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DIEGO RIVERA -- MY ART, MY LIFE: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY (WITH GLADYS MARCH) |
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CHECKBOOKS IN MY FINGERS Just before my departure from Spain, I played a passive but stellar role in an interesting occurrence at Chicharro's studio. During the last exhibition I had there, the master painter Don Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida paid the workshop a visit. He desired to see what the youth of the time was doing in art. Sorolla had an attractive personality, and was very sure of himself. His style was academic and marked by a photographic realism, but his talent was genuine and his mastery of technique exceptional. On the day of his visit. Sorolla took a look around at the walls hung with many paintings. Arrested by a picture of an old ironsmith's shop painted by me, he gave it a long and close look. (This painting, "The Blacksmith Shop," is now in the collection of Marte R. Gomez in Mexico.) '"Who did that, Eduardo?" he asked. His voice sounded so severe that I expected scathing criticism. Chicharro answered, "The Mexican." "Where is this Mexican?" "There," and Chicharro pointed to me. "The Mexican was my Madrid nickname, given to me because of the large sombrero I always wore, my head being so large that no ordinary-size Spanish hat would ever fit me. "Come here, boy," said Sorolla. I went to him, murmuring, "At your orders, patron." Looking straight into my eyes, Sorolla said, "Give me your right hand, my son." He took the hand I held out in a strong grip. Then clasping it at the wrist, he said, "Show me your fingers." After touching each, one after the other, he asked, "Don't you know what you have there?" "No, maestro," I replied, perplexed. Sorolla chuckled. "All right then, boy, I'll tell you. In this finger you have a checkbook of American dollars, here a checkbook for pounds sterling, here a checkbook for Spanish pesetas, here a checkbook for Argentine pesos, and here a checkbook for French francs. I tell you, son, I know what I'm saying. I've been to all these countries with my paintings. You don't look rich, my boy; neither was I at your age. My father was an ironsmith like the one in your painting. Yet I came back from my travels abroad with many checkbooks. I guarantee you, you damned Mexican, that if you paint day and night, you'll have twice as much money as I have. I say this because Eduardo has told me you're an exceptionally hard worker." All my workshop companions looked at me with envy, but Chicharro with tenderness and admiration. Don Joaquin Sorolla then shook hands with me. As soon as he was gone, Chicharro said to me excitedly, "Have you heard what he said? Sorolla has never before said anything like it to any other artist. And he certainly knows what he's talking about. The future is yours." The next day, as if anticipating the wealth Sorolla had prophesied for me, I gambled in a local casino. I ran a stake of 500 pesetas, which I had received for one of my paintings, up to 3,500 pesetas. Three days later, fortified by my winnings and accompanied by my friend Valle Inclan, I left Madrid for a tour of Europe. Along the way, I was troubled by Sorolla's prophecy. Though, like any poor boy, I was tempted by the idea of becoming rich, I did not want to become enslaved to the checkbook, to become a commercial painter. I knew how one climbing the mountain of worldly success can slip down into the river below without being conscious of the descent until he is already drowning. With such thoughts, I arrived in Paris one spring morning in 1909.
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