Iconic photo of fervour for liberty. In a less than iconic place

One of our favourite restaurants here in Valencia, the Refugio, has chosen to mark the door to the women’s toilet with a picture which is nothing short of iconic.

An icon of liberty
making a women’s toilet sign which at least has the merit of originality

You might, perhaps, even feel that it was a little disrespectful to use that particular picture for that particular purpose. However, the owner of the restaurant, as well as being likeable, is a devoted supporter of the anti-Fascist cause in the Spanish Civil War. I’m sure he chose the picture as a statement of his sympathies.

What a great picture it is, indeed. A young woman in the informal uniform of a soldier in the militia of the Spanish Republic stands atop one of the highest buildings in Barcelona, the city spread out below and behind her, a rifle slung over her shoulder and a smile on her lips as she looks to the camera.

It’s a picture that has adorned book covers, film promotions, and countless newspaper or magazine articles. It embodies the nobility and beauty of the cause as well as, to those of who know that the war ended with a fascist victory ushering in nearly four decades of oppression, a sense of heart-wringing pathos.

So it’ll come as no surprise to discover that, like so many propaganda pictures, the reality behind the photo is quite different.

In the first place, the ‘young woman’ only just deserves the description. She was seventeen at the time. Perhaps to call her a ‘girl’ would be going too far, but it’s hard not to put the word ‘very’ in front that ‘young woman’.

As she pointed out later herself, Marina Ginestà – yes, we know her name – was far too young to be a combatant. Instead, she was working for one of the Republican newspapers and acted as an interpreter to a journalist from the Soviet Union.

She certainly had not been issued with a rifle by the militia. Indeed, the moment of the photograph was only the second time she’d had a rifle in her hands, the first having occurred only a few hours earlier, when she held one that belonged to a friend of hers. That was also the only time she had fired a rifle, when she pulled the trigger by accident. The only injury her firing the rifle caused was to herself, when the militia man she nearly hit returned the favour with a slap.

Let’s be clear, I don’t condone slapping anyone, least of all a young woman by an older and doubtless stronger man. On the other hand, I can’t help feeling a little sympathy for the militia man in this instance. He must have felt that it was bad enough being shot at by fascists at the front, without having a little slip of a girl without training and clearly unable to manage a gun, opening fire on him too when he was, in theory, somewhere safe.

When I told the restaurateur about the background to the photo, he laughed and sad “it’s a very Spanish story”. In fact, I'd say that the reality has a gloriously human, even earthy, quality to it which perhaps makes the picture less inappropriate for a toilet door. 

But as a photo of what it seems to represent, it’s a complete fake.

However, unlike fake news today, it isn’t a lie. The picture tells a much deeper truth: about hope, the energy and courage of youth, and the vitality of a cause. They’re all worth remembering, decades after the failure of that particular struggle, but as we face similar assaults on our liberties today.

That core of truth is what makes the photo deservedly iconic. And uplifting to see, even as I walk past it on the way to the toilet in a favourite restaurant.

Thanks, Juan Guzmán, for taking the photo. And even warmer thanks to Marina Ginestà  for making it so inspirational, and so wistful.

Forgetfulness of things past

The thing about Tweed is that it never goes out of fashion. Of course, you might think that was because it was never in fashion in the first place but, hey, that doesn’t make the statement any less true.

I’m deeply attached to my fine, old Tweed jacket.

I say old because it is old but, to be fair, it was probably old when it was new.

And by “attached” I don’t mean I’m sufficiently fond of it to wear it. Every year or so I go through my wardrobe picking the clothes I never wear and chucking them out. Or rather, this being England where the only thing in constant growth is poverty, not chucking them but recycling them through a charity shop.

Each time I carry out this culling exercise, I come across the tweed jacket and I think, “I shouldn’t get rid of that one. I should wear it a bit more”. It’s a thought that comes with a pang of guilt, since each time I realise that I haven’t worn it, even once, since the last time. It continues to hang in my wardrobe, seemingly immoveable because I’m no more prepared to part with it than I am to put it on.

Today I was preparing an expense claim and realised I’d mislaid a train ticket. Whenever this happens – and, alas, it happens more often than I like – I always check through the breast pockets of all my jackets, since that’s an obvious place to stuff a ticket which you’re going to need at a barrier in a short time.

What prompted me to look in the tweed jacket I can’t imagine. There was no chance the missing ticket would be in a garment I hadn’t put on for years. But what I did find was something even better, a discovery that opened a door to a trip down Memory Lane. Except in my case Forgetfulness Lane is far more apt.

I found two boarding card stubs (remember when airlines used to have those? Before you could use a phone?) They were for a flight from Paris Charles de Gaulle to Barcelona, one 12 November. The outward flight was at 7:30 am.

The last time I lived close enough to the airport at Roissy to catch a plane there at 7:30 was 1998. We’re talking about a trip that happened up to two decades ago (you might spot the fact that my seat was in the ‘no-smoking cabin’ which certainly dates things a bit).

The trigger for a flood of memories.
Or in my case none at all

Sadly, I have no memory of the trip at all. Which seems a pity, since Barcelona is one of my favourite cities.

Was it the 7:30 start? In November? Maybe it was sheer trauma that led to my memory failure. A kind of act of mercy by my psyche. Particularly as I notice from the return stub that I flew back the same day, on the flight that left just before 6:00. I can only have had about six hours in the city itself, making it an experience to bury rather than relive.

What can have possessed me to wear tweed to Barcelona? It’s true that it’s cold in November. Even so, the Spaniards dress so well. Was I trying to make a point of my Englishness, it being a profoundly English tradition to wear that quintessentially Scottish cloth?

Lots of fascinating questions. Speculating on the answers is almost as pleasurable as reliving the lost past. It’s a kind of non-nostalgia.

For Proust, it was the taste of a Madeleine cake. For me, it was the rough feel of tweed. Of course, for Proust the experience triggered an avalanche of remembrance of things past. In mine, it merely reminded me of my forgetfulness.

Where I have the edge over Proust, though, is in my succinctness. He used a million and a quarter words on recreating his memories. I’ve taken fewer than 700 on the failure of mine. 

A small mercy, dear reader, to be thankful for.