Shooting Guernica

The summer of my photography internship, studying at the Escuela Universitaria de Artes in Madrid, was a blur of soaring architecture, echoing galleries, dimly lit clubs, darkrooms, and dark-eyed Spanish artists. I was serious about learning my craft--especially with my parents' educational fund running out--but I also wanted to have fun.

What lay ahead for me, I knew, was taking pictures of antiques and heirlooms for auction catalogues. Negotiating with fussy studio owners over the proper lighting for their exhibition brochures. Visiting old money mansions and new money beach houses to document "priceless" artwork for insurance purposes. This was my last hurrah for enjoying art simply as art, rather than a career.

One of my final assignments was to take pictures for a booklet guide to the museums of Madrid. I could choose the pieces to highlight. I started with the elegant Museo Nacional Del Prado, the educational Museo de América, and the charmingly cluttered Museo Sorolla. My last stop I reserved for the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía. I was a big fan of Salvador Dalí, preferring surrealism over other 20th century movements. Staring at cubism gave me a headache.

But I knew I couldn't leave Picasso out of the guide, so toward the end of the day I lugged my camera equipment into the gallery of his works, intending to showcase one of his lesser-known works. But as I passed by Guernica -- the imposing occupant of an entire wall -- I thought I heard a cry.

I looked around for an infant, but the gallery was nearly empty. I started heading toward another painting and then heard the cry again, gutteral and coarse.

My eye was drawn to the figure of the woman at the left edge of the painting. Her head was thrown back in a desperate wail, as she held the limp body of her child, whose head flopped unnaturally down. Her larger-than-life agony was one tableau in a frenzied scene of violence, chaos and death.

I set up my camera and aimed it at the mother and child. My guts told me to highlight this one extraordinary segment, instead of capturing the whole piece. It was as if my camera was compelled by this woman. Everything about the shoot was perfect, from the framing to the lighting. I walked away in a daze.

That night, I dreamed I was standing before the painting. But it was alive--or rather, I was witness to so much death. The crash of the bombs. The smell of burnt flesh. The screams of the horse.

But where was the woman? I searched under fallen beams and behind burning barns. At last I heard her unmistakable, horrifying wail. She was crouched in a corner of a ruined building, cradling her child, her pale, limp babe.

"Can I take your picture?" I asked, camera in hand, as if I were a casual tourist. I had to repeat myself to be heard. Finally, she noticed me. She looked -- embarrassed. As if her grief and terror were an offense to polite company.

"My tears need a minute to find the edges of my face. If you'll please excuse me."

But they never fell. My camera snapped, and they were frozen on her face, forever.

~~

For Munson's Microfiction: My Tears Need A Minute