974 1975 1976 1977 1978 1979 1980 1981 1982 1983 1984 1985

Figure 6.2 Source: Kike Babas and Kike Turrón. De espaldas al Kiosco: Guía histórica de fanzines y otros papelujos de alcantarillas. (Madrid: Los Libros del Cuervo, 1996).

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The introduction of this comic not only gives a heavy nod to the American underground comics that influenced the genre, but simultaneously acknowledges those artists’ attempts to use comic books to critique American imperialism. Referring to the United States as Yanquilandia, a not-so-uncommon Spanish jab at the United States, El comix marginal español simultaneously lauds the likes of New York artist Robert Crumb. The United States is not the only target of scorn, as the introduction to the text also critiques the French underground for its elitist tendencies. El comix marginal español praises the hippie movement and decries a consumerist society that is obsessed with consumption, folding 1960s counterculture into Spanish punk culture into its own narrative. The 176-page tome not only gives space to introduce artists and writers in Spain, but also acts to create a ‘Who’s Who’ of young Spanish comic writers. It is an introduction to a Spanish underground and a map of the scene, but heavily favours Barcelona (profiling two dozen artists from that city, six from Madrid and four from elsewhere in Spain). Looking at these profiles, it becomes painfully apparent that this underground comic scene is very masculine, especially when compared to the high readership of comics overall for both boys and girls just a decade earlier. Not one woman is featured in the profiles. In an interview given to El comix marginal español, just before the release of Carajillo, the artist Ceesepe argues, ‘Comix give me the power to draw whatever stories I wish without having to belong to a publisher that enslaves you and tells you that your characters have to smile’.33 When asked if he could define comics and underground press, Ceesepe responds: I would not define it at all, but yes I can tell you some stupidities that the majority of those participants in Star are in debt to the translations of American pencilers [dibujantes]; who did not even know that the magazine existed, meanwhile we have been repressed so not to have problems with censorship; as such, who were the ones that were really fucked? (I don’t want you to include that comment, but it’s what I think).34

While Ceesepe does give credit to the American artists, he concurrently underlines the struggles that an underground in Spain encounters with censorship. Even attempting to censor his own words as he says them. The issue of censorship would eventually be tackled directly in the 1977 comic Historia de la censura, by Manuel Quinto and the artist Esparbé. The comic uses the art form to reopen a dialogue about censorship by outlining a visual and textual history of censorship, starting with ancient Egypt and Greece, moving through the Renaissance, and Modernism, bringing that history to the Franco

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dictatorship.35 Heavy in both text and comic depictions, the work demonstrates that by 1977 not only could a serious dialogue be started about censorship, but that the dialogue was already happening in a genre that primarily targeted young people. Esparbé’s rough lines not only reflected a punk aesthetic, but would have appealed to both audiences that would be interested in a sequential art narrative and a more traditional textual analysis. A more direct attack on censorship came with Vicios Modernos, or ‘Modern Vices’, a black and white comic produced by Ceesepe and Alberto García-Alix between the months of March and May of 1978 – nearly half a year before the Spanish Constitution of 1978 was finalized and ratified. Vicios featured exactly what its title promised: a graphic guide to modern vices such as sex, drugs and partying.36 While the cover features a young punk rocker smoking a joint, a stylized depiction of García-Alix himself, the more explicit scenes within the work show sex, heroin use and drug overdose. Other scenes in the comic show the protagonist dreaming of having sex with a nun, an all-nude female punk group taking a concert stage, masturbation, street drinking and dance. In one celebratory confessional scene, a man claims to have more alcohol than blood in his veins, a woman claims to have more than thirty venereal diseases and a man claims to have sex with ‘momma’s boys’, such as himself.37 An anonymous crowd of attractive people claim to be a lost generation of ‘pimps, whores and faggots’. Unlike previous works discussed in this chapter, the message in this comic is queer and feminist – challenging normative constructions of sexuality. The story disappears into a dreamlike chaos composed of sex and drugs, in an aesthetic style, with its rockabilly hair, spiked hair and heavy leather that distinctly resembles a sort convergence of 1950s Americana mixed with British punk. Depicting carnivalesque party scenes, many of underground comics of the period, like Vicios Modernos, celebrated those taboos that had been long suppressed under the régime. While some of the depictions of women in Vicios Modernos might seemingly overly sexualize women, unlike many works of the period, the message in this comic still challenges normative constructions of sexuality. Images of male nudity and masturbation also graphically appear. While this nudity could be interpreted as a sexualization of women (and men), it acts more so to transgress the boundaries of the public/private spheres. The object becomes not the character, but sex itself. Sex, considered a private act, became a part of a counterpublic scene that aggressively pushed against societal sexual taboos in the public sphere. Depicting carnivalesque party scenes, many of underground comics of the period, like Vicios Modernos, celebrated those taboos that had been

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long suppressed under the régime into the public sphere. Were the comic written in English, the comic could have easily been situated in London or New York. Notably, the drawings in Vicios Modernos are based on García-Alix’s own photography, but were rendered graphically as a psychedelic comic by Ceesepe. Together, the two formed the arts collective ‘Cascorro Factory’, inspired by Andy Warhol’s ‘Factory’, and named after the Madrid plaza of the same name in which they lived, located in the Madrid neighbourhood of La Latina. Stylistically, Vicios Modernos is reminiscent of the New York punk comic ‘The Legend of Nick Detroit’, a comic narrative depicted with photographs by John Holstrom featuring the likes of punk rockers Richard Hell, David Byrne and Debby Harry. While many comics were produced by young Spaniards, most of the punk comics circulating in Spain during the era were not exclusively dedicated to the work of Spaniards. Most underground comics would inevitably have at least one imported British or American comic featured. Despite dictatorship, Spain was far from isolated from British and American punk culture. In fact, Nick Detroit was reprinted and translated in the second issue of the Spanish punk comic series Rock Comix – a semi-regular title that often reprinted American and British punk comics, but also released original content. The translation of Holstrom’s comic appeared in Spain the same year as its original English-language publication, 1976 – although the Spanish comic did not credit its original source, Punk Magazine #6. Each edition of the Spanish Rock Comix was dedicated to a particular artist or music genre, from Frank Zappa, to Lou Reed, to Pink Floyd and ‘Californian rock’, to the Rolling Stones – culling and curating material from the New York Underground. In dialogue with the international underground, the Lou Reed tribute edition cover, by Nazario, was even used as the cover art in Lou Reed’s live album, Take No Prisoners. When the image appeared on Reed’s cover, it was called ‘the scandal of the year’, being that Nazario was uncredited for his work.38 While much of the music featured throughout Rock Comix touched on punk progenitors, such as Patti Smith, only the Nick Detroit issue addresses punk rock specifically. Young Spaniards of the era were seeing photographs of the British punk scenes from which they could draw (in both senses of the word). One example of this, the photographic collection Punk, by Salvador Costa, was published in 1977 by Producciones Editorales (the publisher of El comix marginal español) after Costa had visited London the year before. The work visually brings its reader into the British punk scene with its patchwork, pinned together aesthetic – underlined by a love of filth (featuring a grimy looking WC on its cover). This fixation with filth, a common trope in punk literature and music, challenged

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Figure 6.3 Covers of titles printed by the publisher, La Banda de Moebius. Images courtesy Juan Luis Recio. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

Acción, meditaciones … y muerte de Juan Bravo, by Emilio Sola (1978) Amanecer de plomo, by Javier Sandoval (1976) Apotegmas sobre el marxismo (1978) (Reprinted 1979, featured) Aquel anciano pájaro, by Javier Puebla (1981) Balada de la cárcel de reading by Oscar Wilde (1979) Blindaje, by Javier Sandoval (1978) Cancionero del retorno y la ausencia, by Pablo Virumbrales (1982) Cancionero del vaso, by Pablo Virumbrales (1981) Comunicado urgente contra el despilfarro, by Comuna Antinacionalista Zamorana (1977) Costa de las piedras, by Manuel Castro Gil (El Magnolio) (1979) De los modos de integración del pronunciamiento estudiantil, by Comuna Antinacionalista Zamorana (1979) Documentos Internacional nexialista 1, edited by La Banda de Moebius (1977) El que no ve, by Leopoldo María Panero (1980) Empalador, by Eduardo Haro Ibars (1980) Extraños en el escaparate, by Xaime Noguerol (1978) (Reprinted 1980, featured) Introducción al desborde, by Juan Luis Recio Díaz (1978)

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Figure 6.4 Covers of titles printed by the publisher, continued, La Banda de Moebius. Images courtesy Juan Luis Recio. 17. Irrevocablemente inadaptados: Crónica de una generación crucificada, by Xaime Noguerol (1978) (Reprinted 1980, featured) 18. La Banda de Moebius presenta: algunos poemas de las muy variadas gentes que nuestra busqueda emprendió o que nos hemos ido topando (1977) 19. La Banda de Moebius presenta: Homenaje a John Lennon (coincidiendo con su asesinato). (1981) 20. La mala gana Santos Isidro Seseña (1978) 21. La oración de un escéptico, by Roman Reyes 22. La soledad, el mar, los viajes, la amnistía: Un aniversario y varios muertos, by Emilio Sola (1976) 23. Manifesto de la comuna antinacionalista zamorana 24. Música Moderna, by Fernando Márquez (1981) 25. Nocturno amor y mar, by Javier Villán (1980) 26. Servidumbre sin lumbre, by Jorge Stoetter (1981) 27. Todos los chicos y chicas, by Fernando Márquez (1980) 28. Tres textos: Dos cartas y un discurso, by Sayed Mustafá El-Uali (1978) 29. Vicios Modernos, by Alberto García-Alix and Ceesepe (1979) 30. Vidrios Rotos, by Manuel Carrasco (1977) 31. Walking Blues, by Mariano Soler (1977)

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bourgeois sensibilities and reflected a shift that allowed for the valoration of that which would have been normatively tasteful. Spanish punk comics not only borrowed from other punk sources, but also influenced the broader punk movement by connecting their of brand antiauthoritarian punk to international audiences. Under an authoritarian régime, such as Franco’s, the messages against authority found in punk culture only became more resonant. The mid-1970s represented a noticeable shift towards an explicit appropriation of the punk aesthetic in the Madrid underground scene, away from the hippie aesthetic of ‘el Rrollo’.

Libertad versus fascist youth Cascorro Factory’s comic Vicios Modernos was published by a small collective known as La Banda de Moebius, edited by Javier Rodríguez de Fonseca and Juan Luís Recio. La Banda de Moebius produced dozens of short texts that were both visually drawing from an amalgamation of countercultural aesthetics, often featuring the work of comic artists such as Ceesepe. The publications of La Banda de Moebius were mostly small, portable editions that contained themes that were sometimes political, sometimes literary, often both, and always graphically appealing. Writing everything from poetic tributes to John Lennon at the time of his death to communist manifestos and treatises on contemporary Middle Eastern politics, La Banda de Moebius produced a remarkable thirtyone titles between 1976 and 1982. According to an interview I conducted with the editors of Vicios Modernos, who themselves were in their 20s at the time of its publication, the texts were distributed in cafés, bars, universities and, unsurprisingly, in the famous Madrid street market, El Rastro. The street market was the home of an extensive underground comic and fanzine publication scene that ran largely under-regulated on Sunday mornings in the working class neighbourhood, La Latina.39 Ceesepe, García-Alix, Rodríguez de Fonseca and Recio often met and collaborated in such a place where such ‘modern vices’ were well practised, a bar called La Vaquería, poetically located on a street named ‘Libertad’, or ‘Liberty’, in what is now Madrid’s centrally located gay neighbourhood, Chueca. In places such as the Vaquería, which opened in 1974, groups of young people experimented with art, music, poetry, literature, sex and debauchery. The dirt-floored locale was even featured in the underground comic Carajillo, a 1975 comic published in Madrid, which depicted it as a place to find libertine

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thinkers.40 While a seemingly ordinary locale from the outside, the bar became one of the first homes to Madrid’s underground scene; from those winding streets in Madrid’s city centre, the Madrid punk scene soon hit its stride. In effect, such counterpublics provided a stage from which to experiment with ideas of pluralism and libertine tendencies. At the time, bar co-founder Emilio Sola was a young history professor at the Universidad de Madrid, an aspiring poet, an anti-colonialism activist and self-described progre – a progressive – Sola imbibed libertine ideals. According to Sola’s diary from the period, even in the first months after opening, the bar was taking in a remarkable 10,000 pesetas each night in sales.41 In my interview with Sola, he described the bar as eclectically decorated with Moroccan blankets and comic caricatures of the clientele. La Vaquería was frequented by professors, students, poets and youth. Running as a sort of ‘collective bar’, active participants in the scene could even buy shares of the bar, giving them discounted (if not free) drinks. While difficult to place the first countercultural space in Madrid, the Vaquería was one of the first such spaces where the carnivalesque groserías, sex and libertine thinking could find a home. Such counterpublics helped create a stage to experiment with the freedom that participants did not yet have outside those limited places. By the spring of 1975, Sola was living in a large flat across the street from the Vaquería – a space for writers and artists to live and work.42 While seemingly an island unto itself, it was simultaneously in communication with the culture New York Underground and Barcelona’s own underground culture – and even those outside of Europe and North America. The flat became an extension of the bar as musicians and poets rehearsed there. Most nights someone would stay over after a long night of dialoguing and drinking. Political and literary discussion bloomed that spring as tertulias were also organized in the bohemian den – a private space that allowed for more in-depth conversation. In that same year, Sola’s first book of poetry, La Isla, was published. In his diaries, Sola showed continued fascination with the idea of exploring North Africa, despite the bar finding success – Sola never was content with ‘enough’.43 Reflecting that fascination, in June of 1975, the bar hosted an art exhibition on the Palestinian conflict. Members of the Palestinian organization Al Fatah and guests from the Iraqi embassy visited – only temporarily satiating Sola’s desire to move to Algeria. Frustrated with Spain, his job as a professor at the Universidad de Madrid, Sola’s irritation reflected the uncertain anxiousness living in the last days of the dictatorship. Sola’s unease with the political situation in Spain was indeed justified. Such transgressive spaces were the targets of attack from both the police and fascist,

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Figure 6.5 The outside of the Vaquería bar on the calle Libertad, with Emilio Sola (centre). Image courtesy of Juan Luis Recio.

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Figure 6.6 Photo of the apartment maintained by the Vaquería, featuring contributors and editors associated with the Banda de Moebius. Image courtesy of Juan Luis Recio.

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right-wing extremist groups. In fact, there were five police raids on the bar in the month of June 1975 alone.44 Then, on 9 June 1976, at about 4 o’clock in the morning, an explosive device was placed in the Vaquería. According to the Madrid newspaper A.B.C., police believed the bomb to be composed of approximately 1.5 kilos of plastic explosives, which was attached to the bar’s entrance, pushing an explosive wave through the locale, destroying everything inside, but not endangering the integrity of the building. According to Sola, amongst the suspects were a group of young right-wing extremist calling themselves the Guerrilleros de Cristo Rey, or the Warriors of Christ King.45 In the same week, the Madrid bookshop Librería Rafael Alberti was also attacked (one of many attacks that year for the one-year-old shop).46 However, the Guerrilleros’s terrorism against libertine communities was not all too surprising given they were also known for also making violent and harassing threats towards the clientele at the venerable Café Gijón, located nearby.47 These intensified late in November of 1976, as the fascist youth group arrived to Café Gijón singing the fascist anthem ‘Cara al Sol’, physically assaulting artists, writers and other intellectuals – causing considerable property damage.48 When reporting the bombing of the Vaquería, A.B.C. described the bar as popular place with a large clientele ‘known amongst certain youth scenes’. On that night, co-founder of the Vaquería, Rafael Escobedo Muñoz, reported to A.B.C., ‘I calculate that the damages will be at about one million pesetas. Even though our bar was plainly decorated, it’s been completely destroyed. The only thing that has survived was a room we used for storage and office’. Not unlike the situation at Café Gijón, Escobedo Muñoz described a threat received by telephone a year prior, and that there had been rumours of a possible attack on the locale.49 Despite the setback, the Vaquería did manage to reopen its doors, brandishing new doors painted by the artist Ceesepe.50 Not long after that bombing, the nationalist Guerrilleros de Cristo Rey shot a 21-year-old psychology student, Carlos González Martínez. The bushy-haired student was killed as a group of more than 150 young fascists marched down the centrally located calle San Marcos, yelling ‘Long Live Christ King’. Around 9 p.m. on 28 September, González Martínez was accompanying a friend, as the two were heading down the street Barillo, on their way to see González Martínez’s girlfriend, who lived at Fuencarral, 115. To put together the events of that night, the newspaper, El País, compiled various accounts from witnesses. One of the attackers wore a plaid sweater and jeans, was tall and had curly hair, and a second was shorter, with a stringy beard, and wore a brown tee shirt. Another suspect was reportedly a blond-haired, clean-cut young man, about 18–24 years old,

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wearing a military jacket and light pants. The newspaper reported that González Martínez was shot while protecting his friend. With González Martínez seriously injured, the two found their way to a friend’s house, where an ambulance was called. While González Martínez was on his way to the hospital, his friends were taken to the office of Direction of General Security, where they were questioned until 5 in the morning, and reportedly received poor treatment from the police. He arrived at 10:30 to the hospital, where according to his doctor, José Saravia, he had been shot in the back, striking his kidney, with an exit wound bordering his left thorax. When the young man arrived at the hospital, he was conscious, but in shock. Due to internal bleeding, González Martínez felt as though he was being asphyxiated, his heart working almost without any blood, pressing on his lungs. Despite doctors’ efforts, his kidney split open, forcing them to remove the organ. His intestines were also torn in the transverse colon, necessitating them to cut another anal orifice. The doctors fought to save the young man, finally stabilizing him around 3:30 in the morning, after having given him ten litres of blood transfusions.51 Due to the lack of blood to the heart, the young man died of a heart attack at 5:30 that morning.52 According to his family, González Martínez didn’t belong to any political group, and would only receive recognition as a victim of terrorism some thirty years later, in 2006, as a result of the efforts by his mother, Margarita Martínez Corredor. The murderers were never found.53 As part of the outcry, stickers (pegatinas) were produced and distributed with the young boy’s image, with a blood-red stain across his face, mirroring the famous David Bowie ‘lighting’ imaging, featuring a comic word bubble stating coming from González Martínez, ‘DESTROY the murderous FASCIST gangs’.54 The student’s image was transformed into a call against fascism. Despite a general fear of the radical right, young Spaniards ventured into the streets – making a space for themselves despite uncertainty and very real danger.

Naked bodies, politics and partying in the streets In Spanish, the word maravillas translates as ‘wonders’, ‘miracles’ and also ‘marigold flowers’. In Madrid, ‘Maravillas’, is just one of the names given to the neighbourhood located just north of Madrid’s spleen, Gran Vía, located in the Justicia District. Named after the neighbourhood church, La Iglesia de Maravillas, the barrio is home of the plaza del Dos de Mayo; its centuries-old

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heart, the centralized square pumps life into the Maravillas with its surrounding stores, vendors and pedestrian spaces. On 2 May 1808, in the midst of Napoleon’s occupation of Spain, a 15-yearold girl died in Maravillas. Some said the girl valiantly defended herself against French troops with her father, some reports say she went at it alone and others say she was merely detained and then killed. Most likely, the young seamstress was detained by Napoleon’s troops, and arrested for carrying scissors, a potential weapon. Soon thereafter, that girl, Manuela Malasaña Oñoro, was executed, and an uprising began. Amid the chaos, Manuela was mythologized as a hero of Madrid’s uprising against Napoleon’s invasion of Spain. Historian Christian Demange has described the May revolution as a ‘great foundational myth of the modern nation that appears with the War of Independence [from Napoleon Bonaparte]’.55 In the wake of the revolt, a street was named after the girl, near her

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home address of calle San Andrés, 18. The death of Manuela, and the uprising by the people, cemented the plaza’s place in the imagination of its residents as a place where events of importance could happen. Beginning when the Universidad de Alcalá moved to Madrid in 1836, the neighbourhood also became known as the ‘Barrio de la Universidad’, or ‘Universidad’ for short. The translation of the university to Maravillas secured the neighbourhood’s identity as a place of open-mindedness and liberal thought. Throughout the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the barrio’s celebration of the Dos de Mayo became associated with liberalism and anti-despotism. While the Franco régime did attempt to convert the celebration into a Falangist nationalist celebration in the 1940s, the Dos de Mayo celebration maintained its status as primarily a local festival celebrating the liberal character of the neighbourhood, losing governmental support by the late 1950s – a story not dissimilar to that of the transgressive carnival celebrations across Spain.56 The calle San Bernardo, Maravillas’s western border, even was the stage for the Laic Homage to Ortega y Gasset in 1955 (discussed in Chapter 3). With its already strong revolutionary identity, the plaza and Malasaña formed the main stage of the Movida Madrileña. From this plaza, a new myth emerged. In the aftermath of the dictatorship, life began to slowly reflect the images found in the salacious party scenes found in fanzines and comic books by Nazario and Ceesepe. This was prominently seen in the photos captured in 1977 by Félix Lorrio from a celebration in Madrid’s plaza de Dos de Mayo, on the 169th anniversary of the original uprising. In the photos, young people are shown climbing a statue under a triumphal arch located in the plaza dedicated to the defeat of Napoleon. The photographs show an explosion of Dionysian revelry, stripped bodies in rapturous poses. The event, recounted the following week in the leftist magazine Triunfo, was described by Movida scribe and selfproclaimed ‘homosexual, drug addict, delinquent’, Eduardo Haro Ibars, as reminiscent of a work of Francisco Goya – known for his images of revolution, and for painting ‘Dos de Mayo Uprising’ and ‘The Second of May 1808’ during Spain’s War of Independence from Napoleon.57 For Haro Ibars, perhaps this was the start of the sexual revolution he had hoped for when writing his article ‘El camino hacia la libertad del cuerpo’ – ‘The road to liberty of the body’ – published in February of that year. In that column, Haro Ibars describes Spain’s Ley de Peligrosidad y Rehabilitación Social de 1970; he explains how the law places homosexuality in the same categories as prostitution and drug addiction – intentionally marginalizing women, drug users and homosexuals. The law encouraged police to surveille queer bars, detain

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Figure 6.8 Students climbing statues in the centre of the plaza de Dos de Mayo, disrobing and eventually clashing with authorities. The incident was featured in Triunfo 1, no. 746 (14 May 1977): 38–39. Photo courtesy of Triunfo Digital.

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queer people and sex workers, and even incarcerate them. While the article focuses on primarily queer issues, it links queer oppression to that of bodies more generally – drug use, prostitution and sexual liberation. The article includes a photo of a woman holding an English-language sign saying, ‘I am Lesbian and I am Beautiful’. In the caption of that photo, Haro Ibars references the connection between the sign and the slogan ‘black and beautiful’. While not having the language to discuss intersectional approaches to understanding oppression per se, his writing clearly draws those lines. This sort of intersectional thinking, as a result of oppressive Francoist laws, implicitly, if not explicitly, contributed to the creation of an inclusive subculture that placed women’s rights, queer rights and the rights of young people to occupy public spaces into discourse. Laws which were meant to marginalize, in effect, cemented a community. The 1977 Dos de Mayo celebration featured musicians, poets, experimental theatre performances and poetry contests. Haro Ibars describes the celebrations of the plaza de Dos de Mayo as filled with life, unlike other festivals such as those of San Fernando, San Antonio de la Florida, San Isidro, etc. – festivals with religious connections and strong ties to the Falange. The poet, in his day job as writer for his father’s magazine, reports political activists handing out pamphlets discussing the rights of women, promoting leftist politicians, and even the repeal of the Ley de la Peligrosidad. Haro Ibars writes, ‘The fiesta seemed to achieve two of its principle objectives: entertainment and free contrast of opinions. It was an expression of life in the plaza del Dos de Mayo’. For Haro Ibars, the multi-day festival was both play and the politics of play – sex and drugs. This would culminate that evening, when an unknown man and a woman climbed a large statue located in the centre of the plaza dedicated to the heroes of Dos de Mayo; then, as the two began to dance from on high, the spectators began to chant ‘El pueblo, desnudo, es más cojonudo’ [The people, naked, is more fucking awesome]. The young celebrants stripped naked, appeasing the crowd. The chant, a rendition of ‘El pueblo unido, jamás será vencido’, a line from a 1973 song by Chilean music group Inti-Illimani protesting against the Pinochet régime, is known in the English-speaking world as the protest mantra: ‘The people united, will never be defeated’. When the police arrived, their commissary a short walk away, the officers launched cans of tear gas, shot rubber bullets, and brutally beat men, women, children, teens and the elderly who were in the plaza, as well as people in adjacent streets. Smoke bombs were launched into Movida locales such as the Drugstore and the nearby Café Comercial.58 The reaction against such public nudity was decisive. In defence of the celebrations

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Haro Ibars writes, ‘There was no [violent] provocation, just the spontaneous manifestation of corporal expression’.59 The following day, neighbours came together again to celebrate, and were harshly put down again by the police. The rest of the events of the celebration were cancelled by Madrid authorities. Nevertheless, on the third night, some people showed up yet again for celebrations. Another harsh takedown by the police thus occurred; A.B.C. described the individuals as ‘diverse groups of mostly young people’ who were throwing bottles and breaking windows. A.B.C.’s report claims that the neighbours were surprised by the presence of such groups, mixing themselves with locals.60 In fact, it is quite probable that the young people were locals themselves. There would be one more night of police conflict with young people. On the morning of 4 May, A.B.C. Sevilla reported: ‘Six Injured and Nineteen Detained: Violent Anarchist Manifestations in Madrid’. According to the article, the incident began when a group of ‘anarchists’ yelled ‘Killer cops, tonight we will end you’. At half past midnight, the supposed anarchists threw bottles and rocks at the police officers. The article describes the anarchists as parading down calle Espíritu Santo, which lies south of the plaza, a main thoroughfare that leads to many small intersecting streets. On calle Espíritu Santo, the anarchists attempted to flip a police vehicle.61 On calle Fuencarral, the same street where Carlos González Martínez’s girlfriend lived, a commercial street that separates the Malasaña and Chueca neighbourhoods, A.B.C. reported the destruction of private property and street signs. Haro Ibars references the ‘anarchists’, but with a certain tone of incredulousness.62 In reality, some of the young people might have had anarchist leanings, but the word had tended to become a pejorative for any dissidents. The rhetoric closely resembles a sort of language of the civil war, labelling those who challenge authority as ‘anarchists’ despite any evidence or manifesto that seemingly would indicate there being an organized anarchist action – functioning as a scapegoat. Such rhetoric, which also is used interchangeably with general descriptions of ‘young people’, drew a distinct line in which young people partying in the streets quite literally challenged both the police and the governor of the Madrid who had ordered the fiesta terminated. According to a report in the newspaper Diario 16, forty-two people were detained over the three-day period.63 Félix Lorrio, whose photograph captured the iconic moment in which the young people climbed the statue on the evening of the 1st of May, describes that after the first sexually liberating incident, ‘Malasaña became the place where youth movements would meet, tertulias were held in bars, arranged in shops, artisanal workshops, and thus began the opening of new bars (Elígeme, El Penta,

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Figure 6.9 Malasaña’s plaza de Dos de Mayo in 2013. Today it is still a popular place for young people to gather, though there are now fences that make it more difficult to climb the statues. Photo by Louie Dean Valencia-García.

La Vía Lactea, La Manuela); cultural collectives were created, music groups, and “urban tribes” emerged’. Lorrio recalled, ‘since then a certain cultural sexual and cultural liberation began amongst the young people in what would become known as the “Movida Madrileña” ’.64 Remarkably the revelry resembled the cover of Rock Comix’s reprinted collection, San Reprimonio y las Pirañas, a 1976 special edition of Nazario’s

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earlier works. The cover of San Reprimonio features nude people, young and old, dancing around a statue, as framed by a triumphal arch. While the naked youth might not have been specifically thinking of Nazario’s work when climbing the statue, in a plaza famous for initiating a Spanish revolt against Napoleon in the nineteenth century, the aesthetic surely resonated. Punk comics, and the aesthetic depicted in those comics, provided young Spaniards a model with which to imagine a new Spain. Roland Barthes argues that myth is a type of speech.65 Truths, rumours, halftruths, embellishments, if told and believed, still can form into the imagination (and historical memory) of how the world is understood and negotiated. In the late twentieth century, Maravillas also became popularly known as ‘Malasaña’ – still carrying a reputation for revolution, particularly in the latter decades of the 1900s. Malasaña, a neighbourhood named after a girl who stood up to authority, became eponymous with the Movida Madrileña. In 1979, the ‘Café Manuela’ opened just off the plaza del Dos de Mayo, bearing the name of the rebellious young girl of the 1808 revolution, and became a place where the literati of the Madrid Scene found a home. One of numerous bars, cafés and bookshops that opened around the plaza, Café Manuela, quickly became a space where people would stop by for a coffee or drink, to discuss art or literature, or to just sit facing its shutter door windows to see people parade past on the small winding arterial street.

Figure 6.10 The Café Manuela in 2013, which according to staff has not changed significantly over the decades. Photo by Louie Dean Valencia-García.

Spanish punk comics and zines allowed young Spaniards to imagine sexuality and sociality in a way that had been effectively banned under the régime – rooted in the hedonistic and carnivalesque. This gave young Spaniards the ability to imagine a scene where they could perform pluralistic and diverse ideas – and even act them out. Imagining a space where authority did not exist was necessary to believe that alternative possibilities could happen – and to create a community. Madrid’s

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underground more broadly encouraged Spaniards to ‘act out’ their transgression against the régime through a carnivalesque display that could otherwise have been written off as ‘making a scene’. These carnivalesque transgressions that spread from the heart of the capital prepared a generation of Spaniards to both participate democratically and think pluralistically through the practice of (re)appropriating public spaces, challenging hegemonic discourses and creating an underground ‘scene’, the Movida Madrileña. By creating a space for themselves in winding Madrid streets, Spanish underground culture allowed for radical alternatives to the conservative dictatorship to exist in the public imagination. The spaces (re)appropriated by the participants of the Madrid scene allowed for its participants to express themselves creatively. With limited intrusion by authority, the young participants turned ‘space’ into ‘place’, and into a ‘scene’. Within the Madrid Scene, artists, writers, musicians and (just as importantly) the consumers of that cultural production learnt tactics and ways of operating to subvert authority – operating in spaces where they could act with agency. Through an inversion of societal norms, within their marginal spaces, the participants of the Movida created counterpublics that allowed the young participants to imagine a ‘New Spain’. In the process of both creating an underground ‘scene’ and ‘making a scene’ (acting out) in a carnivalesque explosion of fiesta, young Spaniards transgressed against normative constructions of sociality, looking to pluralism and ‘hedonism’ as an alternative to authoritarian oppression.

Unedited description provided to me on 7 October 2014 by photographer Félix Lorrio García, describing his photo published in the magazine ‘Triunfo’. La fotografía se realizó sobre las 12 de la noche el 2 de Mayo de 1976 [sic], fue la primera fiesta de barrio que se celebraba en toda España después de la muerte de Franco (20 de Noviembre de 1975). La Asociación de Vecinos del Barrio de Malasaña o de Las Maravillas (Distrito Universidad) organizó esta fiesta con puestos de bocadillos y bebidas. Esa tarde y noche la plaza estaba abarrotada de jóvenes y menos jóvenes, la policía tenía rodeada la plaza en todas las calles adyacentes que se mantenían tranquilas. La gente estaba llena de júbilo y esperanza celebrando el fin de la Dictadura y el comienzo de un tiempo de nuevas libertades, aunque estas tardaron en llegar, en los años siguientes en el barrio hubo varios atentados

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con dinamita, cuatro asesinatos que recuerde, palizas, quema de coches … de grupos de ultraderecha, en la supuesta investigación de la policía no se detuvo a nadie que se sepa por la prensa escrita. Desde entonces comenzó una cierta liberación cultural y sexual entre los mas jóvenes que propicio lo que conocemos como la ‘Movida Madrileña’ entre finales de los 70 y comienzos de los 80. La pareja que se desnudo en las estatuas de los Comuneros Daoíz y Velarde fue un acto de rebeldía ante tanta represión vivida, vitoreados por toda la plaza, en la fotografía ella hace el arco ácrata con sus brazos, al rato se resbalo y se partió un brazo, la Asociación de Vecinos la llevo a un hospital, a la media hora la policía empezó a cargar con gases lacrimógenos y pelotazos de goma, lo único que pudimos hacer fue tratar de salir de la plaza lo mejor posible evitando que nos detuvieran, al día siguiente cerca de la Glorieta de Bilbao en los limites del barrio, la policía mato a una joven de un pelotazo en sien. Esta foto salio en diversos medios de prensa en España, Europa y Sudamérica que sepa, se publico autocensurada con un cuadrado en negro tapándoles las caras para que la policía no pudiera identificarlos y tener la prueba para detenerlos por alterar el orden publico, se jugaban dos años de cárcel por entonces. Perdí una cuantiosa exclusiva por no querer que se les identificase, pero dormía tranquilo sabiendo que no estarían en la cárcel por mi culpa, la tuve autocensurada hasta la llegada de los ‘socialistas’ en 1982. Malasaña se convierte en lugar de reunión de movimientos juveniles, tertulias en los bares, se montan tiendas, talleres de artesanía y comienza la ‘marcha’ nocturna con la apertura de nuevos bares (Elígeme, El Penta, La Vía Lactea, La Manuela … ), se crean colectivos culturales, grupos de música y surgen las ‘tribus urbanas’. La foto se ha considerado desde entonces por todos los Medios como icono de la ‘Movida Madrileña’ y del nuevo Fotoperiodismo en España. Hay una segunda lectura en la referencia icónica de la foto ya que en esta plaza los madrileños se alzaron por primera vez contra las tropas francesas que ocupaban Madrid en 1808 tratando también de recuperar la libertad como sabes, el arco de ladrillo que ves detrás de las estatuas era la antigua puerta del cuartel de Monteleón.

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Madrid Kills Me

(Re)defining a movement Spanish film director Pedro Almodóvar (b. 1949) has argued, The Movida works and doesn’t work as a term. It doesn’t represent any sort of value. If a person has good intentions, they know it refers to the years between 1978 and 1983. The truth is no one has accepted that term, and especially those of us who supposedly belong to [the Movida]. To speak of the Movida is to give an entity to something that has a thousand heads and a thousand forms. It’s not a generation. I am twice the age of Olvido [Alaska], for example.1

It is difficult to attach what became known as la Movida to a specific generation – especially given that the auteur and many of the other participants of Madrid Scene were separated by considerable age. Of course, age difference hardly prevented lovers Arthur Rimbaud (b. 1854) and Paul Verlaine (b. 1844) from belonging to the same bohemian culture in what has become known as the French Symbolist movement (although Rimbaud probably would have rejected any such labels) – or, for that matter, nor does it exclude Carl Van Vechten (b. 1880), Bessie Smith (b. 1894) and Langston Hughes (b. 1902) from having participated in the Harlem Renaissance, what was contemporarily called the ‘New Negro Movement’. Generations, nations and subcultures all form ‘imagined communities’ that are not restricted by age, but are instead formed around a common language and understanding of culture – and often reinforced by capitalism, as Benedict Anderson aptly has shown. What all young Spaniards who participated in Spain’s confluent antiauthoritarian youth cultures of the late twentieth century did have in common was growing up under a dictatorship that was installed because of a bloody war that none of them directly experienced. Franco’s legitimation never could be as visceral for those born after 1939 as it was for their parents, grandparents and older siblings.

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However, these young Spaniards also grew up benefitting from an economic boom that brought new consumer technologies to the Spanish market in the 1960s. Taken together, these two convergences merged a desire to question authority/social mores, and the opportunity to use new technologies to do so. Almódovar first experimented with making Super-8 mm films in the early-mid1970s – making 11 shorts, one 90-minute film, a short film on 16 mm and later graduating to 35 mm for his first full-length film, Pepi, Luci, Bom y las otras chicas del montón (Pepi, Luci, Bom and Other Average Girls).2 Curiously, that film also found its origins in a short comic he made, Toda tuya, published in the monthly comic anthology magazine El Víbora. Almodóvar said: The origin of the [Pepi, Luci, Bom … ] is not only the fotonovela [Toda tuya], but the comic [form], and I don’t hide this influence considering, in some sequences, I used drawings that announced the following action in a condensed and dramatized manner. The fact that Pepi, Luci, Bom … was first a comic – filthy and punk – makes the construction of the characters very different than if we were talking about a film that was purely inspired cinematographically. These characters are obviously prototypes, quickly recognizable and typical of the narrative form to which they belong: the modern young woman and the bad cop. They don’t require any other sort of psychological development.3

For Almodóvar, Pepi, Luci, Bom’s production, aesthetic and form were obviously influenced by that of comic books, and the content from his own punk context. Such a claim should not be surprising given even German novelist and Nobel Prize laureate Thomas Mann’s own comparison of Flemish artist Frans Masereel’s wordless graphic novella, Passionate Journey, to cinema in his introduction written for the novella in 1921.4 Originally published in Switzerland in 1919 as Mon livre d’heures, Masereel used woodcut sequential art to reveal the city’s wealth and poverty – looking at the streets, workplaces and homes of city dwellers. Masereel and Mann lived in a moment when woodcut graphic novels and film were more obviously technologically similar – and relatively new as forms. Mann wrote, ‘Masereel is very fond of the cinema and has even written a scenario himself. He calls his books “Romans en images” – novels in pictures. Is that not an accurate description of motion pictures?’ Without sound, typically printed in black and white, a wordless graphic novel would have seemed similar to a film strip – the most obvious differences being size of the image, the number of images present and the intervals captured between those slides. Mann continues, ‘These picture-novels, mute but eloquent creations … are all so strangely compelling, so deeply felt, so rich in ideas, that one never tires of looking at them.’ Mann argues

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Mon livre d’heures was worthy of being brought out of ‘the realm of the esoteric’ to be made available to ‘the worker, the taxi-driver, and the young telephoneoperator’. For Mann, that early example of a ‘novel in images’ belonged more to ‘the common people than to snobs’. Having recognized the potential of the medium, and its democratizing potential, Mann declared, ‘I am happy to do my part in making it better known to the democratic-minded public.’5 The comic as a medium was not just democratic for its visual and textual accessibility but for its affordability. The comic was, in effect, a portable, analogue, captioned, soundless, black and white film strip. Comic book panels and film strips both rely on a viewer’s ability to quickly move from one frame (or panel) to another. This type of storytelling not only requires the viewer to understand visual sequencing and storytelling in a particular way, that is not always linear, but also allows for space where two seemingly distinct technologies can overlap and influence one another. Almodóvar, and others like him, were more easily able to imagine how those forms of production overlapped and could inform each other – even collaborating with comic book artists, like Ceesepe, in the productions. The connection between comics and cinema should not surprise, given that even some copies of Georges Méliès’s 1902 silent masterpiece, Le Voyage dans la Lune, were hand-painted, frame by frame – a work of sequential art of a sort.6 In the 1970s, young people in Spain experimented with personal recording and audio devices, cheaper printing and other technologies such as the telephone, television and radio. Zines could contain lyrics that could be read when listening to records, vinyl sound recordings could be set to video and personal cameras could produce quality reproductions unlike anything previously available in the consumer market. A person could bring a portable record player or radio with them and instantly change the mood of a locale or space. Understanding the awe that such audio and video production might have inspired for those young people in a post-internet world might seem difficult, but for many young producers of the era, they were experiencing the first taste of what affordable personal audio, video and printing technology could do. They both were participating in a capitalist world, and making it their own to subvert normative constructions of nationality, gender, sexuality and even class. For a young queer man, like Pedro Almodóvar, from a working class background, from a more rural area of Spain, affordable technology opened new doors for what type of work could be done, and who could be represented in radio, television and film. These mechanically reproduced forms of art and cultural production, at the consumer level, also give historians new potential archival documentation of

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historic periods that likely would not be available otherwise – albeit sometimes harder to locate. While Walter Benjamin argues that mechanically reproduced forms of art run the risk of losing their ‘aura’ – that is to say the uniqueness – of an ‘original’. Art that begins as mechanically (or even digitally) produced can be both democratizing and create art that would not have been made without such technology. For Benjamin, these mechanically reproduced works of art are situated, and contextualized by, politics.7 Art thus can tell us about the politics of its time, and art produced at the consumer level can give us a slice of what everyday politics is in a given historical moment. Arguably, although that work might not be born with an ‘aura’ in the Benjaminian sense, it could be said that a zine, a comic or other mechanically produced object can acquire an aura as it was stapled together, passed along and wrinkled – gaining experience and character as it travels the world, hand to hand, as a democratizing agent. Increasingly, for young people born under the dictatorship, their lives were negotiated through these technologies. They could listen to music from all over the world, make and record their own music and films, and draw from a common youth culture that gave them modes of expression and spaces where they could find shared culture. This mechanically produced work gave young people a sense of ‘simultaneity’, not dissimilar to that described by Benedict Anderson in his chapter ‘The Origins of National Consciousness’ in Imagined Communities8; although many young people did not know each other directly, those participants could recognize each other and speak a common aesthetic and visual language, if not common spoken language. If the concept of a teenager found its origins in young people being able to assert agency through consumerism, the everyday uses of personal consumer products allowed young people to make those technologies speak their own forms of argot. As early adopters, young people then could present their own visions of the world through these technologies. These young people were ‘electronic natives’ of a personal electronics age that expanded to include home video cameras, mixed cassette tapes and the ability to call in to radio shows by the early 1980s. While historians often point to specific ‘events’ or dates to cite, such as the death of Franco, a given event is never isolated and must be contextualized using a broader net that gives meaning to that occurrence. Even Almodóvar’s particular dates for the Movida of 1978–1983 are based on his own experiences (and those with whom he associated). Another, such as the artist Ceesepe, could as easily place the roots of the Madrid Scene beginning in the Vaquería bar on the calle Libertad in Chueca, or perhaps with the comic book vendors in the Rastro market, or the home of progressive young Barcelonese artists such as

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Nazario. Someone else might claim the Movida began with rock musician Patti Smith in the New York Underground or Jim Morrison’s hippie counterculture; Smith and Morrison both probably would have cited Arthur Rimbaud. Eduardo Haro Ibars (a poet, journalist, translator and lyricist) might have agreed with the assertion that Arthur Rimbaud figured into the construction of Movida Madrileña, quoting the nineteenth-century bohemian poet in his own poem, ‘The Fearless Vampire Killers’ [title originally English], from Empalador, a short book of poetry published by La Banda de Moebius, featuring the art of Ceesepe, amongst others. Although published in 1980, Haro Ibars states the vampiric book of poetry was written in 1975.9 When ‘thickly described’, a text like Empalador does not fit into a neat time frame of 1978–1983 – it’s messier than that. The text belongs both to the Franco years, the post-Franco years, and all the stages of Madrid’s underground scene. In fact, by thickly describing the material object, the book, we can begin to peel back the history of what becomes known as the Movida. The cover of Empalador features the image of a green-haired vampire with lengthy, red fingernails slurping an ice cream cone – not unlike the androgynous character that brandished the cover of the comic El Rrollo Enmascarado (1973) (see Figure 6.1). In a 1978 interview in which Haro Ibars came out as a ‘homosexual, drug addict, and delinquent’, he cites vampires and Superman as his personal heroes.10 For the author, this nameless vampire is not a villainous character, but instead meant to inspire the reader to liberate themselves sexually by becoming a vampire themselves. Below the vampire, a disembodied culo is about to receive a beso negro, a ‘black kiss’, from another disembodied tongue. The gauche text and title plays with queer and vampiric ideas, recalling Vlad el Empalador – infamous for impaling his victims with a large, wooden post in the fifteenth century. The images of tongue ravishing and tasting both an ice cream cone and culo plays with the Spanish word paladar, or (taste) palate. The dark brown ice cream cone recalls a wooden stake. Within the book of poetry, a drawing of a naked, young man with armless, curled hands protruding from his shoulders, hunched over with a knowing smile, appears three times in the volume. At first glance, the boy with his Spock-like haircut, shortened torso and large feet evokes a sort of horror. The artist of the drawing, Ángel Luis Martínez Lirio, contributes the prologue of the book, using an intense sexuality in his tone. Lirio was also one of two longterm lover-companions of Haro Ibars (along with Blanca Uría Meruéndano). Haro Ibars, Lirio and Uría Meruéndano all died of AIDS. Like many young Spaniards of the era, Haro Ibars experimented with different ways of producing his work across medias and technologies, writing books with

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small presses, for newspapers, and even collaborating with musicians to produce records. Haro Ibars even wrote the lyrics for the popular Spanish New Wave groups Orquesta Mondragón and Gabinete Caligari in the early 1980s. Each text, song and party scene of the Movida was built out of layers of meaning, demonstrating complicated transgressions against heteronormativity, normative tastes and Francoist traditionalism. As a participant of the Movida, Haro Ibars portrayed ‘vulgarity’ and filth as desirable and modern. Madrid’s antiauthoritarian youth culture(s) in the Franco and post-Franco eras had many (re)iterations. Not dissimilar to the ways young people of the 1950s borrowed from the likes of Miguel de Unamuno and José Ortega y Gasset, the Movida was a confluence of numerous marginal underground cultures in Spain and abroad. No cultural producer or consumer was ever isolated to one given period; moreover, each tactic of subversion (consuming and producing) depended on previous ones, and sometimes created new and divergent mythologies unto themselves. Studying marginal, underground, antiauthoritarian and punk cultures, one quickly sees the connections between the various movements and scenes of the late twentieth century. While Madrid’s antiauthoritarian youth culture(s) might have had different branches and tributaries over just a thirty-year period – la Generación del 56, el Rrollo, Spanish New Wave, the Movida Madrileña, they were neither autonomous movements nor wholly separate. Being that identities and tastes are always unstable, attaching the Madrid Scene to any genre of music is fraught; nevertheless, music formed a fundamental part of the scene, but so did literature, film, parties, sex, drugs and even comic books. In reality, as each individual who participated in the Madrid’s antiauthoritarian culture made it their own, it is impossible to create a strict definition of what the aesthetic or sound of the movement was at any given time – it drew on diverse influences. Some art, such as Guillermo Pérez Villatas’s ‘Scene. People at the exit of a rock concert’ (1979), even echoes the angular lines of Pablo Picasso and the surrealism of Antonio Dalí. In a way not dissimilar to the shift in name from ‘the New Negro Movement’ of the 1920s to the ‘Harlem Renaissance’, what in its time had been referred to ‘la nueva ola española’ became ‘La Movida’ with the 1982 release of Francisco ‘Paco’ Martín’s self-published La Movida: Historia del pop madrileña.11 The book’s cover featured a close-up of a figure wearing a leather jacket, with a worn ‘Clash’ T-shirt – a nod to its punk roots. Indeed, Martín’s work roughly coincides with, and represents, what can be considered the commodification of the Movida. Despite a tendency for the cultural producers of the Movida (like Almodóvar) to push back against the appropriation (or enjoyment) of the scene by others,

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many of the producers still financially benefitted from the popularization of the Movida. Martín’s La Movida was a guide for the newcomers, in the same way Jesús Ordovás’s De qué va el rrollo was in 1977. Such guides led potential fans to producers, and gave producers an audience; they helped define both what came before them and what came after. The term Movida was polemical for many of the same people who had attended concerts, literary gatherings, art exhibitions, cafés and experienced the Madrid nightlife of the late 1970s and early 1980s. By naming ‘La Movida’ Martín changed the culture – a sort of reification of itself. Martín’s work attempted to recount and mythologize the creation of the most prominent music groups that had appeared in Madrid in the late 1970s and early 1980s – incorporating them into his mythos. While the trend towards a focus on musical production had long been coming, perhaps from the inception of el Rrollo, with Martín’s work, it became explicit that this youth culture had definitively moved away from its marginal punk days, and was indeed ‘pop’ and ‘popular’. In naming the scene, the scene became institutionalized. A rejection of the term Movida by cultural producers became common because for some it represented a commercialization and popularization of the Madrid underground scene that was antithetical to the core political beliefs of many – in effect, ‘selling out’ to authority. For some, the Movida was simply the evolution and popularization of Madrid’s subculture. For others, those who had not come of age until the 1980s, or who simply had not encountered the culture in the 1970s, the Movida represented a sexual liberation and freedom that was new, exciting and empowering. Whatever the case, the transgressive spaces where young people drank, discussed art and pushed normative boundaries in the 1970s grew exponentially by the early 1980s, covering the entire city, and even the country.

Subculture as myth, voyeurism and other modern-day fables Sometime in the October of 1977, in Madrid’s Rastro street market, a group of kids, mostly younger than even the crowd that would frequent the Vaquería, and certainly younger than the protestors of the 1950s, created what became a mythic artistic collective, Liviandad del Imperdible (Lightness of a Safety Pin).12,13 Named after the object that Dick Hebdige describes as an ‘icon’ of punk culture, the collective dedicated themselves to comic books, theory, music, poetry, and challenging social norms.14 The members created their own comics,

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translated foreign ones and wrote ‘dossiers’ that explored punk and anarchist culture. After a time, many of those members of Liviandad left and reformed as Kaka de Luxe, or ‘Crap de Luxe’, a collaboration by Fernando Márquez (b. 1957), Manolo Campoamor (b. 1958), Carlos Berlanga (1959–2002), Enrique Sierra (1957–2012), Olvido ‘Alaska’ Gara Jova (b. 1963) and Nacho Canut (b. 1957). What had started as a group of friends making a fanzine metamorphosed into the mythic Spanish New Wave punk band of the same name. The name of the group, Kaka de Luxe, emphasized punk fascination with waste and filth, but also its connection to British and American culture by using a Anglo-Saxon letter ‘k’ in its name. The use of ‘de Luxe’ gave a tacit hat-tip to the French – highlighting both an internationalist influence and posturing. The photocopied fanzine, Kaka de Luxe, was both produced by the band and created its own mythic status. Initially known for a raw, unpractised punk-pop style, Kaka dissolved in 1978 after releasing one studio album, transforming into the Spanish pop group sensations ‘Paraíso’ and ‘Alaska y los Pegamoides’, protagonists of the music of the Movida.15 Born Olvido Gara Jova in México City, ‘Alaska’ was the daughter of a Cuban mother and a Spanish Civil War exile. She grew up in México, and arrived to Spain in her teenage years to became the queen of the Movida – demonstrating the important role of women in taking back the public sphere.16 Alaska’s star further soared with her role as a queer, teenage punk in Pedro Almodóvar’s 1980 film Pepi, Luci, Bom y las otras chicas del montón. Alaska would go on to even host her own children’s TV show, La Bola de Cristal, that defied categorization, acting as a sort of zine on the airwaves – blending print and analogue technologies stylistically. The show had many of the most popular musical acts of the period, puppets and short clips from the classic segments from the serial ‘The Little Rascals’, and the 1960s television shows ‘Bewitched’ and ‘The Munsters’ – an unapologetic embrace of kitsch American culture. While still consuming popular culture, the show was also subversive in its occasional anti-capitalist messages. With the rise of Kaka de Luxe, the Movida gained its first mythic figures; these figures represented a pantheon who publicly lived their lives against Francoist norms. Fernando Márquez would go on to write about his experiences in Liviandad, Kaka, and Paraíso – substantiating the central place of those bands in the creation story of ‘música moderna’ in his eponymous Música moderna: una historia de la nueva ola en España contada por Fernando Márquez ‘el zurdo’ [Modern Music: A History of the New Wave in Spain Told by Fernando Márquez ‘el zurdo’]. The text both functioned as a guide to learn about contemporary New Wave musicians and placed Márquez’s history as the beginning of Spanish

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punk, creating his own myth in a way not dissimilar to the way Kaka de Luxe self-published their own self-dedicated fanzine. As young madrileños began to acquire access to higher-quality production equipment and materials for film, magazines and records, as well as financial support from the rising leftist government and private companies, a cult of celebrity soon came to define the cultural producers of the Movida. Fanzines, which had previously followed punk bands and musicians abroad, now shifted to cover the rising stars of the Movida, such as Alaska, by 1980. The cultural production of music, films, comics and novels gave the ‘protagonists’ of the Movida cultural capital, which led to more record deals, film screenings and celebrity. Government-supported, youth-oriented and -produced magazines such as La Luna de Madrid (The Moon of Madrid) and Madrid Me Mata (Madrid Kills Me) soon came to promote the protagonists and participants of the Movida. Still, although becoming national (and later international) celebrities, many of the Movida’s cultural producers depended upon their physical presence in the Madrid Scene to maintain their celebrity status. It was still possible to go to a bar in Malasaña and party with musicians like Alaska. In a sense, the Movida, as a counterpublic scene, depended upon voyeurism – an audience to watch them. Cross-dressing punks, like Pedro Almodóvar and Fabio McNamara (born Fabio de Miguel in 1957), shocked and titillated their publics. The appearance of both Almodóvar and McNamara in the films of Almodóvar turned both into characters and protagonists of the Movida, not unlike Alaska. Watching their appearances in film, partying, was both voyeuristic and presented a model to emulate. The themes of obsession with technology, voyeurism, sex and drugs were all featured in the film Arrebato.17 Directed by Iván Zulueta (1943–2009), born Juan Ricardo Miguel Zulueta Vergarajauregui, Arrebato, along with Almodóvar’s Pepi, Luci, Bom, became a cult classic of the Movida.18 The film stars ‘Will More’ as Pedro, a queer teen that hides in his room, enraptures cousins and older men, and obsessively films his world. More, the stage name of Alonso ColmenaresNavascúes García-Loygorri de los Ríos, was of Spanish aristocratic blood and one of the Maldito Rimbaudian figures of the Movida who was muse to both Zulueta and Almodóvar (who also worked on Arrebato). The film begins with the character Pedro cutting film and placing it in a package to send to a friend in Madrid, filmmaker José Sirgado (Eusebio Poncela). Included with the film is an audio cassette sound recording with a cryptic explanation and instructions. An analogue version of what those living in the latter part of the second decade of the second millennium might compare

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to YouTube or an instantaneous photo-sharing app, Zulueta not only uses this contemporary technology as a constituent element of the film’s plot, but also demonstrates its ability to facilitate communication between José and Pedro, a teenager living outside of the metropole of Madrid. Expressing himself through drugs and cinema, Will More brings youthful, vampiric beauty and mania to Arrebato. Obsessed with Super-8 film, Pedro becomes enamoured by an external camera timer that José gives him – becoming enraptured by the technology when red frames start to appear in his films. The film, an obsessive meditation on horror cinema, argues that everyone has their own rapturous moments, or arrebatos, that compulsively take them inside fixation; if one gives in, those moments are apt to lead to destruction. In bringing the viewer into rapture, the film also brings the audience closer to understanding something more ephemeral about the Movida – the appeal of art, drugs and sex. In fact, filming Will More was Zulueta’s own arrebato. Falling victim to his obsession of the young actor, Zulueta never made another full-length film again, retreating into his mother’s estate, heir to a Cuban sugar fortune. With its queer undertones, pallid pallets and striking depiction of the dark side of the Movida, for decades Arrebato was nearly impossible to see – an urban legend.

A queer and public spectacle In the early 1980s, comic book representations of the women and queer people of Madrid’s scene worked to displace Francoist heteronormativity through depictions of sexuality. The wordless comic by Rodrigo Muñoz Ballester (b. 1950, Tangier), Manuel no está solo [Manuel is not alone], is a black and white lined masterpiece of detail. The comic tells the story of the budding queer relationship between two bearded men in Madrid. The depiction of the queer characters as muscular and hirsute men challenged normative constructions of masculinity and of what it meant to be a queer man, especially in that both men are depicted as tender and loving towards one another. The city’s architecture plays as much a part of the relationship as the individual characters, as the men walk the streets of Madrid, visiting familiar locales, and publicly performing and displaying their queerness. It is not unimportant to note that the comic was featured monthly in the city-sponsored publication La Luna de Madrid from 1983 to 1985, depicting an explicit support of queerness by Madrid’s socialist government. Reading the story, one is given intimate glimpses into Manuel’s sex life, but in a way that is particularly sympathetic to the characters.

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Another comic serial, Anarcoma, became widely read in the Barcelona-based comic magazine El Víbora, but was distributed nationally. By Nazario, a comic book creator whose origins were discussed in the previous chapter, Anarcoma featured the adventures of a transgender detective in a period where even gay and lesbian representation was still rare. The detailed sex scenes, which sometimes might have bordered on voyeuristic, helped to give visibility to transgender bodies and experiences early in the 1980s. In fact, many of Pedro Almodóvar’s later films, such as Todo sobre mi madre [All About My Mother] (1999) and La mala educación [Bad Education] (2004), also depicted transgender characters that aesthetically recalled Anarcoma. Almodóvar’s 2011 film, La piel que habito [The Skin I Live In], even centres around questions of gender and technology. The depictions of protagonists such like Anarcoma, depicted explicitly as having non-heteronormative bodies in a way that was neither exoticized nor abnormal, challenged cisgender constructions of gender and sexuality. While using vocabulary of its time that might be read as offensive today, Anarcoma was depicted as both sexually desirable and empowered. Using the medium of comics, and particularly using small, affordably produced black and white production, comic books gave a place where variations in gender and sexuality could be given visibility – a democratizing form, indeed. The similarity in themes between popular comics and the films of Almodóvar would not end there. One photocopied fanzine published in 1980, 96 Lágrimas, features a hand-drawn comic strip, Siouxsie, that depicts the punk scene as feminist. The crudely drawn comic, inspired by real-life British punk rocker Siouxsie Sioux, follows the life of the titular character, and her group of girlfriends. Like Vicios Modernos, Lágrimas’ scenes showed young women walking the streets, dressed in punk clothing, and engaged in the music scene. In one short comic in the second issue of Lágrimas, a young woman is seemingly raped by a group of three men and left on a street corner. Upon returning home, the woman joins with other women as they search out the rapist to teach him a lesson promising ‘We are coming for you’ [Vamos a por vosotros].19 Lágrimas, and fanzines like it, reinforced the image of the vibrant punk scene that was inclusive and feminist. In fact, Paco Martín called 96 Lagrimas the ‘most curious and sympathetic informative bulletin of the rollo madrileño’.20,21 Indeed, Pepi, Luci, Bom y las otras chicas del montón had already dealt with similar themes as the 96 Lágrimas comic – both feminist and queer. Since its 1980 release, Pepi, Luci, Bom came to represent Madrid during the years of the transition to democracy, despite its imperfect production quality and often convoluted plotline. Franco’s régime had long attempted to use the same

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censorship processes used to regulate magazines and comic books to control Spain’s film industry. This strict censorship of film ended only in 1977.22 The film took advantage of both burgeoning liberties and affordable, personal film production technologies, and told the story of three women living in Madrid; Pepi is an independent woman living alone in Madrid in search of a life in the post-Franco era, Luci is a childless housewife married to an abusive police officer, and Bom is a teenage girl in a punk band.23 The film opens with the protagonist, Pepi, portrayed by Carmen Maura (b. 1945), arranging Superman stickers [cromos] in an album; the music in the background is reminiscent of American rockabilly music of the 1960s, but sung in Spanish; the wall behind Pepi is decorated with a large Wonder Woman poster. The three women become friends, manoeuvring through the Madrid underground scene. The characters Luci and Bom (Eva Siva and Alaska) instantly fall for each other when Pepi introduces them. Luci and Bom’s first meeting challenges normative tastes from the start, culminating with Bom urinating on Luci as the latter screams in ecstasy, meanwhile Pepi voyeuristically looks on while knitting. Early in the film, Pepi is raped by a police officer with obvious Francoist sympathies – Luci’s husband. The film’s plot centres around Pepi’s revenge against the officer (her motivation for befriending Luci), the women’s experimentation and adventures in Madrid, the re-evaluation of relationships between women of different ages in the years of the transition to democracy, Pepi’s attempts to help her friends and Pepi’s ability to become a successful, liberated woman working as a writer and advertising executive by the film’s end – a sort of Lois Lane. Initially, during a phone conversation with Pepi’s parents, the viewer learns that they are financially supporting her. Pepi’s ‘space’ (or home) is therefore tenuous, as she is dependent upon parental support. The viewer quickly sees that ‘private space’ offers little protection from authority, as a police officer enters her flat with impunity, questioning Pepi about her marijuana plants located in her window, and then proceeds to rape her. Although Pepi lives alone, and is representative of the ‘modern’ woman, she is still violated by the representative of Francoist authority in her own home. After the rape, Pepi is seen in a dingy, cave-like space with her friends plotting revenge against the police officer. She offers her friends marijuana plants in exchange for beating the officer. As the police officer’s rationale for entering Pepi’s space the first time was her collection of marijuana plants, Pepi replaces those plants with artificial plastic plants that look like cannabis, a tactic that counters the police strategy used by the police to gain access and mocks the police. Bom is seen practicing throughout the film with her band, Los Pegamoides; the space is clearly marginal and isolated. The hidden locale represents a space in which

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those artistic bohèmes not only express themselves musically, but it also is a space that de Certeau would describe as a one that exists outside of the direct power of authority. It is because of this lack of authority that the group of young people can plan their attack on the police officer that raped Pepi. While the young madrileños come from a position of less power, through their appropriation of this space, they are able to plan an attack against authorities and to act with more agency. Later, in that same unidentified locale where Bom’s band is practising, a party scene takes place. Not only is the space a den for sexual experimentation, drinking and creative expression, but it also becomes a place where through satire of political power the young partiers can scoff at politicians via a contest they call ‘general erections’, a play of words on the ‘general elections’ that approach in Spain as it transitions to democracy. These satirical ‘general erections’ call for the men to line up, and to demonstrate who has the larger sexual organ – an inversion of the political process and an expression of dissent. The winner of said contest is ‘given’ the power, by merit of his length and girth, to demand, ‘whatever he wants, with whomever he wants’. Not only does this satire demonstrate an implicit dissent against state authority, but it elucidates patriarchal power and assumptions pervasive in Spanish society. The male member signifies unfettered power. It is only in a space where there is a lack of state authority that the young can demonstrate critique of that authority because there is a lack of authority present; however, this scene demonstrates how patriarchal power quickly reasserts itself despite the presence of state authority. Although still subjecting Luci to objectification through the act of oral sex, the viewer is given the sensation that the male winner could have just as easily chosen a man. This scene is not only representative of dissent against the politics of the time, but it also shows an act that could only be found in such a power vacuum. Laberinto de pasiones [Laberinth of Passions], Almodóvar’s second full-length film, moves the ‘scene’ of the Movida from the hidden backrooms, homes and unspecific locals seen in Pepi, Luci, Bom into the streets of Madrid.24 The miseen-scène situates itself in the streets of Madrid, the camera moving body to body, crotch to crotch, implying that all those walking in the street are not only a part of the Movida, but also indicating that the ‘scene’ of the Movida is now one that is no longer clandestine and exclusive – it is public. Sexuality, and the creation of non-normative identities that reject that which was prescribed by Franco’s traditionalist projection of Spain, become a commonality that binds together the chaos of the labyrinth of the city of Madrid. Even a waiter who passes a note to protagonist Riza Niro (played by Imanol Arias, b. 1956), too, takes part in

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the proposition of Riza by Fabio (McNamara), a queer punk, who is at the same café terrace as Riza. This (re)appropriation, and even integration, of the café space by the Movida not only exemplifies the integration of youth transgression into everyday life, but does so in a way that seems to underline the normality of that integration. These scenes particularly paint a world that, although a work of ‘fiction’, shows young people acting as agents in public spaces, despite the transgressive nature of those acts. Marsha Kinder, too, has elaborated upon how the habitus of the Movida was a place where young people escaped the repression of authorities. She writes, ‘The tortuously complex plot follows the tangled passions of an ensemble of young madrileños trying to escape the crippling influences of repressive fathers in order to pursue their own pleasure. Riza Niro is the bisexual son of the deposed “emperor of Tehran” ’.25 The personage of Riza, who might more accurately be considered pansexual and/or queer given the non-binary portrayal of McNamara’s character, represents not only the foreigner but also the openness of the space to marginal communities, both immigrant and bisexual in this case. Riza uses this space to experiment with his own sexuality. In the spaces (re)appropriated by the participants of the Movida, Riza has the ability to act against the repression of his father – rejecting that authority. This rejection of heteronormative and patriarchal oppression manifests itself in the spaces ‘occupied’ by the Movida. Because young people had taken over space, they were able to act with more agency. As Mark Allinson points out, the party scene of Pepi, Luci Bom plays the song ‘Tu loca juventud’ by Maleni Castro, a song which first came out in the 1960s, when Spain was hardly ‘crazy’. However, by 1978– 1979, the youth of Spain is finally catching up.26 What Mark Allinson does not consider is the effect the song had on a generation of young people. The idea that Spanish youth could be crazy is just as important to consider. Like a fable, such songs allowed young people to imagine the possibility of them being ‘crazy’. It allowed them to see castles in clouds, not unlike Arthur Rimbaud. Films like Pepi, Lucy, Bom and Labyrinth exemplify not only the period in an almost documentary sort of way, they also function as ‘fables’ – imaginary tales that warn of the dangers of authority but also presenting ways to avoid such oppression. In creating films that memorialized, and perhaps enshrined the Movida, those participants were able to create stories from which others could ‘poach’, to borrow from Michel de Certeau. That which was text became reality, and that which is reality draws from the text. Whether the Movida really was as visceral as Almodóvar portrayed it to be in his films becomes irrelevant, as that milieu multiplies, the legend feeds off the reality and reality feeds off legend.

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A place to conclude In 1984, Madrid’s mayor, Enrique Tierno Galván, announced at a city-sponsored concert held at the Palacio de Deportes, ¡Rockeros: él que no esté colocado, que se coloque … y al loro! With his cry demanding those who were not a part of the drug scene to join, the former university professor commanded those unacquainted with the Movida to join in the bacchanalian gaiety. The mayor’s call explicitly made New Wave music and partying political. Tierno Galván was not only known for being a socialist, a professor of law and philosophy who had taught at Salamanca and Princeton, the author of the preamble to the Spanish Constitution on 1978, but also had fought on the Republican side of the Spanish Civil War. Moreover, Tierno Galván was also the first leftist mayor of Madrid in the post-Franco era, holding office from 1979 until his death in 1986. For Tierno Galván, such a battle cry both announced a condemnation of conservative traditionalism and paved the way to integrate late nights, drunkenness, rock, sex and libertine tendencies into the identity of young madrileños, although this was far from his first time addressing a young public from their level – even giving a speech at the plaza Dos del Mayo as early as 1979, just two years after the police actions taken against young people gathering at the plaza. As the Madrid underground scene broke open into popular Spanish culture, even amongst its supporters, such as El País columnist Francisco Umbral, there was a fear of the scene’s co-optation. Umbral wrote in 1982: Now, the Honorable City Hall of Madrid is beginning to organize rock concerts in the plaza de toros and the Palacio de Deportes. They spend an unimaginable amount of money to give us music festivals during San Isidro, it would have had been better if they had used that cash for some sort of beneficial work project. I’m sure that young people would have appreciated it.27

For Tierno Galván, government funding of concerts, comics, magazines and events was a public good; he recognized the Movida’s potential to facilitate Madrid’s cultural shift away from Francoism. By pushing the boundaries of what was acceptable behaviour in the public sphere, social norms were transformed. Umbral’s disconformity represented a sort of a nostalgic lamentation for the early years of the Madrid underground – for its former exclusivity and ardent transgression. In 1983, Umbral described a Movida in his Diccionario Cheli as ‘immobile’ and ‘sedentary, closed, getting stoned, passive resistance in discotheques and cinemas’. In a dictionary that was intended to describe the versatility and power of Madrid’s argot, Umbral describes ‘el rollo’, as ‘the word, or

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Figure 7.1 Street art featuring professor and mayor Enrique Tierno Galván in the Malasaña neighbourhood of Madrid in 2013. Playing on the meaning of his last name, ‘Tierno’ – tender – the image recalls the city’s loving nature in the post-Franco era. Photo by Louie Dean Valencia-García.

catch-all’ for ‘cheli’ – or the language of Madrid’s local marginal culture. Umbral valued the Movida’s predecessor, but saw the more popular incarnation as sort of a bastardized step-child. He argued, ‘The Movida is between silent mutiny

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and a subversive party, but without ever concluding. The Movida is not exactly a manifestation because inside of it nothing is protested. Everything remains implicit’.28 Umbral failed to realize that performing dissent in the public sphere was itself an act of protest – and perhaps one of the most effective ones at combating everyday fascism. By asserting oneself in a counterpublic, in view of everyone, one can make space for alternative ways of being – Tierno Galván understood this well. Although implicit, the subversive youth culture provided a way for young people in Madrid, and ultimately across Spain, to learn a code that enabled them to transgress against National-Catholic fascistic ideologies in their everyday lives. Umbral’s description of the Movida as something between mutiny and subversive (or carnivalesque) was certainly true. His description of a never-ending space of resistance, albeit passive, still is important because of its subversive nature, consistency and presentness – what Raoul Vaneigem might call an example of ‘the revolution of everyday life’. Whereas the carnival of the earlier years seemed to act to release steam, the Movida was as though the control knob had been broken off, letting out a constant release. The immobility of the scene, always present and accessible in the public eye, although not an explicit protest, manifestation, or riot, still had resonance. Even today, when young madrileños go out on a Saturday night, they might ask their friends, ‘Where is the movida tonight’? Their movida might include a ridiculous outfit sure to grab attention, sexual promiscuity, drunkenness, concerts, poetry, an art showing, walking the streets or finding a plaza to talk and joke with friends. Fascism’s struggle for a heterogeneous future gave way to a queer, pluralistic present that refused to be weighed down by a fascistic past. While the Movida was only one contributing factor to creation of pluralistic thought in contemporary Spain, the actions of the young producers and consumers, both political and social, morphed what it meant to be a ‘modern’ Spaniard. Because of the Movida, young Spaniards no longer had to imagine a possible future – they were already living it and literally buying into it – records, fashion, booze and drugs. As the hit song ‘Enamorado de la moda juvenil’ [In Love with Youth Fashion], by the new wave band Radio Futura, proclaimed, telling the story of the Movida: If you wished to listen/you’d pay attention to me/I’d tell you what happened/ passing through the Puerta del Sol I saw the young people walk/cutting the air of security/In a moment I understood/that the future was already here. And I fell in love with youth fashion/the prices and discounts I saw/In love with you.29

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In truth, this new youth fashion, this air of security that allowed for the expression of individual identity and this belief that a new future was possible were achievable only because young people under the dictatorship found ways to make the spaces of their own, physical and virtual. They rejected Falangism. They found new ways of distributing their politics and art by using new and more affordable technologies. They imbibed ideals of democracy, bought into consumerism, and looked towards cultures different from their own. Young Spaniards rejected nationalism, heteronormativity and exceptionalism. By doing these things, they rejected a fascistic ideology and demanded pluralism. However, by falling into consumer culture and thoroughly embracing capitalism, they left themselves, and future generations, open to other potential threats.

Epilogue: Uncertain Times

I write this in the aftermath of the Spanish Indignados movement, after the de-occupation of Occupy Wall Street, with an eye to the forthcoming British Exit (‘Brexit’) from the European Union, and the rise of the fascistic ‘AltRight’ and ‘New Right’ in the United States and Europe. A refugee crisis engulfs Europe and the Mediterranean. Xenophobia against immigrants, refugees and Muslims has become all too common across Europe. A new wave of nationalism has sprung up in Catalunya, as the autonomous community struggles with the Spanish state, challenging the Spanish Constitution of 1978 like never before, asking for independence from the Kingdom of Spain. The now former President of Catalunya, Carles Puigdemont, has even charged the Spanish state with Francoist-style measures – a worry he expressed when I heard him speak at Harvard University in the spring of 2017.1 In the United States, immigrants and people of colour fear discrimination and police – being put on travel ban lists, being rounded up by ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement), placed in detention centres and deported. Queer Americans face new institutionalized discrimination – even prohibition from public restrooms. Today, ‘Identitarian’ and Alt-Right sympathizers claim to use ‘meta-political’ approaches to legitimate their fascistic movement – wishing to establish ‘traditionalist’ societies and a ‘white ethno-state’ through ‘peaceful ethnic cleansing’.2,3,4,5 Far-right extremists are marching in the streets, using Nazi salutes, carrying torches, chanting ‘Jews will not replace us.’6 The United States Department of Justice is preparing to support further militarization of the police.7 The fascist tendencies described in this book are certainly present in today’s world. Across the West, a so-called ‘Nationalist-Traditionalism’ has arisen, attacking Enlightenment values of democracy, rationalism, secularism and liberalism – an antagonism perhaps most infamously present in Steve Bannon’s world view, an American Catholic who has lauded nationalism and traditionalism and served as White House

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Chief Strategist and campaign manager for Trump.8 Bannon’s own world view is certainly akin to the National-Catholicism found under the dictatorship of Francisco Franco in Spain. Fortunately, the far right, at the time of this writing, has been curtailed in countries such as Germany and Spain – one hopes that the virulent fascist past has inoculated those countries from neofascism. Austria has swung toward the far-right. Yet still, seismic geopolitical shifts are happening as the far-right movements have found both political platforms and real political power. While much of this book has discussed a fallen dictatorship, it shows readers how a generation of young people imagined the impossible dream of an inclusive future – to empower young people to make that future into the present. While Hitler and his anti-democratic ideals were defeated on the battleground, Franco’s anti-democratic ideals were defeated in the streets, comics and minds of young people. Despite an ardent attempt to inculcate young people with fascist tendencies through textbooks and social pressures, young people were able to resist the authoritarian National-Catholic régime. Students were able to gather in secret, to read forbidden writers and philosophers, to create their own heroes and legends, to look outside of a country that advertised itself as uniquely ‘different’. Young people under the dictatorship learnt to use new technologies, medias and social networks to cultivate pluralism. As the Spanish case shows, fascist tendencies are most effectively fought in our everyday lives; it is only by protecting pluralism – a diversity of voices – that we can have healthy and functioning democracies. The fascist tendencies of nationalism, racism, sexism, xenophobia, queerphobia and ableism certainly still exist in the postwar era, and we have tools to combat them. Fascist ideologies claim purity – a homogeneity of ideologies and people that result in not just an inbreeding of thought but a deformity in knowledge. Under fascism, historical facts become fiction – serving to consolidate power for a few, not to serve society. Propaganda propagates false fact. Democracy depends on the creation, production and distribution of insights, information and knowledge that allows us to imagine alternative possibilities. Creativity depends on the intersections of diverse peoples and ideas – inspiring something new. Despite ardent cultural hegemony under Franco, young people were able to use new mediums, technologies and modes of distribution to clash with fascism.

Notes Preface 1 Juan Oliver, ‘El desempleo juvenil alcanza en España su mayor tasa en 16 años’, Lavozdegalicia.es. 1 April 2011, accessed 4 March 2012. 2 Joseba Elola, ‘El 15-M sacude el sistema’, ElPais.es. 22 May 2012, accessed 4 March 2012. 3 Ignacio Ruiz Quintano, ‘Otro mayo francés’, ABC.es. 13 May 2011, accessed 3 January 2012. 4 For a complete study of Catalonian anarchism, see: Chris Ealham, Anarchism and the City: Revolution and Counter-revolution in Barcelona, 1898–1937 (Edinburgh: AK Press, 2010). 5 Carmen González-Enriquez, ‘The Spanish Exception: Unemployment, Inequality and Immigration, but No Right-Wing Populist Parties’, Working Paper, Elcano Royal Institute, 2017.

Introduction 1 ‘Season 1, Episode 6’, in NBC’s Saturday Night, NBC, 25 November 1975. Originally known as NBC’s Saturday Night, the show was later renamed Saturday Night Live. 2 Jorge M. Reverte, ‘La lista de Franco para el Holocausto’, El País (Madrid), 20 June 2010, Domingo ed., Reportaje sec. 3 Spain was organized into seventeen autonomous regions and two autonomous cities by the Spanish Constitution of 1978, called comunidades autónomas. Choosing to reject a federal model of government, Spaniards preferred a decentralized governmental structure in the wake of the Madrid-centred Francoist dictatorship, called an Estado de las autonomías or State of Autonomies. 4 Arthur Marwick has made the successful argument that the category of ‘youth’ cannot be considered monolithic and must be considered in cultural context. See: Arthur Marwick, ‘Youth Culture and the Cultural Revolution of the Long Sixties’, in Between Marx and Coca-Cola: Youth Cultures in Changing European Societies, 1960–1980, edited by Axel Schildt and Detlef Siegfried (New York: Berghahn Books, 2007), 44.

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5 In The Practice of Everyday Life, historian and philosopher Michel de Certeau understands power as dialectic, arguing people can demonstrate more or less agency depending upon a given situation. For de Certeau, those who have more power are able to employ ‘strategies’, whereas those with less power employ tactics to subvert that power. However, for de Certeau, strategy, and thus hegemonic systems of power, can be subverted through the use of tactics, forcing strategies to fail, and/or concede. See: Michel De Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (Berkeley : University of California Press, 2006).

Chapter 1 1 José Luis Gallero, Sólo se vive una vez: Esplendor y ruina de la movida madrileña (Madrid: Ediciones Ardora, 1991), 14. 2 Ibid. 3 Both works by Laura Desfor Edles, Symbol and Ritual in the New Spain: The Transition to Democracy after Franco (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998) and Peter McDonough, Samuel H. Barnes, and Antonio López Pina’s, The Cultural Dynamics of Democratization in Spain (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998) implicitly posit that cultural change emerges after the death of Franco, negating the agency of Spaniards and the cultural change already happening under democracy. Historian Cristina Palomares’s The Quest for Survival after Franco: Moderate Francoism and the Slow Journey to the Polls, 1964–1977 (Brighton: Sussex Academic Press, 2006), although an important study of political change already happening prior to the death of Franco, pays scant attention to the socio cultural change that happened in tandem with that political change. Víctor Pérez Díaz’s The Return of Civil Society: The Emergence of Democratic Spain (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993), although an excellent treatment of the policy choices that undermined the régime, pays little attention to the ways in which Spaniards themselves created those pluralistic spaces. 4 John Hooper, The New Spaniards, 2nd ed. (London: Penguin, 2006). 5 When I use the term ‘intersectionality’, I am drawing from discourse that draws back to at least Kimberlé Williams Crenshaw’s 1989 article in the University of Chicago Legal Forum, ‘Demarginalizing the Intersection of Race and Sex: A Black Feminist Critique of Antidiscrimination Doctrine, Feminist Theory and Antiracist Politics’. Since the publication of that seminal work, which asked scholars to consider that race and gender be used in conjunction as categories of analysis to understand the experiences of black women, intersectionality has grown to describe the ways that all marginalized or oppressed people encounter intersecting oppressions based on their race, gender, sexuality, class, nationalism, ethnicity and embodiment. These oppressions are inextricable from each other.

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As seen in Nigel Townson edited volume, Spain Transformed: The Late Franco Dictatorship, 1959–75, significant cultural and political change had already been taking place in the latter years of the dictatorship. Although a foundational text, the subject matter covered in Spain Transformed ends roughly in 1975 with the death of Franco – leaving a space to examine intersections that would bridge the second half of the Francoist régime and the transition to democracy. While the edited volume describes many of the social and cultural changes of the 1960s in relation to the earlier Francoist régime, a study of how those changes affected the spread of democratic (and pluralistic) tendencies within Spain brings further nuance to the implications of the ‘transformed’ Spain described in the edited volume. 7 See: Sasha D. Pack, Tourism and Dictatorship: Europe’s Peaceful Invasion of Franco’s Spain (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006). 8 While Sasha Pack successfully describes this ‘European invasion’, his monograph does not focus upon the ways in which Spaniards might have rejected this imposed perception of ‘difference’, or the after effects of the infiltration of capitalist and consumerist ideologies in Spain after Franco’s death. While Pack’s work describes how European tourism affected aspects of Spanish life, more attention could be paid by scholars to the ways in which young Spaniards pushed against the idea that they were ‘different’ from the rest of Europe, and the ways Spaniards adopted and adapted both popular American and European culture. Franco’s conservative image of Spain contrasted drastically from the pluralistic Spain that young Spaniards were imagining and creating for themselves – a detail to which scant attention is paid in the monograph (understandably so, given the broad nature of Pack’s study). 9 This comparative approach is a response to Richard Kagan’s call to situate Spain in a European and transnational context, and not limit Spanish history as exceptional to Spain (see: Richard L. Kagan, ‘Prescott’s Paradigm: American Historical Scholarship and the Decline of Spain’, The American Historical Review 101, no. 2 (April 1996): 423–446). I utilize this framework to make connections to the youth cultures of France, Italy, the United Kingdom, the United States, México and Cuba during the period studied – emphasizing places where there is overlap, pointing to early functions of global culture. Moreover, some comparison will be made to the fall of the Soviet Union and the ways in which young people subverted authority in the Eastern Bloc. 10 Hamilton M. Stapell, Remaking Madrid: Culture, Politics, and Identity after Franco (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010). 11 For more on the ‘carnivalesque’, see: Mikhail M. Bakhtin, The Dialogic Imagination Four Essays, translated by Michael Holquist (Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 1996). Also see: Peter Stallybrass and Allon White, The Politics and Poetics of Transgression (London: Methuen, 1986). 12 Whereas Hamilton Stapell focuses primarily on the construction of civitas and the political players and policies of Madrid of the post-Franco years, I describe

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14 15 16

17 18

19

20

Notes the production and extension of a transgressive youth culture that had already been pushing against Francoist hegemony prior to the dictator’s death, thus connecting emergent socio cultural changes with broader questions of the political transition. Francisco Umbral, columnist and active proponent of Movida culture and language during the period, emphasized the importance of cheli slang in his description of the revolutionary and subversive nature of marginal language in the introduction to his Diccionario Cheli, ‘Mientras las grandes lenguas se enfrían, los dialectos, los argots, las jergas calientes de revolución, la marginalidad, la juventud, la droga, el sexo, las neonacionalidades y la delincuencia afloran por todas partes o influyen y revitalizan el habla oficial y cotidiana, y crean nuevas literaturas’. See: Francisco Umbral, Diccionario cheli (Barcelona: Grijalbo, 1983), 1. I gesture towards comparisons and connections to other national identity in Spain, but ultimately is not the focus of the text. Pierre Bourdieu, The Field of Cultural Production: Essays on Art and Literature (New York: Columbia University Press, 1993). This understanding of young people seeing a different relation to régime is exemplified in the film: Los que no fuimos a la guerra, DVD, directed by Julio Diamante Stihl (Madrid: Saroya Films, 1962). Diamante Stihil (b. 1930), a film student, was also an active organizer of clandestine poetry reading groups in the 1950s, covered in Chapter 3. Paloma Aguilar Fernández, Memory and Amnesia: The Role of the Spanish Civil War in the Transition to Democracy (Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2002). Later chapters of Antiauthoritarian Youth Culture will demonstrate the ways that some of these pluralistic pre–civil war traditions were passed on and reinterpreted despite the Falange’s attempt to repress the memory of Spanish liberalism – many of which find their origins in the Early Modern period. In Spanish, the law is known as ‘Ley 57/2007 por la que se reconocen y amplían derechos y se establecen medidas en favor de quienes padecieron persecución o violencia durante la Guerra Civil y la Dictadura’. Radcliff ’s work on Madrid’s neighbourhood associations is one of the few works of scholarship that has attempted to understand the construction of democratic tendencies during the era, focusing primarily on structural organization of civitas in the 1970s. Radcliff covers the late Francoist period and the three years following the dictator’s death, but focuses on social and structural changes rather than cultural change. An important work, Radcliff does account for the importance of looking to the Late-Franco era to show how neighbourhood associations functioned to open democratic discourses under the régime, motioning towards a ‘return to civil society’. See: Pamela Beth Radcliff, Making Democratic Citizens in

Notes

21 22

23 24 25

26

27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34

35 36

37

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Spain: Civil Society and the Popular Origins of the Transition, 1960–78 (Basingstoke, Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011). Antonio Álvarez Pérez, Enciclopedia Álvarez: Primer grado (Valladolid: Miñon, 1964), 217. Luisa Passerini, ‘Youth as a Metaphor for Social Change: Fascist Italy and America in the 1950s’, in A History of Young People in the West, edited by Giovanni Levi and Jean Claude Schmitt (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1997). Ibid., 281. Ibid., 283. One text that does study young people’s lives under fascism is Nicholas Stargardt’s, Witnesses of War: Children’s Lives under the Nazis (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2006), 58–59. This retrograde notion of the Other as existential threat reappeared in late twentieth-century far-right extremist David Lane’s ‘White Genocide Manifesto’ (1980) and later was adopted by the American and European Alt-Right movements. See: J.M. Berger, ‘Alt History: How a Self-published, Racist Novel Changed White Nationalism and Inspired Decades of Violence’, The Atlantic, 16 September 2016, accessed 22 June 2017, https://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2016/09/how -the-turner-diaries-changed-white-nationalism/500039/. Ibid. Ruth Ben-Ghiat, Fascist Modernities: Italy, 1922–1945 (Berkeley : University of California Press, 2001), 93–122. Ibid., 96. Robert O. Paxton, The Anatomy of Fascism (New York: Vintage Books, 2005). Ibid., 139. Ibid. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso, 2006). For more on the construction of hegemonic power under fascism, see: Antonio Gramsci, Prison Notebooks, edited by Joseph A. Buttigieg (New York: Columbia University Press, 1992). Henri Lefebvre considers how power interacts with people in their everyday lives in his seminal work Critique of Everyday Life (London: Verso, 2008). Often translated in English as The Revolution of Everyday Life, but more directly translated would be Treatise on Living for the Younger Generations. See: Raoul Vaneigem, The Revolution of Everyday Life, translated by Donald Nicholson-Smith (Seattle: Left Bank Books, 1983). Antonio Díaz-Cañabate, Historia de una tertulia (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1978), 13–14. Umbral writes in his introduction: ‘There were great and famous tertulias

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38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48

49

50 51

52

Notes before the war, but after the war, the tertulia spoken about in this book became just the model of a tertulia in the aftermath … This book is elegiac. It is an elegy to a tertulia that has died, about a collective of friends that has since dispersed.’ David Muggleton, Inside Subculture: The Postmodern Meaning of Style (Oxford: Berg, 2006). Dick Hebdige, Subculture: The Meaning of Style (London: Routledge, 2008). Stallybrass and White, The Politics and Poetics of Transgression, 191. Paul Julian Smith, Desire Unlimited: The Cinema of Pedro Almodóvar (London: Verso, 2000), 34. Pedro Almodóvar and Paula Willoquet-Maricondi, Pedro Almodóvar: Interviews (Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2004), 95. Mark Allinson, A Spanish Labyrinth: The Films of Pedro Almodóvar (London: Tauris, 2001), 14. Michael Warner, Publics and Counterpublics (New York: Zone Books, 2002), 63. Ibid. Ibid., 120. Ibid. Mary Elizabeth Perry, Gender and Disorder in Early Modern Seville (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1990), 21. A seminal work in gender studies in early modern Spanish history, Gender and Disorder in Early Modern Seville explores gender relations, patriarchal order and systems of oppression/subversion in the context of the Golden Age of Spain through a cultural lens of history. Perry’s work demonstrates that early modern Spanish women demonstrated agency despite repression. To accomplish this, Perry first acknowledges that men wrote most of the records that survive in the archives, and thus require that the historian search for ‘subtext’ to find oppressed voices written out of the official record. For an interesting methodological intersection between film documentary, anthropology and historical analysis on ‘gleaning’, see: Les Glaneurs Et La Glaneuse (The Gleaners and I), directed by Agnès Varda. Performed by Bodan Litnanski, Agnès Varda, François Wertheimer (Paris: Ciné Tamaris, 2001), DVD. Bourdieu, The Field of Cultural Production. Specifically, I will utilize Clifford Geertz’s interpretive theory of culture to understand power relations within culture(s). Geertz maintains that in order to better understand a subject matter one must build upon a subject utilizing ‘thick descriptions’. I hope this book project will create a thick description of Spanish youth culture during the second half of the Francoist régime and the transition to democracy to understand the ways in which Spaniards created democratic and pluralistic spaces. See: Clifford Geertz, The Interpretation of Cultures: Selected Essays (New York: Basic Books, 1973). Nancy Fraser, ‘Rethinking the Public Sphere: A Contribution to the Critique of Actually Existing Democracy’, Social Text, no. 25/26 (1990): 67.

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53 Due to numerous converging factors ranging from a social desire for change to the industrialization of major cities, Spain introduced new technology and opened itself to international world markets, including foreign investments; Spain entered the global capitalist system. See: Pablo Martín Aceña and Elena Martínez Ruiz, ‘ The Golden Age of Spanish Capitalism: Economic Growth without Political Freedom’, in Spain Transformed: The Late Franco Dictatorship, 1959–75, edited by Nigel Townson (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007), 30–31. 54 Tracey Skelton and Gill Valentine, Cool Places: Geographies of Youth Cultures (London: Routledge, 1998), 3–4. 55 Ibid. 56 Ibid. 57 Jon Savage, Teenage: The Creation of Youth Culture (New York: Viking, 2007), 452. 58 Ibid. 59 Hebdige, Subculture: The Meaning of Style, 16. 60 Savage, Teenage: The Creation of Youth Culture, 453. 61 William A. Christian, Person and God in a Spanish Valley (New York: Seminar Press, 1972), 24. 62 Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison (New York: Vintage Books, 1995). 63 De Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, 38–39. 64 Ibid., 37. 65 Henri Lefebvre, Critique of Everyday Life. Vol. 1: Introduction (London: Verso, 2008), 9. 66 Moreover, in The Practice of Everyday Life, de Certeau argues tales and legends have a particular role in society, teaching ‘tactics’ to subvert authorities of power. De Certeau further contends that everyday life is riddled with ways in which people ‘poach’ ideas and reappropriate them, rather than simply being passive consumers of culture. Through the constructions of figures, alliterations and play on words found in tales and legends, tactics are remembered, taught and incorporated into everyday practices, resulting in the subversion of established order through the use of ‘tropes, ordinary languages and ruses, displacements, and ellipses’ in order to counter ‘proper meanings’. While these ‘fables’ are indeed, as de Certeau states, ‘fabulous’, their cultural currency, in the face of repression, is indicative of their potential to subvert a hegemonic authoritarian system. See: De Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, 23. 67 Kristin Ross, The Emergence of Social Space: Rimbaud and the Paris Commune (London: Verso, 2008). 68 Ibid., 28. 69 Ibid., 4.

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Chapter 2 1

2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

13 14 15 16

17

The necessity for both a political and religious education was in fact a result of the consolidation of the interests of the Spanish Right which included wealthy élite, the Catholic Church and the nationalist military in the post–civil war years. Antonio Ortiz Muñoz, ‘Consejo Nacional del S.E.M.’, Revista Nacional de Educación. Madrid, no. 26–27 (1943): 195–200. Pedro Laín Entralgo, El problema de la universidad (Madrid: Cuadernos para el diálogo, 1968), 88–91. Pedro Laín Entralgo, ‘La universidad como empresa’, Alcalá. Revista Universitaria Española. Madrid, no. 7 (1952). ‘El Ministero Secretario General del Partido Recibio Ayer a los Miembros del Primer Consejo Nacional del S.E.M.’, A.B.C. (Madrid), 6 February 1943. Ibid. ‘El Ministero Secretario General del partido recibio ayer a los miembros del Primer Consejo Nacional del S.E.M.’, A.B.C. Stanley G. Payne, The Franco Regime, 1936–1975 (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1987), 321. Inbal Ofer, Señoritas in Blue: The Making of a Female Political Elite in Franco’s Spain (Brighton: Sussex Academic Press, 2009), 17. Ibid. Ibid., 12. Stanley G. Payne, Fascism in Spain, 1923–1977 (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1999), 159–160. Alexander Vergara, Kevin Ingram, Enrique Sanabria, and Theresa Smith’s online archive of posters from the Spanish Civil War, The Visual Front, located in the University of California, San Diego’s Southworth Collection, provides a wealth of examples, and is worthy of perusal by anyone interested in the period. It can be found at: http://libraries.ucsd.edu/speccoll/ visfront. Paxton, The Anatomy of Fascism. Stanley G. Payne, A History of Fascism, 1914–1945 (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1995). Umberto Eco, ‘Ur-Fascism Umberto Eco’, The New York Review of Books XLII, no. 11 (22 June 1995): 12–15. José Antonio Primo de Rivera, Obras de José Antonio Primo de Rivera, edited by Agustín del Río Cisneros (Madrid: Delegación Nacional de la Sección Femenina del Movimiento, 1970). Simonetta Falasca-Zamponi, Fascist Spectacle: The Aesthetics of Power in Mussolini’s Italy (Berkeley : University of California Press, 1997), 81.

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18 Gabriel Tortella, The Development of Modern Spain: An Economic History of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2000), 262–263. 19 Antonio Viñao Frago, ‘The History of Literacy in Spain: Evolution, Traits, and Questions’, History of Education Quarterly 30, no. 4 (Winter 1990): 573–599. 20 Manuel de Puelles Benítez, Educación e Ideología en la España Contemporánea: (1767–1975) (Barcelona: Editorial Labor Politeia, 1980), 379. 21 ‘Ley de 17 de Julio de 1945 sobre Educación Primaria’, Boletín Oficial del Estado, no. 199 (1945): 385–416. 22 Beginning as early as 1940, the Falange party operated a volunteer youth organization, the Frente de Juventudes (Youth Front). In line with changing times and vocabulary, by 1960, the Frente de Juventudes was absorbed into the voluntary Organización Juvenil Española (Spanish Youth Organization), which was operated under the Movimiento Nacional. For more, see: Juan Sáez Marín, El frente de juventudes: Política de juventud en la España de la postguerra (1937–1960) (Madrid: Siglo Veintiuno de España Editores, 1988). 23 Carolyn P. Boyd, Historia Patria: Politics, History, and National Identity in Spain, 1875–1975 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1997), 269. 24 Alex Niño, ‘Álvarez, El de la “enciclopedia”: El libro antiguo más solicitado en la feria de recoletos es un texto escolar de los cincuenta’, El País (Madrid), 7 October 1996. 25 Ibid. 26 Jeremy Hobson, writer, ‘Controversial New Textbooks Go into Use This Fall in Texas’, Here & Now, NPR, 25 June 2015. 27 Title I, Article 1 is previously cited in this chapter. Other articles in Title I enumerate the rights of family, Church and State, and outline the need for education to prepare students for housework or professional formation. 28 Ley de 17 de Julio de 1945 sobre Educación Primaria. 29 Enciclopedia de la Enseñanza Primaria: Grado Infantil (Madrid: Compañía Bibliográfica Española, 1953), 53–61. 30 Enciclopedia de la Enseñanza Primaria: Grado Infantil, 158. 31 Agustín Serrano de Haro, España es así (Madrid: Editorial Escuela Española, 1958), inside cover. 32 Ibid., 10–11. 33 Ibid., 20. 34 Ibid., 55. 35 Evelio Yusta Calvo, Lecciones preparadas H. S. R.: Grado tercero. 1st ed. Libro del maestro de Nueva Enciclopedia Escolar (Burgos: Hijos de Santiago Rodríguez), 7. 36 Ibid., 666. 37 Ibid., 669.

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38 Antonio Fernández Rodríguez, Enciclopedia Práctica: Grado Elemental (Barcelona: Editorial Miguel A. Salvatella, 1950), 287. 39 ‘National syndicalism’ can be understood as the fascist tendency to mobilize industry for the nation-state. 40 Ibid., 283–288. 41 Ignacio Elguero, ¡Al encerado!: Un interesante y divertido retrato de los colegios de los años 60, 70 y 80 (Barcelona: Planeta, 2011), 150. 42 Ibid., 159. 43 Ibid., 152. 44 Helen Graham, ‘The Spanish Civil War, 1936–2003: The Return of Republican Memory’, Science & Society 68, no. 3 (2004): 313–328. 45 Jésus y Antonio Álvarez Pérez, Mi Cartilla: Método para el aprendizaje rápido y simultáneo de la lectura, escritura y dibujo. Primera parte (Valladolid: Miñon, 1957), inside cover. 46 Ibid., 6. 47 Ibid., 9. 48 Ibid., 10. 49 Elguero, ¡Al encerado!, 29. 50 Jésus y Antonio Álvarez Pérez, Mi Cartilla, 11. 51 Ibid., 11–15. 52 Elguero, ¡Al encerado!, 33. 53 Antonio Álvarez Pérez and Jésus Álvarez Pérez, Mi Cartilla: Método para el aprendizaje rápido y simultáneo de la lectura, escritura y dibujo. Cuarta parte (Valladolid: Miñon, 1957), 3. 54 Ibid., 22. 55 Elguero, ¡Al encerado!, 30. 56 Ibid., 46. 57 Ibid., 54. 58 Ibid., 67.

Chapter 3 1 2

Miguel de Unamuno, Tragic Sense of Life, Translated by J.E. Crawford Flitch (New York: Dover Publications, 1954), 44. See: Shirley Mangini González, Memories of Resistance: Women’s Voices from the Spanish Civil War (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995); Antonio Cazorla Sánchez, Fear and Progress: Ordinary Lives in Franco’s Spain, 1939–1975 (Chichester, UK: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010); Henry Kamen, Imagining Spain: Historical Myth and National Identity (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2008); and Fernández, Memory and Amnesia.

Notes 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

31

205

Deborah L. Parsons, A Cultural History of Madrid: Modernism and the Urban Spectacle (Oxford: Berg, 2003), 110. Edward W. Soja, Thirdspace: Journeys to Los Angeles and Other Real-and-Imagined Places (Cambridge, MA: Blackwell, 1996), 6. De Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, xi. Ibid., xv. Ibid., xvii. Ibid., xix. Ramón Gómez de la Serna, Pombo: Biografía del celebre café y otros cafés (Buenos Aires: Editorial Juventud Argentina, 1941), 13. Paul Fussell, The Great War and Modern Memory (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013). Ibid., 39–81. Ibid., 311–312. Alon Confino, Germany as a Culture of Remembrance: Promises and Limits of Writing History (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2006), 153. Ibid., 156. Fernández, Memory and Amnesia. Antonio Cazorla-Sánchez, ‘Beyond They Shall Not Pass. How the Experience of Violence Reshaped Political Values in Franco’s Spain’, Journal of Contemporary History 40, no. 3 (1 July 2005): 506. Ibid., 518. Antonio Cazorla-Sánchez, Fear and Progress, 41. Ibid. Max Gallo, Spain under Franco: A History (New York: Dutton, 1974), 133. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid., 194. Ibid. Ibid., 194–197. Ibid. Portillo settled in London, and married Cora Blyth. Their son, Michael Portillo, is a prominent member of the British Conservative Party, and has served in Parliament, the Chief Secretary to the Treasure, Secretary of State for Employment, and Secretary of State for Defence. For more, see the biography in: Luis Gabriel Portillo, Ruiseñor del Destierro: Poesías de Luis Gabriel Portillo (Barcelona: Anthropos, 1989). Cyril Connolly, The Golden Horizon (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1953), 397–403.

206 32 33 34 35 36 37

38 39 40 41 42 43 44

45

46

47

Notes Confino, Germany as a Culture of Remembrance, 157. Connolly, The Golden Horizon, 397–403. Fussell, The Great War and Modern Memory, 311–312. Connolly, The Golden Horizon, 397–403. Ibid. The reference to Unamuno as an ‘independent republican’ functions to highlight Unamuno’s participation in democratic dialogue, but does not portray him as being beholden to any political party. Miguel García-García, Facts on Spanish Resistance (London: Simian, 1971), 2. Ibid., 11. Ibid., 21. Manuel Juan Farga, Universidad y democracia en España: 30 años de lucha estudiantil (México, D.F.: Ediciones Era, 1969), book summary on back of book. Ibid., 12–17. Ibid., 17–21. Ibid., 22. ‘Nacía así la oposición popular a la monarquía, que toleraba un régimen de excepción. En pleno curso ocurrieron otros dos incidentes que aumentaron el malestar que se iba incubando. El primero, en la sesión de homenajea Ganivet que el 28 de marzo de 1925 se efectuó en la misma Universidad, en ocasión del traslado de sus restos a Granada, lo que se aprovechó para repartir profusamente un escrito de Unamuno, en el que se pronunciaba contra el directorio militar y por el retorno de un gobierno de derecho.’ Ibid., 83. Translated from Castillian. ‘Sabemos, como vosotros, que la libertad es algo que se conquista. Y, como vosotros, nos negamos también a vivir enajenados en la tranquilidad y el adormecimiento. Yo por si alguna vez en nuestra patria ha podido tramarse, o pronunciarse, o simplemente pensarse una forma cualquier de “muera la inteligencia”, nosotros queremos terminar esta carta de adhesión con las siguientes palabras: ¡Viva la inteligencia!’ Roberto Mesa Garrido, Jaraneros y alborotadores documentos sobre los sucesos estudiantiles de febrero de 1956 en la Universidad Complutense de Madrid (Madrid: Editorial Complutense, 2006), 9: ‘Pero, lógicamente, en el larguísimo combate contra el sistema autoritario, legitimado sobre la sangre derramada en la cruentísima guerra civil, los planteamientos de los intelectuales, de los hombres de cultura, estaban llamados a desempeñar una función, si no decisiva, sí de muy primer orden. Y más todavía cuando, por encima de lo anecdótico, el nacionalcatolicismo franquista hacía suyos aquellos alaridos inciviles preferidos en un recinto universitario aclamando el ¡Viva la muerte! junto al ¡Muera la inteligencia!’ Roberto Mesa Garrido, Document 1.13 Informe de don Pedro Lain Entralgo respecto a la situación espiritual de la juventud española, 49.

Notes

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48 Roberto Mesa Garrido, Document 2.2. Nota Informativa: Las actitudes sociales en la Universidad de Madrid, 64. 49 Much has been written about university student dissent during the dictatorship; however, most of pioneering work has been done by those who participated in the dissent in some fashion. For more specifics about the events of the student protests of February 1956, and youth movements in Spain during and after the dictatorship, see: Farga, Universidad y democracia en España;José María Maravall, Dictadura y disentimiento político: obreros y estudiantes bajo el franquismo (Madrid: Ed. Alfaguara, 1978); Pablo Lizcano Fernández, La generación del 56: la universidad contra Franco (Barcelona: Ediciones Grijalbo, 1981); Marín, El frente de juventudes; Gregorio Valdelvira, La oposición estudiantil al franquismo (Madrid: Síntesis, 2006); Javier Muñoz Soro, Cuadernos para el diálogo, 1963–1976: Una historia cultural del segundo franquismo (Madrid: Marcial Pons Historia, 2006); Elena Hernández Sandoica, Marc Baldó Lacomba, and Miguel Ángel Ruiz Carnicer, Estudiantes contra Franco (1939–1975): oposición política y movilización juvenil (Madrid: Esfera de los Libros, 2007); Eduardo González Calleja, Rebelión en las aulas: movilización y protesta estudiantil en la España contemporánea 1865–2008 (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 2009). 50 José María Maravall, Dictatorship and Political Dissent: Workers and Students in Franco’s Spain (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1979), 100–102. 51 ‘Vida Cultural: Convocatorias Para Hoy’, A.B.C. (Madrid), 2 April 1954. 52 For more on the influences of Unamuno and the Generation of 1898 on the writings of Leopoldo Panero, see: Alberto Parra Higuera, Investigaciones sobre la obra poética de Leopoldo Panero (Bern: Herbert Lang, 1971). 53 José García Nieto, La poesía de Leopoldo Panero (Madrid: Ateneo, 1963), introduction. 54 Juan Matas Caballero and José Manuel Trabado Cabado, eds. Nostalgia de una patria imposible: estudios sobre la poesía de Luis Cernuda (Madrid: Ediciones Akal, 2005), 100. 55 Ibid. 56 X. Zubiri, ‘De todo el mundo llegan a Madrid testimonios de pesame por la muerte de Don José Ortega y Gasset’, A.B.C. (Madrid), 19 October 1955. 57 ‘Comienza sus tareas la conferencia de expertos de la U.N.E.S.C.O. sobre difusión de los conocimientos científicos’, A.B.C. (Madrid), 20 October 1955. 58 ‘Telegramas de condolencia del presidente Heuss y de Adenauer’, A.B.C. (Madrid), 20 October 1955. 59 Zubiri, ‘De todo el mundo llegan a Madrid testimonios de pesame por la muerte de Don José Ortega y Gasset’. 60 Pedro Laín Entralgo, El problema de la universidad: reflexiones de urgencia (Madrid: Edicusa/Cuadernos para el diálogo, 1968), 97.

208

Notes

61 It would be of particular interest to know if Javier Pradera named both sons, Máximo and Alejandro, in honour of the fin de siècle Spanish writer Alejandro Sawa. Ramón María del Valle-Inclán, of the Generation of 1898, wrote the character of ‘Máximo Estrella’ in his masterpiece Luces de Bohemia (Bohemian Lights) based upon the Madrilenian poet, Alejandro Sawa. If this were so, it would show another aspect as to the influence of the memory of the writers of the liberal past on the students. 62 Roberto Mesa Garrido, Document 1.3. Grupos activos de comunistas e institucionalistas en la Universidad de Madrid., 30–39. 63 Camille M. Cianfarra, ‘Student Protest Mounts in Spain’, The New York Times, 5 February 1956. 64 Roberto Mesa Garrido, Document 3.22 ‘La conjura tiene nombre propios’, 260. 65 Ibid., Document 1.3. Grupos activos de comunistas e institucionalistas en la Universidad de Madrid, 31. 66 Ibid. 67 Jorge Semprún, Communism in Spain in the Franco Era: The Autobiography of Federico Sanchez (Brighton: Harvester Press, 1980), 44. 68 Garrido, Document 1.3. Grupos activos de comunistas e institucionalistas en la Universidad de Madrid, 31. 69 Ibid. 70 Ibid., 30–39. 71 Ibid., 31. 72 Pedro Laín Entralgo, La generación del noventa y ocho (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1979). 73 Camille M. Cianfarra, ‘Franco Dictatorship Still Solid in Spain’, The New York Times, 7 February 1956. 74 Fernando De La Presa, ‘Perfil humano de don José Ortega y Gasset’, edited by Humberto Piñera Llera. Revista Cubana de Filosofía IV, no. 13 (26 June 1956): 90–103. The journal dedicated its June issue to Ortega y Gasset. Translated from Castilian: ‘Don José Ortega y Gasset, filósofo liberal español. Estudiante: acude al patio de la Universidad Central para asistir al homenaje póstumo que la juventud universitaria de Madrid le ofrecerá en la mañana del día 28 de octubre de 1955.’ 75 Garrido, Document 1.3 Grupos activos de comunistas e institucionalistas en la Univerisdad de Madrid, 37. 76 Ibid., 30–39. 77 De La Presa, ‘Perfil humano de don José Ortega y Gasset’, 90–103. 78 Ibid., 39. 79 ‘Unamuno Dies: Savant of Spain’, The New York Times, 2 January 1937. 80 Ibid. 81 Jane Cianfarra, ‘News Via Tertulia: When Things Happen in Spain, A Network of “Clubs” in the Cafés Carries the Word’, The New York Times, 10 June 1956.

Notes

209

82 Ibid. 83 Ibid. 84 Camille M. Cianfarra, ‘Youth’s Criticism in Spain is Rising’, The New York Times, 6 January 1956.

Chapter 4 1 Grant Morrison, Supergods: What Masked Vigilantes, Miraculous Mutants, and a Sun God from Smallville Can Teach Us about Being Human (New York: Spiegel & Grau, 2011), 416. 2 See: Archivo General de la Administration, Expediente 6694 and 6693 in Signatura 21/10896, 1954. While these records do not identify specifically which of these early ‘attacks’ these Superman comics engaged in, it is possible to say that early on Francoist censors perceived a threat from these comics, censoring many of the comics a decade before the eventual ban. It would mostly be the comics that were published during this decade that would circulate throughout the 1960s. 3 For a brief history of Editorial Novaro, with particular attention paid to Spain, see: Alfons Moliné, Novaro: (el globo infinito) (Madrid: Sinsentido, 2007). 4 In the later part of the decade the Spanish press, Editorial Dólar began to produce ‘graphic novels’ that reprinted stories that were originally distributed by the McClure Newspaper Syndicate in the United States. As seen in the archives, Dólar had considerable difficulties with censorship when compared with Novaro. See Archivo General de la Administración, Exp. 6697, 6694, 6693 in Sig. 21/10896, 1954. 5 For more on the régime’s use of folklore and mythology as a method to legitimize itself, see: Carmen Ortiz, ‘The Uses of Folklore by the Franco Regime’, The Journal of American Folklore 112, no. 446 (Autumn, 1999): 479–496. 6 Walther L. Bernecker, ‘El cambio de mentalidad en el segundo franquismo’, in España en cambio: el segundo franquismo, 1959–1975, edited by Nigel Townson (Madrid: Siglo XXI, 2009), 49–70. 7 Jesús María Vázquez, Félix Madin, Antonio Martín and María Monteserrat Sartou Manuel Camacho, eds. Prensa infantil y juvenil: pasado y presente (Madrid: Ediciones de la Comisión de Informaciones y Publicaciones Infantiles y Juveniles, 1967), 36, and 121–122. 8 Jesús María Vázquez, ‘Sociología infantil: Encuesta sobre la lectura de los niños en un sector de Madrid’, Revista de Educación no. 67 (1957): 42. 9 Ibid., 46. 10 Estudio sobre Superman, sin número, Centro de Investigaciones Sociológicas, Archives of the Instituto de la Opinión Pública, 1966.

210

Notes

11 Alfonso Alvarez Villar, ‘Supermán, mito de nuestro tiempo’, Revista española de la opinión pública no. 6 (October 1966): 217. 12 Ibid. 13 Ibid. 14 Jesús María Vázquez et al., eds. Prensa infantil y juvenil, 48. 15 Alfonso Alvarez Villar, ‘Supermán, mito de nuestro tiempo’: 235. All of the exemplars published by Novaro from 1958 to 1964 that would have eventually arrived to the Archivo General de la Administración were ‘proportioned’ by the Comisión de Información y Publicaciones Infantiles and the Hermeroteca Nacional to the Instituto de la Opinión Pública, which published the Revista española de la opinión pública, thus accounting for their disappearance from the general censorship archives. This collaboration further emphasizes the importance of Alvarez’ work in understanding the official rationale for the prohibition of the Superman comics. These comics were given to the Instituto de la Opinión Pública, and according to the Centro de Investigaciones Sociológicas, the government arm that would have inherited Alvarez Villar’s materials, the documents were most likely lost or destroyed during a move from a previous location. One consultant from the Library at the CIS recalled a box of comics from the period, and recounted that two former co-workers argued for years as to what became of those comics. 16 For the two best texts treating the subject of the comic book industry during the period, see: Bradford W. Wright, Comic Book Nation: The Transformation of Youth Culture in America (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001); David Hajdu, The Ten-Cent Plague: The Great Comic Book Scare and How It Changed America (New York: Picador, 2009). 17 Viviane Alfonso Alary, ‘The Spanish Tebeo’, European Comic Art 2, no. 2 (Autumn 2009): 253–276. 18 Alfonso Alvarez Villar, ‘Encuesta entre los niños y adolescentes’, Revista española de la opinión pública no. 2 (December 1965): 212. This survey was done by the Spanish Institute of Public Opinion, but was never publicly distributed. Most of these surveys were secret. The régime gathered this information so as to maintain a general sense of the opinion of the population, and selectively distributed and used that information for purposes of propaganda, etc. Of note is that the sample in this particular survey included a disproportionate number of upper-middle class youth, which generally would have been of more interest to the régime as they were more likely to become dissidents. Surprisingly, an average of 15 per cent of young male participants responded ‘no comment’. Only 3 per cent young females refused to comment. This refusal to comment is perhaps reflective of the ‘fear’ of possible repercussions for non-conformative responses. Many similar surveys in that journal of adults of the era were

Notes

19 20 21 22 23

24 25 26 27

28

29

30

31

211

notorious for having up to 90 per cent of respondents refusing to answer more polemical questions. Villar, ‘Encuesta entre los niños y adolescentes’, 212. Vázquez, ‘Sociología infantil’, 42. De Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, 23. Eduardo Lagar, ‘Faustino R. Arbesú En La Primera Viñeta’, La Nueva España (Oviedo, Asturias), 25 February 2007, LXXI ed. In fact, much of the language found in the archives describes Superman’s adventures as ‘stupid’, indicating the distain for the content of those stories. See: Archivo General de la Administración, Exp. 7435, Sig. 03228, 1973. Gema Pérez-Sánchez, Queer Transitions in Contemporary Spanish Culture: From Franco to La Movida (New York: State University of New York Press, 2007), 21. Ibid., 28–29. Ibid., 218. While the Cultural Archives of the Archivo General de la Administración does not have specific exemplars of any of the Superman comics published by Novaro from 1958 to 1964, as they were lent to the Alvarez Villar and subsequently lost, there are several examples of censored Superman comics published by Novaro after the general ban on Superman comics was lifted in 1972, that demonstrate what might have been censored, elaborating upon the detailed review/censorship process that these comic books underwent. Comics that showed affection between Superman and Lois, portrayed Lois as a ‘modern’ woman, that portrayed Superman as too ‘godlike’, or counter-Catholic, or that did not appear ‘Spanish’ enough were frequently marked with the censor’s red pencil as dangerous. See: Archivo General de la Administración, Superman Libro comic 11, Exp. No10789, Sig. 73/04400. Woolfolk, William (w), and Plastino, Al (a). ‘El asombroso superniño’, Supermán #132 (December 1958). Madrid: Editorial Novaro. Originally published as ‘The Amazing Super-Baby’, in Action Comics #217 (June 1956). As Judith Butler has argued, ‘In imitating gender, drag implicitly reveals the imitative structure of gender itself – as well as its contingency’. Judith Butler, Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (New York: Routledge, 2006), 187. Also of interest is Luis Gasca’s work published for the SJPO that compiled both national and international bibliographies on comic books and tebeos. The publication of these very extensive bibliographies demonstrates that for the régime the threat present in these comics was very real. These bibliographies would have been used to provide material with which to combat American comic books. See: Luis Gasca, ‘Bibliografía mundial del “comic”’, Revista española de la opinión pública no. 14 (October 1968): 365–390. Antonio Sabater Tomás, Gamberros, homosexuals, vagos y maleantes; estudio jurídico-sociológico (Barcelona: Editorial Hispano Europea, 1962), 209.

212

Notes

32 The Lieutenant Nun, Catalina de Erauso, was a gender queer person who often identified as a man of the sixteenth century, and is a personage much lauded in Spanish literature as being a ‘pure’, and ‘manly’ woman, for more, see: Mary Elizabeth Perry, ‘From Convent to Battlefield: Cross-Dressing and Gendering the Self in the New World of Imperial Spain’, in Queer Iberia: Sexualities, Cultures, and Crossings from the Middle Ages to the Renaissance, edited by Josiah Blackmore and Gregory S. Hutcheson (Durham: Duke University Press, 1999). Also, powerful women, such as Queen Isabel the Catholic and her daughter, Queen Juana ‘la Loca’, were also considered ‘manly women’. For more discussion on the masculine traits of Isabel and Juana, see: Bethany Aram, Juana the Mad: Sovereignty and Dynasty in Renaissance Europe (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2005), 6. 33 Wayne Boring and Unknown, ‘El Diario International “El Planeta,”’ Supermán #75. (April 1956). Madrid: Editorial Novaro. Originally published as ‘The International Daily Planet’ in Action Comics #203 (April 1955). 34 Alfonso Alvarez Villar, ‘Supermán, mito de nuestro tiempo’, 244. 35 Ibid., 232. 36 Los Bravos, ‘Como Superman’. Released 1969. Ilustrisimos Bravos. 1969, Vinyl recording. 37 Lefebvre, Critique of Everyday Life, 109. 38 Antonio Martín, ‘Un folletín del siglo XX: “Superman”: Los psicólogos acusan a este personaje seudoinfantil de “poder inducir al delirio esquizofrénico” ’, Gaceta de la prensa española no. 196 (October 1967): 17. 39 Ibid., 17–18. 40 Ibid., 18–19. 41 Ibid., 20. 42 Villar, ‘Encuesta entre los niños y adolescentes’, 212. 43 Robert Kanigher (w) and Werner Roth (a), ‘Mi muerte … por Luisa Lane’, Supermán #885 (December 1972). Madrid: Editorial Novaro. Originally published as ‘My Death … By Lois Lane’, in Superman’s Girl Friend, Lois Lane #115, (October 1971). 44 Robert Bernstein(w) and Kurt Schaffenberger (a), ‘La demente de Metrópolis’, Supermán #885 (December 1972). Madrid: Editorial Novaro. Originally published as ‘The Mad Woman of Metropolis!’, in Superman’s Girl Friend, Lois Lane #115 (July 1961). 45 For more on the underground and independent Spanish comics of the period, see: Francesca Lladó, Los Comics de la Transición: El Boom del Cómic Adulto 1975–1984 (Barcelona: Ediciones Glénat, 2001). 46 JOB, ‘Eduardo Haro: “soy Homosexual, Drogadicto y Delincuente” ’, Disco Express (Madrid), 10 March 1978, Entrevista sec. 47 Schildt and Siegfried, Between Marx and Coca-Cola, 43.

Notes

213

Chapter 5 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

12 13 14 15 16

17 18 19 20 21 22

For an in-depth study of Spain’s tourism industry, see: Pack, Tourism and Dictatorship. ‘Spain: Voters Say’s’, Time Magazine, 27 June 1977. Sebastian Balfour, The End of the Spanish Empire: 1898–1923 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997), 64. Fidel González Revilla, Ramón Hidalgo Monteagudo, and Rosalía Ramos Guarido, Historia breve de Madrid (Madrid: Ediciones La Librería, 1994), 189–190. Ibid., 189–190. Parsons, A Cultural History of Madrid, 37–42. Ibid. La colmena, first published in 1951 in Buenos Aires, like many ‘polemic’ works, was published outside of Spain due to Francoist censorship. José Camilo Cela, La colmena (México, DF: Alfaguara, 1951). Adrian Shubert, A Social History of Modern Spain (London: Routledge, 1996), 265. Ramón Gómez de la Serna first started Pombo: Biografía del celebre café y otros cafés famosos in 1918 in Madrid and completed in its final version in 1941 while exiled in Argentina. Gómez de la Serna, Pombo: Biografía del celebre café y otros cafés famosos, 13. Ibid. Michael Ugarte, Madrid 1900 the Capital as Cradle of Literature and Culture (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1996), 116. Ibid. Gómez de la Serna, Pombo: Biografía del celebre café y otros cafés famosos, 13. Translated from Castilian. ‘Cuando yo elegí Pombo el año 1912 lo hice por jugar a los anacronismos y porque en ningún sitio iban a resonar mejor nuestras modernidades que en aquel viejo sótano. Además me guió una especial condición de rabdomante que suelo tener y por la cual sé lo que no se va a derruir y lo que va a permanecer con su cordial decorado aunque inverosímil y aunque los gozquecillos murmuren su desaparición. También lo elegí por que está en la calle de Carretas y a un paso de la Puerta del Sol.’ Antonio Díaz-Cañabate, Historia de una Tertulía (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1978), 13–14. Cazorla-Sánchez, Fear and Progress, 40. Ibid. Robert Darnton, The Case for Books: Past, Present, and the Future (New York: Perseus, 2009), 22–23. Valdelvira, La oposición estudiantil al franquismo, 13. Connolly, The Golden Horizon, 397–403.

214 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31

32 33 34

35 36

Notes Cazorla-Sánchez, Fear and Progress, 93. Entralgo, El problema de la universidad, 88, 90 Ibid., 92. Muñoz Soro, Cuadernos para el diálogo, 1963–1976, 37. Ibid. Manuel Martín Serrano, Historia de los cambios de mentalidades de los jóvenes entre 1960–1990 (Madrid: Instituto de la Juventud DL, 1994), 84. ‘Cuestiones de actualidad política’, Revista española de la opinión pública, no. 9 (July–September 1967): 185–227. Ibid. Maravall, Dictadura y disentimiento político, 217. Translated from Castilian. Interview number 15. ‘Bueno, mi padre tenía una biblioteca impresionante. Y es él quien me introduce en ella, quien me habla de novelistas, de poetas, de ensayistas. Y así me meta en un mundo en el que primero están pues Conrad, Dostoievski, Machado, y luego Gide, Camus, Hemingway, Ortega, Unamuno, y ya después Sartre. Nietzsche. Bueno, un mundo sin limites que me absorbe (…) Me sentía vivir en un mundo excepcional, par encima de la mediocridad y de la brutalidad del mundo cotidiano. Que por ello tenía un potencial político, claro. Que yo percibía, por supuesto. Todo se mezclaba, la posición política de la familia, los problemas religiosos de la adolescencia, los descubrimientos intelectuales – literarios sobre todo –dentro de la escasez y del oscurantismo cultural, una sensación de privilegio cultural. Todo ella producía una sensación excitante de infracci6n política, que compartía con un grupo de amigos del colegio.’ Maravall, Dictatorship and Political Dissent, Interview 26, 134. Ibid., Interview 23, 135. Translated from Castilian. ‘Nacen estos sencillos Cuadernos para el diálogo con el honrado propósito de facilitar la comunicación de ideas y de sentimientos entre hombres de distintas generaciones, creencias y actitudes vitales, en torno a las secretas realidades y a los incitantes problemas religiosos, culturales, económicos, sociales, políticos de nuestra cambiante coyuntura histórica.’ ‘Razón de Ser’, Cuadernos para el diálogo, Madrid, October 1965. ‘Razón de Ser’. Francisco Franco Salgado-Araujo, Mis conversaciones privadas con Franco (Barcelona: Planeta, 1976), 398–399. Translated from Castilian. ‘Conozco esa revista sólo por referencia, pero éste es el primer ejemplar que llega a mi poder … Por cierto, a ese ex ministro ¿qué le ha sucedido? Pues antes, cuando era ministro mío jamás hizo alarde de ideas tan liberales como ahora. Se le ha desarrollado una furia liberal que le hace no desperdiciar ocasión para fustigar al régimen, calificando de la negación absoluta de la libertad. Él fue ministro durante muchos años y jamás puso reparo alguno a la política del gobierno al que pertenecía. Ahora

Notes

37 38 39 40 41 42 43

44

45 46

47 48 49 50

51 52 53

215

en las Cortes ha presentado una enmienda a la totalidad del proyecto de creación de los tribunales de Orden Público, que ha defendido con mucha pasión. Esta revista pudo salir a la calle por el dinero que le proporcionó un señor con carácter particular, es decir, sin saber que la revista tenía carácter político y se escribía para combatir el régimen, del que el director de la misma fue ministro. Al enterarse el que le prestó el dinero de la tendencia de la revista, puesta de manifiesto ya en el primer número, se presentó al ministro de la Gobernación diciéndole que retiraba la cantidad prestada; me parece que era un millón de pesetas.’ Eric Storm, ‘The Rise of the Intellectual Around 1900: Spain and France’, European History Quarterly 32, no. 2 (2002): 151. Ibid. Joaquín Ruiz-Giménez, ed. Cuadernos para el diálogo (Madrid: Cuadernos para el diálogo, 1963–1976), Issues 1–2. Ibid., Issue 4. Ibid., Issues 5–6. Miguel de Unamuno and Ángel Ganivet, El porvenir de España (Sevilla: Editorial Doble J, S.L., 2008). The exact copy of the order requiring Ruiz-Giménez to step down from the role of Director was printed on the back cover of: Ruiz-Giménez, Joaquín, ed. Cuadernos para el diálogo (Madrid: Cuadernos para el diálogo, November 1966), Issue 38. ‘La Administración no podrá dictar la censura previa ni exigir la consulta obligatoria, salvo en los estados de excepción y de guerra expresamente previstos en las leyes’, Ley 14/1966, de 18 de marzo, de prensa e imprenta, Chap 1-Art. 3. Muñoz Soro, Cuadernos para el diálogo, 1963–1976, 19–26. For a complete description of censorship as related to Cuadernos para el diálogo, see: Muñoz Soro’s chapter ‘La empresa y la censura: una revista incompatible’, in Cuadernos para el diálogo, 1963–1976: Una historia cultural del segundo franquismo (Madrid: Marcial Pons Historia, 2006). Muñoz Soro, Cuadernos para el diálogo, 1963–1976, 144. Ibid., 145. Eduardo Cierco, ‘Sobre el Índice de libros’, Cuadernos para el diálogo, Issue 19, 1965. Pedro Altares, Rafael Ayamonte, José Luis García Delgado, Eugenio Nassave, and Manuel Pérez Estremera, ‘El pulso de los días: Fahrenhait 451’, Cuadernos para del diálogo, no. 36 (1966): 39. Manuel Vázquez Montalbán, La penetración americana en españa (Madrid: Editorial Cuadernos para el diálogo, 1974), 353. De Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, 39. Juan Losada, ‘Los EE.UU. en la actual encrucijada política’, Cuadernos para del diálogo, no. 39 (1966): 29.

216

Notes

54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61

Ibid., 29–30. Ibid., 30. ‘Manifesto de la generación joven’, Cuadernos para del diálogo, no. 52 (1968): 13. Ibid., 13. Vázquez Montalbán, La penetración americana en españa, 31. Ibid., 39. Ibid., 366. Translated from the Castilian, ‘Está visto que el blanco instalado se siente ofendido cuando otra persona – blanca o negra – pretende remover el desorden establecido; le da igual el camino que siga el movimiento de liberación de los hombres oprimidos’. Josep Dalmau, ‘Martin Luther King o la fuerza de la no-violencia’, Cuadernos para del diálogo, no. 55 (1968): 36. 62 Ibid., 36. 63 Ibid. 64 Carlos Santamaría Ansa, ‘Crisis actual del pacifismo y teología de la revolución’, Cuadernos para del diálogo, no. 55 (1968): 35–37.

Chapter 6 1

Julio Caro Baroja, El carnaval: Análisis histórico-cultural (Madrid: Taurus Ediciones, 1983), 25. 2 Jerome R. Mintz, Carnival Song and Society: Gossip, Sexuality and Creativity in Andalusia (Oxford: Berg Press, 1997), xvi. 3 Ibid., xxi. 4 Mikhail Bakhtin, Rabelais and His World, translated by Helene Iswolsky (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1984), 7. 5 See: Pack, Tourism and Dictatorship. 6 Judith P. Butler, Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (New York: Routledge, 1990). 7 Hebdige, Subculture: The Meaning of Style. 8 Dick Hebdige, Hiding in the Light: On Images and Things (London: Routledge, 1988), 29–30. 9 Diego A. Manrique, De qué va el rock macarra (Madrid: La Piqueta, 1977), cover. 10 Mónica Cabellero, ‘Diego A. Manrique, Especial El Duende: Críticamente’, El Duende de Madrid, 15 April 2007. 11 ‘Happenings’ were often used to describe cultural events in the 1960s New York Underground scene. 12 Michael Sheringham, Everyday Life: Theories and Practices from Surrealism to the Present (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 376.

Notes 13 14 15 16

17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

25 26 27 28 29 30

31

32 33 34 35

217

Anderson, Imagined Communities. See: Chapter 2. Anderson, Imagined Communities, 22–26. While these comics might not necessarily profitable, being a curator of culture, producing a successful zine or sharing a popular zine or music with friends certainly would have garnered cultural capital amongst those participants in the scene. Pablo Dopico, El cómic underground español, 1970–1980 (Madrid: Cátedra, 2005), 117. Nazario Luque Vera, La piraña divina (Holland: International Free Press, 1977). De Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, 39. Latour, Reassembling the Social, 128. Jesús Ordovás, De qué va el rrollo (Madrid: La Piqueta, 1977), 12. Ibid., 16. Ibid., 17. Ordovás uses the word ‘Comix’, like many of those involved in el Rrollo. The word was adopted from the New York Underground, which used the homonym to distinguish underground comic books from mass comic books produced by publishers with more of a mass audience, such as DC Comics or Marvel Comics. Pablo Dopico, ‘Esputos de papel. La historieta “underground” española’, Arbor 187, no. Extra 2 (2011): 171. Dopico, El cómic underground español, 50. Ibid, 52. Miguel Farriol Vida, ed., El rrollo Enmascarado (Barcelona: El Rrollo Producciones, 1973). For more on the figure, see: Jordi Arruga and Josep Mañà, El caganer: La figura més popular del pessebre català (Barcelona: Alta Fulla, 1992). For a complete theorization of ‘fecopoetics’ and waste, see: Susan Signe Morrison, The Literature of Waste: Material Ecopoetics and Ethical Matter (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015). Kike Babas and Kike Turrón. De espaldas al Kiosco: Guía histórica de fanzines y otros papelujos de alcantarillas (Madrid: Los Libros del Cuervo, 1996). Babas and Turrón’s guide is an excellent reference of most, if not all, the significant fanzines and comics during the period. The work includes addresses when available, as well as a brief description of the work. Ibid. Luis Vigil and Juan José Fernández, eds., El comix marginal español (Barcelona: Producciones Editoriales 1976), 33. Ibid. Manuel Quinto and Esparbe, Historia de la Censura (Madrid: Ediciones Sedmay, 1977).

218

Notes

36 Ceesepe and Alberto García-Alix, Vicios Modernos (Madrid: La Banda de Moebius, 1979). 37 Ibid. 38 ‘El escándalo del año’, Disco Express (Madrid), 5 January 1979. 39 Javier Rodríguez de Fonseca and Juan Luís Recio, ‘Interview with La Banda de Moebius’. Interview by author. 26 June 2013. 40 Carajillo (Madrid: Editorial Madrágora and Cascorro Factory, 1977). 41 Emilio Sola, Diary. 20 March 1975. 42 Ibid., 28 May 1975. 43 Ibid. 44 Ibid., 8 July 1975. 45 Emilio Sola, ‘Interview with Emilio Sola’. Interview by author. 10 June 2013. 46 Diego Galán, ‘La Vaquería y Alberti’, Triunfo 699 (19 June 1976): 19. 47 ‘Interrumpieron violentamente en el Café Gijón’, Ya (Madrid), 5 November 1976. 48 ‘Los guerrilleros pasaron por el Gijón’, Diario 16 (Madrid), 20 November 1976. 49 ‘Cafetería madrileña destruida por la explosión de una bomba’, ABC (Madrid), 9 June 1976, 83. 50 Sola, ‘Interview with Emilio Sola’. 51 ‘Carlos González, asesinado por un comando de extrema derecha’, El País (Madrid), 29 September 1976. 52 Ibid. 53 ‘El Supremo declara víctima del terrorismo a un joven asesinado en 1976’, El País (Madrid), 26 May 2006. 54 ‘DESTRUIR a las bandas de asesinos FASCISTAS’. 55 Christian Demange, El Dos d Mayo: Mito y fiesta nacional, 1808–1958 (Madrid: Marcial Pons Ediciones de Historia, 2004), 12. 56 Demange, El Dos d Mayo, 272–277. 57 Eduardo Haro Ibars, ‘Un dos de mayo goyesco’, Triunfo 1, no. 746 (14 May 1977): 38–39. 58 Ibid. 59 Ibid. 60 ‘Herido en incidents en la plaza del Dos de Mayo en Madrid’, A.B.C. (Madrid), 3 May 1977. 61 Ibid. 62 Ibars, ‘Un dos de mayo goyesco’, 39. 63 Ibid. 64 Félix Lorrio to Louie Dean Valencia-García, 7 October 2014, Madrid. In correspondence with the author, Lorrio provided a detailed description of the events of the evening. While Lorrio uses the year 1976, reports from three separate newspapers confirm the event happening in 1977. The full, untranslated text is included in the Appendix.

Notes

219

65 Roland Barthes, Mythologies, translated by Annette Lavers (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1972), 107.

Chapter 7 1 2 3

4 5 6 7

8 9 10 11 12 13 14

Gallero, Sólo se vive una vez: Esplendor y ruina de la movida madrileña, 211–212. S. Bradley Epps and Despina Kakoudaki, All about Almodóvar: A Passion for Cinema (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2009), 465. See: Pedro Almodóvar and Frédéric Strauss, Conversaciones con Pedro Almodovar (Madrid: Akal Ediciones, 2001), 27: ‘El origen de la película no es sólo la fotonovela, sino el cómic y no oculto esta influencia ya que, entre algunas secuencias, utilicé dibujos que anunciaban la acción siguiente de manera condensada y dramatizada. El hecho de que Pepi, Luci, Bom … fuera primero un cómic – grosero y punk – hace que la construcción de los personajes fuera muy diferente de lo que habría sido si se hubiera tratado de una película de inspiración puramente cinematográfica. Eso personajes son prototipos evidentes, rápidamente reconocibles y típicos de la forma narrativa en la que se enmarcan: la chica moderna y el policía malo. No requieren ningún desarrollo psicológico.’ Frans Masereel and Thomas Mann, Passionate Journey: A Novel in 165 Woodcuts, trans. Joseph M. Bernstein (New York: Lear, 1948), 13. Ibid., 14. Joshua Yumibe, Moving Color: Early Film, Mass Culture, Modernism (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2012), 71. Walter Benjamin, The Work of Art in the Age of Its Technological Reproducibility, and Other Writings on Media, edited by Michael Jennings William, Brigid Doherty, Thomas Y. Levin, and Edmund F.N Jephcott (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2008), 24–25. Anderson, Imagined Communities. Eduardo Haro Ibars, Empalador (Madrid: Las Ediciones de La Banda de Moebius, 1980), 75. JOB, ‘Eduardo Haro: “soy Homosexual, Drogadicto y Delincuente”’, Disco Express (Madrid), 10 March 1978. Francisco Martín, La movida: Historia del pop madrileño (Madrid: Self-published, 1982). A reference to the punk aesthetic of using safety pins on one’s clothing. Fernando Márquez, Música Moderna (Madrid: La Banda de Moebius, 1981), 11–19. Hebdige, Subculture, 65.

220

Notes

15 Pegamoide: Substance composed of cellulose dissolved and applied to a fabric or paper to obtain resistant imitation leather. 16 For those interested, Alaska also starred in Pedro Almodóvar’s first feature film, Pepi, Luci, Bom y las otras chicas del montón. 17 Arrebato, dir. Iván Zulueta, perf. Eusebio Poncela, Cecilia Roth and Will More (Madrid: Nicolás Astiarraga Producciones Cinematográficas, 1979), DVD. 18 Arrebato: A pause that opens up into an obsession, which then seems to continue into infinitude, stopping the normal course of life. This rapturous attraction of the soul tends to almost be violent, but at the same time passionate and affectionate. 19 96 Lágrimas, Number 2 (Madrid: Self-published, 1981), 4. 20 Martín, La Movida, 21. 21 Also of note, not only does Martín’s use of ‘rollo madrileño’ indicates that ‘rollo’ and ‘movida’ were interchangeable, but it also ties the fanzine to nightlife and drug culture. On some level, despite renaming the movement ‘movida madrileña’, Martín also sees it as part of ‘el Rrollo’. 22 Núria Triana-Toribio, Spanish Film Cultures: The Making and Unmaking of Spanish Cinema (London: British Film Institute, 2016), 24–29. 23 Pepi, Luci, Bom y las otras chicas del montón, dir. Pedro Almodóvar, screenplay by Pedro Almodóvar, perf. Carmen Maura, Alaska, and Eva Siva (Madrid: Fígaro Films, 1980), DVD. 24 Laberinto de Pasiones, dir. Pedro Almodóvar, screenplay by Pedro Almodóvar, perf. Cecilia Roth and Imanol Arias (Madrid: Alphaville S.A., 1982), DVD. 25 Marsha Kinder, ‘Pleasure and the New Spanish Mentality: A Conversation with Pedro Almodóvar’, in Pedro Almodóvar: Interviews, edited by Paula WilloquetMaricondi (Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2004), 42. 26 Allinson, A Spanish Labyrinth, 199. 27 ‘Paco’ Martín, La Movida, 19. 28 Umbral, Diccionario Cheli, 152. 29 Radio Futura, Enamorado de la moda juvenil, Hispavox, 1980, vinyl recording.

Epilogue 1

2

Sam Jones, ‘Catalan Leader Accuses Spanish Government of Franco-Style Crackdown’, 22 September 2017, https://www.theguardian.com/world/2017/sep/22 /catalan-leader-accuses-spanish-government-of-franco-style-crackdown. Alex Pfeiffer, ‘The Alt Right Has Its Coming Out Party’, The Daily Caller, 09 September 2016, http://dailycaller.com/2016/09/09/the-alt-right-has-its-coming -out-party/.

Notes

221

3 Daniel Friberg – Return of the Real Right: Metapolitics & Rising Opposition – Hour 1, Daniel Friberg – Return of the Real Right: Metapolitics & Rising Opposition – Hour 1, 28 September 2015, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xPgO6kb381U. 4 Pfeiffer, ‘The Alt Right Has Its Coming Out Party’. 5 Oliver Willis, ‘White Nationalist Group Headed by “Peaceful Ethnic Cleansing” Leader Holding Pro-Trump Conference in D.C.’, Media Matters (blog), 3 March 2016, http://mediamatters.org/blog/2016/03/03/white-nationalist-group-headed-by -peaceful-ethn/208996. 6 Yair Rosenberg, ‘“Jews Will Not Replace Us”: Why White Supremacists Go after Jews’, The Washington Post, 14 August 2017, accessed 2 September 2017, https:// www.washingtonpost.com/news/acts-of-faith/wp/2017/08/14/jews-will-not-replace -us-why-white-supremacists-go-after-jews/?utm_term=.3982921d8d4d. 7 Adam Goldman, ‘Trump Reverses Restrictions on Military Hardware for Police’, The New York Times, 28 August 2017, accessed 2 September 2017, https://www.nytimes .com/2017/08/28/us/politics/trump-police-military-surplus-equipment.html. 8 J. Lester Feder, ‘This Is How Steve Bannon Sees the Entire World’, BuzzFeed, 15 November 2016, archived 17 November 2016, https://web.archive.org /web/20161117025150/https://www.buzzfeed.com/lesterfeder/this-is-how-steve -bannon-sees-the-entire-world?utm_term=.hu7gJKGlW#.fmpeLRbnA.

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Index Acuerdos de Madrid, 137 Alaska, 182, 183, 186 Almodóvar, Pedro, 6, 22, 31, 176–8, 180, 182, 183, 185, 187, 188 Alt-Right, 193 Álvarez Pérez, Antonio, 46 Alvarez Villar, Alfonso, 98, 210 n.15, 210 n.18, 211 n.27 anarchism, 116 Anson, Francisco, 106 appropriation, 3, 6, 10, 13, 21, 23, 101, 109, 112, 115, 131, 143, 160, 180, 187, 188 Azorín (José Martínez Ruiz), 122, 128 Bakhtin, Mikhail, 20, 24, 137 Banda de Moebius, La, xviii, 160, 179 Barcelona, 54, 75, 77, 80, 149, 152–4, 155, 161, 185 Baroja, Pío, 83, 122, 128, 136 Beneyto Pérez, Juan, 97 Bonaparte, Napoleon, 166 Bonet, Laureano, 134 Borges, Jorge Luis, 112 Bowie, David, 165 Bueno, Pepa (María José Bueno Márquez), 55 Buñuel, Luis, 19 bureaucracy, 37, 38, 65 Byrne, David, 157 Cádiz, 57, 137 cafés, 12, 21, 24, 93–5, 115–17, 120, 121, 138, 160, 164, 169, 172, 181 Café Comercial, 169 Café Gijón, 115, 164 Manuela, 172 Pombo, 117, 118 tertulias, 93–5, 115–16, 120, 170 Camilo Cela, José, 117 capitalism, 23, 27, 37, 38, 101, 110, 131, 137, 140, 175, 192 Cara al sol, 55, 164

carnivalesque, 3, 4, 11, 13, 20, 21, 23, 24, 136–49, 156, 161, 172–3, 191 Caro Baroja, Julio, 136 Cascorro Factory, 147, 157, 160 Catholicism, 4, 33, 35–7, 39, 43, 51–6, 72, 81, 114–16, 141, 145, 146, 194 Ceesepe, 147, 155–7, 160, 164, 167, 177–9 censorship, 3, 10, 19, 22, 24, 25, 38, 40, 46, 47, 50, 65, 67, 70, 73, 84, 87, 94, 97, 98, 105, 111, 117, 120, 121, 126, 129, 130, 137, 138, 145, 147, 152, 153, 155, 156, 186 Certeau, Michel de, 29, 30, 64, 65, 84, 100, 148, 187, 188, 201 n.66 tactics, 29, 30, 64, 65, 84, 101, 148, 201 n.66 Chase, Chevy, 2 cheli, 11, 189, 190, 198 n.13 Cianfarra, Camille M., 94, 95 Cianfarra, Jane, 93–5 Ciclón, el Superhombre. See Superman Civil Rights Movement, 2, 132, 134 class, 4, 11, 12, 14, 17, 18, 21, 23, 24, 27, 38, 53, 58, 100, 116, 117, 121, 138, 140–2, 160, 177, 196 n.5, 210 n.18 collective memory, 64, 81 comics, 3, 5, 6, 12, 20, 25, 26, 47, 96–102, 105–13, 136, 139, 143–57, 160, 161, 167, 172, 176–81, 183–6, 189, 194, 210 n.15, 210 n.16, 211 n.27, 211 n.30, 217 n.16, 217 n.24, 217 n.31, 219 n.3 Anarcoma, 185 Billiken, 96 Comics Code Authority, 99 Editorial Novaro, 96 El Rrollo Enmascarado, 150–4, 179 El Víbora, 145, 154, 176, 185 La Pandilla, 96 La Piraña Divina, 147, 148, 152, 154 Madriz, 145, 154 Manuel no está solo, 184

Index Passionate Journey, 176 Rock Comix, 157, 171 San Reprimonio y las Pirañas, 171 Superman. See Superman Vicios Modernos, 156, 157, 160, 185 communism, 42, 54, 84, 85, 88, 90–2, 99, 116, 132, 133, 160 Leninism, 42 Trotskyism, 42 Congreso de Escritores Jovenes (Young Writers Congress), 89 Connolly, Cyril, 205 n.31 consumerism, 31, 97, 101, 131, 178, 192 copy machines, 145, 146 Cospedal García, María Dolores, 60 Costa, Salvador, 157 counterpublics, 6, 19, 22, 24, 25, 26, 30, 142–5, 147, 148, 156, 161, 173, 183, 191 Crumb, Robert, 19, 139, 150, 153, 155 Cuadernos para el diálogo, 19, 122, 124, 127, 128, 130, 142, 146, 207 n.49, 214 n.34 Cuba, 42, 133, 197 n.9 Dalí, Antonio, 180 Dalmau, Josep, 133, 134 de Maeztu, Ramiro, 128 democracy, 2, 8, 9–14, 20, 24, 26, 27, 39, 63, 67, 78, 79, 83, 99–102, 110–12, 114, 123, 128, 133, 135, 185–7, 192, 193, 194 Democratic Christian movements, 72 Diamante Stihl, Julio, 4, 86, 92 Díaz-Plaja, Guillermo, 106 disaster of 1898, 41, 134 drugs, 3, 139, 143, 144, 149, 150, 156, 169, 180, 183, 184, 191 heroin, 156 marijuana, 150, 186 Dylan, Bob, 19, 131, 150 Echanove, Juan, 59, 60 education, 27, 32–4, 38, 41–5, 47, 56, 57, 59–61, 63, 70–2, 79, 83, 85, 86, 97, 98, 122, 123, 127, 137, 140, 185 classroom, 45, 56, 60–1 First National Council of Spanish Education Service, 32–4 literacy, 43 textbooks, 43, 47

245

el Rrollo, 11, 140, 148–60, 180, 181 Enciclopedia Álvarez, 45, 46, 50, 53, 56 Encuentros de la Poesía con la Universidad (Poetic Encounters with the University), 87, 89 Enlightenment, 20, 24, 40, 66, 120, 193 España es así, 51–3 ETA, 133, 134 everyday life, 3, 4, 5, 12, 19, 26, 31, 42, 64, 70, 97, 100, 101, 116, 145, 188, 191 Falange, 4, 13, 32, 33–5, 42, 54, 55, 63, 66, 71, 97, 169 fanzines, 19, 20, 144, 145, 154, 167, 183, 185 96 Lágrimas, 185 Farga, Manuel Juan, 78–80 Farriol, Miquel and Josep, 152 fascism, 3, 8, 9, 12, 14–18, 20, 23, 25, 33–40, 45, 46, 55, 56, 59, 64, 136–74, 191, 194 fascist tendencies, 9, 14, 17, 18, 35–40, 45–8, 51, 53, 55, 59, 60, 71, 111, 146, 150, 193, 194 First European Youth Congress of 1942, 34 Nazis, 14, 16, 35 fashion, 146, 191, 192 film, 3, 4, 6, 15, 22, 24, 26, 47, 67, 83, 130, 144, 145, 149, 152, 175, 176–8, 180, 182–8 Formación del espíritu national (F.E.N.), 54 France, 4, 43, 88, 115–17, 142, 174 Franco, Francisco, 2–5, 8–14, 16, 17, 22, 23, 25–8, 33–7, 39, 41, 42, 45, 50, 51, 54, 57, 63, 65, 69–74, 78, 83, 89, 94, 97, 108, 114, 115, 117, 120, 121, 124, 127, 130–1, 133–4, 137, 139, 141, 143, 144, 155, 167, 173, 178–80, 186, 189, 194 Frente de Juventudes, 17, 54 Fussell, Paul, 64, 67, 68, 75 Gabinete Caligari, 180 García Lorca, Federico, 19, 79, 83 García-Alix, Alberto, 147, 156, 157, 160 García-García, Miguel, 77, 78 Gasca, Luis, 106

246

Index

gender, xiv, 4, 12, 17, 18, 20, 23, 24, 26, 33, 34, 39, 57, 58, 97, 102, 105–8, 136, 138–40, 142, 143, 146, 149, 177, 185 girls, 57, 58 heteronormativity, 37, 39, 56–61, 149, 180, 184, 192 masculinity, 36, 37, 103, 105, 106, 108, 109, 184 men, 26, 136 Generación del 1898, 17 Generación del 1914, 17 Generación del 1927, 17 Generación del 56, 17, 180 Germany, 4, 14–16, 27, 35–7, 39, 40, 86, 109, 194 Giménez, Sole, 55, 60 Ginsberg, Allen, 19, 150 Gómez de la Serna, Ramon, 66, 117–19, 123 González Martínez, Carlos, 164, 165, 170 Gran Vía, 66, 165 Guerrilleros de Cristo Rey, 164 Haro, Ibars Eduardo, 31, 51, 112, 167, 169, 170, 179, 180 Harry, Debby, 157 hegemonic power, 19, 147, 148 Hell, Richard, 157 Himmler, Heinrich, 2 hippie culture, 4, 140, 142 historical memory, 12, 63, 64, 66, 67, 77–9, 81, 121, 125, 172 amnesia, 12, 16 collective memory, 64, 81 Construction of, 64 Hitler, Adolf, 2, 36, 39, 194 HIV/AIDS, 179 Horizon, 72, 73 Iggy Pop, 142 imagined communities, 19, 27, 64, 144, 146, 175 Indignados, xi, xiv, xv, 193 Institute of Public Opinion, 98, 210 n.18 Italy, 14, 16, 17, 21, 27, 37, 39, 40, 42, 43, 109, 197 n.9 Jews, 2, 15, 16, 37, 40, 53, 73 Jiménez Martínez, Jesús, 26

Juan Carlos I, 13 Juana la Loca, 107 Kaka de Luxe, 6, 182, 183 Kike and Kike, 154, 217 n.31 King, Jr., Martin Luther, 133, 134 La Bola de Cristal, 182 La Latina, 26, 157, 160 La Luna de Madrid, 145, 154, 183, 184 La Vía Lactea, 171, 174 Laín Entralgo, Pedro, 32–4, 42, 63, 81, 83–90, 122, 128 Latour, Bruno, 148 Lefebvre, Henri, 30, 109, 143 legitimacy, 11, 42, 68, 81, 109 Ley de 17 de Julio de 1945 sobre Educación Primaria, 43 Ley de la Prensa e Imprenta de 1966, 129, 133, 153 Ley de Ordenación de la Universidad Española, 70 Ley de Peligrosidad y Rehabilitación Social de 1970, 167 Ley General de Educación y Financiamiento de la Reforma Educativa, 50 Lindo, Elvira, 57, 58 Lois Lane, 100, 105, 107–12, 186 López, Francisco Javier “Patxi,” 55 Lorrio, Félix, 167, 170–3, 218 n.64 Losada, Juan, 131 Machado, Antonio, 79, 83 Madrid Me Mata, 154, 183 Madriz. See comics Malasaña (neighbourhood), 170–2, 174, 183, 190 Malasaña Oñoro, Manuela, 166 Manrique, Diego, 141, 142 Maravall Herrero, José María, 83, 123, 125, 126 Mariscal, Javier, 152 Martín, Paco (Francisco), 180–1, 185 Márquez, Fernando, 182 Martín Martinez, Antonio, 106, 110 Martínez Lirio, Ángel Luis, 179 Masereel, Frans, 176 Maura, Carmen, 186

Index May 1968, 4, 134 McNamara, Fabio, 183, 188 Méliès, Georges, 177 memory, 11, 12, 56, 61, 63–9, 73, 76–81, 83, 85–7, 92, 93, 97, 115, 117, 121–3, 125, 129, 142 men, 2, 8, 26, 34, 35, 43, 52, 57, 58, 79, 107, 110, 122, 124, 133, 134, 136, 142, 152, 153, 156, 169, 183, 184, 185, 187, 200 n.48 Mesa Garrido, Roberto, 80, 81, 123 México, 78, 182, 197 n.9 militarism, 33, 35, 38, 49, 50, 53, 56, 59, 121 Millán Astray, José, 73–5, 80 More, Will, 183, 184 Morrison, Jim, 31, 179 Movida Madrileña, 2, 12, 20, 25, 139, 143, 149, 167, 171–4, 179, 180 Múgica Herzog, Enrique, 86, 88, 123 Muñoz Ballester, Rodrigo, 184 music, 3, 7, 12, 24, 26, 28, 109, 112, 113, 142, 145, 146, 149, 150, 154, 157, 160, 169, 171, 178, 180–3, 185, 186, 189, 217 n.16 Mussolini, Benito, 15, 35–7, 39, 42, 43 National-Catholicism, 36, 43, 51, 52, 54–6, 72, 141, 145, 146, 194 nationalism, 4, 5, 9, 14, 16, 23–5, 32–40, 42, 43, 45–7, 50–6, 58, 59, 61, 111, 114, 116, 128, 138, 142, 145, 164, 167, 177, 192–4 Nazario, 147, 152, 157, 167, 172, 179, 185 Nazis. See fascism, Nazis neighbourhoods Chueca, 160, 170, 178 Justicia, 165 La Latina, 26, 157, 160 New York, 2, 4, 112, 140, 141, 142, 144, 145, 150, 153, 155, 157, 161, 179, 217 n.24 nightlife, 3, 181, 220 n.21 Nixon, Richard, 2 Novaro. See comics Nueva ola, 11 nueva ola española, 139, 149, 150, 180 Opus Dei, 71 Ordovás, Jesús, 7, 8, 149, 150, 181

247

Orquesta Mondragón, 180 Ortega y Gasset, José, 5, 64, 79, 83, 85, 86–95, 114, 122, 129–30, 167, 180 laic homage, 86, 88–90, 167 Paraíso, 182 Paris Commune of 1871, 30–1 Peces-Barba, Gregorio, 123 Pepi, Luci, Bom y las otras chicas del montón, 176, 182, 183, 185, 187, 188 Pérez Villatas, Guillermo, 180 Picasso, Pablo, 139, 180 Pinillos, José Luis, 82 Plan de Estabilización, 138 plaza del Dos de Mayo, 165, 169, 172 pluralism, 2–5, 8, 9, 11, 13, 14, 20, 22–5, 33, 36, 37, 63–5, 84, 97, 98, 99, 110, 113, 114–15, 117–21, 137, 141, 143–4, 161, 173, 191, 192, 194 poetry, 12, 66, 84, 146, 160, 169, 179, 181, 191 Polo de Franco, Carmen, 74, 78 Poncela, Eusebio, 183 Portillo, Luis Gabriel, 72–5, 77 Pradera, Javier, 86 Primo de Rivera, José Antonio, 33, 35, 42, 45, 54, 66, 97 Primo de Rivera, Pilar, 33–5, 97, 138 public sphere, 9, 11, 14, 21, 22, 24–6, 36, 39, 66, 115, 118, 136, 143, 146, 156–7, 182, 189, 191 Puerta del Sol, 91, 116, 174, 191 punk culture, 4, 7, 11, 13, 20, 136, 139–41, 143, 144, 146, 149, 155, 157, 160, 180, 181 queerness, 2, 5, 14, 15, 18, 26, 36–40, 102–6, 108, 140, 141, 152, 156, 169, 177, 179, 182–5, 188, 191, 193 asexuality, 39, 105, 108 homosexuality, 36, 102, 152, 167, 179 lesbians, 39, 106, 169 Radio Futura, 191 rape, 185–7 Rastro, 26, 91, 147, 160, 178, 181 Recio, Juan Luis, 160 Reed, Lou, 157

248

Index

Ridruejo, Dionisio, 63, 83–5, 88 Rimbaud, Arthur, 19, 30, 31, 139, 175, 179, 188 Rodríguez de Fonseca, Javier, 160 Rodriguez, Spain, 19 Roma, 15, 25, 40, 140, 147 Rrollo, El, 11, 140, 149, 150, 160, 180, 181, 217 n.24, 220 n.21 Ruiz Giménez, Joaquin, 63, 72, 83–6, 90, 122, 123, 127, 128, 129 Sabater Tomás, Antonio, 106, 107 Saturday Night Live, 2 Schmidt-Nowara, Christopher, xv Sección Feminina, 33–5, 56, 97 Second Spanish Republic, 14, 42, 43, 53, 85 sex workers, 169 sexuality, 4, 12, 23, 24, 26, 97, 106, 108, 137, 142, 143, 146, 152, 153, 156, 172, 177, 179, 184, 185, 187, 188 Shelton, Gilbert, 19 Sindicato Español Universitario (S.E.U.), 70, 71, 87, 89, 90 Siouxsie Sioux (Susan Janet Ballion), 185 Situationist International, 31 Smith, Patti, 19, 31, 139, 142, 157, 179 social networks, 24, 120, 145, 148, 194 Soja, Edward, 64 Sola, Emilio, 161, 164 Sontag, Susan, 112 Soviet Union, 137 Spanish Civil War, 3, 4, 10–12, 16, 23, 32, 39, 42, 43, 46, 51, 56, 63, 67–70, 81, 83, 88, 96, 97, 107, 115, 116, 117, 124, 129, 130, 136, 143, 182, 189 Spanish Constitution of 1978, 3, 7, 10, 123, 144, 156, 189, 193 Spanish Journal of Public Opinion (SJPO), 98 Superman, 5, 26, 38, 96–113, 179, 186 surveillance, 24, 25, 29, 38, 40, 130 technology, 3, 10, 120, 144, 145, 147, 176–9, 182–6, 192, 194 tertulias. See cafés textbooks, 5, 41, 43, 45–7, 50–7, 59, 194 thirdspace. See virtual space(s) Tierno Galván, Enrique, 11, 83, 189, 191 Tovar Llorente, Antonio, 83 Triunfo, 19, 122, 142, 167, 173–4

Umbral, Francisco, 19, 119, 120, 122, 189–91 Unamuno, Miguel de, 19, 63, 64, 72–81, 83, 85, 92, 119, 122, 126, 128, 129, 180 United Nations, 13, 83, 84, 137 United States of America, 2, 4, 10, 15, 28, 46, 99, 101, 110, 113, 114, 115, 131, 132, 137, 150, 155, 194 Universidad Carlos III, 123 Universidad de Alcalá, 167 Universidad de Madrid, 32, 33, 63, 81–3, 86, 88, 98, 132, 161, 167 protests of 1956, 63, 81–4 Valladolid, 46, 80 Vaneigem, Raoul, 19, 191 Vaquería, 161, 164, 178, 181 Vázquez, Jesús María, 97 Vázquez Montalbán, Manuel, 114, 130, 132, 142 Vela, Manuel, 106 Velvet Underground, the, 19 violence, 57, 69, 134–5 virtual space(s), 64, 66 Warhol, Andy, 19, 157 weekends, 138, 139, 141 women, 14, 26, 33–5, 42, 43, 56, 57, 60, 63, 94, 104–8, 124, 136, 140, 152, 156, 167, 169, 182, 184–6 World War I, 17, 68 World War II, 14, 45, 54, 69, 83, 102, 132 youth, 4–5, 8, 10, 14–20, 22, 27–9, 30, 31, 34, 45, 54, 56, 62–95, 97–102, 109–11, 114, 117, 121, 122, 125, 128, 129, 138, 145, 146, 160–5, 183, 188, 192 boys, 54, 56, 97, 111, 155, 165 children, 15, 16, 27, 34, 41, 45, 54, 56, 97, 98, 109–11 delinquency, 15, 16, 27, 28 girls, 56, 58, 97, 100, 109, 111, 155, 172 teenagers, 16, 27–9, 140, 178, 184 Yusta Calvo, Evelio, 53 Zappa, Frank, 157 Zulueta, Iván, 6, 183, 184