|
DIEGO RIVERA -- MY ART, MY LIFE: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY (WITH GLADYS MARCH) |
|
PRIVATE PROPERTY Apart from its masterpieces, I was observing the people of France. One characteristic of the French excited my curiosity -- their reverence for private property, and especially of property in land. Their attitude toward land was religious; beside it all ordinary human values disappeared. The neighborly greeting of one peasant to another was a growl. Yet he would never think of taking one fruit from that other's tree or one grain from his bin -- and not because he was afraid of the owner or of the priest. What he was afraid of was transgressing the holy law of property. That fear produced a ferocious honesty. I observed, too, that in the urban industrial workers, the petite bourgeoisie and intellectuals, this same worship of landed property lay just under the surface. Even the maddest, gayest, and richest whores and the most Bohemian of the artists dreamed of retiring to the country and working their own land with their hands. A large part of the upper bourgeoisie, including the corrupt politicians, were touched by this mania to own and cultivate land. Only in the very heart of the big industrial centers could people be found who were conscious of a new, more humane way of life. These few realized that the factory was changing the earth and would one day pull the peasants out of their ruts and bring an end to class society. Unfortunately the mass of lower-class workers in Paris looked upon those of their comrades who revealed any class consciousness as devils or as carriers of some loathsome and contagious leprosy. Time and time again, these wretches found themselves fighting alone, going down under police clubs, and being shipped off to penal settlements like Devil's Island. I remember an incident which occurred but a few weeks after my arrival in Paris, one early morning in a cafe near the main market. Although there was nothing outwardly to distinguish this cafe from others, it mainly catered to the wealthy. Among its upper-class clientele were certain beautiful kept women who, bored with their "paying lovers," came here to pick up "heart lovers." The men they affected were the denizens of the legendary world of painting and literature. That is why I was there with other hungry artists: to find a woman to pay for a meal. A worker, whose fatigue showed in every line of his face, came into the cafe, went up to the bar, asked for a drink, and put down his money. The owner, who was standing behind the bar, would not serve him. On being pointedly ignored, the offended worker quietly asked if it was the rule here not to serve anyone who earned his bread with his hands. The owner signaled to a waiter who served as bouncer. The worker understood the situation at once. He angrily informed the owner that no pimp such as he could treat a worker like this. He invited the owner to come out from behind the bar to find out how a worker's fists felt on his dirty pig face. Though he was bigger and stronger, the owner did not accept the challenge. He made a gesture with his thumb and, as if by magic, two policemen appeared in the cafe. The owner pointed to the worker, whom one of the cops took by the scruff of his neck to pitch him out. When the worker resisted, the other cop smashed his fist in the worker's face; then, stepping back a few steps, he drew his pistol. Not being equipped to deal with this kind of attack, the worker stopped struggling but cried out, "Voila la liberte!" ("That's liberty for you!") Infuriated by the catcalls of the bystanders, the policeman again struck the worker who then shouted, "Et la fraternite!" ("And brotherhood, too!") At this, my friends and I leaped to his aid, precipitating a little battle of the class war.
|